The small things

My parents visited recently, and my whole perspective on Morocco has changed since. All I needed was a little taste of home to remind me of the amazing things I have in my life, and to free me up to enjoy my life here.

I could go on all day about how thankful I am for my family, for the comfort they bring me, for my sister with whom I have a relationship incomparable to any other. I think all the time about how thankful I am for friends, both old and new, and for all of the opportunities I have to enjoy my life every day in Colorado, one of the most beautiful places in the world.

But it’s not every Thanksgiving that I get to sit on the roof of a ‘terrasse’ in Fes, Morocco, sipping spiced coffee and thinking of the things I’m thankful for here, in this country. Allow me…

- I’m thankful for the narrow streets in the old Medina that don’t accommodate cars, and allow only the occasional moto to pass through, but more often give way to donkeys, horses, and throngs of people on foot. These alleys and passages are what both confuse visitors with a feeling of disorientation and empower residents who know their secrets. They provide a neverending gameboard where players must dart right and left to avoid oncoming traffic, and constantly question their choice of which side of the street to walk on.

- I’m thankful for color. There’s a western fashion “rule” that says one mustn’t wear white after Labor Day or before Memorial Day. We extend that rule to include bright colors, which tends to shift the mood on the street starting in September to “fall colors”: burnt orange, deep purple, maroon, dark turquoise. Morocco doesn’t know about this rule, and thank goodness. I love fall colors – they are some of my favorite. But nothing can lift my spirits quite like an arrestingly bright yellow, crush velvet djellaba on a rainy gray day in the old city.

Minaret under construction

- I’m thankful for Islam, because despite my personal opinions about the religion, whatever they may be, it imposes a sense of order and peace on daily life here unlike any other I’ve lived in. The call to prayer, the respect for family time, even the caring relationship with stray street cats: much of the heart of this country is shaped by this religion, and Morocco wouldn’t be Morocco without it. I am even thankful for the fact that Islam, and the traditionalism instilled by it, keeps images of extreme capitalism and sexism away from the public eye. I love the freedom of America, but I could do without being compared to, and forced to compare myself to, every half naked woman on a billboard ad or artificially enhanced beauty in a magazine.

- I’m thankful for souks and hanoots: open air markets and miniature stores that sell everything from Dannon yogurt and Pringles to nail clippers, band-aids and bulk flour. The presence and proliferance of these small shops in the medina dictates that you buy only what you need on a given day – there’s no need to stock up on a lifetime’s supply of pasta. Tomorrow is another day, insha’allah – but live, and shop, for today.

Shoes!

- I’m thankful for mint tea, which I drink multiple times daily here. Not only is it delicious, but it’s representative of a ritual that emphasizes the importance of patience, interhuman relationships, respect and simplicity.

- I’m thankful for artisans – Fes is full of them. They are the reason that the living room walls in my very basic apartment home are as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen. They are the reason the sun filters through three separate colors of stained glass in my bedroom. They are the reason even the most mundane sights, a street packed with djellaba and babouche clad locals, are infiltrated with extreme beauty.

- I am thankful for walls. Some people think Old Fes has an eerie feeling, that it feels like a maze with high walls and no obvious way out. But nothing surpasses the sensory overload of stepping from the khaki colored, lack luster public street through a discrete door into a beautiful riad chock full of colorful zellij, intricate wood carving and calming water features. Sometimes it’s worth holding our cards close because it allows us to appreciate true beauty that much more.

- I am thankful for cobblestone streets, and the way my shoes sound walking through them. I wake up at 5 am each morning to the sound of carts being pushed down the Talaa Kebira, sometimes accompanied by rain drops falling on the stone – there’s no sound I enjoy more here.

- I’m thankful for bread. Atkin’s Dieters be warned – Morocco is not for you. Bread is a way of life here, and it’s found in every form, from flakey, chocolate smeared malawi to the coral-like raised pattern of baghrira. Bread, in all it’s forms, is the lifeblood of Moroccan cuisine, and I would pray to it 5 times a day if it were socially acceptable.

