Fes Morocco: Beyond the Medina

“Who exactly were the Moors?”

“Morgan Freeman. In Robin Hood. He was a Moor. And he saved Robin Hood by throwing the witch out that window.”

“Ah, yeah. Okay. So, good people then?”

“Totally.”

We are not scholars of 8^th-century, North African history, clearly.

However, one of us is a bit of a movie nerd. I won’t say it doesn’t come in handy.

We were discussing The Moors as we walked along a hot, dusty sidewalk, leaving the Medina. The Medina, or Old City, is where the travelers all stay and shop and ogle the ancient architecture, pretty tiles and elaborate riads. Outside, you quickly hit real-life Fez, where the sun pours down hot and relentless and angry. It’s incredible, the difference between the shady alleys and cool breezes of the Medina and the scorched Earth of the unprotected city streets.

We wanted to see The Mellah, which is the Old Jewish Quarter of Fes.

To understand this place, I sourced some information on Google once we were back. It’s helpful to better understand Fes and Morocco overall.

The Moors were a nomadic, Black Muslim tribe in Northwest Africa. They ruled what is presently Morocco, also crossing the Iberian Peninsula into modern Spain and Portugal. This is why you find the Moorish influence in the architecture of Andalusia. 

Arabs invaded this land in 683, converting Christians to Islam. One hundred years later, a ruler named Idriss the First came to power. It was his son, Idriss the Second, who founded Fez, building the beginnings of its historic Medina.

Jewish traders and scholars arrived as early as Idriss I, but the largest influx was in 1438, when thousands fled the Reconquista in Spain. Being the minority, they could practice freely and live with autonomy, but only in a prescribed area––the Mellah.

Today, there are no more Jews in the Mellah. Israel’s creation convinced them of sunnier shores. Yet, there are still faded signs of a once commercially powerful presence, from doorways decorated with the Star of David to plaques announcing long-past school rooms. 

“These little grave markers are where they buried the children who died from Cholera,” our *guide* said, sweeping his arm across a small cemetery.

I hadn’t caught his name, and I, truthfully, didn’t want to know it.

It’s a common practice for men––ages 8 to 80––to approach you in the streets of Fes. They will ask you where you are headed. If you tell them, more likely than not, they will trod along with you, explaining that they know the way. You can shake most off with a good-natured handshake, a kind ‘thank you, but no thank you.’ They just-as-quickly disappear down another alley. If you don’t shake them off, expect to pay for the *tour* at the end. This whole situation can be useful. You get a good guide and a faster route back to your riad. Moroccans are extremely kind, hospitable and happy to chat. The impromptu tour guide situation doesn’t feel like a scam as much as an accepted way to take a small city tax off the tourists. I quite like it.

Except for the man at the Mellah.

This guy was one for the ages. He approached us aggressively, immediately asking questions.

His breath was hot. He was eating sunflower seeds and pieces of them launched like tiny missiles at my face. Every time he leaned in, impossibly close, he shouted in a voice reserved for Army drill sergeants and I was forced to physically dodge mouth shrapnel. If it sounds disgusting, that’s because … well … it was. 

After several minutes of asking him to leave us alone, he screamed, “I will not murder you! Why do you think I will murder you?!”

Things got awkward. Who said anything about murder? We shot each other a knowing glance and, then, just acquiesced to the tour and a firm establishment that no one was going to kill anyone else.

I will say this, without him, we probably would not have gone as deep as we did into the Mellah. I’m thankful for that, at least.

The Mellah is wild.

Some alleys are barely two feet wide. Others are decorated in slices of wall paint: eggshell blue, lilac, and red. Many are camel-colored, coated in a thin layer of dust, like no one has walked down them in a week.

There are faded murals in Arabic script, small, crumbling, wooden balconies, and covered, tunnel-like laneways with dozens of unmarked, locked doors. At the eastern end sits a stark, white cemetery, with stone mounds for grave markers.

“Cholera! Babies that died from Cholera!” he screamed in my ear. A tiny shard of sunflower shell bounced off my shoulder. I stopped to let him walk ahead. He stopped, staring back at me. “Let’s go!” he barked and gestured me forward. He spit on the ground, narrowly missing my big toe and then asked me why I didn’t have any children. Sweat poured down between my shoulder blades.

He banged on a doorway and a woman opened it, silently leading us up a stairwell far too narrow to attempt the Funky Chicken.

Each step was twice the normal height. It was a workout to the roof. The cemetery stretched below, flanked by towering palm trees and deep-brown earth.

“Cholera!”

“Yep. Yep. We got it.”

The woman and I smiled at each other, sharing a knowing look about the bothersome annoyance of loud men. I practiced what little French I knew, as Chris and our guide climbed a ladder to the very top.

Her name was Sabine. I peeked inside one room on the second floor as we descended. Four mattresses were stacked vertically. A kitten peered out.

The Mellah is divided into sections. To the naked, uninitiated eye, these are still somewhat apparent. You start in the main Souk, with rows of clothing and jewelry; a few tiny established pastry shops. The streets are wide here and foot traffic is thick.

As you cross into the Lower Mellah, you recognize the shift from money to struggle. The oldest houses have thick beams across them, to keep the front walls from crumbling inward. Round a corner, and a few children might be playing tag. An adult peers out of a barber shop or pushes a cart up a hill. Then, nothing again. The streets are convoluted and wrap in on themselves, snaking in different directions at every bend.

We walked into an old billiards hall. A cat passed the time on the floor, and we inspected long-dead pinball machines. A group of young men stood for a quick portrait on the street, one especially eager to give me his Facebook information.

We chatted with a woman making African crepes. With another man selling bright, oily olives, littered with herbs and chili flakes.

When we finally emerged at the wide souk again, the guide tried to drag us through a doorway, pulling us towards a dark hallway, screaming “NOW WE VISIT THE ASSOCIATION!”

I staggered backwards away from him, the heat burning my forehead. It was time to go.

Chris handed him 200 Dirhams ($20), and he turned immediately, latching onto a poor French couple who were stepping out of a taxi. I thought about shouting a warning, or even just screaming ‘CHOLERA!.’

Instead, I turned and left him behind.

If you come to Fez, break away from the more touristy Medina and spend some time in the Jewish Quarter. Advice? Bring a few small bills. The *tour* is unavoidable.

Even if you are shadowed and hounded by an aggressive guide, it’s a really incredible place to see. My only regret is not playing Chris in a game of pool.