“Oh! Oh old medina… weighed down by burdens, as ancient as history… submerging in the worries of the neglected, the endless dreams of the young, and the lifelong miseries of the old…”

You meet them in the narrow alleys of the old Medina- four, six or twelve year olds, playing games or simply learning their very first letters of the idleness alphabet.

They play by craftsmen, their clothes full of mud and dust. They go back and forth to their houses- not larger than one room the whole family shares; a room that  is transformed into a space for cooking, eating, sleeping and walking into the path of life in a place full of hope, despair, dreams and aspirations- the old Medina .

Halima, for instance, is a thirty-two year old lady whose husband is a craftsman, barely having any work to do: “there is not much to be done. We run out of work- this is the era of machines. We can’t keep pace with all these changes” he would say.

Halima, not very much pleased with her husband’s poor income, tries to make up for that by providing for her family of seven members. She takes temporary jobs; cleaning houses, cooking in weddings and parties during summers, doing the dishes at local hotels, etc…

Now, Halima works for a bakery store; she leaves the house very early in the morning not to come back until 11 p.m., exhausted and worn out. Once she gets back home, she feeds the kids, puts them to sleep in hopes of getting some rest.

During the day, her youngest son walks the streets barefoot and in dirty shreds. Her ten year old daughter takes care of her younger brothers. Sometimes, they would all sit at the large door of the very big house where numerous families live, probably thinking of how else their life could have been and making scenarios for the future.

Halima’s elder son is a really gifted painter, but this is something he will most likely forget about once he gets his baccalaureate and discovers that his parents cannot afford sending him away to pursue his studies. Then, he would walk on his father’s shoes, thus becoming a craftsman, incarnating the same faith- the same misery.

The old medina is the oldest part in the city of Fes. It is where the oldest university in the world “Al Quarawiyin” located.

As you go around you discover its tiny twisted roads, its old buildings, and the huge walls insisting on carrying the burden of history on them. This part of the city is full of paradoxes. You find the very poor, and the very rich. Recently, foreigners took notice of its potentials, so they started investing in Riyads; that is, the medina’s old houses most of which are now transformed into guest houses, receiving tourists who are in search of mystic experiences.

On the other side, you find the same big old houses shared by ten families, each occupying a small room, consisting a shelter for hearts that are strained by poverty, hunger, neglect but who are nonetheless full of goodness and hope.

By Fadoua Bakkali

Morocco World News

Morocco had not yet invited us in.

We were two Americans traveling through Morocco, no tour, no guide, my daughter Zoe and me in the back seat of a wild-man driver who aimed to pass every car in front of us for the nine hours from Marrakech to Fez. He swerved, he sped, he called it magnificent driving. “Driving safe is like art,” he bragged. “You know? Like painting.”

We slid down low in the rear seat and, thanks to Zoe’s iPod and episodes of “This American Life,” sweated out the ride.

Landing in a city with no discernible center of town, where the main roads were slivered like alleys and the alleys were nothing but halved sidewalks, we dodged stray cats and clusters of smokers with live rabbits for sale. We took refuge in doorways when scooters fumed by.

This made it all the more unusual, and so all the more uplifting, to receive a call the following morning at our hotel from a woman who invited us to her home. It was Passover, and we had no plans.

The caller was Danielle Mamane, Sephardic cookbook author of “The Scent of Orange Blossoms.” Weeks before, I’d emailed her co-author, Kitty Morse, to see if Kitty still led culinary tours of her homeland. She did not. But that’s how Danielle knew we were American Jews traveling to Fez, and that we were staying at Riad Le Calife. I’d never met either woman.

Although she was hosting 18 for a second night Seder that evening, Danielle said how rude it’d be to know there were Jews here in Fez, sent by Kitty Morse, and though it was such a busy day of the year she just had to invite us, even if it was for lunch. “And don’t bring anything.”

A Moroccan host prepares all the food. There is no potluck meal — my custom at home — so Danielle hired extra help for the day.

Her wildly printed blouse and large black glasses are still etched in my mind. As well, the tidy salon where she served glasses of mint tea with orange blossoms and platters of sauteed fava beans sprinkled with a pinch of cumin, a characteristic spice of North Africa.

This was a Sephardic home. The Jews from Spain, Portugal and the Middle East permit eating beans during the holiday but the Ashkenazic Jews do not. They are strict about legumes because they puff up and grow when water is added to them. The table was set for seven: Danielle’s husband, Jacques, and their daughter Helene, who had come from Paris with her 3-year-old and 8-year-old. And us. The air was drenched with the aroma of freshly picked orange blossoms.

A dozen little tastes made me fall for this lunch: Egg souffle with spinach and herbs. Baba ganoush. Tomatoes with lemon, beets, cucumber, carrots and lettuce. A phrase from our Haggadah ran through my mind: It would have been enough. But an entree followed. Meatballs with the gradually unfolding distinct taste of liver. A side of peas and carrots. Matzo from Holland.

