The streets are always crowded. Feet slapping, donkeys braying, men shouting, boys running up and down holding huge bottles of water, bags of food, or simply kicking a football between friends. The streets are always alive. The sun caresses covered heads, bald heads, heads boasting mounds of curls, brown locks, blonde hair; hats; scarves and everything in between. Tourists, natives, travellers, visitors, everyone piles together in a moving mass of pulsing hearts, wide eyes and sweating skin.
There is no time to stop, no moments free to be snatched into your grasp, you are constantly on the move. To stop and look around, to pause and snap a photo would mean getting knocked to the side, hit by a donkey's head, or bowled over by a running cart's wheels. This is Fes: roaming with animals and people, devoid of cars; the old, walled city. Welcome to the streets.