Day 1: Casablanca
April 11th, 2002
I arrived in Casablanca too late. Well into the night in a new country, on a
new continent, alone and armed with only a guidebook from the series I like
to call The Books of Wrong. True to form, it was not as simple to get into
town as the book suggested. There were options – a train that didn’t leave
for an hour and a half; a taxi that was expensive and questionably safe; a
bus that I had no schedule for and no idea where to meet.
So I stood around in the small parking lot hoping to do as the locals did.
Only every single person seemed to already have this arranged. The locals
all had people meeting them and the few Western business types had limos or
other hired cars. To complicate the matter, the grand taxis are not labelled
as such and simply look like fancy cars, so I didn’t even know who to hail –
or if hailing was How It Is Done There. So I continued to stand around,
trying to not look like a lost American backpacker once again in a bit over
her head.
It wasn’t a bad place to loiter. No one seemed to notice me, there were no
touts demanding I look at their hotel or ride in their rickshaw to their
cousin’s carpet factory ‘just to look’. There were no beggars, no signs of
poverty or even less-than-First-World trimmings – the airport could have
been outside of Santa Something-or-other back in California. Well, except
for the woman in veils and the men in Fez hats and robes – not to mention
the signs in Arabic. This was not The West, regardless of which way my plane
had flown from Geneva.
The night was cool, but the palm trees and dry pink earth beyond the edge of
the parking lot spoke of desert. I tried to find the foreignness in the
air – that spice or pollen that would tell the deep parts of my mind that I
was Somewhere New. I thought I could smell salt. The Atlantic was out there
some kilometres away, and the part of me that could never forgive Geneva for
the lack of sea in the air perked up like a cat hearing a can opener. The
sand and dry scrub-brush scent of desert was present as well – an odd thing
against the salty moisture I could see condensing on parked car windows.
Maybe I imagined it, but I could have sworn I could smell spices – somewhere
there was someone cooking with reds and yellows and greens that drifted past
me like incense burning beyond the horizon.
I wavered between enchantment with my new surroundings and a growing need to
get the hell out of the friggin’ airport parking lot. To my relief an
airport bus with an official looking tri-lingual sign in the window
announced itself as an easy way to get to Centre Ville. I got on, deciphered
my new wad of dirhams, paid for my ticket and claimed a seat. A handful of
men did the same. My triumph at finally getting out of the airport was
diminished a bit by my realization that, not only was I the only woman on
the bus, but it was possibly quiet rare that a woman on her own ever rode
the airport bus.
Arriving in a new city by local bus often leads to a dismal first impression
and this was no exception. I’d found the bus terminal on my map before
getting off the bus, so I knew I was only a few blocks from the hotel.
Unfortunately, half of those blocks turned out to be fairly unpleasant
alleys. I have an odd little rule of thumb that suggests wandering by
yourself in the byways of a foreign town with a large backpack and open
guidebook is not usually a grand idea. So I backtracked a half block and
headed towards the large, well lit boulevard I’d seen from the bus. From
there it was physically an easy walk, but a little emotionally daunting.
Boulevard Felix Houphouet is lined with large cafes each with twenty or
thirty small tables out front. It was packed with people drinking coffee in
small white cups and tea from small silver pots and there was not a woman to
be seen. I felt hugely conspicuous in my baggy jeans, black jacket, and blue
eyes. I was hoping I was just being paranoid, but as I walked up the street
there was a wave of ‘bon soir!’ ‘yes! Hello! Yes! Hey!’ and just plane
hisses and whistles. I just hunched forward at bit, stared straight ahead
and consulted my map at each intersection. I certainly wasn’t going to ask
for directions.
Further up the street I finally saw a few couples and a family or two, but I
didn’t relax until I was in my shabby, art deco hotel room. I knew I’d
probably just wandered through the wrong part of town at the wrong time, but
the thought that I might be completely crazy for going to Morocco by myself
also occurred to me.
April 11th, 2002: Casablanca
The Medina
As usual, everything seemed much nicer in the morning. I awoke to billowing
clouds broken by streaks of clean bright sunlight and hints of deep blue. My
room looked out over the wall of the Medina – the oldest part of the city –
and past it to a minaret.
I dressed in my most conservative outfit – a long sleeved blouse and ankle
length skirt, and wrapped a scarf around my neck. Not wanting to deal with
the manly cafes first thing in the morning, I ate breakfast in the hotel.
Croissants and cafe au lait, pretty much the same thing I’d eat in Geneva.
Back out on the street things were much more civilised than the night
before – no one even raised an eyebrow in my direction as I headed through
the arched gateway into the old city. It was a complete change from the
broad European boulevard. The streets were too narrow for cars and lined with
open store fronts and vegetable carts. It was the comings and goings of a
Moroccan city of a hundred years ago. Squawking chickens, piles of fragrant
mint, veiled woman squatting behind a blanket of dusty roots, men smoking
fragrant pipes and chatting in the shade. Only the occasional blare of TV
from a window and the one or two displays of bright blue plastic Tupperware
spoke of the 21st century.
