Chapter Two: The Ancient City of Fez

I am thoroughly convinced that Disney found its inspiration for the movie "Aladdin" after visiting the city of Fez.

From a birds eye view, the city's winding maze of streets are completely hidden between thousands of ivory and sand colored buildings that flood the valley floor. Looking down at Fez with foreign eyes, the world's largest Arabic marketplace (known as the "Medina") is nothing but a cluster of indistinguishable buildings; the perfect hiding place for a handsome, princess-seeking convict - or in our case, a collection of aggressive and skilled salesmen, ready to welcome the parade of American visitors with foreign credit cards.





From the minute we stepped foot on Fez's hot, dusty, streets, it was clear that our presence was going to make a big stir across town. As we gathered outside our bus, children with cheap jewelry and key chains immediately ran up to us, saying "good price! good price!" and a large crowd of men gathered in the chairs out front of the nearby cafe, saying things like "hello beautiful" and "oh, the women. I can smell the honey coming...." to the girls as we walked by.
[In my video of us walking through the Medina, you can hear the man I pass by saying that, if you listen really closely.]

Even with a "traditional Moroccan" tour guide, as 75 young Americans, wearing clearly foreign and out of place clothing in the middle of an Arabic country, (women traditionally wear Burkahs in Morocco, so our jeans and long sleeve shirts were our attempt at being modest) it was absolutely impossible for us not to make a huge spectacle of ourselves.

Following our tour guide (who wore the traditional dress-like business uniform, but carried a brand new blackberry that rang to the tone of "I've got a Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas) we entered the labyrinth of marketplace streets in a long, crowded line, and were navigated through the ancient maze of streets, into pre-chosen shopping locations throughout the city. (Check out my video of us walking through the Medina, below.)




Although we were given glimpses of the "real" marketplace - fish stands, fruit and vegetable displays, countless shops with handmade pottery and silverware, or freestanding stores full of nicknack's - our tour brought us specifically to several of the more touristy locations, where ready salesmen told us all about their preeminent products, and mentioned the word "discount," using every synonym possible. At every store, we were led to believe that the prices were completely subjective to bargaining with the help of our "guide," (who we later realized got commission, of course) so coming in with this naive trust, it took a few stores before we realized that there were clear tactics that the salesmen were skilled in, and ready to use on us.





The very first store we visited was incredible - a six-story leather shop, with purses, shoes, bean bag shells, wallets, jackets, and every item you can imagine in leather, hanging from the walls and ceilings. From the sixth story balcony, we looked out below at the sight of a famous National Geographic photo: the leather pools, where all of the exorbitant leather goods are made and colored by shirtless male workers, sitting in the hot sun, and working in pools of colorful dye. The man who owned the shop was young - not much older than us, (his father owned the business and recently passed it down to him) and he was dressed impeccably in freshly ironed Armani jeans, shiny leather shoes, and a black leather jacket. He pointed over the balcony, and briefly mentioned the workers - emphasizing more the quality of the dye, and clear intricacy of his store's handy work. I later asked our guide, and found out that the workers are paid by the day, not the hour, and work 12-14 hour days for a very low wage. (Need to confirm this, but the original estimate was about 1 to 2 American dollars per hour.)

That really put alot into perspective when I was sold (without being given much of a choice, after they quoted me a price then literally grabbed my credit card out of my hand) a handmade, tailored leather jacket, for what equates to nearly a week's worth of labor in these men's lives.

After the leather shop, we visited an apothecary, a linen and dress shop, and a carpet store, where we were given the most direct and obvious sales pitch of the day. The carpet store was huge, with giant carpets draping down from three stories up, and filling entire rooms. We sat down in the center of the building, and were handed super sweet mint tea (´an aphrodesiac´ they were quick to point out) while listening to the owner´s 20 minute sales pitch about why we should buy a carpet. Highlights include: how our parents would be so proud of us for making a ¨valuable financial investment,¨ how carpets are great for ¨the jiggy jiggy¨ (as he put it), how America and Morocco are good friends, (Morocco was the first country to officially recognize the US in1776) and my favorite: how women are financially equal, so we have just as much a right to buy a carpet as any man.

The First Chapter: Getting to Morocco

When I first signed up for the ISA excursion to Morocco, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Our program director gave me a map, a short itinerary and suggested packing list, and attatched a small warning in the footnote: " habrá muchas horas en el autobús" ("There will be many hours in a tour bus.")

Three weeks later, I woke up in a squished fetal position against the glass window of our tour bus, and looked down at my cell phone to discover that it was exactly 6:00am: twelve hours after we had first left Salamanca with backpacks full of granola bars, water, and extra toilet paper; ready and optimistic for the adventure ahead.

As the bus rumbled to slow stop, everyone gathered their bags and shuffled half asleep into the ferry port which marked our halfway point (aka 12 more hours to go) before reaching our destination in the city of Fez. The initial sense of enthusiasm in everyone’s expression had by then turned into tired and grumpy apathy, until our hour-long ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar ended with a funny realization: we had reached the continent of Africa, but were still in Spain. (I don’t know about you, but I never studied geography close enough to realize that Spain had territory in Africa.)

Bribery at the Border

All 150 American ISA students (50 in each group) paraded out from the ferries, and we all hopped back onto our three giant tour busses to head toward the border of Morocco which was 45 minutes away. As we got closer along the coast, our program director warned us that we were not allowed to take pictures anywhere near the border (you’ll be thrown in jail) and that normally, it can take upwards of three to four hours for a group our size to get through. Lucky for us, they slipped some extra money to the border patrol in our first few passports, (yay for bribery!) and Carlos [program director] assured us that it would speed up the process to let us through between one and two hours at the most.

