Through a Lens

On a few hours of sleep, we stumbled into the stark sand-coloured terminal at Fès–Saïss Airport, faced with a large open room with little in the way of decor. We filtered clumsily through control booths with a few dozen Moroccan families to have our passports stamped "entree".

We stepped outside the terminal into thick, warm haze and a half-rubbled car park. Cats with facial scabs slunk around us and we hesitantly patted them as the airport workers laughed to themselves and ate sandwiches. “Do you speak English? Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked, not able to even attempt the question in Arabic. The most proficient stepped forward and nodded. I asked him: “Do you know where the bus leaves from?” He pointed to an unsignposted patch of dirt beside the road, so over we walked, backpacks in tow.

When the bus arrived, it had no marked numbers or destinations and few seats, most of which were already occupied by excited students on their way home from the Quranic school. They poked their tongues and giggled as we rolled through the torn up roads lined with bent scaffolding and shovels.

Through Bab Jdid, the finely-textured and grandiose gate to the Fès el Bali medina, we made our way to the riad. A boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, sat on the steps outside and whispered, “Be careful. They are very clever. They will try to get money from you.” “Thanks,” I told him, not quite knowing what the correct response was. Thirsty, I bought a glass of lemon juice from a stall swarmed with bees for 20 dirham and drank it down.

We headed into the heart of the medina routinely tailed by young children purveying to be tour guides (and indeed they were if you had enough dirham) but shook them off politely. The narrow, labyrinthine streets of the UNESCO World Heritage Site Fès Medina are over 9000 in number, and are difficult to navigate with or without a map, so we allowed ourselves to become lost, wading through curtain-thick scents of spice, leather, and livestock - staples of any Moroccan medina.

As we turned the hundredth corner, a sudden aching freeze came across my body; three recently felled and wingspread chickens were being dangled by the feet. Regaining composure, I continued my stride, half-heartedly taking in sights - the handmade teapots and the old men sleeping beside mountains of cumin and chili... Fès had won, I noted uneasily, feeling something sickly and lemon flavoured creeping up my throat.