Rainy day at the Royal Palace

- I’m thankful for rain, because if you can’t leave it, love it. The downpour experiences I’ve had in this city are only rivaled by one I nearly drowned in in Nashville, Tennessee several years ago. They come unexpectedly and absolutely wipe out anything and everything not anchored to the ground. They create rivers in the narrow alleys, causing shop owners to shutter their wares and take lunch early. They soak unprepared walkers to the bone in a matter of seconds. And they wash away everyone but the diehards – the downpours make me feel solidarity with my fellow Fassis, for we are the ones who survive and stick around. Plus, they make the sun feel that much warmer.

Siham and Moulay helping me celebrate Rob's birthday from afar - she even bought a cake!

- I’m thankful for family, in it’s many forms. Despite the raucous chaos of my Moroccan household, despite the 3 year old screaming, the constant tv watching, the communication errors and the awkward stares from my teenage sisters, I am a part of something. I am included in family celebrations and I know where to go for help, I get kissed on the cheek before bed at night and I even get hit by Moulay like the rest of them, which is the greatest show of love he can express at his young age. Life is about connections, no matter how bizarre, and I’m thankful for mine.

- I’m thankful for the hammam, both for the sake of Moroccan women in general and for my own sake. The hammam is clearly the most enjoyable night of the week for all of the females in my family, as it is the one night they get to spend together OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE. Now that I have become a regular there, it has become the same for me, even despite my still-painful rubdowns (I have semi-permanent bruises on my knees and the tops of my feet from lovingly brutal massages received face down on the unforgiving tile floor). The one place where I would love to have photos is the one place my camera absolutely cannot go, so I’ll try to paint the images with words. ~ Take 1: Moulay, his tiny body crouched inside a bucket, running my comb through his wet hair with a huge smile on his face. Take 2: hefty, bossy hammam-working women sloshing water between buckets, adding cold to hot, to achieve the perfect temperature for every client. Take 3: Naked bodies of every shape and size, from newborn babies with as little hammam experience as me to toddlers waddling to and fro; from teenage girls whispering in the corner to young mothers with c-section scars, trading war stories; from shy, vain prima donnas to bare-it-all grandmothers in gigantic underwear. Take 4: My grimacing face as my masseuse rakes away at the sensitive fleshy part of my inner thighs, causing me to turn a red I’ve never seen. Take 5: Sultana and I applying mud masks to our faces in front of a cracked, fogged up mirror. Take 6: Khadija pointing at her hair and holding a brush, thereby requesting we take turns grooming each other. I accept. Take 7: My hair glistening clean after being washed 3 times: once by me, once by my masseuse and once by Khadija. Take 8: My hand holding one handle of the hammam bag, Siham’s holding the other, walking down the cobblestone street towards home with smiles on our lips from the warm highs we’ll hang onto all night. ~ The level of pure and unadulterated beauty and fascination the hammam holds is immeasurable, largely because it represents Muslim women, for me, in a way nothing else can. They laugh and talk and joke, and they all enjoy a good warm massage and some juicy gossip on a cold winter’s day, just like me and every other woman I know.

Morocco is not perfect – in fact it’s far from it. But there is an undeniable magic here that stops me mid step, silences me mid sentence, chokes me up mid breath, and asks that I find beauty in the small things.

Life with a 3 year old

 In honor of my host brother's upcoming birthday, I'd like to dedicate a post just for him. This is for you, Moulay Idriss...

Moulay playing with (aka harassing) 4 live chickens in our house - just another day in paradise!

Disclaimer: I would like to apologize in advance to Mama Siham and her crew for revealing some of the inner workings of her family. But, I see the world only through the lenses I wear, and I’m currently wearing “Moroccan daughter/sister/guest” in their home, so have no other way to frame my view of the world.

I have no brothers, so I’m sure some of my surprise at the way Moulay is raised is due purely to lack of experience.  Furthermore, I don’t have much experience with kids, and what I do have has only been for the past 9 months (and counting) with my favorite kid in the world: my nephew Kieran – who is, of course, a complete and total angel. Either way – let me just say a few things about my little ‘brother’ here in the Maghreb. Disclaimer #2: if my observations of Moulay seem similar to a scientist’s of an animal, please refer to my earlier stated lack of familiarity with this breed.

