The story of a short but transformative encounter in Fes, Morocco.

The arched mouth of Bab Bou Jeloud vomited me out of the churning medina, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I stood disorientated, panting like an old dog in the furnace of midday heat, until I spied a shimmering mirage across the street. Limping towards the vision, I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the stone bench beneath the olive tree until my wobbly legs met its baking hot surface. I closed my eyes and gulped down my remaining water, now the temperature of a warm bath. As I released a loud sigh, the young woman beside me smiled shyly in solidarity.

Gradually my heartbeat slowed and I felt the knots of tension in my stomach loosen. Time stretched out like a lazy cat, as I sat undisturbed, peacefully watching the tableau of everyday life around me. Groups of women, draped head to toe in dark, fluttering layers traipsed past laden with bulging shopping bags. A lively young man pushed a cart piled high with watermelons, shouting greetings to a table of men smoking at a pavement cafe. As a battered old truck pulled up, the hefty parking attendant heaved himself up off his folding chair and waddled over to collect a few dirhams from the driver.

A tiny, twig-like old woman tottered towards us. She crumpled onto the bench beside me and immediately jumped up again exclaiming ‘Ya Allah!!’ at the burning heat of the stone seat. I smiled at her, consoled a little to see that even the locals were struggling with the crazy temperatures. She smiled back, her eyes crinkling into twinkly slits in the gnarled creases of her face. ’La bas?’ she chirped. I shrugged, unsure of the meaning of the phrase. ‘La bas, ya habibti?’ she tried again encouragingly, as she cautiously sat down once more. I smiled and said I didn’t speak Arabic. Unperturbed, the old lady continued smiling and hummed quietly to herself, as she swung her feet back and forth, which, even on this low bench, were a good six inches off the ground.

A thin ginger cat slunk out from beneath the bench, eyeing us hungrily and mewing. The old woman murmured to herself as she rummaged through her bag before dropping a handful of dried cat food onto the pavement which the cat gratefully devoured. She chattered animatedly to me, gesturing to the cat and the small plastic bag of cat food she was carrying. I had no idea what the words meant but the sentiment was beautifully clear. I smiled and nodded and we both sat admiring the cat who was now licking his paws in the shade of a tree.

As we sat in contented, companionable silence, I realised that this was my first communication with a local woman, and also the first enjoyable interaction I had had in 10 days. For fifteen whole minutes, I’d felt able to open up the gates of the impenetrable portcullis persona I'd strictly maintained with no eye contact, no smiling, no replying. Away from the leering, the lying and the constant harassment of the men in the medina, I had briefly let the warmth of genuine human contact seep back into my soul. I was shocked at how good it felt to connect with someone who wasn’t trying to aggressively extract cash, sex or anything else from me.

I wanted to tell the old lady this - how she had brightened my day, improved my view of her country and restored my faith in humanity. How much I appreciated finding a few moments of female company in this brutally gendered society. How her few incomprehensible words and her smiling face would remain a memorable highlight of my brief time in this foreign land. But linguistically we had still not progressed beyond the mysterious ‘la bas’. I indicated to her that I needed to go and smiled, saying I hoped she had a good day and to stay cool, even though I knew she would not understand my English. I waited to cross the road and glanced back. Her twinkling eyes were still following me and she smiled and waved again, as if we were old friends. I strolled off through the scorching heat with a new lightness in my step, refreshed, restored, and inwardly flying a quiet flag for feminism.