The cake with poppy seeds was smothered with candied oranges that were pressed and flattened, cooked with pounds of sugar until a dark amber syrup was released. Bittersweet, my weakness.

Our conversations skidded through how we teach Hebrew to talk about modernist cuisine. They wondered, did we like molecular gastronomy? Why shouldn’t food look like it is? What is meatloaf? CSAs (community supported agriculture)? You guarantee the farmer his income? What’s a cookie sheet? Oh, and what is Spandex?

And so it went for the next three hours. Strangers from two continents forging a new friendship, crystallizing what it is that makes traveling and the kindness of strangers so memorable.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/food/sc-food-0330-moroccan-passover-20120402,0,162137.story

Take three blonde girls, fly them to Morocco and lead them into the souks of Fes.

A smart idea from an adventure-loving father? Or a crazy plan likely to end in disaster?

It was time for a different sort of holiday. I’d first been to Fes on my gap year and returned on my honeymoon, bringing the new Mrs Milton to sample its treasures.

Now, it was the Big One: a family holiday in a city infamous for its hustlers, false guides, peddlers, crooks and carpet-selling uncles.

Inside its crenellated ramparts, a staggering 300,000 inhabitants live, work and eke out a living. Many are experts in crafts that died out centuries ago in Europe.

They include tanners, blacksmiths, potters and professional scribes. Each trade has its own quarter and the noises, sights and pungent smells assault your senses as you pass from one to the next.

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ asked my daughters as we embarked on our adventure. They knew all about last April’s bomb in Marrakech, as well as the revolutions that have swept the Arab world.

‘Safer than London,’ I said, and I meant it.

But tourism was hit hard in the aftermath of the bombing. Hotels struggled and, while we were in Fes, few holidaymakers wandered the souks. We were almost the only visitors in the greatest medieval city in the Arab world.

This was somewhat unnerving, because we stuck out like sore thumbs. With our pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, we’d have made convincing locals in Sweden. In Morocco, we didn’t cut the mustard.

We arrived on a sweltering June evening and plunged straight into the heart of the old city. Our girls didn’t know what had hit them: they were wide-eyed with astonishment.

And with good reason. There are no cars, buses or taxis. The streets are so narrow and twisted that the only transport is by mule or donkey.

Forget looking for a Marks & Spencer or Gap. Instead, you find thousands of little stores scarcely larger than a cupboard, in which the owner is, as likely as not, chiselling away at a bowl he’s hoping to sell you later.

We passed an aromatic spice stall with teetering piles of yellow turmeric and brick-red paprika. A merchant tried to sell us handbags and wallets. A stray cat got tangled under our feet. Someone was peddling tortoises. A child was stroking a chameleon.

‘That’s truly disgusting,’ said Heloise, 13, as we passed a butcher’s stand.

There was not a cellophane-wrapped lamb chop in sight. Here, the meat is newly butchered – sometimes in front of your eyes.

Three sheep heads were on display, a sign of the meat’s freshness. Fifteen-year-old Madeleine was philosophical. ‘At least we know it hasn’t gone off,’ she said.

Horseplay: Fes is a city where the medieval world still looms amid cluttered streets

There’s shouting, arguing and the call to prayer from one of the city’s 300 minarets. And everywhere there are people – a constant, jostling crowd that seems to be going nowhere.

In recent years, many of Fes’s 19th century mansions have become hotels (known as riads), oases of luxury. We had chosen Le Riad Maison Bleue, which has the bonus of a little pool in the central courtyard.

This became our refuge when the blistering heat of the afternoon got too much to bear.

We’d relax until 5pm, then head back into the souks for a refreshing glass of sweet mint tea.

Fes is a labyrinth on a grand scale. Forget GPS. Don’t even bother with a map. Nothing leads to where you think it will. Endless hustlers try to ‘help’. Ignore them all. We found a polite request for directions from a store-holder almost always got us back to where we wanted to be.

You’ll need to get some sense of orientation, because Fes has a number of must-see sights.

The medieval tanneries, still in daily use, are the No1 attraction. In scores of giant vats, men are immersed to their waists in brilliantly coloured liquids and they tread the leather pelts until the colour is impregnated. ‘It stinks,’ was the comment from our youngest daughter.

She was right: the tanneries do stink. The skins are cured in urine and pigeon dung so acrid that it burns your nostrils.

Among the city’s most sumptuous sites is the nearby Glaoui Palace. In any other place in the world, this would be a major attraction – a rambling 19th century edifice that’s dripping with oriental opulence. Yet here in Fes, it’s not even (officially) open to the public.

But as so often in Morocco, a loud rap on the door summons the guardian who – for a few dirhams – will show you around.

