Thursday, February 14, 2008
Casablanca but not as we know it
I’m woken by pain that makes my head, neck and elbows throb. A full orchestra tunes up in the street under our window and the discordant sounds make me wince. The realisation comes slowly that the pain is caused by nothing more serious than a virus and the noise by the deafening and continuous honking of horns and barking of dogs.
I draw the curtains and discover that the sights are no more harmonious than the sounds - dirt and smog and rubbish bins spilling over, craters and other traps for the unwary pedestrian on the pavements. This is Casablanca and it dawns on me that the reason we’ve found it so hard to pick up tourist literature is the obvious reluctance of the tourist board to inform you that it’s the arse end of Morocco. We learn later that King Hassan II planned his great mosque here in an attempt to entice tourists, and he succeeded, but he couldn’t persuade them to stay. As soon as they’ve seen it, they rush off to Marrakesh, Fez or just about any other town in Morocco but this one.
It looks as though the French were midway through a giant reconstruction programme when they left in 1956, and took all the architects’ and engineers’ plans with them, leaving what looks like a half-demolished city. The pavements are not for walking on - lorries load and unload on them, shops spill out their machinery and wrought iron on to them, tyres and all manner of car parts are hosed and mended on them and the pedestrians, without any apparent trace of resentment, abandon them, put their lives in the hands of Allah and jaywalk into five lanes of speeding, screeching traffic.
But ever willing to hone our survival skills, we quickly learn that the most important thing you need here is flexibility. Distances for instance are a matter of individual interpretation. Three people told us the railway station was ‘just down that road - not far at all, but then half an hour’s walk to a lot of people, may seem just that. The apartment we found on line assured us that the landlord lived in the neighbourhood should we need help and advice. He lives more than 200 kilometres away. I had vowed that on no account would a glass of mint tea pass my lips but our landlord met us at the airport, took us to the apartment, where his wife had prepared it for us, so of course there was nothing for it but to put all thoughts of sheep’s eyeballs out of my mind and pronounce it quite delicious. We order coffee and croissants for our first breakfast and receive a tray of orange juice and pain au chocolat. Is there a problem our waiter’s quizzical look seems to say? No, no, that’s just lovely. Later we hop in a taxi only to find it hailed again a few minutes later by a woman who gets in casually, smiles and says hello, but hey now that is green. And of course, for a ride costing about 50 pence, we’re certainly not complaining. Oh, and I should also mention that you need to feel confident of your partner’s desire for you to live, otherwise when he suddenly shoves you into the chaotic traffic to cross the road, you could be forgiven for suspecting that a new life insurance policy has just been taken out.
And you must be flexible about your usual alcohol purchases. The cafes and bars sell only non-alcohol drinks and upon enquiry at the supermarket, they’ll tell you that they don’t sell it, but if you’d like to go round the corner, through the unmarked door, up the stone staircase, you can buy it. They’ll wrap it in black plastic bags, but since that’s the only purpose the bags seem to have, you may as well carry a neon flashing arrow proclaiming alcohol.
You also realise why the Moroccans lead a rather more laid-back lifestyle than us. If you were called to prayer five times a day beginning and ending at sunrise and sunset, you’d probably feel a bit short on sleep and want to conserve your energy.
I draw the curtains and discover that the sights are no more harmonious than the sounds - dirt and smog and rubbish bins spilling over, craters and other traps for the unwary pedestrian on the pavements. This is Casablanca and it dawns on me that the reason we’ve found it so hard to pick up tourist literature is the obvious reluctance of the tourist board to inform you that it’s the arse end of Morocco. We learn later that King Hassan II planned his great mosque here in an attempt to entice tourists, and he succeeded, but he couldn’t persuade them to stay. As soon as they’ve seen it, they rush off to Marrakesh, Fez or just about any other town in Morocco but this one.
It looks as though the French were midway through a giant reconstruction programme when they left in 1956, and took all the architects’ and engineers’ plans with them, leaving what looks like a half-demolished city. The pavements are not for walking on - lorries load and unload on them, shops spill out their machinery and wrought iron on to them, tyres and all manner of car parts are hosed and mended on them and the pedestrians, without any apparent trace of resentment, abandon them, put their lives in the hands of Allah and jaywalk into five lanes of speeding, screeching traffic.
But ever willing to hone our survival skills, we quickly learn that the most important thing you need here is flexibility. Distances for instance are a matter of individual interpretation. Three people told us the railway station was ‘just down that road - not far at all, but then half an hour’s walk to a lot of people, may seem just that. The apartment we found on line assured us that the landlord lived in the neighbourhood should we need help and advice. He lives more than 200 kilometres away. I had vowed that on no account would a glass of mint tea pass my lips but our landlord met us at the airport, took us to the apartment, where his wife had prepared it for us, so of course there was nothing for it but to put all thoughts of sheep’s eyeballs out of my mind and pronounce it quite delicious. We order coffee and croissants for our first breakfast and receive a tray of orange juice and pain au chocolat. Is there a problem our waiter’s quizzical look seems to say? No, no, that’s just lovely. Later we hop in a taxi only to find it hailed again a few minutes later by a woman who gets in casually, smiles and says hello, but hey now that is green. And of course, for a ride costing about 50 pence, we’re certainly not complaining. Oh, and I should also mention that you need to feel confident of your partner’s desire for you to live, otherwise when he suddenly shoves you into the chaotic traffic to cross the road, you could be forgiven for suspecting that a new life insurance policy has just been taken out.
And you must be flexible about your usual alcohol purchases. The cafes and bars sell only non-alcohol drinks and upon enquiry at the supermarket, they’ll tell you that they don’t sell it, but if you’d like to go round the corner, through the unmarked door, up the stone staircase, you can buy it. They’ll wrap it in black plastic bags, but since that’s the only purpose the bags seem to have, you may as well carry a neon flashing arrow proclaiming alcohol.
You also realise why the Moroccans lead a rather more laid-back lifestyle than us. If you were called to prayer five times a day beginning and ending at sunrise and sunset, you’d probably feel a bit short on sleep and want to conserve your energy.
