Day 3
Day 3: Wednesday 25/6/03
Mickey got to strut his stuff this morning, he gave me the wake up call at 5.20 a.m. Aghh shit, I mumbled to myself, like you do. It’s never a nice feeling having to get up before you are physically ready to do so, and I was in no physical state to do anything at the moment, but I had a train to catch at 7.a.m.
My first major decision of the day had to be made straight away. Should I have a shave, or should I leave it for another day? I chose to shave, as this would at least make me look a little more human, even if I was not feeling it! The water in the shower was tepid, but done the job sufficiently enough to wake me up and make me feel a little more alive.
The next decision I had to make was whether I would bother with the breakfast on offer, this was not that hard and I decided to give it a miss and get something to eat later on.
The man at the reception desk was not that pleased to be woken up either when I wanted to pay my bill, he made a couple of grunting noises that I took for a thank you as I handed over the money, but it could quite easily have been he was saying something totally different, I don’t speak Arabic, or grunt for that matter!
I knew where to catch the bus for the station was just a short walk away, but when I saw a petit taxi (Small taxi) sat outside the hotel I made another spontaneous decision and decided to travel in luxury, if that’s how you can describe one of these little cars that masquerade as a taxi.
There are two types of taxi in most Moroccan cities, the Grand taxi and the petit taxi (Big taxi & Small taxi) The bigger taxi’s, which are usually old Mercedes’ are used on longer journeys and are usually a shared ride with every one paying their portion of the fare. While the small taxi’s are little 4 door cars, usually small Renaults, or Fiats, that zip around town doing little short runs only.
The driver of the small taxi I jumped into did not want to switch on the meter, instead he quoted me a price of 20 DH, which I reckoned was about 10 more than it would have been on the meter, but I thought I just can’t be bothered to argue the toss with him at six in the morning.
10 minutes later and I was at the rail station patiently standing in a queue of just a couple of people waiting to purchase a ticket. Just as it was about to be my turn to get to the window a woman pushed straight in front of me. I had another decision to make now! Do I just let it go, or do I say something?
I chose the latter and tapped the woman on the shoulder. She turned around venomously and looked me straight in the eye as though I had just poked her with a stick! I said “ I think I’m next here”, she mumbled something, which I’m sure wasn’t the Arabic words for “I’m sorry”, but she did step out of the way to let me pass, still mumbling to herself!
That cheered me up no end, it was only a small moral victory, but enough to put a smile on my face and a big sulk on hers. I guessed that if she was getting the same train as me, we were now not likely to be engaging in riveting conversation for the entire trip.
I bought myself a packet of biscuits and a bottle of water for the journey, then made my way out onto the platform. The train was already there so I boarded the second class coach with my 75 DH ticket that allowed me to sit wherever there was a vacant seat. No problem there either, the coach was made up of 9 separate compartments that each seated 8 people. I was the only person in this particular compartment at the moment, so chose to sit by the window away from the door.
The woman who had pushed in the queue came to the door of the compartment, took one look at me, mumbled something again and decided to find somewhere else to sit. Ah! Shame, but Just as I thought, we were not going to end up life long friends who met in a ticket queue at the railway station!
It was still only 6.35 and the train was not due to depart for another 25 minutes, but I decided to stay where I was just in case there was a last minute rush to board the train and I might lose my seat. The next person to come into this compartment was another woman, who by the look of the amount of baggage she had with her would need the other seven seats for herself. Another man and woman joined our compartment just before departure time, this meant the bag lady had to move some of her luggage and she was not happy about that. I just sat there laughing to myself and she looked at me as though I was insane, and who knows, maybe she was right!
The Moroccan rail network is a fairly well established and looking like it is a well run one, with quite new looking rolling stock and engines having been supplied by a company in Belgium. The second class compartment I was travelling in was more than adequate, with window blinds that worked, air conditioning that also worked and garish bright orange PVC covering on the bench seats that had arm rest dividers between people. I drifted in and out of sleep for the three-hour journey, so never really got to converse with my fellow passengers, who all kept themselves to themselves anyway. They were taking their chance just like me to catch up on their sleep.
