Casablanca – Election
Day
We awoke to a sunny day as the ship worked its way through
the highly industrial harbor of Casablanca, Morocco. All the dreams of Bogie
and Ilsa were lost amidst the cranes, cargo ships and ferries that filled the
harbor. Again we were greeted with a
mixture of men in jalabas, jeans or military uniforms. Northern Africa is not a calm place, based on
the number of policemen and guards whom we observed everywhere.
We boarded our tour bus with Niama, a Muslim woman dressed
in jeans with her scarf on her head. She was a lively and enthusiastic woman
who regaled us with history, stories and data relevant to our tour as we drove
out of the port and into the metropolis of Casablanca. Evidence of the time when it was under French
rule was seen in the signage, the cars and ‘little Paris’, a part of town
primarily settled by the French. But that was left quickly as we headed to the
area where the government buildings were located, as well as the king’s
palace. We walked around the palace as
we learned about the new king who is working hard to improve things for his
people. He is married to a younger woman who studied IT and was not herself from
a wealthy family. She seemed to have a
marked influence on her husband as she supports the fight against breast
cancer, supports unwed mothers, and improves the role of women in the
society.
While Naima spoke with pride of the beauty to be seen around
us, we saw a run-down, fairly impoverished city which if not dirty (there were
certainly enough street sweepers about), certainly seemed stained by time, the
sea and deprivation. One can imagine a
time in the 30’s when this was a beautiful seaside town, but it seemed just
plain seedy. Young men roamed the street, this being a national holiday, and
there was to be a football match which had gangs of men dressed in red or green
– which also happen to be the colors of the flag of Morocco - loudly demonstrating in the streets. We stopped at a shop (a staple of all tours
in foreign countries) where we were promised that everything was authentically
Moroccan and supported by the government.
Of course, we understood that the shop would give a good ‘cut’ to Naima
for everything purchased. We spent a
good hour of our tour in that shop filled with all things Moroccan: tea
services, samovars, leather shoes, silver jewelry with the hand of Fatima as a
theme, rugs, spices and tourist tchotchke. I did fall sway to a uniquely
Moroccan spice called Ras el Hanout – a mixture of spices which smelled good
enough to try on chicken or fish (contents unknown).
Next stop the new Hassan II Mosque – currently the mosque
with the highest minaret in the world, and third largest mosque anywhere, with
an inside capacity of 25,000 worshippers; an electronically moveable wooden
carved roof; and an outside marble
courtyard able to hold an additional 80,000 worshippers. It was built in six years by over 10,000
craftsmen and is THE reason people of the Muslim world come to Casablanca. It was large, and no costs were spared in its
chandeliers, Italian marble floors, its elegant hammams, and its miles of
Moroccan carpeting. But Oman’s mosque
struck me as more impressive.
We got a full education on how and why Muslims pray five
times a day; how one does the various ablutions, and when. While one can now do the ablutions at home
with a modern shower, one has to stay pure before prayers – and if you pee,
have sex, or in any way taint your body, you better stop by one of the 41
ablution fountains at the mosque to re-clean yourself before prayers.
The balance of the tour was a drive-by of: the Corniche; the Catholic church; the Jewish
synagogue; the tar paper shacks of fishermen and dock workers who left their
villages hoping for a better life, but didn’t yet find it; a gym with the
delightful name “body sweat gym”; the up-scale residential area with tree-lined
streets and security guards in front of most walled homes; and of course –
Rick’s Café. While the movie was filmed in Hollywood, and the idea for the café
comes from one in Tangier, an ambitious woman has opened up a restaurant, named
it ‘Rick’s Café’, and rakes in the money from sentimental tourists.
Having covered it all from the old to the new; the royal to
the impoverished, we returned back to our ship in time for late lunch and a
beer. And tomorrow when we awake, we’ll know who won the election.
Wednesday, Nov. 7th
Neither of us slept well thinking of the election, but we
awoke to BBC live as Obama was taking the stage in Chicago to give his
acceptance speech. Whew! Thank god for the Electoral College. There were many smiles at breakfast since
most of our fellow passengers, in a straw poll on board had chosen
overwhelmingly that we should stick to the known rather than the unknown. For
us it was simple: whoever was in office over the next four years would choose
the next two Supreme Court justices, and I knew whom I didn’t want in those
life-long jobs.
With the promise of sunshine and warm weather, we piled onto
our bus for our 3 hour ride to Marrakech. Neither of us was jumping up and down
to be on the bus ride, but to sit on the boat in the industrial harbor of Safi
for the full day did not give us any more delight. While our tour guide droned on we stared out
the window at a landscape of a truly third-world country: donkey carts as major
means of transportation; men herding sheep and goats; men tilling the field
behind a mule using a simple switch to urge the animal forward through the red
soil; simple shacks with barefoot children playing outside; small road-side
villages with all shops facing the road; men sitting in rudimentary cafes with
their cups of mint tea; and everywhere red dirt. The road reminded me of the ones we had
driven in India – bumpy, narrow and poorly paved, with vast fields of fertile
red soil sprouting green plants on both sides of the paved strip called a
highway. The current economy of Morocco comes from three sources: fishing,
agriculture and tourism. With 50% of the
population under 25 years of age, it will be at least a few generations before
things move forward.
As we approached the metropolis of Marrakech, on either side
of the road were enormous apartment complexes built by the king to encourage
workers out of their shacks. The price was a mere $55,000 and most of them
looked totally uninhabited. We stopped
at a McDonald’s – the only western bathrooms on the journey, and there we found
all the comforts of home: Big Mac’s, fries and toilets. One gentleman on the
bus actually ordered a big mac claiming that he tries to eat in a Mickey’D in
every country he visits. Now there’s a lofty goal!!
Once in Marrakech we picked up our local guide in his brown
jalaba, and elegant leather shoes, and he told us our itinerary: the main
mosque (but only from the outside); the Medina; an old caravansary; the
labyrinthine souk; the famous square with snake charmers, water pourers,
clowns, monkeys and pick pockets; a traditional Moroccan lunch; the Kasbah
(tombs of royalty); a shopping stop at one of the ‘best, most authentic,
complete and perfect stores’ (aka the place he gets his cut of the action); and
home again.
And that’s exactly what we did. We walked around the mosque,
wended our way through the souk dropping bread crumbs as we went; dined on
tomato salad, couscous and tandoor chicken at a restaurant which was once a
private home; and walked our way through squares and tombs. What struck me no
matter where we turned was not the beauty, but the red dirt. The winding alleys of the souk were certainly
colorful, filled with every known craftsman and product of the country, and our
lunch was delicious, but the sense was one of going back in time to a more
primitive period of man’s history. The cars may have replaced donkeys, the fake
Rolex may be the new proof of wealth, but the poverty was palpable. It was
India without India’s growing wealth.
I had hoped to see something of the mystical charm that
envelops the name of this ancient city, and the weather certainly made
everything shine in its own right, but I was very grateful to leave it after six
hours and to return to the 21st Century of our sailing boat. I have seen Morocco, and I am certainly glad
we went to both Casablanca and Marrakech, but I don’t feel that I need to
return anytime soon. (As I write this, I
think of Daddy saying he had seen America, didn’t much like it, and was glad to
be returning to Germany…so who knows, I may be fleeing to Morocco some day).
Only two more stops in the Canaries and then we start the
transatlantic crossing. Wahoooo.
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