leaving fès

And now we leave the twisted alleys and sun-bleached rooftops of Fès for the most beautiful orange. Let's run our fingers through the finest sand and watch the sun rise over the Sahara...

mint and leather

With a bouquet of fresh mint under my nose, I squinted my eyes at the vats of dye below, the sun reflecting off the quicklime and pigeon guano used in making soft leather out of tough hides. The scent of the guano, bovine urine, and other assorted nasties was overwhelming— even more so for the pregnant olfactory system— however, having been told how wretched it would be, I was expecting worse.

The drying hides below are getting ready to be transformed into the traditional babouche, a pointed leather slipper, typically in a brilliant yellow for men. Tourists are told that all the dyes are natural— the yellow is from saffron, green from mint, red from poppies... Though I know little about leather dyes, I am sceptical of this as I have never seen mint dye anything, and saffron is quite expensive. In any case, the rainbow of colours that the tanners are able to create is gorgeous.



The 11th century Chouara Tannery is hidden among the clustered geometric buildings of Fès' medina, its levels of stinking vats in various shades of celadon, red and brown. The tanners who wade through the noxious pools in the blinding sun to work the hides wear anything from wellies to flip-flops on their feet, some with nothing at all. I can only imagine how hard their days are, how their muscles and heads must feel at the end of the day— it certainly gives me a deeper appreciation of the work behind my leather bags and babouches, which though bought in different parts of Morocco, all trace back to Fès.

threads

While wandering the alleys of Fès' medina, I began to notice nails wrapped in coloured thread jutting out from the old stone walls— some nails entirely cocooned into soft balls. I remembered climbing the hill to an orthodox church on Büyükada shortly after Easter once, where the devout had tied threads from the top to the bottom of the hill in prayer, wishing for the things we often wish for— good health, fortune, love... My mind then travelled to the Fates, weaving our lives into a vast tapestry, then to the many knotted bracelets my students in Nepal tied around my wrists.



Though I suspected the reason for these pretty bursts of colour was more banal, I still hoped to find something special at the end of the threads that extended beyond their cocoons. Stretched across buildings and down the alleys, a multitude of colours were being twisted into threads which were wound around spools by quick and elegant fingers.



To think of what these threads would someday make— someone's favourite scarf, or the embroidery on a well-worn djellaba— a gift of a blanket, to be wrapped around a loved one...

declarations of love

I often wonder about the outcome of these declarations of love on walls, doors, and trees. I imagine one of the two scrawling or carving away in secret, unveiling their feelings to the other, hoping for approval... Were they impressed by this act of vandalism? Did they shy away in embarrassment?

the yellows of fès

Somehow I thought lugging my eighth month swollen belly around a medieval city under the bright North African sun was something that I would enjoy— and I did, mostly. I say mostly because after a morning of sightseeing my feet and ankles had swollen to an uncomfortable degree, and the heat had me nearly seeing stars. We had been saving the large, popular tourist cities like Fès and Marrakech for when we had visitors, and with Pedro's family in town at the time, Fès became our first stop.



Apparently the medina of Fès is the largest pedestrianized urban area in the world. I had been warned that you can lose yourself in its labyrinthine alleys without a guide, but to be honest, we had a guide for a morning and I not only found him to be a bore, I thought a good map would do just fine. Fès is one of Morocco's four imperial cities (the other three being Meknès, Rabat, and Marrakech), and served as the country's capital from the 9th Century until 1912, when it was Rabat's turn.

Part of me dreaded going to Fès— I expected a noisy, smelly tourist trap where I'd be hassled at every turn, but I was happy to find stunning architecture, nice people, and so many shades of yellow. Yes, the amount of tourists clogged some of the smaller alleys to a standstill, but it was April. Perhaps a return in November would be a quieter (and cooler) experience— the next time however, will be with Baby being carried on the outside of me!

back into the belly

The first month of motherhood has been a surreal blur of dirty diapers, tears, sleepless nights, and the wonder of having a little one that was once poking around in your belly staring up at you with big, curious eyes. I doubt I'll find much time to blog in the next while, but as I have a moment right now (and don't need to eat, shower, go to the bathroom, or sleep), I thought I'd take you back to a time when Baby was eight months inside me, and the three of us were wandering around in a sweltering Fes. So, if you are ready and patient, I've got some things to show you!