No one hassled me on my arrival at Casablanca station as I had
been expecting? The instructions in the guide book were straight forward enough
and I followed them to the letter, crossing the main road outside the station I
soon found myself at the bus stop where I only waited a short while for the
right bus to come along. This was all very confidence boosting and yet
frightening in a way, with everything running as planned, surely it would go
wrong somewhere.
I knew this bus would terminate outside the medina, so was comfortable enough with this little journey into the centre of town. Right again, today’s plan was running like a dream!
As I got of the bus and walked back along the road that passes the medina I was struck by that awful smell. A smell everyone knows, it was the unmistakable smell of long since dried piss! It seemed that the entire length of the medina's outer wall had been used as an open-air urinal!
This put me off staying within the medina wall where the cheaper hotels are located, so I decided to venture a little way back up the road into the commercial centre, where according to the guidebook there were plenty of other hotels.
A young man approached me near the entrance to the medina and asked if I was looking for some drugs? “No I’m actually looking for a face mask to cover my nose from that smell!” I told him.
“Eh?,You from England?… Welcome to Casablanca and our lovely country Morocco” he replied.
“Thanks, now do you know where the Rialto hotel is?” I said as cheerfully as I could, trying not to open my mouth too far for fear of tasting the overwhelming stench.
“No problem, it’s not far I show you the way”
“If you could just point me in the right direction I would be grateful” was all I could say, not wanting to engage a guide just as soon as I had got off the bus!
“Yeah sure, no problem, lubbly jubbly! Asda price. I’m not a guide, but maybe you look at my shop when you come back from the hotel to the medina?” he said, pointing out his shop just inside the medina gate to me. I made a mental note of where it was for future reference.
“No problem, yours will be the first shop I come look at when I get back” I told him.
It was no more than a few minutes up the road in the direction that had been pointed out to me by the young man from the medina, and not that hard to find as it was right next to the Rialto café and Rialto cinema.
The room I was given on the first floor was bright and airy, if a little small. The walls were painted bright orange, the window did not shut properly, the shower was skew whiff, there were no towels and it was at least 100 degrees in here, it was just right and more than adequate for my needs! The only thing I was not to sure about was the red and white baby blanket resplendent in teddy bear images and the words sweet dreams that covered the bed.
It was not even yet eleven a.m. and the temperature was around 100 degrees, I knew this as I had seen one of those clocks that also give the temperature outside a shop I had passed. I was going to have a shower to try and cool down, but decided against this as there was no towel in the bathroom and I really couldn’t be arsed to rummage through my rucksack for my own one.
I walked back to the medina making sure to avoid the young man and his shop near the main gate. I just couldn’t face the smell or the hassle this early in the day. Instead I walked around the main shopping part of this small medina for an hour or so, surprisingly without too much hassle from anybody. Feeling a hungry I looked for somewhere to eat, without much success, until I stumbled upon a small restaurant that looked as though it was closed down.
A man who introduced himself as Farid came out onto the street and asked if I was looking for somewhere to eat? He was either a mind reader, or just touting for business, whatever he was I told him I was, but wasn’t sure that this place was open.
He told me to come in as he was just opening and apologised that the place looked shut, explaining it was his first day in the restaurant, so it was not yet done up!
That was a bit of an understatement! Tables and chairs were stacked up in the corner gathering dust alongside a large stack of crates containing empty coke bottles that had obviously been standing there for quite some time. The place badly needed a good spring clean; a lick of paint and maybe a few lights on might have helped too.
I did not want to offend the man, so agreed to take a seat at one of the few tables that actually had a chair beside it. He was busy frying fish in a small electric chip pan that as far as I could see, was the only cooking utensil there was.
“What do you have on offer” I enquired sceptically?
“Would you like some fish with salad and bread,” he asked. How did I know fish would be on offer?
“No thanks I don’t like fish” was my genuine reply!
“You don’t like fish? Ok I do you some Tajine (lamb or mutton with vegetables, like a hot pot)”
“Yes, ok that will be fine,” I said, wondering just how he was going to conjure this up in his little fish fryer?
He shouted something and a young boy who I assumed was his son appeared. The boy ran off up some stairs on the instructions of his father.
