Go crazy and Fes up in Morocco

LEANNE WALKER gets thoroughly lost in the medina of Fes el-Bali, one of the largest medieval cities in the world.

I could go crazy here - I can see so much in one glance, every moment of my day, that excites, beguiles, fascinates or horrifies me.

I realise now why so many writers - such as Paul Bowles, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg - lived or spent time here.

I'm in Morocco, in the old imperial city of Fes, staying at the infamous Hotel Cascade just inside Bab Bou Jeloud, the main gate to the walled medina. There are two terraces on the roof, the domain of kif (hashish) smokers who sleep on mats, the cheapest form of accommodation. From this smoky environment I can look into the medina below, where there's always something happening.

The Cascade is close to the main mosques, so at 5.45 am I am woken by that most exotic of all travel sounds, the muezzins' call to prayer. The words "Allah Akbarrrrrr (God is great)," draw me from the silky passages of my dreams.

Before long, another muezzin starts up, then another and another, until every neighbourhood is filled with the fervent words of "prayer is better than sleep" that rain down on the sleeping population from the minarets.

The medina of Fes el-Bali (Old Fes), is one of the largest medieval cities in the world and exploring it is like journeying into the bowels of the Earth. Although many travellers choose to take a guide on their first outing, to help them through the labyrinth of passageways, I set out to get thoroughly lost.

Down into the dark underworld of the souks, through alleys so narrow that the only way the shopkeepers can get their stock in is on a donkey's back. The medina's 9400 lanes and streets seethe with a tide of endlessly streaming humanity. Covered bazaars are crammed with craft workshops, carpet shops, fruit and spice markets, mosques, dyers' souks and tanneries.

I quickly leap to one side as a donkey train comes through laden with goods. Its owner is perched atop the lot and uses all the aggressive skills of a courier driver in any Western city. It's all a veritable assault on my senses.

Every neighbourhood within Fes el-Bali has the same five services - a Koran school, a mosque, a bakery, a hammam (public bath) and a Berber cafe.

Poking my head around an old, heavily hinged and studded door, I am delighted by one of the Koran schools. A tiny classroom of giggling children from the ages of 3 to 10 all leap up from their desks, climbing over everything to greet me while the teacher smiles on patiently.

Close by is the ancient Kairaouine Mosque, built between 859 and 862 and as buried in the tight grasp of the medina as everything else. I stop for a while and watch the flow of Moroccans passing through its doors. The huge doorways are beautiful, surrounded by some of the best examples of ancient zellij, the colourfully intricate mosaic and tilework famous throughout Morocco, and coloured green for Mecca.

The Berber cafes are the domain of men, but even so I enter one. It's a remarkably simple affair - a small room, no tables, just woven rugs and animal hides spread over the floor. These cool retreats are great places to escape the overstimulation of the medina, rest and sip a glass of delicious mint tea.

A group of men puff away on their kif pipes while playing cards. They seem to accept my presence and smile politely, probably amused at such Western eccentricities as a woman in their midst. I find wearing local costume, the djellaba, helps me gain acceptance.

The bakeries are great - strolling through the medina munching on wedges of doughy bread flavoured with aniseed will remain a lasting memory.

And I'm always going to remember the carpet sellers. While most travellers dislike visiting the Berber carpet shops and are intimidated by the hard-sell tactics, I can't get enough. Perhaps because I know they haven't a hope of selling me anything because I haven't any money.

It begins on the street with: "What is your name? Please come and see some wonderful carpets, we are friends, no obligation you understand." I quickly find myself in a sumptuous salon decked out with ceiling-to-floor rugs in a zillion different colours and intricate designs.

The selling techniques have been polished over centuries. Sweet mint tea is obligatory and duly arrives on a four-legged silver tray. While Ali pours, his brother Mustafa is instructed to bring in some rugs "to pleasure my eyes." With a dramatic flick they are rolled out before me. I oblige with oohs and ahs.

I emerge some time later, carpetless but thoroughly entertained. I am hot and sweaty and the thought of relinquishing my body to some women with a scrubbing brush in a nearby hammam is appealing.

Now which way was that hammam? I head down one alley then another. I'm sure I recognise that big blue door - or do I?

That looks like where I bought the olives, hmmm, but then again so does that other stall, hang on a minute, now if I just head uphill and throw a right ...