I knew I’d be lost the moment I was out of sight of the city wall. But I
didn’t care. I had no schedule to keep, no specific place to be, and really,
how lost could I get in a small walled city? Surrounded by white and pink
wash buildings and all the noise and bustle of the market, I headed in
roughly the direction of the Hassan II mosque, the great (and maybe only)
attraction of Casablanca. I had read that it was the second largest mosque
in the world, with room for 25,000 worshipers and a minaret 200 meters high.
It was built on the edge of the Atlantic and was supposed to be a marvel of
architecture.
Young girl
I few minutes wander brought me to the fish and meat section of the
city-wide farmer’s market. I was pretty glad I’d chosen to wear my Doc
Martins and not open sandals for my walk – the ground was littered with fish
heads and scales. The open-air and refrigerator-less butcher shops of
developing nations are always a bit of a shock to an American – no
pre-packaged, microwave ready chicken nuggets here. I kept my distance from
the fly specked meat parts hanging from the tiled walls of every other
storefront.
I had my boots, I had my Islam-approved clothing, what I did not have was an
umbrella. Those billowing clouds I had seen from my room had grown darker
and the beams of sunlight fewer and further between. I was counting on a
little rain sooner or later. What I got was a sudden downpour of monsoon-like proportions. I continued along as best I could, keeping under the eaves
for a few more yards. Then I ran out of eaves and was more or less trapped in
a small crowd in front of a chicken stall.
The wind picked up, sending the rain down at a slant and forcing me to cozy
up to the counter to stay even slightly dry. The other woman made room for
me and went back to haggling for dinner. A chicken was grabbed from the
large wire cage by the man in a dirty white apron. Its feet were quickly
roped together and it was dumped on a scale. The woman made some tsking
sounds and gestured at it as if she wasn’t quite pleased. It was poked a few
times, it’s feathers ruffled, and a price obviously agreed to. The man
picked it up in one hand and reached for a small knife with the other.
Chicken to go – Moroccan style
I’m not sure what I expected. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know how a chicken
became a pot pie. But I felt my jaw drop and my eyes widen when the butcher,
still chatting with his customers and with hardly a glance at what he was
doing, loped the chicken’s head clean off. There was only a second of dark
red and the chicken was dumped head first in a narrow metal bucket. I hadn’t
noticed the buckets, or the feather pot of steaming water. One of the other
buckets was also occupied, though the pale yellow bird feet sticking out of
this one were hardly moving. The butcher pulled that chicken out and dunked
it in the pot. He noticed my wide blue eyed stare and gestured for me to
come and have a closer look. I shook my head and said ‘no merci’ before
walking off into the drizzle.
I took a few right turns, a few left turns, and hit a bunch of dead ends
before coming to what I thought was the far side of the Medina. But the gate
in the wall looked a little too familiar – I’d ended up back where I
started. I pulled out my map and tried to make sense of all the tiny
squiggly lines that supposedly described the Medina. I quickly gave up
trying to plot another course and decided to follow along outside the wall.
Walking around the old town took only a few minutes, though it was far from
scenic, mostly consisting of car repair shops and rundown apartment blocks.
I spotted the same minaret I’d seen from my window and figured it must be
where I was headed. You could probably spot it from 50 miles away it was so
much taller than anything in town. As I kept walking I realized it didn’t
seem to be getting any closer, just taller and taller, as if I was
approaching a mountain range. The illusion was helped by the fact that it is
there is nothing to compare it to – jutting out over the ocean it is alone,
creating its own skyline and distorting any attempts to give it scale.
The rain had remained an off-and-on drizzle but the shore was buffeted by
raging wind and waves. The open marble plaza in front of the mosque gave no
shelter and was slick with water. The building itself deserved every
awe-filled description I’d read. Like the Taj Mahal, it seemed to exist
outside of reality – it was too big, too detailed, too perfectly
proportioned to comprehend all at once. I could only focus on one
intricately decorated door, one perfect archway, one tiled fountain at a
time. There was no way to back far enough away to see the whole structure at
once, without loosing the delicate designs touching almost every foot of
it.
The Mosque and me
I walked around to the side and looked out on the white capped Atlantic and
wandered between the columns and arches. All the elements of classical
Islamic architecture were there – but so perfectly executed it felt
almost futuristic. I think I would have converted on the spot just to be
allowed inside. As it was I had to content myself with stolen glimpses
through a cracked open door. Inside was huge and dim but flooded with
streaks of light from distant windows. I could hardly imagine a more perfect
place for worship.
I lingered for over an hour, writing in my journal and just absorbing my
surroundings. Once I’d had my fill and the rain and wind were starting to
make me shiver (it’d never occurred to me that Africa might be ‘chilly’), a
nice policeman hailed me a petit taxi and even negotiated the fare back to
my hotel.
I checked out and got another taxi to the train station. Casablanca had been
interesting, and the mosque well worth a visit, but I had a feeling there
was much more to Morocco waiting inland.