“It will be maybe 15, or 20 minutes,” said Farid, giving me a large piece of bread, a plate of olives and a small mixed salad with some very nice chilli sauce on a side plate.
“No problem, could I also have a coke please?” I said as reassuringly as I could. There was no fridge to be seen anywhere and no coke in any of the many crates that lay all around me.
Farid shouted out at the top of his voice again, the boy appeared, took his instructions and went scurrying out of the café, returning less than a minute later with an ice cold coke for me! This was definitely a new business venture, anything they did not have would have to be bought in from outside, which as far as I could see was just about everything.
While waiting for the main course I engaged Farid in conversation and asked what name he was going to give his new restaurant. “Can of beer, after a street in Marseilles” he said.
Now I’m no world authority on street names in Marseilles, but I was sure there was not one called Can of beer! “Could you please write that down for me” I asked Farid trying to see if my ears hadn’t deceived me. He wrote it down.
“Ah! Cannerire” I said. Maybe Farid had a lisp in French I thought to myself?
“Yes, Can of beer” he said again, probably wondering why I was laughing! It certainly sounded like that to me. (That reminded me of the joke where you say to someone I bet you can talk just like a Jamaican, then got them to say Beer can, which sounds like Bacon)
Farid told me that his mother had recently died and left him and his sister some money, which they had used to open this restaurant. Quite a few local people came in and out to buy the fish he was cooking non- stop in his little fryer. He was a nice man and I instantly warmed to him, I sincerely hoped the business would prove to be a success for him.
The Tajine was wonderful and tasted great, although I struggled to eat it all after the large amount of bread, salad and olives I had eaten while waiting for it. I wished Farid well with his new venture, promising to tell any travellers I met about his place, he proudly gave me one his newly printed business cards for reference.
The main attraction that had drawn me to Casablanca was the Hassan II Mosque, which I knew was located somewhere to the north of the medina, and situated only a short distance from the shoreline of the Atlantic coast.
The deeper I walked northwards into the medina the more run down the area became. It was not a nice area and definitely had the feel of a place you would not want to walk alone after dark. At one point I came across a little square surrounded by run down housing on all sides. It would have been a lot nicer scene had it been kept a little tidy and would have certainly been a nice place to sit and rest, as it at least offered some shade with the trees surrounding it. Unfortunately it had been let go to ruin, with the flowers that did try to grow and bring a little colour, having to fight their way through a jungle of weeds just to see daylight.
There was a couple of old men sprawled out asleep, or unconscious I wasn’t quite sure on the path, opposite a café where a lot of young men were sitting around playing cards, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and hash. One of the young men on seeing me got up and walked over to me to inquire if I was looking to score some dope? He seemed genuinely surprised to hear I wasn’t! Probably wondering what else would bring a tourist to this area? I walked on as quickly as possible, trying not to look too intimidated by the area and eventually came out opposite a big shipyard. There was also a naval barracks that runs a fair way along the main road around the medina’s perimeter wall.
The top of the Mosque, which stands proudly against the Atlantic backdrop some 210 metres high was clearly visible, so I just kept walking in that direction until I came to it. On the way I passed children playing football on the road in between the cars and donkeys that constantly passed up and down, through this rather run down and depressing looking area of Casablanca.
No one bothered me, but it was definitely the type of area that I did not feel to safe in, so made sure I kept my camera tucked away in my backpack out of sight.
Fifteen minutes later and I was stood in the main square of
what is the third largest Religious monument in the whole world. Completed in
1993 after five years in the construction by over 10,000 craftsmen, this
relatively brand new Mosque is really an impressive sight by anyone’s standards.
It is supposed to be able to hold 25,000 people within the actual prayer hall
itself, with room for 80,000 more in the surrounding area outside. I did not for
one-minute doubt these figures, as the area it stands on is huge, and I would
say somewhat conservatively about the size of the old Wembley stadium complex.
The mosque was built to celebrate the 60th birthday of King Hassan and its estimated six million-dollar construction cost was paid for mostly from public subscription. The minaret is the worlds highest and at night becomes a bit like Disney World with lasers shining out to point in the direction of Mecca.
