the many blues of chefchaouen

mint and leather

With a bouquet of fresh mint under my nose, I squinted my eyes at the vats of dye below, the sun reflecting off the quicklime and pigeon guano used in making soft leather out of tough hides. The scent of the guano, bovine urine, and other assorted nasties was overwhelming— even more so for the pregnant olfactory system— however, having been told how wretched it would be, I was expecting worse.

The drying hides below are getting ready to be transformed into the traditional babouche, a pointed leather slipper, typically in a brilliant yellow for men. Tourists are told that all the dyes are natural— the yellow is from saffron, green from mint, red from poppies... Though I know little about leather dyes, I am sceptical of this as I have never seen mint dye anything, and saffron is quite expensive. In any case, the rainbow of colours that the tanners are able to create is gorgeous.



The 11th century Chouara Tannery is hidden among the clustered geometric buildings of Fès' medina, its levels of stinking vats in various shades of celadon, red and brown. The tanners who wade through the noxious pools in the blinding sun to work the hides wear anything from wellies to flip-flops on their feet, some with nothing at all. I can only imagine how hard their days are, how their muscles and heads must feel at the end of the day— it certainly gives me a deeper appreciation of the work behind my leather bags and babouches, which though bought in different parts of Morocco, all trace back to Fès.

threads

While wandering the alleys of Fès' medina, I began to notice nails wrapped in coloured thread jutting out from the old stone walls— some nails entirely cocooned into soft balls. I remembered climbing the hill to an orthodox church on Büyükada shortly after Easter once, where the devout had tied threads from the top to the bottom of the hill in prayer, wishing for the things we often wish for— good health, fortune, love... My mind then travelled to the Fates, weaving our lives into a vast tapestry, then to the many knotted bracelets my students in Nepal tied around my wrists.



Though I suspected the reason for these pretty bursts of colour was more banal, I still hoped to find something special at the end of the threads that extended beyond their cocoons. Stretched across buildings and down the alleys, a multitude of colours were being twisted into threads which were wound around spools by quick and elegant fingers.



To think of what these threads would someday make— someone's favourite scarf, or the embroidery on a well-worn djellaba— a gift of a blanket, to be wrapped around a loved one...

hot water

When hot water pours so easily from a tap, we tend to take it for granted. Having lived in places where hot water (and water itself) is not a guarantee, I'm delighted and grateful each time the shower provides me with warmth. Hot water is a beautiful luxury, especially if you happen to have a bathtub. Our last three homes have had standing showers, so whenever Pedro and I come across a tub while travelling, we feel like we've hit the jackpot!

As in Turkey, Morocco has a hamam tradition— one which I am curious to experience, as I hear it's quite different. While in Meknès, we were charmed into having a guide take us on a morning tour through the labyrinth of alleyways in the old medina. As I stopped to take a photo of a bright green doorway, our guide explained that this was the entrance to an old hamam. "Come," he said. "I will show you something."

We followed him to another doorway, a simple and unremarkable entrance to a dark space that smelled of burning. Inside, a man in a woolen cap sat in a pile of sawdust, diligently tossing the dust into a hole in a cement structure that breathed flames with each new offering.



This is the man who feeds the fire which warms the water for people to bathe in; his eyes narrowed to tiny arcs from years of caring for the flames. He never looked at us, never paused, never said a word. When I asked if I could photograph him, he gave a slight nod of acceptance while continuing with his work.

slivers of sky

and sharp shadows.

twisting metal

This scene of a man tirelessly twisting metal into curls reminded me of a photo I took nearly three years ago in Şanlıurfa of two metalsmiths cutting rods with a hammer and clippers:



A dusty hole in the wall, the smell of metal, the force of muscle. I am drawn to all things made by hand, no matter the material— but there is something about the twisting of metal that has always intrigued me.

giant carrots, pyramids of olives, and the camel butcher

the scent of cumin, the yellow of turmeric

There's a cumin-scented treasure trove of herbs, spices, clays, and various other earthy goodies in a musty basement off one of the main alleys in the medina. Nutmeg and pumice stones, indigo dye and rose tea—
I wanted to take it all home!



But my eye caught something sparkly—was it graphite? No, it was for the eyes of women, I was told. The shopkeeper placed a little glass vial of the powdered stone in my hand, and explained that it needed to mixed with liquid for eyeliner.



I bought two, but I won't be putting any of it on my eyes— I have a different purpose for it in mind...

shifting lines of colour

Nights are getting cooler in Rabat, and the last time we were in the Medina we spied a weaving shop that has been working its way into the front of my mind ever since I've had to switch from sheet to blanket. After loading up on the aforementioned art supplies, we made our way through bustling streets to the facade of the shop, which was decorated by many colourful striped woolen blankets.

Saïd and his brothers are fourth generation weavers— a source of tremendous pride. He explained with great passion how their hands bring together so many threads in order to create warmth, protection, and comfort for others. The weaving as he described it, is meditative— all time is lost between the shifting lines of colour.



He invited us into the ateliers behind the shop, where several different looms were being worked by the deft hands and rhythmic feet of the weavers— it was like dancing, the movements smooth and deliberate. Their grace reminded me of the days I spent as a glass blowing apprentice in Upstate New York, where I learned to spin iron tipped in molten glass, to become fluid and strong.



So many of the world's traditional handicrafts and art forms are slowly dying out as artisans age, and new generations enter lives of technology, consumerism and mass-manufactured products labelled with that "Made in China" sticker. They are growing up in a completely different world— and I know that it's so much more complex than I am able to express.



I try my best to buy locally, and if it's possible to shake the hands that made what I take into my home, then it's all the better. How wonderful it is to wrap a blanket around our bodies that was woven by a family who takes pride in giving us that warmth, and to know that the beauty they created will comfort us for many years to come.

peeling white paint

vanishing point