"The full stomach knows nothing about the empty" - Moraccan saying

Meeting my friend Judy outside customs of the new Air France and Air Moroc terminal at the Casablanca airport, I was about to fall over. Even for this seasoned traveler, I’d about reached my limit. Two hours before my flight out of LAX I was at the French consulate in Century City getting my visa (I needed a 6-month visa). At check-in, I was furiously digging through my overweight suitcase, throwing electronic power cords, a few CDs, and an excess canvas into my already stuffed carry-ons. I had four bags, two of them heavy carry-ons (an overstuffed backpack served as my allowed “personal item”), each loaded with books, my laptop, vitamin bottles (another heavy item that could go through security), art paper, and canvases. After getting my one suitcase down to 50.5 lbs to avoid the $50 charge, I had to dig out my laptop from the bottom of one bag to get through security. I felt like such an American tourist attached to so much of her “stuff”. (Of course I do realize this is an unnecessary generalization of my fellow countrymen, but I was overly self-conscious and tired and frustrated lugging around such heavy luggage.) My flights were though Houston and Paris to Casablanca. I didn’t sleep at all, I guess partly due to 3 episodes each of “House” and “CSI” (two of my addictions) on the transatlantic flight. My large suitcase didn’t arrive in CB, though they gave me ~$60 in dirhams to return the next day to pick it up (no delivery service as I had to take it through customs myself). At 7:30 that evening, feeling sick to my stomach after no sleep for 30 hours, I crashed and slept until 10 the next morning – although I think this did help to get me reasonably on Moroccan (GMT) time.

On the way home from the airport, Judy stopped at some friends’. Their home, near the airport as the owner is a retired air controller, impressed me. In fact, upon retirement he was honored by the King with a certificate and medal – quite an achievement and commensurate with his excellence at work. Inside the exterior walls were bright orange and yellow flowers that are profuse in California (don’t ask me the name – I’m no biologist or botanist!), orange trees, and fig trees. Morocco is much like Cali, in topography (western coastal areas merging to the high central Atlas mountains, then descending to the eastern deserts) as well as climate. Walking into the house, I was first reminded by the smell of my Opa’s house in Germany when I was a kid – a soft earthy smell. The walls were a warm yellow ochre, the ceilings garnished with typical white lattice, and a wonderful pale blue damask sofa built-in and running around the perimeter of the living room. It could have seated about 25! We were served hot tea – a green tea with fresh mint – and Moroccan “mud” – ground almonds and other nuts browned in a bit of oil. We spoke 5 languages in the group: French, German, English, spoken Arabic, and Berber. Lest I impress you, I didn’t participate in most of the conversations! However, the Moroccans are very considerate and insisted that someone translate for me when I didn’t understand.

Morocco is expensive! I should have glimpsed that when handing over my visa number for the touring I’ll be doing my final 10 days here, but I thought it was mostly due to the daily falling value of the dollar (~7 dirham to $1). Judy told me that the cost of living of Casablanca is just behind that of New York City. Money here is king. The train for the two of us to go back to the airport to retrieve my lost luggage was $25, for a 20-minute ride! This is probably similar to the UK, but I was surprised to be charged this in a third-world country.

Flying into Morocco, the landscape looked like any other in northern Europe. Agricultural fields coloured in all shades of green, ochre, and brown-red stretched below. As we descended, however, I noticed really the only difference was the picturesque farm houses replaced by walled housing compounds . Driving and walking around the city, Casablanca reminds me of Mexico – maybe someplace like Ensenada, being on a gorgeous coastline. As Judy and I loaded my suitcases into the car, a young man appeared from nowhere and put the last one in the car, then asked for money. “Just one euro…” An intelligent- and sharp-looking man of about 20 was selling Kleenex at a signal. Others just approach us – one ran across the street for a handout as we left the beach – without even a pretense of selling something useless. The small neighborhood streets are definitely third-world with ruts and holes and well-worn pavement. Young men hang out on the corner. Shops are small with incongruous items crowding the shelves and windows, reminding me of thrift stores. Prices automatically increase probably 20%, at least, when Judy and I walk in, though Judy’s fluent Arabic helps reduce that a bit. One of the main streets near Dennis and Judy’s apartment, however, looks like Cannes (except for the cars, and the ever-present petrol smell). Nice-looking apartments top shiny, expensive French retail stores, many the same chains as in France. Tall palm trees line the center island.

Driving in the city is chaotic by my perception, no one minding the lanes, parking laws, or blind spots. I don’t understand the purpose of all the honking except to say “Here I come, get out of my way”. The prevalent motorcycles, dirt bikes, and 3- and 4-wheelers are owned not by those who can’t afford a car, like in Cannes, but by rich kids for whom it’s entertainment. We got stuck behind a gang driving through the “Beverly Hills” of CB as they practiced their wheelie-pops. Also, out in the less-crowded countryside near the airport, I guess you’re allowed to go down the wrong side of the street until it’s convenient to merge onto the other side. I’m still confused. Although if life in the Moroccan fast lane is too much for me, I suppose I could just take a donkey taxi….

Yesterday Judy and I went to the beach (checking out my surfing possibilities) and drove along the coastline. The Grand Mosque loomed on the beach, built recently with funds obtained by a decree that every Moroccan “donate” one month’s salary and shopkeepers and owners giving 2 month’s worth. It’s the largest mosque in the world, on par with the Astrodome. 120 dh allow entry into the mosque by way of the 4-story platinum doors. Judy told me with distaste that 25 people were killed in the construction, unnecessary with modern precautions. Further along are a new man-made marina being built and a grand resort and mall and other rich tourist attractions. They are funded by the Moroccan monarchy, along with the continual extension of CB’s city limits out into the Atlantic. We passed the royal compound, sitting on a hill overlooking the ocean near the Grand Mosque. Inside are the palace, the royal mosque, and a library. Moroccan libraries are not lending libraries – nothing can be removed from the premises – and Judy said it was deathly-quiet inside. A typical Moroccan house has no books, except the Qur’an, since they are a luxury most can’t afford and most can’t read. Also distinguishing the income dichotomy is the presence of McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and KFC. They are quite upscale and state-of-the-art. The first McDonald’s in all of Africa, built about 15 years ago, overlooks the beach and offers the McSahara, featuring anise spicing and gyro-type bread as a bun. A mile on, a KFC, invisible from the coastal road, sits right on the sand and is quite the hangout for watching the scene or a sunset. Along the street I see young men selling puppies, holding them out to passing cars like piñatas. None of this matches the Casablanca of Hollywood, but there is a Rick’s Café. Judy says it’s done very much like the movie set, and though I try to get a glimpse, the guard tells me it’s closed. I’d like to invite Judy and Dennis there, since it’s reportedly quite good, but she tells me it’s too expensive – about $20-$25 a person. I insist, telling her I’ve got 8-months of travel budget to blow through here! We’ll see… I haven’t seen Humphrey around yet, though most of the Moroccans are quite good-looking. Don’t misconstrue this though, as I’ve no engagement plans.

Casablanca