As the heat grew ever more intense, we hired a car and drove into the Middle Atlas mountains. Their contours start to rise from the arid plain 35 miles to the south of Fes and they offer an enticingly different climate.

The air cooled and the breezes freshened: soon, the countryside began to change.

The hills surrounding the market town of Imouzer du Kandar were fringed with trees and the town was bursting at the seams with water. Two lakes, hundreds of springs and dozens of fast-flowing rivulets provide a natural freshness to the air.

We climbed higher, stopping at the bizarre ski-town of Ifrane. Locals call this Moroccan Switzerland with good reason. There may be no cuckoo clocks but there are gabled roofs aplenty. We pushed further south, climbing over a stack of barren mountains.

We had intended to return to Fes that afternoon, but the coolness of the air (and spectacular scenery) made us pause.

We stopped in the Berber village of Ain Leuh and stumbled across the Auberge Le Magot de L’Atlas.

‘Do you have any free rooms?’ we asked the genial manager.

‘They’re all free,’ he said. ‘There’s no one here. Take your pick.’

We decided to sleep in the main salon, a room so decorative it looked set for a wedding.

Cutting a splash: Aurelia admires an unexpected waterfall in the Atlas Mountains

We headed further south the following morning – encountering spectacular Barbary apes, a fantastic waterfall cut out of a gorge, and a huge, shimmering lake on the ‘Route des Cedres’ that we had all to ourselves – before we arrived back in Fes later that evening.

‘Ah, my friends,’ shouted stallholders, hustlers and guides as we jostled our way through the souk. ‘You’re back.’

It was a curious feeling. Everyone knew who we were; everyone wanted to be our friend. We had become instant celebrities.

‘I wonder how they remember us,’ said my youngest daughter Aurelia, who is nine.

She looked at her sisters and me – all fair-haired and pink with sunburn – and let out a peal of laughter.

‘I guess we don’t really look Moroccan,’ she said.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/travel/article-2123515/Morocco-holidays-A-family-adventure-Fes.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

Last fall Charlotte Temple of Gatehouse News Service toured Morocco and had an absolutely wonderful time. She relates her experiences below. 

Morocco is a country filled with history, fabulous food, incredible scenery, warm and friendly people and a little bit of mystery tossed in for good measure.

This past fall, I spent an exciting three weeks enjoying the sites of Morocco. It was my 13th trip with Overseas Adventure Travel, and it ranked as one of the best. OAT trips are adventurous and provide a good understanding of the country both geographically and historically, but this one gave us more insight into the lives of people.

Our odyssey began in Chefchaouen, on the slopes of the Rif Mountains near Morocco’s northern coast. All the houses and small shops of Chefchaouen are painted with various shades of blue. We were fortunate to be there during the festival of Eid, also called the Festival of Sacrifice. It’s an important religious holiday celebrated by Muslims worldwide to commemorate the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac (Ishmael). If you remember your Bible history, a sheep was sacrificed instead of Isaac (Ishmael). We saw many goats and sheep on their way to market. Schools and businesses were closed and families gathered to celebrate and to enjoy good food.

From Chefchaouen we traveled to Fes, one of Morocco’s oldest and most exciting cities. The Medina (the old town) is a UNESCO World Heritage site and is a city not to be missed. Some of the labyrinthine streets are so narrow that trash pickup can only be accomplished by using donkeys. Trash is gathered and loaded into the saddle bags on either side of the donkey and walked out of the medina.

The tanneries in Fes have operated here since medieval times and the process of preparing the skins has basically remained unchanged. If you have a strong stomach, this is the place to see how the skins are processed to make the slippers that are sold all over Morocco. The skins are cured, stretched, scraped and dyed in vats. A pungent mixture of pigeon droppings, acids and cow urine is used to make the hides supple. A sprig of mint is given to everyone with the stomach to visit the tanneries. I used the mint and was quite thankful for it.

On our way to the Sahara we visited a seminomadic group of women who invited us into their home and offered us warm bread and olive oil. Since they are seminomadic, they spend several months in this dwelling, and when it gets too cold, they move to the desert. When they return, they find their dwellings just as they left them. They don’t worry about theft or vandalism. The women were dressed in their traditional and very colorful attire, their over-skirts tied on the side if they were single and in the front if married. This was true in many of the traditional places we visited.

We saw huge swaths of green in the middle of the sandy landscape and drove though the largest oasis in Morocco, measuring 71 miles. People own or rent sections of the oasis and plant tomatoes, Brussels sprouts, cabbages and other vegetables. Usually men do the planting and women do the harvesting.

We finally arrived in the Sahara, the biggest hot desert in the world. The Sahara is about the size of the United States and covers parts of several African nations, including Algeria, Chad, Egypt, Libya, Mali, Mauritania, Morocco, Niger, Sudan and Tunisia. Sand dunes make up only a small portion of the Sahara; the rest of the area consists of rocky plains and mountain ranges covered with stone and gravel.