I am not one to be overly impressed by mosques, and I’ve seen quite a few in my travels, most of which are very large, but this was different, it was truly a spectacular looking building.
The Hassan II Mosque is one of the very few Islamic religious buildings that is open to non Muslims, but unfortunately I had come at a time when it was shut, having just missed the last guided tour of the building that had started 10 minutes before I got there. Still I was not that bothered as I feel a little sacrilegious walking around these places anyway. But I have to say I enjoyed the experience of just walking around the complex and taking pictures from every conceivable angle. At one stage even having to walk back as far as I could towards the main road, just to get as much of it in with a 28mm lens as I could to try and show the scale of it all.
I noticed as I walked around for the best part of an hour that there were quite a few policemen around, obviously due to the heightened state of alert that prevails in the world today from terrorist threats. In fact there were more police around then there were members of the public, it really was that quite here today.
I knew the mosque lay to the north of where I was staying, so figured if I walked in a southerly direction I would end up near enough in the right place, but without having to walk back the way I had come.
Keeping the mosque behind me I set of in the direction I figured would be right. The first couple of streets were fine, but then I had to walk through an area that looked as though someone had dropped the biggest bomb you could imagine from a great height that had totally devastated the area. Buildings were still being used by people, but how they could be inhabited was beyond me, they had the whole side walls pulled down and looked as though they were in the process of being pulled down. Maybe they were, but I saw no signs of any construction workers, or plant as I walked over rubble strewn all over the streets where people were washing themselves, their clothes and dishes at standpipes in the road! Rubbish was festering in piles as high as six feet and the stench was somewhat unbearable at times. I thought to myself that surely it would not be long before these people were moved out of this area that must have been a terrible risk to their health.
I may have the wrong end of the stick, and perhaps they were in the process of re-housing and redeveloping this area, but it did not look that way to me. It looked like the scene from a movie depicting a war zone after the fighting has finished.
A couple of blocks further and I was back in the real world with all the property around me looking fairly new and in good condition. I kept checking over my shoulder to make sure I was walking in the right direction, which it seemed I was, so I just kept going, as I was not in any real hurry to get back.
After about an hour or so I finally had to admit to myself that I was lost and needed some guidance, so did what you are supposed to do in these situations. I asked a policeman for directions. He told me that I was going in the right direction, sort of! I needed to be bearing a little to the east to get back towards the Medina, as I had actually strayed off to the west of the city. He advised me to catch a taxi, as it was quite a long walk, in fact he was quite adamant about this. I suppose he just assumed I would take his advice as he stepped out into the road and stopped a taxi that already had a woman passenger in, he spoke to the driver and instructed me to get in saying the taxi was going my way.
It was not that far to where the taxi dropped me off outside the Hyatt Regency hotel some five minutes later, but I was glad not have walked it all the same. I gave the driver my share of the fare, which he worked out to be 5DH, the woman passenger did not blink an eyelid the whole time I was in the taxi, so I assumed this was normal practice?
It was still a 10-minute walk back to my hotel from the Hyatt, but I had chosen to tell the driver to drop me there as it is about the most well known hotel in the area, and a place from where I knew my way back.
McDonalds was on my right hand side across the road and the medina on my left, I now knew exactly where I was going! I was going straight to McDonalds as I had been overcome with the craving for a cup of coffee.
The man behind the counter spoke to me in good English after I ordered a coffee. “Would you like a normal coffee?” he inquired. “Yes please” I said. A normal McDonalds coffee was exactly what I wanted, and reasoned this is what I would get, because as far as I was concerned everything seems to be the same no matter where you buy your McDonalds in the world. I of course was wrong in this assumption!
I was given a large cup with a very small amount of liquid tar at the bottom, which of course tasted to me like I imagine liquid shit would!
I should have ordered the café crème I had seen on the menu I thought to myself, but at least I would know better the next time. I dropped the coffee in the wastepaper basket when I got back to my hotel room, then I sat on the bed drinking warm water and sulking a little to myself. I had really been looking forward to that cup of coffee.
My feet were sore and the right one had a couple of little abrasions where my sandal had been rubbing, which really pissed me off even further. I made up my mind then and there that I was going to move on tomorrow. I didn’t want to stay in this city that smelt of urine, a city that looked as though the Enola gay had just dropped it’s payload on and worse still, a city where you couldn’t even get a decent cup of coffee in McDonalds. You see what caffeine depravation was doing to me!