1. He is absurdly spoiled, and he absolutely rules the roost in this house. He is allowed to do anything he wants, as long as it makes him happy. This includes hitting his sisters, throwing food at anyone he pleases, yelling at the top of his lungs until he gets attention, hitting his grandmother, taking people’s cell phones out of their hands mid conversation, climbing up the wall to hang off of the window bars, eating other people’s food – even straight out of their hands, hitting his mama and baba, throwing umbrellas out the window from our 3^rd floor living room, hitting guests – like me, ripping up books, breaking anything and everything, throwing tantrums at least 4 times per hour; and, my favorite, giving me something and then immediately screaming at his mom and pointing at me, “the thief”. I’m well aware that I’m being taken advantage of by a child 1/9 my age, but that kid has some strong vocal cords!

2. He loves dangerous toys.

In the short time I have been here, I’ve seen him “play” with the following items, which all seem to be endorsed, if not ignored, by his adults:

-       an umbrella. He particularly enjoys running full speed with it pointing straight ahead to ward off any offenders, a la Medieval jousting. This behavior is typically followed with a ceremonial breaking of the umbrella, which includes removing and smashing the curved handle, pulling the many metal “spokes” off one by one, and tearing apart the water resistant cloth. He is careful not to waste any of the parts, and once broken, uses each and every one of them to torture his relatives whether by using them to hit, poke or throw.

-       A knife. On more than one occasion. This usually starts with him watching Habiba hack off hunks of meat from a sheep leg on the dining table, and getting jealous of her knife. No one protests too much when he takes the knife from her, lest they get stabbed. He doesn’t seem to have discovered the knife’s use as a weapon against others just yet, but I’m quite worried about his own safety with this one. He waves it around, acting as though it was a wand and wooshing it dangerously close to his stubborn brown eyes. When he’s done with it, he’ll throw it in any direction he pleases, which is almost always within centimeters of someone’s foot.

-       Scissors. Again, he takes them by force and threat of screaming from their rightful owner. He loves to snatch them open and shut, as if imitating a barber. “Who cuts you up, guurrllll?”

-       A lighter. And of course, the bigger the better, so he sets the flame to high and flicks it in the face of any observer. I’ve learned not to get worried until I smell skin or hair burning. Note to self: learn to say the word ‘fire’ in Arabic.

-       Nail polish. This may not necessarily be the worst thing: any kid deserves to mess around decorating themselves, as long as it’s not permanent, right? BUT, after painting his nails in the fashion so well demonstrated by his three sisters, the brush of the nail polish seems to always somehow find it’s way into Moulay’s mouth. Poison control, anyone?

-       Cigarettes. Given to him by his Uncle Hassan, his mother insists he doesn’t know what they are (and therefore how bad they are, especially for toddlers). Partaking in the game, Siham pretends cigarettes are henna pens, asking Moulay to draw on her hands and feet with them. It’s all fun and games until the butt is ripped off and the contents are being sprinkled into Moulay’s mouth.

-     Glass. My host grandpa, Abdulatif, takes daily medication that is dispensed in small glass capsules. In order to access the healing liquid, you simply pop off one end of the capsule, pour it into a glass with water and drink. Dangerous, for sure, but fascinating to watch. Moulay, of course, wants anything anyone else has, so naturally he gets a hold of grandpa's medicine from time to time. He taps the capsule on the table until he gets frustrating at it's not breaking, and finally Siham pops off one end for him. Unfortunately, she doesn't watch closely as to where the small glass tip lands. I have seen it land INSIDE the glass on more than one occasion, so it's highly likely Moulay has ingested glass at least once. Upon pointing this out to Siham, she arches her eyebrows and waves me away. Could my language barrier be a health concern to this growing boy?  

-     Chickens. Siham purchased the special chickens (i.e. colored, not white) especially to make pastilla for Moulay's birthday, a flakey pigeon or chicken tart specific to the Fes region. Therefore, Moulay felt entitled to use them as his personal play things while they were still alive. Chickens purchased in the covered meat souk in the medina up the street from my house are sold with their wings clipped and feet bound together so they can't get too far. It didn't take long for Moulay to figure this out. I came home to him holding the bound feet of the poor animals, running and screaming with his prize held high. I'll admit I had a hard time looking into the eyes of these birds as Moulay swung them around and tossed them on the floor. He was very proud of his newfound toy, much like a dog with a bone, and plucked several feathers for me to show his pride. Thanks, Moulay, for the souvenirs.  