The Sahara is home to the Blue Men who were initially nomadic camel herders. Originating in Timbuktu, these nomads have inhabited the Sahara for thousands of years. The term Blue Men comes from the blue robes they wear.

We rode through the desert on our camels until we came to our tent site. Since the sands shift constantly, no permanent tent site can be erected. Our tents are very basic (no electricity and no running water) but the view of the dunes made up for any temporary lack of comfort. This was to be our home for the next two nights. The sun was setting and there was nothing but bright orange sand as far as the eye could see. No noise, no pollution, and no one else for miles and miles. The plan was to wake before first light and climb to the top of the dunes to see the sun rise. The night was still black when we got our early morning wake up call at 5 a.m.

As the sky lightened, I saw the tiny tracks of scarab beetles and desert mice. The sand was very soft as we began to climb, and it was difficult to get a foothold. One step forward, two steps back. The dunes looked insurmountable. Fortunately, the local Blue Men arrived to help us with the climb, which was a tough even with their help. As we got higher, we saw nothing but desert in every direction. We climbed to the highest dune to see the sun rise and drank a Champagne toast to our success. From the top, our camp site appeared no larger than a speck of sand. Going down the dunes was much more fun than trekking up. We slid down the dunes with some help from our Berber friends who grabbed our feet and pulled us down the dunes.

Our last stop in the Sahara was a visit with a nomadic family who move from place to place in search of food, water and grazing land for their animals, according to the seasons. The family consisted of the 43-year-old wife, the 55-year-old husband, and their nine children. Their lives are very simple. Most are uneducated. They consider themselves Saharans not Moroccan.

In Marrakech we took the famous traditional horse-drawn caliches (carriages) to the Koutoubia mosque, the largest mosque in Marrakech. Then to the souk — a true shopping experience that is not to be missed. Thousands of tiny stalls, each having “the best.” There was very little pressure to buy and everyone seemed to have a good sense of humor about buying and selling. The main square, Djemaa el Fna, teemed with snake charmers, storytellers, fortune tellers, monkeys on leashes, water boys and enough sights to cause sensory overload. We returned later that night and there was quite a transformation. Food courts appeared where there were none before, filled with every kind of food imaginable. We had dinner at a lovely restaurant, Dar Es-Salam, which was featured in Alfred Hitchcock’s film “The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

The Majorelle Gardens in Marrakech, created in the 1920s and 1930s by French painter Jacques Majorelle and later renovated by fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent, is a lovely, not-to-be-missed peaceful space with lots of bamboo, succulents, dwarf palms, a cactus garden and lily-covered pools surrounded by vibrant blue and yellow pots and other decorations.

The food in Morocco was outstanding. Tagines are stews cooked at very low temperatures resulting in tender meat with aromatic vegetables and sauce. They are traditionally cooked in a tagine pot with its conical cover and knob-like handle which stays cool when the meat is cooking. Tagines use less expensive cuts of meat, and often combine lamb or chicken with olives, apricots, raisins, dates, honey, saffron, cinnamon, preserved lemons, and any and all wonderful spices. In the three weeks I spent in Morocco, each tagine dish was delicious and always just a little different. Another favorite dish was chicken pastilla — shredded chicken with cinnamon, powdered sugar and other spices. The Moroccans also make a dessert pastilla with many layers of phylo dough with yogurt, honey and pistachios mixed between the layers. Since there were so many layers, the tradition is for everyone at the table to take their forks and at the count of three, smash the desserts. Mint tea is served not only at mealtimes, but throughout the day. It’s also a drink of hospitality and is served whenever there are guests. It is poured from a distance to aerate the tea and to produce a foam.

Fez, the third largest city in Morocco after Casablanca and Rabat, placed under world heritage protection by UNESCO is one of the favorite destinations for lovers of oriental culture. This medieval city, which celebrated its 1200th anniversary throughout 2008, was previously called Africa’s Athens. Imperial city, spiritual and gastronomic capital of Morocco, Fez still maintains its authentic traditional architecture, preciously conserved despite  the sprinkling of modernity.

This El dorado of tourism is attracting more and more globetrotters who come from all over the world to admire its mosques, the Islamic schools called Madrasas, the famous zaouia of “Moulay Idriss”, the old medina and its prestigious riyads that make up the originality of Fez.

Nothing is predictable to the visitor walking its narrow streets, that behind those blind walls and small windows with metallic bars, they will discover beautiful interiors where colors and materials are amazingly mixed, creating an indoor paradise. This architectural heritage and real estate full of splendid houses turned Fez into a cultural and civilization crossroads.

It is difficult to escape the glorious history of this city; history is everywhere in every inch of this space, even its inhabitants ignore they are spending  their lives in a museum-town.