I lay down and rested for about an hour or so, waking up in a little better mood, thinking it really wasn’t that bad here, but still craving a cup of coffee, as I knew a cup of coffee, not an egg cup full of sump oil!
It was around 8 p.m. by the time I had showered and dressed myself to go out for my evening meal. First off I went to the medina to have a look around at night, another bad move for someone who’s nerves were a little frayed from walking around in 100 degree plus heat, drinking like warm water and not able to get a coffee.
As I crossed the main road towards the medina I noticed something that I felt was a little out of the ordinary, but something the British Police could learn from. A policeman stopped a young man who was walking by dressed in the uniform of all today’s youth world-wide, baseball cap, designer label tee shirt, jeans and expensive trainers.
The first thing the policeman did, and this is what made me stop and stare, was to shake the young mans hand as though he were a friend. I thought at first he was, but after the handshake it was down to business, with the young man having to empty out all his pockets and produce identification. Then satisfied with the stop and search the policeman again shook the boy’s hand and sent him on his way!
I can’t quite see the British police shaking anyone’s hand before a stop and search operation, but who knows, it could go a little way to diffusing some situations?
The man who approached me as I entered the medina was, I would say, in his thirties. “No thank you! I really don’t want a guide” I snapped before he could go through his spiel.
“I am not a guide”, yeah! And I’m not a tourist!”
It was starting to irritate me a little, this man would not take no for an answer as I continued to walk, he just followed.
All the time he was pointing out this and that and giving me facts and figures and what he thought were interesting little snippets of information, and all the time I was telling him “I really couldn’t give a shit and I don’t want a guide”.
This man following me was getting me down a little, so I returned to where I had started with the man still walking alongside talking all the time. Getting back near the main gate he inquired how much I was going to give him?
In a bit of a raised voice I told him “I AM NOT GIVING YOU ANYTHING!” Do you understand? I did not ask you to walk with me and I did not want a guide, which I have told you more times than I care to remember”.
“But I walked all around the medina with you” he said, almost in tears.
“Yes you did, and I told you not to follow me” I snapped back at him, more than a little pissed off now. I really needed a cup of coffee!
Realising that I was losing it a bit with this man I calmed myself down and offered him the10 DH that I had in change from my pocket. He looked at the money and laughed mockingly “That’s what we give children”
A little put out by this mocking reply, I said “O.K then, Fuck you” I put the money back in my pocket and just walked away leaving him stood there on the street corner to contemplate my reply, while looking around for his next tourist to annoy.
The restaurant I chose to eat at was nothing special, but it was away from the medina and somewhere I felt would be a safe distance from tourist touts and wide boys selling drugs. While I was sat at the table waiting for the food to be delivered a Moroccan man at the next table invited me to sit with him and chat. This was a new approach, now they are chatting you up while you eat, I thought to myself.
I did not want to chat to another tout, but felt I should give the man a chance and accept his hospitality just in case he was genuine.
While he was indeed a Moroccan, he was not a tout and was in fact a tourist himself! It turned out that his was another Moroccan who had married a foreigner and now lived in Stockholm, Sweden. He was back in Morocco for a short while to see some relatives and do a little sightseeing before returning to Sweden.
It was nice to be able to speak to a Moroccan man who was not just doing it for the money, and by the time he left some twenty minutes later after wishing me a good trip, I was back on an even keel. I even had the prospect of a nice cup of coffee to look forward to on my way home, as I planned to pop into McDonalds again.
“A café crème please to take away” I asked the young girl behind the counter. I did not take to much notice as she put the coffee in a bag for me to take away. Back in the hotel room and feeling pleased with myself I opened the bag, got the coffee out and removed the lid. “Bollocks” I said loudly to myself, now rather annoyed again. The café crème was the same liquid tar with just a couple of small cartons of milk thrown in, and to make it even worse it had gone cold.
I poured in some of my tepid warm bottled water to dilute it a little and drank it quickly, then went to bed before I ended up doing something crazy!