3. He is the king of the castle. Even despite his neverending fits of rage and violence, he constantly receives accolades for his behavior. In fact, he is occasionally kissed, hugged and fussed over, seemingly as a direct result of his antics. I have even been asked to kiss him on the cheek or hands at these times, a lead that I follow, of course. I have only seen him receive punishment twice, whereas his sisters get in trouble at least daily. 

And yet...hard not to love him

4. He is cute. I’ll admit, the first day I moved in and met Moulay, umbrella in his hand and mischievous grin on his face, I nearly turned around and walked out, comforting myself only in the fact that he is still too small and uncoordinated to open the door to my room. I still find myself seeking solace from him, but I find myself more amused by him than annoyed, which is much more than I could say 2 weeks ago. Though he seems even more the patriarchal young ruler than any other Moroccan family I’ve witnessed, I am at least starting to understand the reason behind giving him whatever he wants whenever he wants it: if you don’t, he’ll scream. And I assure you, nothing in the world is more grinding on one’s sanity.

Sound

Noise, from the first groan in the morning to the last snore at night, is 100% constant in my Moroccan household, which I share with MANY many family members.

They are as follows:

Siham (mother)

Abdulmalak (father)

Sultana (14 year old daughter)

Aziza (13 year old daughter)

Khadija (7 year old daughter)

Moulay Driss (3 year old son)

Kamal (Siham’s 22 year old brother)

Hassan (Siham’s 32 year old brother)

Said (Siham’s 39 year old brother)

Simo (Siham’s 40 something year old brother)

“Habiba” (Siham’s mother)

Abdultaif (Siham’s father)

That’s right: with me, there’s 13 of us. And yes, there’s just one bathroom.

I am the only one with my own bed and my own room (a requirement of my school for host family placements, hamdo l’allah – “thanks to God”). The rest of the 12 family members sleep on couches in 2 adjacent living rooms. It’s basically one giant slumber party all the time, for better or for worse.

Some people may know I’m not huge on alone time when I’m at home, in my element. I like being alone for an hour, at maximum, then feel like I’m missing out on something and get antsy. However, here, I am being fed constant company and ‘togetherness’ with a fire hose.

Minaret of one of many mosques I can hear from my room

Sounds in my house range from Moulay’s screaming to the 5 times daily muezzin call from one of the 300 mosques in the old medina, from teenage gossip (probably often about me) to heated exchange between adults (dare I call it arguing?), and from Khadija’s questions (‘Ayn tadhaby? – where are you going?’) to the sound of water constantly dripping and running from somewhere to somewhere else.

One constant sound from day to day is the blaring television, which is usually playing Egyptian soap operas (dubbed in Darrija, the local Arabic dialect) or foreign films (often in Hindi with Arabic subtitles). We occasionally watch Arabic news, such as al-Jazeera. Whenever English comes on the tv, it’s immediately switched off. I understand about 1% of the words I hear on tv, which I figure is loads better than nothing at all. On the eve of a recent national holiday, La Marche Verte, there was a televised address from the king, Mohammad VI. After standing for the national anthem, he sat on his throne with his son to his right and his brother to his left and, to my surprise, read his speech and didn’t look up once. I don’t necessarily have an opinion on this king as I know too little about him to form one just yet, but I was not impressed.

One of many donkeys in the old Medina

Street life has another set of sounds all its own, and the varieties are endless: from calls of ‘ballakh’ (watch out) from the donkey drivers to horns signaling the arrival of a scooter or motorcycle in the too narrow streets, from the flop of a flat soccer ball being kicked by kids in a narrow alley to the ‘Bonjour – madame – you American?’ of the shopkeepers and hustlers as I pass by, from the loud and festive music of a wedding party to the kissing sound as bises are shared by friends, and from the crying of stray cats fighting to their deaths over scraps of meat to the ‘yalla’ (let’s go) of a father to his kids in the souk.

Wedding festivities of a neighboring family

There are an infinite number of other sounds, both foreign and familiar, I notice on a daily basis, and they all come together to forum the chorus that is life in this city. Though jarring and harassing and overwhelming at times, these sounds are what make this city so alive. Silence has no place here.

