A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco

by Suzanna Clarke

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Map

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  Picture Section

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  BUILDING A NEW LIFE IN MOROCCO

  When Suzanna Clarke and her husband bought a dilapidated house in the Moroccan town of Fez, their friends thought they were mad. Located in a maze of donkey-trod alleyways, the riad was beautiful but in desperate need of repair. But they were determined to restore the house to its original splendour, using traditional craftsmen and handmade materials.

  Beautifully descriptive and with an extraordinary sense of place, A House in Fez is a journey into Moroccan culture. Into its day-to-day rhythms, customs and festivals; its history, Islam and Sufi rituals. And above all, into the lives of its people – warm, friendly and hospitable.

  About the Author

  Born in New Zealand, Suzanna Clarke grew up in several parts of Australia. In her twenties she lived in a Welsh commune, an Amsterdam squat and a Buddhist monastery in Nepal. Apart from forays into contemporary dance and academia, she has worked as a photo-journalist for more than two decades, contributing to Australian and international newspapers, magazines and books and holding several exhibitions. She is currently the arts editor of a major Australian newspaper.

  For Meg and Henry, my parents, who began the adventure.

  And for Sandy, my love, who shares it still.

  Prologue

  MAYBE IT WAS a fit of madness, but on just our second visit to the old Moroccan capital of Fez, my husband and I decided to buy a house there – as one does in a foreign country where you can’t speak the language and have virtually nothing in common with the locals.

  Morocco is only thirteen kilometres across the Strait of Gibraltar from Europe, but in almost every respect it might as well be on another planet. Situated in the north-west corner of Africa but separated from the rest of the continent by the vast Sahara, its Arabic name, al-Maghreb al-Aqsa, means ‘the extreme west’. It is a land of cultural and ethnic amalgams, of Berber, African, Arab and, in more recent times, French and Spanish influences. The writer Paul Bowles called Morocco a place where travellers ‘expect mystery, and they find it’. He wasn’t wrong.

  Our first visit, in 2002, had not been auspicious. I developed a raging case of the Moroccan quick-step after eating in a fancy palace restaurant, and like many tourists, we’d been fleeced in a carpet shop by a charming but wily salesman whose money-extracting technique had been handed down through centuries of dealing with naïve foreigners.

  Nevertheless Sandy and I responded to Morocco in a way we had to no other country. We found it as multi-layered and intriguing as the patterns in the tile work adorning the buildings, each of which has its own hidden meaning. Morocco has the mystique of a land from the Old Testament yet appears to be coping comfortably with modernisation. Internet cafés rub shoulders with artisans’ workshops; peasants on donkeys trot beneath billboards advertising the latest mobile phones. Outside mosques, running shoes are lined up next to pointy-toed babouches. In the souks, women wearing long robes and headscarves escort daughters with beautifully cut hair and high heels. You can eat at a street stall, in a Parisian-style café, or next to a tinkling fountain in an ornate courtyard. You can find yourself in the midst of a crazy, honking traffic jam, or dodging donkeys in cobbled alleyways, or riding a camel in the solitude of the Sahara.

  Fez, in particular, won our hearts. Its location in a bowl-shaped valley protects it from the baking heat of summer and the bone-chilling winds that race down from the Atlas Mountains in winter. The ancient Medina, or walled city, is the cultural and spiritual core of Morocco and is at once a delight and a challenge, an assault on the senses. Its countless narrow alleyways are not a museum but a living community, abuzz with Fassis going about their business. The largest car-free urban area in the world, the Medina is home to quarter of a million people, but very few of them are expats. And unlike in Marrakesh or Tangier, tourists are more of a sideline than the main event.

  Within the Medina’s thick sandstone walls lie thousands of flat-topped houses. Viewed from a distance, they are impenetrably dense and complex, like a nest built by cubist termites – a room over a neighbour’s stairs here, another room stretching over next-door’s kitchen. The houses offer blind faces to the street; the only clue to what lies within are their intriguing doorways, decorated with intricately carved wood or with hinges showing the hand of Fatima, the Prophet’s daughter, whose influence is believed to ward off the evil eye.

  As is the case everywhere in the Medina, the dwellings of the rich sit next door to those of the poor, although all appear similarly drab from without. In Islamic philosophy, God and family are more important than showing your wealth to the outside world. Scattered among the houses are green-tiled minarets, from where five times a day a melodic voice echoes across the rooftops. Then another joins in, and another and another, until the whole city reverberates with the muezzins’ calls to prayer.

  There were aspects of Morocco we found confronting – the beggars, child labour, animals being treated as simply tools or pests. But the negative factors were part of a complex society, and were off set by the warmth of the people, the cultural and historical richness. It was a country where we both felt more alive than anywhere else, our every sense engaged.

