Casablanca

I did not mention my day in Casablanca while on the cruise, which seems so long ago now. I think because I was still getting over it.

It was not a nice experience overall. Whilst many on the ship had booked for the excursions, basically coach trips to and around Rabat, the Capital city, or Marakesh, I was happy to walk into town alone and find my own way.

I headed for the tallest Minaret in the world, attached to a mosque, Hassan II, built fairly recently – in the nineties I think.

It was a fabulous building. Lavish in every detail. Although modern it looked centuries old with its marble, granite columns and façades and fantastic woodwork throughout with marble underground fountains for the ritual washing of feet, a huge Turkish bath even further underground and huge, huge Titanium doors weighing nearly thirty tons.

The  main prayer area, at least three football pitches long by one wide even had a roof that slid open in less than four minutes. This would be vital in hot weather and was put in ‘cos  Wimpeys forgot to install air conditioning.

It has space inside for 25,000 worshipers and outside another 80,000 could pray on the big occasions. Built partially over the sea so that it could comply with  aspects of the Quoran it is a phenomenal building in every sense and truly awe inspiring.

I spent a couple of hours there before leaving to find the Bazaar after asking directions from one of the guides.

The walk to the bazaar was as fascinating and far more humbling. The route took me through the poorest section of Casablanca I am sure. And it wasn’t small either as I must have walked fifteen or twenty minutes before I realised I was in a place I shouldn’t be.

The abject poverty was astounding. It was rather like going to Petticoat Lane in London during it’s heyday as a market – though without the wealth. Thousands of people had their warest spread out in front of them. This was no bazaar I had found. The goods on display were so ridiculous it was sad. An odd shoe. Torn rags. Bunches of old keys – no locks just old Yale keys. Broken toys. Anything – absolutely anything was on display. It was incredible. Of absolutely no use to anyone but here they were being offered up for sale by people just sitting on their haunches behind these pathetic bundles of rubbish spread out on the little square of road in front of them. It was so sad and humbling.

I had a camera in my bag but I daren’t take photos. I soon learnt not to stop and look at the displays –for want of a better word – as I was pounced on.

I especially learnt not to look into the eyes of the sellers. To me it seemed that there was no hope in those eyes.

As I say there were thousands of these poor people just sitting staring or shouting to one another. All the while little mopeds ran through the crowd missing people I don’t know how. The noise was incredible.

I stuck out like a sore thumb as much as any tramp would in Claridges.

By now I was lost. It truly is a maze of slums. But I pushed on. And slowly the crowd thinned as I got nearer to a way out.

I daren’t stop to ask for directions as I had, by now, always two women with babies  pulling on my arms, hands outstretched. As soon as I got rid of one pair with some harsh words, two more would appear.

I wouldn’t get any money out, although I wanted to, as I just knew I’d get mobbed and, as luck would have it, I knew I had only two fifty euro notes in my pocket. Nothing smaller and if I gave anyone anything like a fifty I could see a riot happening.

I finally got away into some emptier streets but here there were mainly men. Doing bugger all. Just standing on corners or lounging in doorways. Few women indeed but some.

I stuck to the bigger of the streets and wasn’t tempted to take any of the smaller alleyways, just like Deals alleyways actually, as they looked like more potential hazards.

Apart from the women beggars no-one had actually spoken to me. But now a group of young men made some comment directly to me.

Of course I didn’t understand them.

Now I have often wandered into places I shouldn’t go before. Sometimes, usually actually, quite deliberately but rarely have I had any problems of any great consequence. I’m fairly big and in the past if a few quid didn’t help me then a glare seemed to. But here I did feel threatened and unsafe..

When they said whatever they did I knew better than to not face it, I looked straight back at them but kept going. They may have been asking me if I was lost and needed help, I just don’t know. I just don’t.

Once out of that area I entered almost immediately into the bazaar itself. The one that I had set out to find originally. This was full of tourists admiring proper stalls and shops.  Leather goods, jewellery, fashion. Just as you’d imagine a Bazaar to be.

The locals were well dressed and well fed and shopping alongside the Europeans the 3 or 4 liners in the port had unloaded for the day.

A different environment entirely than the one I had only just left.

In fact a different world and only a few hundred metres away, and a world these tourist were probably not going to see.

Another hour wandering and I returned to the boat. The white uniformed waiters at the top of the gangplank ready to sell more booze or take an order for yet more food.

What I had was a cup of tea and serious reflection on my day and what I had seen. Anybody else other than a teetotaller would probably have had a stiff drink….or two.

I had been totally shocked having never experienced such poverty up close. Or, possibly, more upset by the sheer scale of it. I’ve been told India is bad and I hope it’s not worse than I had seen.

I also knew that I had been frightened, by the surroundings, the atmosphere and the young guys.

I had experienced a feeling of being the outsider as I had walked the slums.  A complete outsider. I knew that, the young men withstanding, I would leave that world exactly where it is and not be a part of it ever again.

I was humbled and not a little guilty that I had just walked away from it.

For once I didn’t want any chocolate cake with my tea.

Then I thought some more and began to rationalise.

I had set out that day to find and visit a very astounding building. Constructed solely for the use of praising Allah.

The whole building was as impressive as any we have for the purpose of praising our God.

Yet, not a quarter of a mile away were these poor wretches, more than enough to make Leyton Orient green with envy for a similar turn out to watch their games each week.

All living in slums and complete, total poverty.

The estimated building cost of the mosque was some eight hundred million dollars.

According to the guide many locals believe the final total was more than twice as much.

Knowing this I don’t feel so bad. I appreciate I still should. But I don’t.

If the rulers don’t think the people are entitled to a better life and want to praise their God so expensively then my 100 Euros would not make not the slightest fucking difference and I should accept that.

It seems that all the different Gods are as benevolent as one another.

 

Where’s that chocolate cake?

 

A little added information from Ray who shares our dining table after I had told him of my day.

He and his wife Christine took an excursion trip on one of the coaches to the capital. On their return, due to traffic, they were forced to take a different route back as they neared the port.

This new route took them through a very poor area. Ray told me that this was mentioned by the tour guide and all on board were very strongly told not to take any photographs. The implication being that it would annoy the locals.

It was only when I mentioned my trip did Ray realise that in no way was the party in any danger from the locals who just stared at them. Nor did they feel threatened in the coach which was always moving.

They felt only shock seeing the neighbourhood they had been forced to pass through.

He realised that the “no photos” rule was not to avoid antagonising the locals or for safety reasons but more likely for there not to be any records.

I knew that his coach had come from the opposite direction and the area that I had visited could not have accepted a coach in the alleys I was in anyway.

That meant there were at least two of these large ghettos within easy reach of the port.

 

God is great and Allah be praised! Eh?