Sight

I like a good dance party, and I love a good dance party if it’s in someone’s living room. On my fourth night with my family, the stars aligned for me to experience just that.

After a week of hard classes and new experiences, coming home from journaling, relaxing and drinking mint tea on the rooftop of Café Clock on Friday night, I was looking forward to a good couscous dinner and a relatively quiet night watching tv and observing ‘les betises’ (the foolishness) of my little host brother. Instead, I opened the door to our flat and was bombarded with music, food smells and about 35 people. It was party night.

I should have guessed from the fact that my host mom was getting henna applied to her hands and feet earlier that day. Also, it was Friday – who doesn’t like to party on Friday? Especially in a Muslim country where Friday is the holy day.

However – this was not your routine living room dance party. 

Gnawa musician

 The living room was packed with women and children, with the exception of 3 men sitting together on one end. I quickly realized that they were the entertainment, and thought 'I could get used to this.' The three men, dressed one each in yellow, blue and red robes, were Gnawa musicians: descendants, or at least respecting practicioners, of an old North African Sufi tribe.

Over mint tea, coconut cookies and about 15 other pastry varietals, I enjoyed listening to the call and response music, backed up with instrumental sounds from hand cymbals and a lute-like square instrument, called a gimbri. I observed the dance moves of the women in the room, slightly relieved to be sitting in a corner smashed amongst several women and therefore unable to join in. Right about the time I was noticing the smell from a gigantic incense burner wafting from below one of the musicians, two of the women (including my host mom) began to rock back and forth quite violently. The other women cleared everyone else away from these two so that they had the floor to themselves. Half expecting breakdancing moves to come next, I continued watching with interest and perhaps some minor anxiety.

Women dancing. My host mother, Siham, in white

The rocking got more exaggerated as the forward motion brought the women’s heads almost as low as their knees, and the music became louder, with each thump on the gimbri more isolated.  Somehow the incense smell seemed to strengthen too. After what felt like eons, with a final dramatic note, the musicians completed the song. I, being the live music-loving Westerner that I am, raised my hands to clap only to find that I was the only one. Each of the dancing women had fallen back into the arms of their friends, eyes rolled back in their heads, panting and sweating from over exertion. The helpers laid each woman down on a couch surrounded by pillows, and began fanning her with their hands. One woman produced a carton of libn (my favorite) from the kitchen and began pouring it into Siham’s open mouth, though only a small portion of it actually went down. All I could think was - WTF?

I later heard that this form of ‘trance dancing’ is common at Gnawa music festivals and private events, and is, at least in part, their reason for existence. The passed down explanation I received says that there are 3 female demons in this strain of Sufi mysticism, and each one is represented by a color: red, blue or yellow. The hostess of a Gnawa ‘party’, or ritual, wears the color of the demon they are aiming to exorcise (for lack of a better term). Trance dancing is a medium for the release of that demon from the woman’s body.

Part of me did have to wonder if this ritual achieved the same affect that non-Muslim, or at least non-religious Muslims, get from drinking or taking part in other drugs. But my main concluding feeling was awe at the depth of this culture. If only so much meaning were attached to Bieber fever.

Taste

'Bibouches', or escargots, or snails...which I won't be eating during my visit

I’ve eaten many a delicacy in my short time in Morocco: malawi, a yeast pancake dipped in preserves or honey; heavily sweetened mint tea on the reg; coconut cookies to die for; spiced chickpea and lentil stew. But let’s face it, it’s much more fun to recount the bad tastes.

I can honestly say that, so far, I’ve only had two that were memorable enough to be included, and they are both related to ‘libn’, known in English, perhaps, as buttermilk. Or, in my humble opinion, as plain old rancid-ass milk.