It is almost impossible for new comers to find their way, with those narrow streets making it a complicated labyrinth city. They can feel the ancient side of the medina, while crossing the old market, where they smell the perfume of different spices that are the key to the delicious Moroccan cuisine. Craft industries still maintain their traditional characteristics dated from centuries; it is alive through the old jewelry, lamps, carpets, fabrics, etc. Everything is there to satisfy all tastes for eastern culture amateurs.

My guide of the day was Khalid, a Moroccan from Fez who emigrated to France. It was in Khalid’s Riyad that we organized the gala dinner for the fifth International Conference of the Arab Society for Computer Aided Architectural Design ASCAAD 2010, a great scientific event that enabled me to see the beauty and lust of his guest house.

We crossed the old medina that my guide seemed to know too well. We stopped near a coffee shop opened nearly 60 years ago. The owner welcomed me with the famous Moroccan expression: “Marhba ya lalla”, which literally means “welcome lady!” We walked up narrow stairs to sit in a mezzanine. Khalid told me that he loves this place. “It’s a part of my history, this is where I got my first job when I was 15 before I traveled to Europe and finally settled in Paris” he said. We tasted a delicious almond/grape juice before we left this awesome café and the smile of Si Cherif and his waiters.

We walked back up the “leather street”, that locals call “Souk el djeld”. All those small leather shops were full of tourists busy buying gifts and souvenirs, one of them who was choosing a bag told me: “Its my fourth visit to Morocco, and I love it more each time. It’s the best period to be in Fez. The weather is so great!”. Not far off, you can see the fabric market showing in all its shops the most traditional Moroccan dress called “Caftan” from  the simplest to the bridal ones.

A few minutes more walking and then we are in one of the most distinct areas of Fez. We could smell blood, cumin, coriander. We are near the famous tanneries of Fez, where I saw people of all ages working hard inside among these special smells and spectacular pigments that colour water going through basins serving for leather treatment.

We ended this small tour by a walk to “derb el haddadine”, which means the blacksmith street. It is clear that these craftsmen are doing a brilliant job, unique lamps, beds, tables, that will decorate the city’s houses. This diversity is like a sense of traveling back in time. The tourist can easily imagine himself in the Berber period, an amazing rainbow of sense capturing the attraction of any visitor.

Riyad El Alya, a thousand and one nights palace 

During our awesome tour in the old medina, Khalid was speaking so passionately about his guest house, and the difficulties he encountered to realize this dream-project in his hometown, that his passion made me impatient to go there and appreciate it! We took a taxi that drove us to Batha, a quiet area where the richest inhabitants of Fez used to live. A few meters and here we are…

Once the thick wooden doors crossed, I was in front of a magical interior, like in a thousand and one nights, a majestic house spreading over 1200 square meters renovated and restored with an exquisite taste. We felt like we were in a big palace, with its adorable welcoming staff, dressed in traditional black Moroccan clothes, serving tea and cakes to some of the residents enjoying their time in the Riyad patio.

The first things that attracts your attention once inside this house is the plaster ornaments on the walls, beautifully restored by the plaster craftsman Khaled Reda. Khalid told me that the successful renovation of his riyad is mainly due toReda’s efforts.

The building was bought in 2006, from a Moroccan resident in Germany, then the work lasted 2 years. Reda’s team restored every inch in the house, starting from the walls that preserved their natural blue mosaic to the fountain surrounded by orange trees centering amazingly the patio. Reda told me: “we have worked hard in a team of ten, during two years only in this architectural jewel”. Khalid and Reda knew each other for a long time, but Khalid discovered Reda’s work through an illustrated book about Fez he bought in Paris. “Al Alya house success enabled me to travel and transmit the Andalusian style in plaster all over the world, so that it never dies!” added Reda.

All the space recalls Andalusian houses and palaces, mixing genially marble and cedar wood, permeating bright colours and particular lighting, while visiting every room, creating a charming and reflecting a seductive Morocco.

I went downstairs to have a cup of water, waiting to continue my great visit of the wonderful place, and I surprisingly discovered the gastronomic paradise of Al Alya house. Everyone was peeling, washing, cooking happily. A beautiful young woman welcomed me, Halima, the Riyad manager. She was helping another French resident in peeling tomatoes. “It is the help Riyad” she said, “we all here help each other, and love smelling those food and spices that make of Fez cuisine one of the most delicious in the country and the world”.

I continued my visit with Khalid. The riyad has 7 fascinating rooms named after the most beautiful cities in Morocco: Fez room, Casablanca room, Marrakech room, Rabat room, Meknes room, Tangier room and Tiznit room. Each of them was more amazing than the other. Khalid told me that he and his daughter had designed themselves everything; lamps, carpets, covers, decorations. He showed me proudly one of his daughter’s paintings in Tangier room. Everything here aspires to rest inside these strong walls, witness of Berber traditions and customs.

