Check Mate in Fes el Bali
The train from Marrakesh to Fes is another overnighter packed with friendly families willing to share food kif and drink although we politely decline the latter with memories of Essaouira. Dozing I have hazy memories of vast desert landscapes and the odd oasis settlement where we’d stop for passengers and for locals to sell food to us intrepid travellers. We reach Fes and walk for ages to find the camp site which is the usual car park but this one with a barbed wire fence around it. Odd and worrying. Anyways we leave to explore and walk to a local castle built to repel us infidels. Great views over the old city medina from here with the Rif Mountains in the other direction and worth the hot trek through the olive groves.
Looking over old Fes with mountains in the background
Fes was a capital and has some truly amazing buildings including one with massive gold inlaid gateways surrounded by bright mosaics. Stunning. Unfortunately we couldn’t get into many of the buildings as either government or mosques and as in constant use we didn’t feel like intruding just to gawk. Even that got the guards jumpy and we were warned off eyeing up their golden gates.
James is me and me is Simon
Fes felt more relaxed than Marrakesh although maybe more sterile. Apart from the medina which is meant to be either the largest but definitely the most winding of all the souks. We were warned in advance that the only way to get out is to forget about where you are or any sense of direction. You wander around taking in the sights sounds and smells until you’ve had your fill and then walk in one direction, or as near as you can, in a straight line. If I remember rightly the idea is that after an hour maximum you’ll be out. Probably opposite from where you want to be and then have to walk around the souk following the roads (none go through the middle). On the way back to the camp site we pass the first bar we’ve seen selling alcohol but it’s expensive and seems out of kilter with the local customs so we walk on by.
At the camp site we cook potatoes (can it have been that much cheaper to cook ourselves?) and settle down to a relaxing evening of chat and draughts with a home made set. That’s all going very well (i.e. I’m winning) and then we notice a guy in fatigues nonchalantly wandering around the site with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Apparently to guard us tourists. He wanders over to practice his english and is very amused by our paper draughts set. He says he plays so half english half french we confirm the rules and then he takes me on. After beating me he plays Simon. Half way through a non kinged piece of his flys right across the board taking two of Simon’s pieces. Not sure if he was cheating or it’s a local rule but not one he used against me. Simon protests and with a very confusing dual language discussion we agree that’s the way to play. Couple of moves later an unkinged piece goes backwards... too much for Simon who protests more and after a minute he’s talking fast english and the guy is gabbling away in arabic using the butt of his gun to emphasise his point. Practicing for an unrealised role at the United Nations I mediate between the two of them and we renegotiate the rules and the gun barrel points downwards once again. Thankfully the guard wins and we have a tea to make up. Feeling his luck is on a high he suggests that he goes with Simon into our tent. Whilst I don’t particularly want my tent desecrated we are in Morocco and I’ve read Burroughs and he is armed so I say I can go for a wander but my mate politely refuses and after another tea and friendly good nights we turn into our sleeping bags and the guard wanders off to search out those elusive invader hoards that need a rifle trained on them.