Cast in a faint yellow glow by flickering street lamps, the narrow cobbled streets of Fes shimmer through the permeating desert darkness. Markets of Berber spices and hidden tea cafes intertwine beneath the star-filled sky to create a richly woven tapestry of biting sea smells, freshly enticing aromas, and shadowy faces of peddlers whose crooked white smiles seem to be the only human feature that pervade the night. Escaping from the main artery through an ancient archway, the labyrinth of the medina continues down less traveled veins filled with key shaped windows and olden wooden doors blessed by the elaborate metal hand of Fatima. Drowsy mules piled high with boxes of fruits and bags of burnished lamps are led by lonely merchants down these roads too tiny for our modern transportation. Every few feet the sandy wall dips into a cut out too small to be noticed save for the sound of artisans chipping away at mosaic tiles or the brilliant blue sparks of a welder’s torch as he works without heed on his textiles. Not far lays the tanneries, perhaps the only part of the city that silences as the sun slips behind distant mountains. Enormous round caskets filled with colors beyond imagination now rest from their demanding day. Only a few hours before the wells were swarmed by men with animal skins stacked high on their backs, shouting to coworkers and constantly adding water and dyes before plunging the leathers into the murky liquids. Though their noses no longer smell the nauseating order of urine and chemicals, to the onlooker it is the most repellent scent for miles. Above the smells and the shops ornate, geometric tiles line the walls in the imperial color of the city (blue) and the symbolic shade of Islam (green), and above the tiles lays an eerily stagnant sea of thousands of satellite dishes.
Last Tuesday evening I sat in the heart of this mystical medina entranced by sounds both foreign and native to this palace fortress amongst the dunes of the Sahara. A single raw voice rose from the silence and echoed through the narrow streets. The notes, each hit with such precision and force only to decrescendo out to nothingness, were masterfully strung together to form a beautiful cadenza. The harmonious poem illumined the darkness with warm visions of the nomadic culture of the Thar desert (Rajasthan, India); soon other voices of the Manganiyars joined the sole singer, their voices flowing over one another’s in a tonal ocean of both unrefined and highly cultivated splendor. The music crescendoed with the additions of the khamaycha (a 17-string bowed mango-wood instrument) and the dholak (a tar, clay, and sand coated drum) with the light rhythm of the khartaal (a teak made castanet) sprinkled atop. Engulfed in the sinuous Sufi songs of northern India as I sat watching the 2011 Sacred Music Festival in Fes, all other thoughts and qualms vanished from my mind, leaving my soul to become illuminated (as the lyrics dictate) ‘like the expanse of the stars in the night.’
Still spellbound by the incredible performance, I spent the next few days exploring imperial Fes, the once capital of Morocco and still a cherished city to many here in North Africa (it is believed that people from Fes are both the most intelligent and best looking in the country). My travels took me into the plentiful craftsman shops of the textile district and to the old Jewish quarter where a magnificent synagogue still stands as a testament to a once cosmopolitan civilization. The night before my departure from the exotic, I again stood in awe of musical mastery in the festival, only this time moved by a French slammer’s (rapper) new culture built upon a religious and spiritual journey through foreign customs, language, and philosophy.
Embarking on my final leg of his extraordinary expedition, I arrived late last week to a rainy London. Though much more similar to New York than any other city I have visited, it still holds a wealth of distinct culture. The architecture is by far my favorite aspect; save for the infamous Tower of London and Westminster Abby hardly any structures predate the Great Fire of 1666. Most buildings are fashioned from unassuming red bricks or commanding grey stone that measure but a few stories (a stark contrast to the tall trees of Manhattan’s urban jungle). Though gargantuan in its expanse, the city seems quaint and picturesque from any angle. Bubble taxis and double decker red busses bustle along the crowded avenues lined with familiar red telephone booths and oddly fashioned English youth. Hollywoodesque monuments like Big Ben and London Bridge become part of the modern city flanked by contemporary superstructures of glass and steel. Though too afraid to use my British accent here (for those of you who know the Kenyan minister story I will be visiting my ‘hometown’ Bristol to work on that twang), aspects of myself seem to litter every street- literally. There is Victoria street and Victoria line, the large statue of Victoria in front of Buckingham Palace and the Victoria and Albert Museum: there is even a pharmacy called ‘Boots.’ Strolling along the Thames or around Hyde Park, I definitely envision some part of my future back here.
In my few days I have seen far more than anticipated, and there is still so much to fit in. My two visits to the British Museum were not enough to discover even half of the museum’s treasures, though I did saunter through mummies, the Rosetta Stone, Assyrian reliefs of lion hunts, Aboriginal Australian artwork, Asian artifacts, and numerous other objects of humanity’s history. Though seeing what is left of the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus or reading a portion of the Book of the Dead was awe-inspiring, I could not help but think of the nations that were raided of their own possessions. I also visited the Tate Modern, a wonderful Modern Art museum in the former Bankside Power Station with a spectacular collection of Surrealism, Arte Povera, Abstract Expressionism, Cubism, Futurism, Pop Art, and several other modern styles. Despite the wonders within, the most inspiring aspect of this Tate was the large sign on its façade spelling out RELEASE AI WEIWEI (for those who do not know, Ai Weiwei is an amazing contemporary Chinese artist who is currently being detained without reason by the Chinese Government http://freeaiweiwei.org/). After meandering through the Tate Modern, I made my way to Whitechapel, which is now populated by Bengalis and is known for its ethnic cuisine, for a Jack the Ripper tour. Though not nearly as frightening as the Jack the Ripper stories my mom told me as a kid, it was strongly exciting to visit each of the murder scenes and imagine what fear must have struck English citizens in 1888.
My first evening in London I went to the National Theatre to see a performance of Swedish folk songs, and again a few days later to listen to a classical pianist. Much like my experience in Fes, the magnificence of the music overwhelmed me in an expressive elation. As seen by most of my posts, I tend to look for a deeper meaning in my life experiences, whether it is lessons of the breadth of Americanization or the universal goal of ameliorating humanity’s ailments. And yet, as I listened to the mystic voices of the Manganiyars and the quick spitted phrases of Abd al Malik, music as dissimilar as the two cities detailed in this blog, deciphering life lessons was perhaps the farthest thing from my mind. Rather, the simple aesthetic might of the music and the tonal wisdom of the songs was all that existed. Over the past half a year I have seen more beauty in the world than I though possible, from the grand mosques of Istanbul to the severe natural landscapes of the Swiss Alps. Usually, my thirst for knowledge takes precedent over what is in front of me: instead of seeing the allure of the tiled patterns, I see humanity’s interconnectedness; rather than enjoying the purity of church bells and Imam calls, I visualize the harmony of religions. Nonetheless, as I sat this past week engrossed solely in the music, no overarching themes clouded my thoughts. In their place stood only the beauty of the music. The title of the Fes Sacred Music Festival this year is “Wisdom of the World.” Perhaps the most sacred wisdom is one that has escaped me in my intellectual complexities: the admiration of the aesthetic splendor of a piano piece without searching for meaning. Of beauty, pure and simple.
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