Day 09 - We reunited with Nasir, the exact same driver who successfully hauled us from Tangier to Chefchaouen. He had the foresight to hand over his phone number earlier in the trip, so yesterday we simply used WhatsApp to arrange a 10:00 AM pickup right at our hotel for the onward journey to Fes. We banked on a four-hour transit, and the actual drive only tipped slightly past that estimate.
We watched the entire topographical surrender unfold right outside the windows. Leaving the Rif Mountains, the rugged, scrub-covered limestone peaks and tight valleys gradually softened into rolling foothills. The roadside provided a steady, fascinating stream of rural Moroccan life. We passed flocks of wandering goats and plenty of working donkeys hauling their daily burdens. As we continued south, the terrain completely flattened out and spilled onto the Saïss Plain. We also spotted massive White Stork nests perched precariously high above the ground. These avian squatters have constructed their giant, messy homes on top of nearly every available utility pole and minaret. The final stretch approaching Fes delivered a tranquil, strictly horizontal patchwork of endless olive groves and wheat fields. It was quite a striking contrast to the dramatic elevation we had just left behind.
It was a genuine privilege to witness rural Morocco rolling past the glass. Jay and I firmly believe that observing the daily rhythms of how others actually live is a fundamentally important part of why we travel.
So here we are, securely barricaded at the upper lip of Fes el-Bali. This ancient place is a twelve-hundred-year-old urban bowl where wedging a modern car between the alley walls is an absolute physical impossibility. Jay and I have claimed our refuge at Riad Jaouhara, comfortably positioned near the Bab Boujloud gate and the rather grand nineteenth-century royal summer palace of Dar Batha. For all intents and purposes, we are occupying the tactical high ground of the entire medina.
Whenever we dare venture outside our heavy wooden doors, we must surrender entirely to gravity. Two main arteries plunge directly into the heart of the labyrinth. Talaa Kebira, the Great Slope, and Talaa Seghira, the Little Slope, act as grueling one-and-a-half-kilometer chutes dropping straight into the core. These streets are relentless commercial gauntlets. One constantly squeezes past butcher stalls, brass merchants, and fragrant street food vendors. The surrounding architecture is a beautifully chaotic collision of crumbling medieval stonework and hastily poured concrete from the 1920s.
Our brief foray into the neighborhood for a late lunch this afternoon demanded a highly specific, borderline athletic skill set. Jay and I spent half the walk violently flattening ourselves against dusty walls to dodge heavily burdened donkeys. The rest of the excursion involved absorbing the sheer sensory overload of a functioning medieval market while hunting down sustenance. We just have to remember our golden rule of local navigation. Every downward step dragged us deeper into the madness, and a sweat-inducing uphill hike was the only guaranteed ticket back to sanctuary.