Medina Life: Buying Furniture

In my first post from Fes I expressed my desire to live in the Medina, Fes' old city. I also gave a brief description of what I imagined life there would be like:

I will work in new Fes, but hope to live in old Fes. Fes's medina, also called Fes al-Bali, is the world's largest car-free urban zone. It is the pre-colonial Islamic city, and houses several hundred thousands Fessis (people who live in Fes). Living in the medina is a little like going back in time. Its streets are really serpentine alleyways that seldom follow a straight line. Without cars, people use donkeys to transport goods, much like was done centuries ago, except today they carry mini-fridges and flat screen televisions as well as rugs, spices, and anything else a person can't carry him or herself.

A month later, now a settled resident of the medina, I can definitely say that life here is different from any other lifestyle I've experienced in my life.

Fes' medina has 'enchanted' many many writers, especially Westerners. I definitely fall into that crowd. There are so many moments where I'll being walking down the street - to work, to shop, to grab a bite to eat - and I'll see something that reminds me of how incredibly fascinating, intriguing, and mystifying my new home can be. But what I've learned is that the experience of living in the medina, and probably anywhere, is impossible to generalize. I think that when you reduce the medina to a place "back in time," through which "serpentine alleyways" weave, you lose the fact that this is a living city, where hundreds of thousands of people pass their daily lives, performing normal, everyday tasks. To play into the mystery and enchantment of this place is to forget that it is real.

So in contrast, I'm going to present scenes of medina life as I experience them and without placing them within some greater narrative. Once this year is over, we can look back an figure out just what makes Fes the place that it is.

Since moving to the medina I've been on the lookout for furniture. Traditional Moroccan homes are not equipped with much storage space. Space is designed to be used actively and to be lived in, so even a room like the kitchen, which is not livable, is usually small and tucked away. Storage comes in the form of furniture, and though my room in my new house came with a small shelf unit, it didn't meet my needs. What I really wanted was a dresser or armoire to store my clothes, and other items.

So, I set out on a mission. I discussed options with my friends and colleagues, and decided to look for something antique or used. I could have purchased pre-fab, factory direct furnishing from Marjane (Morocco's Wal-Mart), but felt I needed something nicer to accompany my surroundings. I visited the antique market in the mellah, the old Jewish quarter. The quality of the furniture and craftsmanship amazed be, but I could neither afford it nor honor it with dutiful service. I wanted something permanent, not eternal. As a result I shifted my focus closer to home.

As it turns out, my neighborhood is home to a small furniture joutiyya. A joutiyya is a used goods market, and where many Moroccans purchase clothes, furniture and home goods. My friend and neighbor David informed me that mere blocks away from my house, on Derb Belhaj, is where men sell used furniture to the neighborhood. The men are brothers Hasan, the salesman, and Said, the workman, and they have since become friends. I had passed by them, and made conversation, but had never noticed or understood their business.

One day on my way back from work, I saw them selling an old, gigantic, slightly beat up armoire. Perfect for my needs, and cheap. Yet, the realities of medina life seemed to stand in the way of our union: how would I transport it to my house through those "serpentine alleyways"? How would I get such a huge thing into my house? I thought for a day, but decided that possible or not, I needed the furniture, so I might as well buy it and see what would happen.

I voiced my concerns to Hasan, the salesman, and he gave me the very Moroccan answer of "no problem;" he would carry the armoire in a karrousa, push cart, and deliver to my doorstep. Just to make sure, I walked him to my house and he looked at our entry and repeated "no problem". I returned with him to the joutiyya and met his brother Said, the workman. Said told me he would "fix up" the armoire before delivery, which designated for Wednesday, one of my days off. I didn't quite know what he meant, but I appreciated the thought, paid, and waited.

Wednesday morning, as I turned onto Belhaj, I met my new armoire, freshly varnished, its new brass hinges gleaming in the sunlight. I was overjoyed. I found Hasan, told him I was ready for the delivery, and he said, "excellent," that he needed to find his brother and that I should go home and he would come shortly:

My wardrobe, before and after.

What I had failed to realize was the solution to the problem that Hasan had told me was "no problem": getting a 6 foot tall, 4 foot wide wardrobe through a small doorway, around a hairpin turn, and up a narrow, windy staircase into my courtyard. My brain, which is not good with 'logic' and sometimes still stuck in America, figured if he said it could be done it could be done by artful navigation and manipulation of the wardrobe as a whole. So I was surprised when I opened the door for Hasan and found my wardrobe in pieces. After I helped carry the parts in, Hasan got to work and told me Said would come later to reassemble the wardrobe. And as happens frequently, the obvious sense of this process struck me quite suddenly and bluntly.

I am grateful to Hasan and Said for letting me photograph their handiwork:

The first stages of reconstruction

Hasan adding varnish to the bottom of the wardrobe

Said carrying one of the wardrobe's doors into my room

Said with the finishing touches

The experience of purchasing a wardrobe, having it delivered in pieces and watching it be reconstructed my bedroom, made me realize in the medina life is carried out in ways that are very obscure to Westerners. Perhaps this is why it is so mystifying. To get past the mystery and wonder of this place, you have to meet it on its terms. But sometimes that's easier said than done, and even then, an outsider can only penetrate so far.