I ended up in Khalid’s favourite place, the terrace, giving a unique view on the imperial city, decorated in a folkloric style, a place of pretty evenings under a Fez clear sky!

I went back to the house hall, pretty sure that tomorrow’s dinner would be a real success.

This great evening ended up with the attribution of the best paper to Dr. Hans Hubers from Delft University, who was offered a pure copper plate with his name beautifully written by one of the medina’s best blacksmiths. I left Al Alya house wishing to visit it again one day!

It’s the end of my marvellous trip in Moulay Idriss city. Time stopped in this mysterious part of Africa full of civilization, leaving its taste, soliciting each tourist to come again, feeling its warm streets and walkways, and as the famous novelist Clezio once said:  “Despite the hard times, the human virtue is always shining in this bright Maghreb, in which Fez is obviously the youngest spark”.

All conference speakers and contributors to the scientific success of the fifth sustainability conference were there, immediately amazed by the beauty of the place, the authenticity of restoration work in this 14th century building, under the rhythm of traditional folkloric music.

Khalid told his guests that he was too far from the architecture and heritage field, but this house gave him the will to invest in his hometown in a cultural and architectural project.

By Farah Souames

Editing by Benjamin Villanti

Morocco World News

Fez’s flagship cultural event, The International Festival of Sacred Music is celebrating its eighteenth anniversary this year. Preparations are well underway to make this version unforgettable. ANSAmed has an article on what to expect this time around.

“Enchanting the world once more” is the slogan for the upcoming International Festival of Sacred Music in Fez, in Morocco, one of the world’s most important cultural events, now in its 18th year. The festival, an exceptional meeting place for different civilizations, has been presented by its organisers in Rome today.

From June 8 to 16, the riad and the alleys of the old medina of Morocco’s former imperial capital will be the setting for a series of shows and events including the chants of Egyptian mystics and Pakistani Sufis, orchestras from Hungary and Italy, Berber rappers, gypsy and Occitan music, soul and blues by western stars of the caliber of Archie Shepp and Joan Baez and some of the leading modern Jewish and Muslim singers and poets.

Since its birth, during the Gulf War and amid early prophecies of an inevitable clash of civilisations between the West and the Muslim world, the festival has been “a challenge”, a form of “intellectual resistance”, the event’s president and founder, Faouzi Skali, tells ANSAmed. “The Festival shows how much West and East, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, have in common, in spite of efforts by those who want to put up barriers and dig trenches,” Skali says.

“The city of Fez is an example of shared memory, with its significant Andalusian and Sicilian elements”.

Every June, Fez takes up a role that it held for centuries, that of a tolerant capital open to the world. Gerbert d’Aurillac studied here before becoming Pope Silvester II and introducing Arab numbers to Europe, while the Jewish philosopher and physicist Maimonides also taught in the city.

The festival renews its links with the old climate of understanding and intellectual fervor. “We want to recount the inner beauty of every culture,” Skali says.

Since its conception, the event in Fez has had an extraordinary success. In 2001, the UN singled it out as one of the most important events for dialogue between different civilizations. New York, Milan, London and Madrid are interested in bringing about some form of twinning. The “spirit of Fez” has now entered the common parlance. “It is no co-incidence that this year’s edition is dedicated to the great eleventh century Persian poet, Omar Khayyam, a Sufi mystic who preached the joy and importance of living every moment of life, and was against the cynical and immoral policy of power and against ideological fundamentalism,” Skali says. “His message is as valid today as it was then”.

The wonders of Fez are brought vividly to life in this recent TNT Magazine article. Rebecca Kent toured Morocco and fell in love with Fez’s mysterious streets and colorful inhabitants.

“Balak! Balak!” Fes’s urban hubbub is punctuated by a string of short guttural cries that follow me as I roam the winding alleys of the walled medina. But my senses are already in overload, taking in food aromas, bleating hawkers, squealing children, distant traffic, pyramids of colourful spices, fresh hunks of slaughtered cow, and shelves stuffed with patterned leather shoes. The croaking is now closer behind me, and I spin around to face the watery snout of a mule. ‘’Balak!’’ it turns out, means “watch out!”. I didn’t, and as a result have momentarily exchanged hot breath with an ass. Unperturbed, the beast pushes on into the labyrinthine old quarter with seven gas cylinders fastened to his rump, taking no pedestrians for prisoners.

Mules are the only mode of transport that fit into the bewildering network of narrow, winding alleys in Fes el-Bali, the city’s old town, and they are subject to stunning improvisation.

“These are Fes’s Michelin taxis,” our tour leader, Mohammed, says. He stops a passing mule-handler, who upturns the front hoof of his animal to reveal a shoe crafted from recycled tyre. “Nothing is wasted in the medina.”

