Life in Fez : The Story of a Cemetery

A while ago, I discovered the Christian cemetery, in the Ville Nouvelle of Fez.

People buried here are mostly French, Spanish et Italian; but, in the military area, there are also a lot of Moroccans, and Sub-Saharan Africans.

Thousands of stories are buried there - I would love to know more about them.

- I know I have been writing much on the blog lately. Lots, lots of work. But I update my French blog more regularly, so if you want to see more pictures of Ceuta, this lovely Spanish/African town, go here; and to know more about our home-made (and tiny) recording studio - for our job at Luxe Radio - it's here.

Life in Fès: A Walk in the Atlas

I'm ashamed of this, but I posted this on my French blog more than one month ago; and I'm even more ashamed to say that I considered not translating it, just posting the pictures (lazy me). But finally, I don't know how (I'm so tired of the computer because I've been working on it 10 hours a day - new, exciting job!), I managed to do it. So here you are.

Sometimes, I'd rather be somewhere else; go far away, see new places, speak other languages.

For me, right now, this isn't possible. Too much work.

And when I leave Fez, it's to go to Casablanca or Rabat - not the best places to relax.

So, I just take a walk in the Atlas, a neighborhood in Fez, in the Ville Nouvelle. It costs nothing, and it's just a few minutes from my apartment.

It's one of my favorite places in Fez. It's popular, lively, and colorful - and it's the place to go for food, with a lot of small restaurants, and all kinds of stores.






On the next photo, you can see buckets of khlie, dried beef, preserved in fat. It's delicious, and quite expensive.

(it's often hard to take pictures in the street in Morocco. You need to ask people for their permission - well, I guess you don't need to, but it's more polite. Most people agree, but sometimes not, like this guy who was selling vegetables. He got quite angry actually. But too late, I had stolen that photo).

Just by the CTM (the national bus compagny), there is an old man who sells used books. I sometimes buy European magazines from him, for 5 dirhams.

The Hamadcha of Fez: Transmission of a Precious Heritage

They are between ten and sixteen years-old.
They live in Fez.
Their grand-fathers, and their great-grand-fathers before them were Hamadcha, Moroccan sufis.
Their fathers too.

But their parents never encouraged them to take this road. That is, to become Hamadchas. Because it doesn't pay well, because it's not prestigious.

It was without counting on the passion of one man, Abderrahim Amrani Marrakchi, and on the energy of those kids.


So, are you wearing your djellaba and your babouches? Yes? Let's enter this mysterious house in the medina of Fez.




And let's get carried away by the music of the Hamadcha. (by the way, I hope you like to dance)













(in case you don't know, Fred has been working with the brotherhood for several years. If you want to know more about it, go on his website).

Life in Fez: and being angry, angry, angry.

I wrote this post the other day. And then I forgot about it. It’s very long, I know. I was one very unhappy blogger that day. And that’s one post I won’t post on the French Prés du Puits, because I don’t want my grand-mother to worry about me.

On my way to the supermarket, something happened. Something that happens far too often in Morocco.

I wanted to cross the street, on the only crosswalk A car was coming from my left, so I waited for it to pass me to cross the road. I looked at it, for maybe 2 seconds. And that's it. That’s enough for some men here When they see a girl, especially a European or American girl, looking at them, they think they have a sexual interest in them. Even if you just want to cross the street and that you want to make sure you're not killed in the process.

So as I crossed the street I heard his horn. I didn't care, really, as I said that happens all the time when I'm alone – and even if I hate it, it doesn't make me feel bad about myself. I'm used to it. But then I saw his car stop, and then I knew he was one of that men. I kept on walking on the sidewalk, decided not to look behind me. He didn't seem to follow me, and I was relieved. Then I heard the sound of his old car, he passed me, and parked in the street. I began walking faster, and entered a little street on my right so I wouln't have to see him. He whistled when he saw I wasn't going to meet him.

After that, I saw him again twice, with always the same technique : he waited that I had walked about a hundred meters, and then would come park his car so that he could see me, and, I don't know, hoping that I would come to talk to him ? This is crazy. When I got to the main boulevard, he obviously couln't keep on doing this because of the number of cars and people.

It wasn't scary – in France, it would have been, but in Morocco, it’s just the usual. Every time I go out alone, something happens. There are men who say « Bonjour » with a soft voice when you walk by them. There are those who follow you – like today. Before that, I got really scared a few times. Once, in Meknès, I had to go see a shopkeeper and tell him that somebody was following me, I was so scared. There are those who say dirty words, in French, in English, and probably also in Arabic. It's rare, but that's really mortifying. And then there are those who insult you..

None of that stuff would ever happen in Ouled Mgatel. That's one of the reasons why I love it so much. Of course women have less freedom in the countryside – even I have less freedom there. Our neighbor Mohammed won't let me stay in the house alone at night, which used to drive me crazy. He would take his daughter with thim and bring me to his house because a women alone in a house at night is a shame for her husband.

But people in Ouled Mgatel respect you. Even people we don't know are always kind, and respectul. I remember once that I was telling Fred about one of this verbal assaults when we were eating with Bachir. Fred translated for him. Bachir got very angry and proposed that to go see the man who insulted me, and to beat him (Really. Ouled Emgatel men are known for their fighting skills). He couldn't even imagine such a thing was possible.

Photo Les Baisers de Louise.