  Back at home in Brisbane after that first trip, our far too expensive Berber carpet – the colour of sunset on the sands of the Sahara – lay on the floor of our living room, reminding us of the sensual beauty of Morocco, and of our ignorance of the traps of that enormously different and distant culture. We found it hard to settle down. The advertising that bombarded us daily seemed more intense, the supermarkets soulless. Most of the food sold there was so far from its origins as to be unrecognisable, obscured by packaging designed to conceal the contents. Even the fruit and vegetables were plastic-wrapped, some of them coming from halfway around the world for me to buy, wilted, at many times the original price. And we in the ‘developed’ world were under the illusion that we had the best of everything.

  Where were the lively, crowded markets that echoed the way humans had traded for centuries? Where was the produce piled high in the open, direct from the farm, allowed to ripen on the vine or on the tree or in the earth, and only available in season? In Moroccan markets you could smell, handle and often taste things before buying. You looked the farmer or the stallholder in the eye as you quibbled in a good-natured way about the quality and price.

  On days when the walls seemed to be closing in, I would trawl the Internet, looking at sites on Morocco. Among them were a number offering real estate for sale, and slowly an idea started to form. Why not buy a house there? Living in Morocco for part of the year would enable us to explore its radically different reality in a much more profound way than just visiting. The notion seemed fantastical, but it grabbed my imagination and began to dominate my daydreams. I had a romantic vision of ancient walls touched by golden light, within whic
h generations of lives had been lived. A house waiting for us to save it, to bring it back to what it once was – but perhaps with a better bathroom.

  One of the reasons Sandy and I get on so well is that he never stops me from pursuing mad schemes; in fact he frequently gets more caught up in them than I do, usually about the time I’m getting cold feet. In the decade we’ve been together, his enthusiasm has got many of our projects over the line, and so it was in this case. Watching me become frustrated with high-priced houses in tourist enclaves, he said, ‘Why don’t you look for a house in Fez?’

  It made sense as soon as he said it. The kind of place we were after was unlikely to be advertised on any website, but would be hidden deep in the Medina, where few foreigners lived.

  There were obvious drawbacks, like the nuttiness of buying a house on the other side of the planet, a leg-cramping, bloodclot-inducing, 26-hour plane flight away. And just when would we actually get to spend time there? Our jobs consumed our lives – I worked on a busy metropolitan newspaper and Sandy had a national radio show, and the news does not conform to regular working hours. When exactly would we fit in a commitment to a property in another country?

  Moreover we had absolutely no idea how to go about buying a house in Fez. There was no help on hand, no DIY manual, no Morocco for Dummies. And there was the problem of what to do with it when we weren’t there. I had come across stories about vacant houses being ransacked, stripped of their doors and light fittings. One old house had collapsed after thieves removed the supporting beams.

  As wage slaves with major mortgage commitments, we’d be moving way out of our comfort zone. And what about the language difficulties? In most of Morocco, with the exception of the major tourist areas, English is a rarity. I spoke a bit of schoolgirl French, and Sandy could muster a dozen or so words of Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic.

  The arguments against were endless, but the idea refused to go away. It hung around and fermented, bubbling in shadowy corners of our minds. What eventuated was to prove utterly different to what we’d imagined. Naïve and unprepared, we stepped into the unknown, and into the most intense and exhilarating experience of our lives.

  WHEN WE MENTIONED our fantasy of buying a traditional Arab-style riad, or courtyard house, in Fez to a friend he said dismissively, ‘What a terribly nineteenth-century thing to do.’

  He had a point. For most of my life I have been enchanted by tales of early European women travellers, such as Isabelle Eberhardt and Jane Digby, who broke out of the strictures of lives far more confining than my own and found another way to live, in Arab cultures. Of course, such adventures are only romantic if you ignore the fact that Eberhardt, who disguised herself as a man, contracted syphilis then drowned penniless and alone, washed away with her final manuscript.

  There were other acquaintances who, post-September 11, asked, ‘Why would you want to buy a house in a Muslim country? They hate us.’

  This was easier to counter; we knew it simply wasn’t true of Moroccans, who can be friendly and hospitable to the point of overwhelming. We were also aware that people in Western countries tend to view Muslim nations as a monolithic bloc, whereas there are many cultural differences between them, despite common elements. The present King of Morocco, Mohammed VI, has built bridges with the West, and was the first Muslim ruler to express sympathy for the United States following the destruction of the World Trade Center.

  Besides, we saw our venture as an opportunity to explore Islamic culture further, and to gain a deeper insight into why the Way of the Prophet has thrived for so long.

  There was a certain inevitability about my interest in Morocco. My parents had visited the country in 1961, long before it was fashionable to do so. At that time only a handful of hardy souls, forerunners of the hippies who were later to invade, made their way down from Spain, following the sun. Enthusiastic young travellers, Meg and Henry drove their Volkswagen beetle around Morocco’s few, mostly unpaved, roads, and after some hair-raising adventures ended up pitching their tent in the camping ground at Marrakesh. It appears they had a particularly convivial time there, because I was born exactly nine months later.