It’s been 400 years since the Arabs exploded across North Africa and built Fes, now the oldest of the ancient Moroccan imperial cities and the country’s religious and cultural centre. Exploring its streets, it’s evident life continues to move to the centuries-old traditions on which it was founded.

In a poky little room off one of the alleys, a baker cooks golden discs of bread for families who don’t have an oven of their own. I venture deeper into the maze, my ears ringing as metal workers in Seffarine Square bash at pots and pans, unruffled by the people criss-crossing around them. Carts of tangerines and strawberries are whizzed about as boys sell bread from trays balanced on their heads. Cats prowl mounds of rubbish while old men sit on the ground, hawking the bunches of mint and parsley splayed out in front of them.

‘’If you want to get someone lost, send them to Fes,’’ Mohammed suggests as we navigate the throng. My group makes it to Chouwara tanneries in the heart of the complex, which reveals a fascinating glimpse into an ancient practice. We look down into giant vats of dye, laid out like a jigsaw puzzle, and full of men standing knee-deep, dunking animal skin. The stench here is as iconic as the sight. It’s pigeon poo, the ammonia from which is used to strip the skins.

Beyond the complex, the skyline is dominated by a sea of satellite dishes.

‘’We say they are Morocco’s ‘white flowers’,’’ says a man next to me, who has been trying to flog a leather jacket for the past 15 minutes. If it wasn’t for the satellite dishes you could be forgiven for wondering which century you’ve accidentally stepped into. I am three days into a group tour of Morocco’s main cities – Casablanca, Meknes, Fes and Marrakech – which we shuttle between by train. But so far, Fes has captured my heart. There’s something romantic about a place that time seems to have overlooked.

Meanwhile, Casablanca, Morocco’s cash cow, is a city of contradictions, where wide French-style boulevards exist alongside rubble-pit streets, and it has an old centre that I can see now was a soft introduction to the chaotic atmosphere of the souks in a walled medina. Sheeps liver and sausages sizzle at barbecue stands, and if you are in for a sunny holiday, this is where to get your sunglasses. ‘’One hundred per cent original fakes,’’ is one cheeky vendor’s pitch.

Casablanca’s crowning glory is the Hassan II mosque – an immense structure built on a rocky outcrop that can accommodate 80,000 worshippers inside and another 25,000 in its courtyards. It has heated floors, mounds of shiny marble and a retractable roof. The third largest mosque in the world, it is a structure of Wembley-like proportions.

A late train means the ancient imperial city of Meknes is just a whistlestop for the group, but we manage to dash into the Unesco-listed old town and kasbah just before it grows dark, and there’s still enough daylight to appreciate its cultural bounty – 45km of high walls, and intricate Spanish-Moorish architecture. We snack on olives and dates in the covered market, and stare for probably too long at dubious-looking cuts and organs in the meat section. Yep, nothing goes to waste.

But Fes has the spirit of both cities and then some. Any Fassi will tell you Fes created the world’s first university – the theological college, Khartoum – centuries before Oxford and Cambridge were a twinkle in anyone’s eye. As a result, the city has grown to become Morocco’s cultural and religious centre. There’s definitely an air of cool authority.

Its people are friendly, too. On my last evening here, a squat man in his fifties pulls up in a delivery van as I try in vain to hail a little red cab. “You go to Old Town?’’ he queries, dashing around to open the door before either myself or my four companions can even answer. He looks far too enthusiastic to be untrustworthy, so we pile in. Immediately the back seat gives way, and we are reclining awkwardly among a haul of computer monitors and TV screens in the boot. We collapse into a fit of giggles and cannot stop. The rear-vision mirror is skew-whiff and the man drives with worrying abandon.

We enquire about what he does for a job and, in French, he utters something about being a part-time delivery driver. Then he pauses, and in English, blurts, “I’m a Berber taxi!”. We take this to mean an illegal cab, but by this stage we’re heaving far too much with laughter about our bit-parts in this comedy sketch to care.

The driver enjoys this, too, and with his foot still firmly on the throttle, turns to look at us. “C’est magnifique,” he beams joyously. We wish he was paying as much attention to the traffic. Nevertheless, we arrive at our destination, having had one of the most enjoyable interactions with a Fassi yet.

The following day, we veer off the tourist trail, 40km south of Fes, to the village of Bhalil. Here, the hands of time have also got stuck. Villagers are turning out for the weekly market, from which I spot two boys wielding a bucket stuffed with a cow’s head. Still nothing is wasted.