Somewhere before the border I fell asleep, but was woken up about an hour later to a loud beeping noise, and Cecily shaking me and telling me to sit up and take the blanket off my head. I opened my eyes and saw a man dressed in an official looking uniform with a strange laser gun-like contraption in his hand, pointing it straight at the forehead of the girl sitting in the seat behind me. At first I was really scared – then Cecily explained that it was a thermometer, taking people’s temperatures to make sure that none of us had the swine flu. Although by that point I was recovered, a week before I had been sick with a 102 temperature, so I was really glad that he didn't have patience and skipped me. In a little over an hour we were through the border stop, and Carlos was right: after seeing the money, they skimmed over our passports and cordially let us through.

Reflections from the Window

The second we crossed the border, it was very clear that we weren’t in Spain anymore. The style of dress completely changed, from Spain's fancy heels and tights look to patterned burkahs and flat, leather shoes. All the signs and building names were written in Arabic and French, and the only english to be found were the ads everywhere for stores selling Coca Cola. Right at the border, there were nearly 100 taxi cabs sitting and waiting to drive people, lined up next to a hill covered in burning trash.

As we drove further away from the city and into the countryside, more drastic contrasts began. Men would ride by on small scooters, with women covered in colorful burkahs, hanging onto a seat built on the back end. As our tour bus passed by on one side of the road, men with donkeys trotted past on the other, and children with bare feet would run alongside the trash covered hills toward our busses, waving and putting their hands out to beg. Throughout the trip, Cecily and I adopted the phrase TIA: “This is Africa” from a Swahili rap artist who used the phrase to describe the poverty and disparity in third world countries that shocks first world citizens, and is beyond explanation. From inside our glass window, this was our first experience with TIA – the first of many more to come.

Peeing Behind Shrubs and Sheep

Four hours into the border, I woke up again from my seemingly constant nap, but this time because I had to pee. At least half the bus agreed – and the bus driver pulled off to the side of the road, and said something along the lines of “good luck” as we stared out the window to a completely flat and uncovered stretch of dirt, with ankle high desert shrubs that were our closest hope for any kind of privacy.

In honor of this experience, I decided to take a video:

A few hours later, we took another notable bathroom stop in the middle of a valley, right where a pastor had led his giant group of sheep. I felt terrible for the man – he had clearly spent a long time getting the entire group together, and looked pretty bewildered as over a hundred loud and strangely dressed foreigners poured out of tour busses and chased his sheep into all directions while finding a place to pee. We didn't have much of a choice to go anywhere else - but I decided just to hold it and wait by the bus with a couple others who felt morally wrong to disturb the poor sheep. In the end it didn't matter much - the flock scattered and we left. But something about the whole experience really struck me.

Looking Out From the Balcony

By the time we’d reached Fez it was nearly dinner, something like twenty six hours after we first got on our bus from Spain. Everyone was exhausted, and our hotel beds felt like clouds compared to the rigid bus seats that barely recline. Looking out from the balcony of our hotel, Fez by night was absolutely beautiful. Colored fountains and palm trees were lit up between buildings with traditional Arabic architecture, and in the central square, a web of white Christmas-esque lights draped over a wide, sandstone colored walkway. Cecily and I wished that we could join the boys and go explore, but watching women walk by in completely covered clothing, followed closely by their male escorts, we immediately realized that we were in a very different country. One that wasn’t safe for us, where we were not equal. We watched from the balcony, and wondered what the next few days would be like; entering a completely different culture, and stepping into a world that we knew and understand little about.

Busses, Taxis, Ferries, Jeeps and Camels: Making Sense of It All

Eleven days later, and I've never been so thankful to return home to my warm and cozy bed, with Mari Carmen's home cooking, toilets I can sit on, hot showers, drinkable water, and folded, CLEAN laundrey that doesn't smell like cigarette smoke and the Sahara desert.

The last week and a half was nothing short of an epic adventure, with over 70 hours of traveling by bus from Salamanca to Madrid, Madrid to Malaga, Malaga to Morocco, Morocco to the border of Algeria, then back again in reverse, plus a three day excursion to Granada somewhere inbetween. Three days later and counting, I'm still recovering from it all... looking back at pictures, sorting out a whirlwind of strong emotions, trying desperately to get my mind into miterm mode, and meanwhile, coming to terms with the fact that my adventure is already over halfway done.

Six and a half weeks in, my body is ready to rest. My mind is working on overtime to make sense of it all. Every day is a beautiful adventure, but silent moments remind me of home. The other reality far away, with so many people I love and miss, that I only feel connected to by periodic phone calls and stalking tagged pictures on facebook.

My internal compass went haywire the minute I stepped on the plane from America, and now it's seeking vengance. What used to be strange and foreign to me about Spain, is now a comforting routine - by contrast of living out of a backpack, eating "granola" bars, and sleeping on public transportation.

My crazy adventure from last two weeks has so many pieces to it - incredable experiences, funny stories, serious realizations about life - and there's so much I want to share with you. SO, although it might take awhile to finnish, (each video alone takes 30-45 minutes to upload on Spanish internet :( ) I am going to dedicate the next several blogs to giving you a window into this foreign world I've discovered, and all the little pieces of it that are changing the way I see the world.

The Midday Prayer

Six times per day in most Muslim countries, an arabic prayer is blasted through the streets of every major city, echoing from giant bullhorns and speakers atop houses and mosques.

This video was taken from the rooftop of a carpet store in Fez (central Morocco) at 2pm on Halloween afternoon.