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Published: January 26th 2008
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So we have all heard of Casablanca. Humphry Bogart running a bar in French Morocco and hanging out with the ex-pats. Its a sultry image, a stylish and cosmopolitan enclave in Africa. In reality, Casablanca is nothing like its Hollywood image. But then again, what is?
Real-life Casablanca is the largest city in Morocco, although not its capital (Rabat) and as such it is a busy and sprawling city with an affluent centre that gradually extends out into more residential and communal areas. Apart from the modern nightclubs and restaurants that line the coast, it is true that Casablanca is not a stunning city. It is not red like Marrakesh, or blue like the village in the north that is featured on all the postcards. It is a working city more than a tourist centre, and as such it is not lavished with governmnet spending. In MAdrid Airport, all the Morocco posters welcomed me to Marrakesh, not Casablanca. It is little wonder that it has a hard time living up to its nearest competition.
And yet, Casablanca is far more comfortable, welcoming and enthralling than Marrakesh or any other tourist centre could ever be. I have never in my
life felt more truly welcomed than here. Everytime I walked round the streets people looked at me, but they were not staring, and you can feel the difference. Their looks were not unwelcoming, they were curious. I am very fair skinned with light eyes and dark hair. I look different here.
"They probably think you're lost." Hamada joked with me. "most foreigners stay near the beach. They never come into the city"
After a couple of days in Casa, I began to become part of the neigbourhood. Neighbours and shop keepers began to recognise me and say hello. I even found myself greeting people in Arabic, copying the complicated sounds I had heard Hamada say so many times to the drivers of the Petit Taxi's, the scary little Peugeot 205 and Fiat Cinquecento's that race through the streets of Casablanca with doors that done exactly close properly but personally decorated dashboards that take your attention of the road. Just as well, its sometimes a bit of a white knuckle ride!
To my real surprise, and Hamada's great pleasure, I even began answering in arabic when he called. Im quite sure that the shopkeeper didnt know what to make of
us! While I was there, i stayed with Hamada and his family. They couldn't have shown me more hospitality or kindness. Every day his mother cooked up a storm in her little kitchen cupboard. Literally. Her kitchen was the size of the cupboard, and yet she cooked up some of the best food Ive ever eaten. I couldn't have been better looked after and I owe them so much for that.
We managed to get into the old Palace of Justice, near to the Kings Palace. It was a beautiful old complex that we were privilleged to get into. Im not quite sure why the guard let us in. Tourists arent really permitted and he wouldn't accept anything for it. It was a place that gave you a sense of awe. Every wall was covered in intricate geometric plaster patterns. Every doorway had huge doors carved with the most impossibly difficult designs. Every ceiling seemed to be as high as the heavens, and yes, still intricately patterned. Only the stone parts of the buildings were not adorned with unending symetry.
We walked through the city. Through the covered market, and down the alleyways of trinket shops. Men selling
shoes, or cosmetics, or bread, or sweets, from an open window onto the street. It was not the most picturesque walk I took in morocco, but it was the most enjoyable. I felt like I could take my time. I could look into the shops without being pressurised to buy. In Casablanca I felt like just another inhabitant, just another person to smile at, just another person in the world. I felt anonomous, despite the suprised faces of every child that passed me!
On my last day, the neighbour came round and did some Henna gloves and socks for me. Her deft and experienced hands were done in no time. She had expertly swirled, circled, flowered, lined and squiggled my hands and feet into beautiuful patterns. All I had to do was wait for it to dry. I was very happy and couldnt stop staring at my new works of body art.
It occured to me as I sat there with both hands and feet in the air, that the dead dog position that I was currently adopting, was probably not the most ladylike nor flattering pose for my friend HAmada and his family to remember me by. My
suspicions were confirmed when Hamada walked into the room and prompty burst out laughing, spraying his mint tea all over his chin.
"What?" I tried to play it cool, like it was totally normal to be sat here like a dog waiting for its belly to be scratched. "It's not funny" I said as the laughter began to infect me also. "stop laughing." I continued between fits of giggles.
Sensing that i felt ridiculous, the neighbour promptly bandaged my hands and feet up in cotton wool, so that the Henna could dry without me accidently rubbing it. the mother then brough a pair of sports socks for my feet, and old foot tights for my hands. Here is the picture...I hadnt any time to do my hair or makeup that morning, I am sitting on the couch, unable to go anyway because walking will rub the henna, sleeves and trouser legs rolled up around my knees and elbows, and now, with my hands and feet bandaged up like a burns victim. I can tell you that I felt as ridiculous as the picture that you now have in your heads. I even had to drink through a straw
because i couldnt use my hands to pick up my glass. It was worth it however, as the henna eventualy came out dark brown in colour, and stayed for about three weeks. I even got to show the kids I teach, which covered for a lot of classroom conversational material, and covered the fact that I had done NO preperation over the holidays!
I said goodbye to my friend at the airport, not knowing if it would be another 2 and a half years before I would see him again. I hope not.
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