We’ve come here to meet Lalla Aicha, an 86-year-old widow who lives in a cave. It’s a rare dwelling, only a few of which have been carved out, among regular houses, here at the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Its elderly owner bounds from a doorway with outstretched arms and multiple kisses for all 10 of us, then invites us into her dome-shaped pad for mint tea, or, as locals like to call it, ‘’Moroccan whiskey’’. They‘re the only words Lalla Aicha knows how to say in English. Mohammed tells us it’s common for a Moroccan to drink 25 cups a day – usually with a fearsome amount of sugar. ‘’It’s good for healing, it’s good for warming, it’s good for refreshing and, some say a good …’’ he pauses for dramatic effect ‘’… aphrodisiac’’. I choose to believe Lalla Aicha drinks it because it’s refreshing.

We take a seat in her cave and she dances over to us with a bucket of water on her head. This granny is phenomenally strong – a result of her 25 cups a day, perhaps?

My last few days are spent in Marrakech, and not even cosmopolitan Casablanca could have prepared me for its grandiose sprawl. The souk-filled medinas inside its dusty pink walls, along with sweeping palm-tree-lined boulevards and glass-fronted shops, really smack you in the face.

I enter Djemaa el-fna, the main square, and it’s like a carpet has been swept from under my feet. Chaos reigns.

Steeling myself, I take on a gauntlet of snake charmers, donkey carts, horse carriages, castanet-clanging water sellers and turbaned potion-makers. I get the jitters when I see that a monkey with an arse shaped like a balloon – in a dress and a dog collar – clocks me, so I dart to the right. Here, I encounter a row of orange-juice vendors, practically throwing it at me to try – or buy. As I march on, a woman wearing a hijab and pyjama pants grasps my arm.

“Hello madam, you want beautiful henna for your hand?” I refuse politely, and continue to charge into the guts of the square, like a pinball shunting from one encounter to the next, trying to soak up the atmosphere, but avoiding the hawkers. Despite the cacophony, the melodic muezzin rises above it all in a call to prayer.

After two days in Marrakech, I yearn for a reprieve and find it in the whitewashed fortified coastal town of Essaouira. The Unesco-listed town and fishing port has stunning ocean views and a warren of tiny shops and stands to explore. I resist a camel ride along its curved shore and instead make a beeline for the seafood market, haggling on a price for a plate of scampi, whiting and king prawns for a fiver. Simply slapped on the grill, it proves delicious.

I catch myself in a sun-slackened stupor, and wonder if it’s the sea breeze that has taken the edge off hawkers in Essaouira. But then, I’m offered weed six times in succession.Nothing may get wasted further north, but it seems down this way, doing just that is encouraged. I’d give my kingdom to escape on one of those rubber-soled donkeys from Fes now, but instead make do with my own feet, wondering which adventure I’ll bounce into next.

Fez is featured in this Telegraph article, and Cafe Clock gets a mention as well. Natalie Paris visited our beautiful city and came away very impressed. She discusses sights, dining, and accommodation.

The short hop to Morocco is a cultural exchange like no other – just over three hours’ flight time in return for sunshine and a vivid shot of Arabian exoticism. Fez is the country’s oldest imperial city, a time-worn centre for culture and learning, with colourful tiled palaces and centuries-old souks.

While Morocco’s national team might have fallen out of the African Cup, football is still alive and well in Fez. The Cafe Clock staff are laying down a challenge to their football loving friends: come play us on Friday, February 10th. We will be meeting at Cafe Clock at 3h30pm, then walking to the sports complex in Baatha. This invitation is open to everyone – male or female, foreign or Moroccan – the only requirement is a desire to have fun!

Foreign Direct Investments (FDI) magazine has just published an article on Moroccan tourism. They believe the country will see considerable growth this year, due both to the large number of natural and cultural attractions the country offers, as well as the forward thinking work the authorities have done to attract more tourists.

Morocco is set to reinforce the contribution of tourism in its economy through attracting more tourists the British magazine, Foreign Direct Investments (FDI) wrote in its latest edition.

“Attracting travelers to Morocco is not difficult, given its array of natural attractions and reputation as a cultural hot-spot,” wrote the FDI.

“The country’s government is not resting on its laurels, and has launched a plan to pull in more tourists, and in doing so attract more foreign investment and create more jobs,” underscored the magazine.

To highlight the importance of tourism in Morocco’s economy, FDI used figures released by the Organization for Economic Development and Co-operation making the point that tourism is Morocco’s largest foreign exchange earner, the second biggest contributor to GDP, and the second largest single job-creating force, responsible for about 400,000 in terms of direct employment, and considerably more in terms of secondary employment.

“Year on year, the industry has continued to grow – albeit with hiccups. In 2010, there were 7.9 million tourists visiting the country – a 12% increase on 2009’s figures, when the global financial crisis impacted the tourism industry,” wrote the same source.

Morocco’s tourism sector is “certainly strong enough to withstand any glitches in the long term – and the Moroccan government is committed to a long-term plan,” added the FDI, pointing to the Vision 2020 which aims notably at doubling the number of annual foreign tourists, tripling the number of domestic tourists, and creating hotel facilities to the tune of about 200,000 beds.