Though Casablanca is the largest city in the country, a modern center of business (as the guidebooks chant over and over), it appeared tired, rundown, shabby in yesterday's post-rain afternoon light, as if slowly breaking down beneath the sheer weight of high population and widespread poverty. Heavy traffic circulated through the streets below (older vehicles, mostly, including weary-looking, rust-streaked city busses), bicycles and pedestrians threading their way through it with little concern. Compared with Madrid and Sevilla, it suffered. And of course I looked at it through the prism of my own mindset, not at its finest right that nanosecond in the wake of language gap, general airport scene, wildass, death-defying ride into town. To the point that I gradually realized as I sat there that a part of me wanted to curl up into a ball and pass out for a good long while -- part sleep, part fetus-like retreat. Either do the fetal thing or call my travel agent in Madrid, change my return flight from tomorrow to today. The guidebooks I've read say there's not much to do in Casablanca, touristically speaking -- the prospect of walking its crowded streets for two days didn't seem hugely appealing.
And on the heels of that, I became aware of another part of me, feeling what I can only describe as glee at the fact that I'd just arrived and had already been neck deep in adventures. Goddamn, I found myself thinking, staring out over the downtown, the tower of a distant mosque visible above surrounding buildings, what an experience!
An hour later: me, out poking around the downtown area, trawling for an ATM, checking out stores, restaurants, people.
And the people here are unbelievably interesting. Like the city itself, a messy mixture of cultural elements -- Arabic, French, Spanish. Skin colors and ethnic types from all over the Arab world. Business suits, hooded desert robes, streetwear you'd see in any occidental city. Most, though not all, women sporting the hair shawl, a few completely hidden away in burkas. Cafés everywhere, virtually all the clients men, drinking coffee or tea, reading newspapers, checking mobile phones for messages.
One thing I noticed: the city seems mostly dog-free (in wild contrast to Madrid). The upside of that: poop-free sidewalks (in wild contrast to Madrid). Depending on where you go, however, Casablanca conpensates for the poop deficit with garbage or mud. And compensates for the dog deficit with feral city cats, looking reasonably healthy and comfortable with their lot.
I found my way toward the Medina, the old walled neighborhood -- the original site of the city before the French arrived and tossed together the current impressively alive, untidy monstrosity -- now known for the market that sprawls through most of the quarter's streets. On the way in, I found myself behind three Dutch 20-somethings, two males, one female, all in jeans/t-shirts. On impulse, I drifted along in their wake. A few Moroccan males they passed whipped their heads around to watch the young woman, their stares burningly intense.
Friday, it turned out, is the market's least active day due to religious observations, the atmosphere was quiet. Interesting, but not scintillating. I drifted along (buying nothing, endearing myself to no shop folk) -- man, talk about an overabundance of shoe stalls -- passing different cassette tape stalls, each playing music, one song fragment giving way to another as I walked. Somewhere in there, I became aware of a soap opera playing on television sets in various shops. A badly-acted soap, Arabic dialogue and melodramatic music following me along several narrow, winding streets until I passed out of the Medina into afternoon sunlight and traffic exhaust.
A nearby park presented itself, my butt settled onto a bench near a busy street/sidewalk. Busses, cars, trucks. Mopeds, bicycles, motorized carts loaded down with produce or scrap metal, young males hanging off on all sides, the odd bicyclist holding on for a free tow, looking like a slightly goofy pilot fish.
I sat, pulled out a notebook, began writing. A cross-eyed, limping 20-something I'd seen in the market appeared, threw himself down on the opposite end of the bench, facing away from me. Five minutes go by. He does a sudden 180, now facing me, one arm up on the bench back, head resting on forearm. I continue writing, he sits there, motionless. Minutes go by. I glance over -- he might be staring at me, it's impossible to tell: his crossed eyes are bouncing around in their sockets like amphetamine-fueled billiard balls. Suddenly ready for a change of scenery, I get up and cross the street, wading out into the traffic with some other pedestrians.
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Detail, Casablanca hotel room:
[continued in next entry]
rws 6:06 AM [+]