Alcohol is discouraged but not illegal in the Moroccan Islamic tradition, and because of this, Fez had the oddest, most eclectic drinking scene of any place I had visited. Bars were located as far as possible from the holy sites of the ancient city, and behind frosted windows booze hounds, pimps and strangely alluring women dressed like pre-war Parisian Madames drank in cheery defiance of the status quo.
With nothing to indicate it was anything but a vacant retail lot flanked by two discount clothes shops, my favourite joint heaved with a raucous, all-male working class crowd who littered the floor with fish bones and fag butts. An incongruous stag’s head behind the bar was the only concession to elegance, or perhaps a nod to former glories. Very quickly I came to conclude the barman might have throttled the stag with his bare hands. With his barrel chest and small suspicious eyes he was a throwback to an age when to keep a bar you had to be able to keep the peace. He answered punters with one of two stock reactions: a sullen, stony resignation if in his favour, a piercing bark of unrestrained abuse if not. He was no mixologist (I don’t think he did daiquiris) but he filled everyone’s glasses all the same. He even nodded at me once and I felt like the fat girl at the school disco. When I tipped him, impressed by the sheer artistry of his impertinence, he made a sound like a dog choking.
The drunkest and least communicative patrons came over to attempt small talk. The intent was admirable but a coherent English word was a collector’s item, so I struggled gamely with my French (y a-t-il une bibliothèque ici?) Some came to just watch and smile. An affable Spanish-speaking guide joined us most nights to discuss the various merits of Spanish and Moroccan oranges but we started to drink there less because of the attentions of a gravel-throated bore who growled steaming breaths of hot whisky in my ear in the time-honoured fashion of drunk men giving advice to the youth.
The bar nearest our digs had grander pretensions, but patrons tended to ignore the smiling Friday night DJ who mixed a dance beat with odd, lilting organ music on tiny decks in the corner. And there was never any dancing. Instead, pairs spoke at tables in hushed whispers and lone men in leather jackets chain smoked and watched football in a shadowy backroom. A waist coated barman brought us curious bar snacks of sweet carrots and taught us words in Darija. There were a handful of women drinkers too, showy and loud, but they always had one nervous eye on the exit, as if to make good their escape any minute.
In a bar with a red, furry-looking ceiling an older beauty roamed the tables turning heads. She seemed to know everyone, and moved through the bar like a femme fatale from a forties film, smoking sensually and pouting with crimson lips. Men stared back at sultry eyes that had the desert in them: Persian, green and gorgeous. Because she looked so unlike the shy women who shopped the markets I returned the next night to see if she would be there. Near closing time I saw her emerge sobbing from the toilet. A stream of tears had made dark, angry rivulets of her makeup and her elegant features were twisted in rage more than sorrow.
That same evening a man entered and drew hushed whispers on account of his dress: leather trousers lined with cursive Arabic lettering, cravat and a flat-peak cap adorned with celestial stars and moons. He looked a bit like Prince. A Moroccan army officer leaned towards me conspiratorially and said something in French which I pretended to understand.
We only saw tourists in these bars once. In the bar with the stag’s head two Japanese girls and their male companion drank quietly in their unassuming manner. It was a raucous Friday night; peanut skins littered the floor and men staggered to the toilets shouting at thin air. The three of them stared benignly, responding with nervous smiles to boisterous greetings. They were a normal looking trio, but because everyone else in the bar looked and acted like pirates they took on the appearance of Geishas. They left soon after, stunned by the weirdness of it all.
The weekdays were melancholy drinking nights all things told: the bars emptier, dim streetlights and fine drizzle falling on silent streets. A grinning, teenage vendor with a speech impediment and lopsided walk often followed me between bars. The locals treated him with a mixture of patriarchal protectiveness and playground jocularity, and when I bought some chocolate wafers from him, he hugged me.
One bitter night a wretched dog with a missing front leg sought me out for some respite from his miserable existence. I stayed with him an hour, feeding him cheap cuts of miscellaneous meat before abandoning him to his loneliness. He stood there, his sad eyes imploring me to stay, before limping away, swallowed by the night. I felt awful.
Reading by the light of the candles after such days I wondered if Cris thought this the normal life of a teacher: semi-monastic bedtimes in a communal dorm, sleeping next to the classroom and drinking shit wine on the street. I told him about my last job, cycling past medieval churches on my way to the canteen for buffet lunches of roast chicken and apple crumble. Teaching English lends itself to a variety of circumstance if nothing else.
I stayed three weeks in Fez, not really enough time to know a place. On paper it didn’t sound great: cold at night, I had worked unpaid, bar hopped aimlessly and been robbed by someone I trusted.
I have seldom been more content.
faroverthewater. 
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