Fez, Morocco

The noise that wakes me is as foreign as the chants from a Bangkok temple were two years ago. The sun sits lazily on the horizon, its rays not yet warming the cobbled streets of inner Fez. From dented megaphones atop elegant green towers come noise, the tirade of a preachers voice propelled over the waking city. “God is great” they say in Arabic, the noise echoing through our broken window. However wonderful it was I would prefer that they not announce this so early, my clock reading 5:30 AM.

Waking, we make preparations for leaving the room. Laptop, passports and money are hidden under a wardrobe while I scrounge around for breakfast. Finding only stale bread and olives I suddenly remember that it is Ramadan. The month of holy fasting, Ramadan is meant to remind all who worship Islam that they are not too different from beggars and the destitute. As it is illegal for anyone to eat on the street during the day I have been struggling with this and sneaking food to our room like a naughty schoolboy hiding tuck. After my unsatisfactory meal I clamber into dirty clothes, the product of failed negotiations to get our laundry washed for less than it would take to do it ourselves.

On the street things are in full flow. Stepping out of our door and narrowly missing a pile of rubbish, I feel slightly like Indiana Jones. Around me flows a stream of people, many in weird and wonderful garb, from flowing robes to strange KKK-esq pointy hoods. Every building seems to be an open-air shop selling something random, doorknobs and electrical wires for instance. Every local, from shopkeepers to beggars seems to want us to one of the following:
(A) Buy something from their shop, usually something semi-useless or overpriced
(B) Converse with them in French about how brilliant Fez is
(C) Move Out of the way of their donkey that is carrying anything from rubbish to coke bottles on its scraggy back.

I loved Morocco. The people smiling and shouting “Bonjour” at us, the sticky Ramadan treats made from fig syrup, the artisans making pottery and the view from the rooftops onto a tanning factory. Everything was foreign and yet familiar, reminding me of Asia and Central America mixed together. Although I built up an aversion to squat toilets, fasting and creepy hostel owners with fatal coughs my first experience in Africa was extremely enjoyable.