Real Fes

It is one of the bizarre elements of travelling. I am sitting in a cyber cafe, as they are called in Morocco. A small terminal, a piece of cable, a few clicks and I can find and lose myself in any part of the virtual world. Less than 200 metres away from me exists the worst poverty I have seen in my life, more because of it's juxtaposition with the internet cafe and the McDonalds I know is 5 kms up the road.

It's Berber Market day in Sefrou, the village I explored this morning, and perhaps it's also the same here in Fes. This part of the market is not in the guide books, in fact I stumbled here only by accident while getting a petit taxi to the wrong place in the first place.

The market was at first more down to earth, literally. People had goods in front of them on the floor, not in stalls. Then the goods got thinner and it became apparent that people were selling so few items, they could only be personal posessions. When I reached the further end of the "market" the smell became so distinct. As if to make it clearer, a dump truck pulled up and outpoured its rubbish. One man's trash is another person's treasure? Possibly, but aside from a few old men poking with interest at old electrical items, there seemed to be few buyers.

It was impossible to take photos, to record poverty but not do anything about it. To marvel at the dignity each seller maintained, and then to humiliate that with a kodak moment to show the folks back home.

The food stalls were no better. The vegetables were soft colourless piles in contrast to the vivid displays I had seen elswhere. They languished in the dark, under tarpulin makeshift tents that flapped in the breeze carrying the fresh smell of the dump truck's load. I wondered too if the fruit and vegetables were rejects. I pondered it no longer when I came across an old woman, sitting alongside a rug littered with the offcuts, crusty ends and castaway sections of bread from hotel and restaurant tables, each one distinct with that soft lichen-like spots of mould.

Tomorrow, when I take breakfast and am faced with my overflowing basket of warm baguette, I know where they might end up.

For every thing there is a price, for every thing there is a want, for every thing there is a need