  Being conceived in Morocco and growing up in New Zealand, I learned to walk at a shuffle in my father’s Moroccan babouches, surrounded by mementos from their visit. One of their more colourful tales was of the night they camped on the side of a road high in the Atlas Mountains. In the middle of the night, a truck came winding up from the valley below, its headlights swinging across my parents’ tent. They stayed in their sleeping-bags, hoping it would continue past, but when the truck drew level with their car its engine stopped.

  Rocks crunched as footsteps moved towards them. My father, deciding drastic action was called for, unzipped his sleeping-bag, grabbed the tomahawk, and when he judged the moment was right, leapt out wearing only striped pyjama bottoms and swinging the tomahawk above his head, bellowing a Maori haka. ‘Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora, Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru …’ (It is death! It is death! It is life! It is life! This is the hairy man …’)

  He must have been a terrifying sight, because four djellaba-clad men ran to their truck and sped off into the night. I wonder if those men now tell their grandchildren about the time they stopped to help the occupants of a car they thought had broken down and were confronted by a screaming madman.

  By early 2003, the idea of buying a house in Fez was sufficiently implanted for Sandy and I to start putting money aside. Forget buying a new car, clothes, or even basic house maintenance – this was our escape fund. The second part of our plan was to get ourselves back there without dipping into it.

  The previous year, we had taken holiday jobs as tour managers for a small group of well-heeled tourists in France and the UK. Now we proposed Morocco as a destination. After studying and planning for months, we flew out in October and showed our group as much of Morocco as was possible in three short weeks, with the help of a local guide. It was spring and the countryside had transformed from the dry brown of our previous trip to lush green, liberally sprinkled with poppies, irises, daisies and other wildflowers.

  Tour leading entailed a level of luxury entirely different from what we were accustomed to, and it wasn’t always for the better. Inside a four-or five-star hotel, with the exception of a few designer touches, you could be almost anywhere in the world. There was a sameness, a monotone, that irked us both, but for some of our guests such accommodation still wasn’t up to par.

  ‘I thought there’d be hairdryers in the hotel bathrooms,’ one wealthy woman whined.

  Many people in Morocco don’t even have running water, never mind washing machines or refrigeration, so hairdryers are not considered an essential item. But to her mind they were, and she left us in no doubt that Sandy and I were negligent for not ensuring their presence.

  We had gone to great lengths to give our clients a varied cultural experience, but it wasn’t always to their taste. We arranged some of our city stays in beautiful riads, which, being several hundred years old, had rooms that were not standard sizes. Nor were the bathrooms always ideal.

  ‘Why can’t we stay in the new part of town?’ an elderly man complained. ‘I’m tired of all this history.’

  It wasn’t a sentiment Sandy and I shared. When we reached Fez we stood gazing down over the ancient walls of the Medina and the decrepit houses within, just biding their time for people with the vision, money, time and energy to restore them. We confirmed to one another that those people should include us.

  During my Internet surfing, I had come across the website of an American living in Fez who claimed that, although the Medina is the best-preserved mediaeval walled city in the world, its architectural heritage is under threat. Many Moroccans cannot afford to maintain the houses they live in, let alone restore them to their original splendour. If those with the means to do so, foreigners included, were to rescue some of the significant houses, this would make a big difference to the preservation of the Medina. The k
ey point, the website argued, was the need for proper restoration, as opposed to modernisation. And rather than gentrification, a healthy mix of rich and poor living together, as had always been the case in the past, was the ideal.

  One night, Sandy and I escaped from our tour group to meet the website’s author, David Amster, over a drink. Originally from Chicago, David was in his mid-forties, amiable, intelligent, with a wonderfully dry sense of humour. His full-time job was Director of the American Language Center in Fez, and he had called the city home for seven years. He was a passionate advocate for the traditional architecture of the Medina, about which he was extremely knowledgeable, giving lectures to visitors from the Smithsonian Institute once or twice a year. He owned five houses in Fez, one of which was a ruin. It had completely collapsed, leaving only columns and mosaics, which made it resemble a Roman temple.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘At the moment,’ David said, ‘I have no idea. The site’s under six feet of rubble. It’ll take hundreds of donkey hours to move.’

  But he didn’t appear too concerned. ‘Look,’ he continued, pulling out of his bag a sliver of wrought iron that looked like an oversized thumb tack and passing it to me. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? It’s a handmade nail.’

  This nail, several hundred years old, was to be the prototype for those David was having made. After months of searching, he had finally found a man with the necessary skills, but there was to be one small difference: the heads of the new nails would be slightly bigger, so that future experts could tell old from new.

  Sandy and I exchanged glances. This was restoration on a whole new level. It wasn’t just popping down to the hardware store and getting a bag of cheap Chinese nails and a bit of four-by-two. There was obviously more to doing up a house here than we realised.

  ‘Would you like to see the house I live in?’ David asked. ‘I’ve had a builder and his team working on it for four years.’