Visitors to Fez can often find themselves overwhelmed by the assault the city makes on their senses. The colours, smells, sounds and texture of the city at the same time can appear entrancing and disconcerting. The jostling crowd in the morning souqs, the constant movement of people and mules, threading their way through the myriad alleys that twist and turn in the medina like the web of a psychotic spider. It can be all too much. There are also, however, moments of pure bliss. The light on a minaret at dusk, a single figure silhouetted in an arched doorway... and always doorways. Doorways, dark, drab, worn and seemingly derelict yet strong, held together, in many senses, by the aged and heavy hand of Fatima. Behind these anonymous doorways; riads, dars, hovels, splendour, poverty, heartache and joy - mixed like secret spices in a tagine.

[Image]To unlock the secrets of the Fez Medina may not be possible, but clues are to be found in the work of those who, over the years, have been held in thrall by the city; writers, painters, poets... There is no better example than that of Paul Bowles. We have posted before about Paul Bowles and his wonderful novel The Spider's House, but those who love reading the work of a master wordsmith, should take time to explore his 1984 essay on Fez.

Here is a small sample:

The street goes down and down, always unpaved, nearly always partially hidden from the sky. Sometimes it is so narrow as to permit only one-way foot traffic; here the beasts of burden scrape their flanks on each side as they squeeze through, and you have to back up or step quickly into a doorway while they pass, the drivers intoning: "Balak, balak, balak..." Here is the bitter earth odor of new pottery, here the rank smell of hides being tanned, or the stench of a butcher's stall where the meat, black with flies, ripens in a shaft of dusty sunlight that points an accusing finger down through the meshes of the latticework. In dark recesses like grottos are mosaic fountains where woman and girls scream invective as they fill their pails and the dust under their feet turns to mud. Then you are walking under an elaborate carved portal hung with ancient bronze lanterns, and you smell the feline scent of figtrees. A cascade of water rumbles nearby, but it is behind a wall and you never catch a glimpse of it.
(Published with permission)

You can read the entire piece here; The authorised Paul Bowles website.

This wonderful site includes biographical essays, catalogues of his literary and musical works, and photographs by friends and colleagues. The site was started by the estate of Paul Bowles after his death in 1999. A link to the site is also in our links list.

Also check out our earlier post on The Spider's House.


Tags: Morocco, Fès, Literature, Paul Bowles