I take the first train to Fez and roll out of the train station at 1PM. I barter down a taxi to a reasonable price and get dropped off in front of the main door of the medina. Every travel guide that exists on Morocco lists the Madina at Fez as the #1 must do thing in morocco (why I was willing to spend 9 hours on a train for 5 hours in the medina. But no matter how many books I read about the laberyth of streets or how vigorously I studied my map on the train, I was not prepared for what was in front of me.
I passed through the portal and the rush of air, smells and sounds transported me a hundred miles into a distant land and a hundred years into the past. This was the morocco I had expected. Little shops crammed at obscure angles in buildings selling everything imaginable; streets so narrow you could touch both sides at the same time crammed with so many people you loose your identity as an individual unit; smells of tanned leather, exotic woods, and spices the Western world doesnt even have names for. I have a bubble around me. Not of space, but of languages. People trying to guess my nationality and language because to guess properly usually means business for them. They weren't ready for this white guy. By rotating the language and refusing services in from English to French, to Darija, to Spanish (I even tried it in Italian once to no avail) I caught people off balance and made it throughout the initial rush of guides, and overly priced vendors. I somehow pick a guide to talk to, he shows me his "official guide" card (I dont think the government issues official guide cards) and matches my linguistic prowess. He tries to shove me into a restaurant the is the "best ever". I (correctly) guess that he gets a portion of the proceeds, and quickly ditch him, stick to my literature and follow the signs to Clocked Cafe.
This is the first hipster joint I've found in Morocco. It feels a lot like the Grit back home. He hands me the menu but I already know what I want even though it's the most expensive thing on the menu. I mean when else am I going to eat a Camel Burger? Served with a side salad and a mountain of fries, the burger is Stacked high with tomato, onion and pepper jelly. The lean meat tastes like nothing I've had before. The sweetness of the jelly comes through strong at first but the finish is all camel.
I ask the waiter for some basic orientation and then dive into the depths if Fes' Madina. I promise a particularly friendly shopkeeper that I'll come back, and continue into the grimy streets. Not to much long and I'm met by a very friendly guy about my age, who dispatches some hecklers and tells me he likes practicing his English. I never agreed he could follow me, but he starts to follow me around and talk me up. He offers to show me the highly acclaimed tanners den and I ask "for free?" and he says "nothing in life is free." I reasonably explain that I don't want to pay for a guide and he gets hostile. I stand and take comments like "why all you f@$&ing Americans like that" "big country, no brains," and "just go back to your hotel you tourist". I start to ignore him and he follows me, shouting "compliments" at me.
I finally backtrack, about a quarter mile and he leaves me. I then realize everything I want to see is the direction. I run into him again, and he stands directly in front of me sidestepping as I do. I had no choice but to pull out my pocket knife and threaten to stab him... Just kidding mom: got ya!
When I explain that it's nothing against him, it's just I don't have enough money to pay him, he switches back to happy nice Moroccan and offers to show me everything for free. Once again I don't agree but he follows me and becomes my defacto guide. I decide to embrace it. He shows me everything from the tanner to the mosques to the panoramic view to the silver bridal carriage craftsman. I pass a bearded man in a red shirt for a second time. When I ask Ali why he is following us, he smirks and says "protection". Over the rest of the tour I discretely open my wallet in my pocket and transfer all but 20 Durham into my back pocket. When we get to the isolated rooftop which was the final stop, our follower and Ali start talking about how great the visit was. I get the cue and hand him the 20. The protection firmly says "that's nothing" I toss him my empty wallet. Ali tears up the 20 and wishes me the best.
I find my way back up the main road, pick up some souvenirs at the man I promised I'd come back and get my day made. "You haggle like a Moroccan."
Grinning from ear to ear I catch a cab for my night train to Casablaca.
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