Snapshots from the Medina

Sounds: The almost rhythmic thud as metal is beat into shape. The cry of balak as a donkey makes its way through the narrow lanes. The haunting sorrowful singing of a trio of women, faces covered and begging. The tapping of metal on marble as grave markers are carved and prepared. The loud Arabic and Hindi pop music blaring from stalls as you pass. The laughter of children playing hide and seek in a side street. The familiar thud of a soccer ball on bare feet, on a rock wall, on worn sneakers. The hysterical wail of a working boy - no more than ten, who has had enough and snorts tears and snot at his wares scattered on the floor. The miaow of a cat, even the toughest scaliest ginger tom, balls swaggering in machoism, still cries like a kitten for the chance of some offal.

Smells: The fish and salt water from the heaped baskets of sardines. The heavy blood and game smell of the butchers, strings of goat heads, tongues poking out, and huge sides of beef with innards atttached. Fresh skins beating treated and beaten and dyed into leather. Donkey shit off the tourist streets, where it's not caught in a neat bag but left in the middle of tiny alleys to steam dry. The chemicals used to rub gold and brass clean in the artisans souks. Fresh woodpilings as furniture and wedding ornaments are carved. Piles of hay for donkeys, making you sneeze like after a suburban mown lawn. The nose and tongue curling acrid smell of everything old, warm and putrid from the rubbish dumps, as items are overturned and disturbed in search of a saleable item. The dry fragance of powders, henna, cumin, sticks and leaves of spice. The sharp salty tang of piles of olives, soaked in chilli, in garlic, in oils. Charcoal smoke as it burns fresh meat.