Fes—City of Touts

Fes, Morocco.

My time in Fes was both fascinating and wearisome. I arrived from Tangier on a CTM bus. The CTM station is well outside the Medina, but I knew that going in and opted to travel via CTM anyway (looking back, I consider that a mistake). I hailed a taxi and headed to my hotel. The driver quoted a price of 15 DH, but when we arrived, the meter had a higher sum, so I paid 20 DH. (Returning to the same point when I left Fez, cost me, according to the meter, 12 DH, so there was somewhat of a discrepancy there.)

Street in the medina.

Arriving, I was met with the usual array of hustlers, or touts, who wanted me to eat at their restaurant or stay at their hotel—though nothing compared with what you can experience in Jordan. I found my place (Hotel Cascades), a run down, old place, but cheap (60 DH, about $7.20, per night for a private room with shower and wifi included).

The first night the showers had hot water, but the second night they didn’t. The toilets were unprepossessing—one lacked a seat—and you were expected to provide your own paper. Probably standard for the type of lodging I was in though; however, I could never get past the idea that there might be bed bugs, somewhat detracting from my relaxation and enjoyment. Ah well, it just made it seem like I was in NYC.

Old city walls.

Once settled into my room, I essayed out into the old city to explore. Before going far, some boy (a teenager) latched himself to me, trying to get me to visit this place or that place. I turned him down repeatedly. Eventually he disappeared. It was a relief, but short lived, because, he reappeared in a few minutes and told me that I needed to visit these places because tomorrow they’d all be closed due to a holiday proclaimed by the king. I parleyed that I wasn’t interested in seeing anything that night, and eventually he took the hint and disappeared again.

Continuing to wander, I meandered into the district of another tout. This one posed as a friendly Moroccan who just wanted to be friendly. Once again, he walked with me until I left his area, trying to convince me to visit his “uncle’s” coffee shop, etc.  Having forgotten the guy’s name, I asked him to remind me of it. There upon he told me a completely new name, so I figured it was a no-brainer to turn down his pressing requests to stop by his place for a cup of tea…



Gate into the medina.

The next morning was better—at first—but then I ran into a guy who pretended to be in Fez for medical care, but who somehow seemed to know people about the town… He tagged after me until I decided that if I was going to be shadowed, I’d use my shadow to teach me Arabic. He disappeared quickly after that. 

Everywhere I went, I ran into people wanting to sell me hashish. Apparently there is quite a market in hashish in Morocco and they assume tourists are there for the hashish.

Continuing to wander around, I visited the old city walls. On top of a hill, it was my favorite spot in the city, because you could look down on the city and the surrounding countryside. The city wasn’t much to look at, but the surrounding hills were speckled with olive trees and presented a wholesome, fresh landscape after the narrow and dirty streets of the medina. Coming back down, I opted to go wandering through the park by the king’s palace. It was nice, but not terribly impressive. While there, I ran into (or should I say he latched himself onto me) a guy who claimed to be a university student. He seemed to delight in throwing platitudes and American slang in my direction, so I tried to be friendly on the odd chance that he really was the man he said he was and not just another tout. I made it clear that I couldn’t buy anything just in case, and then we wandered into what he called the Jewish city, back and forth, in a very uncertain direction—at least for me, he said we were going to a weaving factory owned by his “grandfather”.  His other “grandfather” ran, he said, a safari business for Sahara tours. He wanted to take me to the synagogue, but I was uninterested.

The Blue Gate.

Arriving at his destination (the weaving factory), the place was locked up, but he managed to hunt up a key. I declined interest in entering, preferring to wander the streets, but he insisted, berating me for not trusting his friendly intentions and fearing for my life, so I went in. We passed through several rooms and corridors and eventually came to an enclosed open-air garden. Making a grand flourish, the guy invited me to take a picture. I was nonplussed. There was nothing worth taking a picture of, at least not without a bit of effort, so I declined. Slightly disappointed, he led me to the next room where cloth was stacked around the edges and at the far end stood a small table littered with pictures. In we went. He insisted that I look at the ancient pictures from previous camel safaris into the desert. Feeling isolated and cut off, I feigned interest, to keep alive his hope of extorting money out of me. He offered me a two day trip for the bargain price, “since I looked like a poor man”, of 2000 DH ($250ish). I equivocated and started moving to the door. Placing himself between me and the door, he insisted on showing me some of the cloth. I admired it, but declined, and worked my way free, moving to the exit.

Achieving the street, I tried to politely decline the safari. The poor guy wasn’t pleased. I hadn’t bought anything, as I had warned him, but forgetting that he had two “grandfathers” with well-established businesses, he became poor and wanted money for food. Upon my lack of interest in feeing him, he suddenly had a wife and daughter and asked if I was a Jew. It was all fairly interesting, but eventually he left me alone.

I liked Fes and, in general, I liked the people—largely friendly and helpful, offering me rides and advice when they thought I was getting out my depth—but the touts soured my experience. But then, maybe they are the experience. 

Additional photos from Fes