After the hammam my second night with the family, we returned to the house languid, warm and slightly red in the face from hours of steam and scrubbing. After returning home Habiba proudly served up a giant platter of milk glasses, meant to cool us all down. I took mine happily, indulged in my first sip and promptly choked. My first assumption was that I was accidentally given a bad glass, one with milk that had gone rotten. ‘Laysa mushkila’ (no problem) – I’ll just tell Siham and she’ll replace it for sure, I thought. But no – to my dismay, I learned, everyone’s milk was sour like mine, and what’s more, everyone else was gulping it down and smacking their lips in satisfaction. By some great miracle, I succeeded in choking down the entire glass, telling myself ‘It’s kinda like Gogurt’ :) When I asked what it was, and why (in God’s name) were we drinking it, I got an animated response. Siham gesticulated that in order to make libn, she shakes the crap out of a pint of milk (for one or two hours, that is), then leaves it sitting outside of the refrigerator for two days. When the smell is just right, it’s a treat for all. Gross.

Though vegetarian I am, my taste buds are fairly adventurous, and they truly relish a good shock now and then: I love hot Indian food, for example, or sour pickled green beans. Heck, I’ll buy the moldiest cheese I can find then leave it out to mold a bit more. But there is no imaginable circumstance in which I expect myself to EVER warm to the idea, or the taste, of libn. It’s just wrong.

After the hammam night, I’d hoped I’d said my final goodbye to libn. But, alas, then came afternoon snack the next day. (Sidenote: Moroccan families eat 5 times a day: breakfast, snack (usually savory), lunch, snack (usually sweet), dinner). )

Siham set down a giant bowl of what looked like rice pudding in front of me. I began to salivate thinking of the sweet Indian dessert, often with coconut milk and vanilla bean. My mind tricked me into taking a giant bite, and I found I’d been fooled once again. Libn with couscous is NOT the same as rice pudding, or even close. I couldn’t do it again. I began to interview Siham again as to how libn is made, and why it’s made, for goodness sake. Luckily, she caught on quickly to the fact that I ask a lot of questions when I don’t want to do something (friends and family, take note ;)).  With downcast eyes and a slight frown, she accepted that libn is just not my thing. But not eating in a Moroccan household is not an option, so she presented me with sugared couscous instead. I can’t say the gritty, sandy consistency of my replacement dessert was exactly enjoyable, but I’d rather ingest an entire beach than ever drink libn again.

Touch

It’s not every vacation that, in the first week, I spend an evening naked with several strangers. It’s even more rare that I find those strangers staring at me and ultimately touching and rubbing, brushing and smacking, massaging and commanding me. Let’s just say – this vacation has been one of the rarest.

The hammam is a public bathhouse where the locals congregate en masse according to their gender-specific visiting hours. Though American I am, I got over the toplessness pretty quickly: it was weirder to act weird than to act natural, so I made a conscious decision to do the latter. I was dragged through a series of large steamy rooms with high ceilings and crumbling columns where I was assigned a spot on the floor, surrounded by large buckets of water. I quickly learned to follow the “When In Rome” principle, so wasted no time dousing myself with warm water and lathering myself in waxy argan oil provided by Siham. 

My 7 year old 'sister', Khadija

I received an unwarranted but harmless rub down from my 7 year old sister, who knows nothing of personal space and boundaries. Little did I know I’d soon be the somewhat humiliated recipient of a true hammam massage.

My masseuse approached me, without eye contact, and, sitting on the floor in front of me, immediately began scrubbing me with an exfoliating glove provided by Siham. She scrubbed so hard I was rocking back and forth on the floor with each pass. When she was satisified, she gestured to me to turn around facing away from her, and she proceeded to douse my head in water. I came up sputtering after the first go, and then learned to tilt my head back, a skill that has gone unpracticed since my ‘Johnson & Johnson No More Tears’ days. She shampoo’d my hair with the aid of a handbrush (genius!), and then it was time for the dreaded bristle body brush. I nervously recalled this phenomenon from my one previous hammam experience 6 years ago.

With her hands in a spinning motion, my masseuse signaled to lay on my stomach on the wet tile floor. I obeyed, closing my eyes against the soapy clumps of hair that had accumulated near the drain.  The intense bristle brushing began on my back and legs, and it was at this time I realized I’d be leaving behind at least one or two layers of skin. I gritted my teeth and tried to find my happy place. She missed not an inch of my exposed areas, even taking the liberty to convert my bikini bottoms into a thong for maximum coverage. However sadistic it may sound, the burn was quite relaxing – until she asked me to flip. I bade a silent farewell to my nipples, and I haven’t seen them since…

Intro: Smell

There are so many ways to start a blog, or an account of anything, really. I could begin chronologically, with my 10:30 am flight on Sunday, October 28th, and recount each memorable moment in orderly detail. Or if I were data driven, I could give you a brief statistical rundown of the current Moroccan population, and thereupon draw parallels (or contrasts) with my subjective experience with said population. If I were smitten with history, I could go so far as putting my Moroccan experience in the context of the country’s long and colored past….