I know this is worse for Moroccan women. Because I don’t have to worry about physical abuse – in Morocco, it’s very dangerous to touch foreigners. And I admire so much the girls and women who dress like they want to defy those men. Short skirts, low-cut t-shirts. Wearing that kind of clothes is really brave in Fez - more than in Casablanca, or Rabat, that are more open. I wouldn't do it. In my dresser I have a place for the clothes I only wear in France. Not that I cannot wear them here – you're free to dress like you want in Morocco – but because, in a way, I'm weak. I just don’t want men to notice me.

Yesterday Fred told me that the man in the car behaved that way because some young women sell prostitue themselves for 20 dirhams (20 dirhams !2 euros !). All men have to do is to blow their horn, and if she’s up for it, the girl wait for them in a nearby street.

Now I’m speechless.

Having a drink in Fez: the MAS bar

In Fez, like in most big cities of Morocco, you can find alcohol in most supermarkets, in liquor stores, and in some groceries stores. But having a cold beer in a nice bar is something else. Not so easy at all.

First, bars for tourists are expensive, and the ambiance is not great.

Then, because Morocco is a Muslim country, alcohol is often a taboo subject. Of course it doesn't mean that nobody drinks. Just that, with the exception of certain well-off families, nobody drinks at home, with their families.
So when people spend the night in a bar, it's certainly not to have just one drink or too (actually, I think the bar owner would consider that as an insult.) No, most people drink until they can't, and until their wallet is empty. Not fun - given that, in Fez, there are only men in most bars.

Things are different in Casa or in Rabat, or, I guess, in Marrakesh. But Fez is a very traditional city.

Still, there are some fun places.

The first I want to show you is the MAS bar.

I don't know if you know the MAS. It's the Fez sport club. They're most known for their soccer club.
But they also do other things.
1. They play pétanque.
2. They sell beer.

The sports club is financed by the sale of alcohol in the bar. The state allow them to sell detaxed alcohol. It's thus the cheapest bar of Fez. The good thing is that it's not only for club members.

At the MAS bar, you drink a beer (10 dirhams - 1 euro) ou a glass of wine (a bottle of Guerrouane is only 65 dirhams) while watching people play pétanque, in a courtyard, seated under a tree.

There are also the cats that live there, the almonds sellers, the delicious kefta tajins (30 dirhams), and the lamps that look like lanterns in the trees.





I don't know the exact address. It's in the street of the French institute. Coming from la Fiat, go straight, and then it's on your left, in a corner. Enter by the main door (there is another bar in the club and trust me, you don't want to go there).

Two French Musicians in Fez: Les Frères F. Toussaint meet the Hamadcha brotherhood

Julien and Manu, a.k.a the F. Toussaint Brothers, friends from our hometown Nancy, are currently in residence at Dar Batha (the French Institute of Fez).
And yesterday we saw the result of this encounter.
Hamadcha danse and music, mixed with Manu's bass and Julien's crazy percussion.

Great night.

U2 in Fez : Magnificient

U2 loves arabic music and Fez...
Here is the beautiful video of their song Magnificient, shot in the medina :

Magnificent

The American Fondouk in Fez : An Animal Hospital

In Fez, there is an amazing, almost magical, place. This is the American Fondouk, an animal hospital founded in the 1920s by Sidney Haines Coleman, who cared about the health of the working animals of Morocco. Almost a century later, the Fondouk - which means hotel in Arabic - still treats for free thousands of animals every year. Lots of working animals - mares and donkeys -, but also cats and dogs (though I guess they didn’t treat many of those in the 1920s).

Of course, I don’t have to tell you that the existence of such a place is both fantastic and weird, in a country where the public hospitals are awful, and where most of the people don’t have health insurance.

When our cats needed to be vaccinated, that’s where I wanted to go. Because it’s free, obviously, and also because it sounded like a strange place. Also because Paul Bowles, an American writer that I love, worked there in the 1930s.

And once there, I wasn’t disappointed - we even saw a mare having her teeth cleaned. 

 

Of course, we left a little something in that box. Because most clients of the hospital are very poor.

Read the history of the American Fondouk here.

And they have a blog too.

A storyteller, his guitar, and a thousand of little ears

Big day for Fred. A new storytelling show at the French Institute, in French and in Arabic, for the very first time. I’m proud !

- and you may have noticed that our house of Ouled Mgatel is in the picture too!

A Walk in the Fez Mellah, and Some Glasses

They can be found here, in this dead-end of the Fez Mellah, just in front of this small hotel…

They caught our eye, then we began to pity them, but the next minute they amused us.

They would really need a good doctor though.

- You can take a virtual walk in the Fez mellah just by clicking here. You won’t regret it, and, who knows, maybe you’ll find our dear cripples…

They have a doctor too

Old teapots, crippled teapots, that have lost their legs, their lids, their spouts – never heard that word, it sounds weird-. Old teapots, that  were crippled when,  let’s say, someone put you on the burner when you were empty (I would never do that kind of thing of course).

Come here, hurry up, he’s here, just here. Look.

The doctor.

 

It’s very unlikely I would ever see this through my window in Ouled Mgatel – and to think that’s where I left all my old, crippled teapots…

Water in our shoes

When it rains in Ouled Mgatel – we have mud in our shoes.

But in Fez, of course, we’got water in our shoes.

Look at what happens when it rains in Fez.

And in big puddles of water like this one, you can also rinse turnips and carrots.

Bensouda, Fez

The last night

Finally. We found an appartement in Fez (but we're not leaving Ouled Mgatel, never). It's close to where I work, and it's cheap.

So... Goodbye hotel.

And I spent my last night...

... around here...



... next to him...



... behind this...



... the last night...



... the last time.