As we scanned the hills on the far side of Fes, the moon revealed itself: a flat paper plate, dragged above the horizon by a fishing line. Then the prayers started. There were five muezzins, or fifty — who could count? The voices entered, wrapped around each other, crashed into the hills and rolled back. We set our glasses on the parapet to soak up every note. A moment later, the sky drained of saturation, the acoustic dance ended as abruptly as it had started. This was our introduction to an odyssey across Morocco.