But, we can all agree that we first discover a new place with our five senses, so let me start there.

I can arguably say that the best smells and worst smells I’ve experienced in my 27 years on Earth share Morocco as their origin. 

The tanneries

One of the worst: the leather tanneries in Fes al Bali, aka the medieval city of Old Fes, aka home. On a guided tour provided by my Arabic school, we made a stop there where a shop owner knowingly handed each member of my group a few sprigs of mint “to help with the smell”. I had no idea what was in store. The stench was brutal and overwhelming: dead animal carcass with a dash of pigeon guano (used in the curing process) makes for a nose’s worst nightmare. My 20 years of vegetarianism and slight stomach bug certainly didn’t lessen the blow.  Despite the smell, the reality that this place exists and employs hundreds of real, hard-working people is fascinating. These workers spend their days bathing in lime and all manner of dye: poppy flower for red, saffron for yellow, indigo for blue.  After the animal carcasses are delivered from the butcher, they follow a few basic steps: lime, “de-furring”, curing (read: bathing in pigeon crap), dying, drying. Workers are paid by the complete unit, not by hour or day or any other measure, so they work hard and quickly. Based on pure fascination, I plan to return – though this time perhaps with a gas mask in tow.  

One of the best: Louiza (lemon verbena) branches

While sitting with my host mom working, aka hanging out, at her jewelry shop, a woman stopped by selling verbena branches. Seven year old Khadija tasked me with delivering them back to the house, and my nose didn’t stray but two inches from them the whole journey. The smell is a heavenly lemon-lime mixture that puts any Yankee Candle to shame. I inquired of Abdulmalak, my host father, in my broken French, as to their use and he replied, in his broken French, that verbena is good for the stomach. Apparently doctors prescribe a verbena drink to newborn babies to settle their miniature tummies.

One of the worst: escargots

In Moroccan Arabic: bibouches. The characteristic steam rising from the vendors’ carts warns me to walk the other way, but it’s often unavoidable. They boil them for hours and open the lids to their giant tin pots just in time for the lunch and dinner crowds. Their shells are white and brown striped, and my host sisters pull their cooked bodies out with the sharp end of a safety pin. I prefer them alive, poking around my shower, to dead and shriveled sliding down my throat.

One of the best: freshly shaved cedar

Fes is a city of artisans – always has been. The old city is divided into quarters based on the material worked by it’s residents: copper, argan oil, leather, silk. The wood quarter is rife with the aroma of cedar wood chips from the piles created by furniture makers and wood carvers. I could sit in that quarter, surrounded by that smell, for an entire afternoon and be content.

Donkeys: cute, but smelly

One of the worst: donkey bums
 The streets in Old Fes are too narrow for cars, so everyone walks (which means this is one of my favorite places on Earth). However, Fes is shaped like a bowl, and therefore hills abound. For those residents with loads to transport, the best option is by donkey, loaded high with pelts or bread loaves or cloth djellabas or sheets of tin, and always trailed by a buzzing cloud of flies.

One of the best: fresh baked bread
Many families in old Fes have gas ovens in which they can bake bread, but they are typically not large enough to bake adequate amounts for many of the large families here. That's when the wood oven bakeries come in. (There are 5 essential must-haves in a Fessi neighborhood: a mosque, a Koranic school, a hammam or public bath house, a spring or water fountain and a bakery)
The women roll the dough out at home and form it into loaves marked with their own special family design (typically done with a toothpick). They then load the unbaked bread on their family tray, denoted by a particular patterned cloth, and send it to the bakery with one of the men or boys on their way to work or school. They swing by before the afternoon or evening meal and pick up their perfectly browned boules. Yes, please!

Neighborhood bakery in the old medina