Exploring the bars in Fez

A while ago we reported on the sleazy side of Tangier with a report: Beyond the beaded curtain. Now we have turned our attention to Fez and in particular the wild nightlife in the Ville Nouvelle. Two of our reporters went undercover to seek out the highs and lows - all in the name of research of course. Here is their report.

With the news that the cybercafes of Fez were to close at 9pm each night because of security concerns, we were left with nowhere to hang out and so Sharon and I fortified ourselves with food and headed to the Ville Nouvelle.

Our first stop we will call The Stalactites (we would hate them to be closed down and deprive you of the pleasure of seeking them out). This bar can be found in the street behind the Central Market on the opposite side of the car park. It is not much to look at from the outside, but inside... Behold the painted black stalactites on the low ceiling. The exquisite mirrors with sand-blasted etchings of Volubilis and Meknes - the clock, perpetually twenty minutes slow, the television competing with the sound system and the two musicians in the corner singing along to a well plucked lute.

Sharon and I settled in with a Flag Special (we stuck to beer because we knew we had a hard night ahead of us) and began our observation. At first we thought that the rumours about the establishment were overblown until Sharon noticed the swing doors at the back of the room.

Every few minutes a man would enter and for a second we would get a tantalising glimpse of a set of stairs descending to another door. This limited view was accompanied by a snatch of wild music and then the door would shut.

"What do you think, Dougal?' Sharon asked.
"Dunno," I mumbled, "But it does look a bit..."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."

A while later we left, having rated the bar as only 1 on our sleaze scale of 1 - 10.

For a while we wandered the streets until chance took us to Avenue Slaoui, where Sharon's unerring nose for pink neon led us to a bar we shall call Shimmering Blue for reasons that will become obvious. The walls were yellow, the decor being fabulous art deco and the patrons not.

The minute we slipped past the burly bouncer on the door, we knew we had struck gold. Long rows of tables awaited us, while at the bar the extraordinary sight of a traditionally dressed, mature age woman, sipping a beer and smoking, was a good indication that we were no longer in the Medina.

"Holy flying burritos!" Sharon whispered. (She has always been one for a natty turn of phrase). "Her djellaba is beautiful!"

But I was no longer paying attention. My innocent gaze had fallen on the bevy of younger women gyrating on their bar stools. Tight jeans, low cut, clinging tops and calf- high leather boots and not a headscarf in sight.

A flurry of movement indicated that our presence had been noted and four sets of soft doe-like eyes battered a welcome. One of the girls even took the cigarette out of her mouth and smiled. Being a simple Medina dweller, my reaction was as instant as it was unstoppable. "Get me a beer Shazza."
"Get your own bloody beer, I'm being shuufed from the balcony."
Now I have to say that Sharon is usually a demure ethno-musicoligist with a taste for punk rock and yet the combination of the dark stranger eyeballing her from the balcony above us and the techno-Arab-pop had her lounging back with one of her languorous-mysterious-foreign-woman- filled-with-desire moments and rolling a cigarette.

The waiter, not being slow on the uptake, sidled over and murmured "You are welcome upstairs".
"I'll have two beers," I replied.
"Where are you from?" the waiter enquired, obviously put off that I had spoken in Darija ( Moroccan Arabic) and that his vision of inflated tourist prices had become a mirage.
Quick as a flash, Shazza flashed him a withering smile, "From the Medina."
It was as though she had deflated a balloon.
'Okay, you are nevertheless welcome." He scurried off to fetch our beers.
"Is the geezer upstairs still looking at me?" Shazza asked.
"Him and every other man in the room,"I replied. "So, how do you rate this place?'
Shazza gazed around, taking in the pink neon strip lights above the bar, the seedy band members, the gay guy who had given up smiling at me and took a drag on her fag.
"Three out of ten. Is he still looking at me?"
But my attention had been diverted.

At the bar two of the girls had closed in on a well dressed Moroccan man and, with their jackets open, were demonstrating how their remarkably developed assets were capable of independent movement. The poor guy's eyeballs were sticking to his glasses and when one of the girls then nibbled his neck he nearly went into a seizure.
"Four out of ten." I said.

There was much more like this. Little meetings, meldings and fluttering liaisons which, after a few more beers all seemed pretty ho-hum and Sharon sat enjoying being admired. That was until the door opened and a couple came in.

He was downright scary; hard-faced, scarred and wearing a red baseball cap. The young woman, slipped from his arm, removed her coat and started to dance. The vision of body-clinging blue tights, exposed midriff and transparent top had every man in the place chewing the butts off their cigarettes and biting chunks of glass from their beer glasses.
"Humph!" Shazza said as she furiously rolled another cigarette, "She's not that stunning."


A few moments later the girl vanished, only to reappear in a belly dancing outfit. Jealously guarded by her minder, she worked the room, shimmying and grinding in front of every man until, in desperation they stuffed twenty and fifty Dirham notes between her cleavage. Even the man upstairs was entranced. Several times the girl's minder had to disentangle over-eager patrons whose fingers couldn't quite grasp the note stuffing procedure.

The strange thing is that very soon such places become boring and Sharon and I spent our time discussing the music of the Inca and its relationship to architecture. Fascinating. Then we dragged ourselves outside to a cab and with some relief uttered the most welcome words of the night - "Back to the Medina, please."


Tags: Moroccan Morocco Fes, Maghreb news