Casablanca

Tell someone that you're going to Casablanca, and you're guaranteed to get one of two reactions. Either a moony, far-off gaze because the name conjures up grainy, vintage images of the film noir era, or a wrinkled nose and bewildered expression because the Casablanca of today is one of economic power replete with all the negative inevitabilities of socioeconomic disparity - unemployment, crime, prostitution, etc. It certainly felt dodgier than the other cities - even Tangier, but maybe that's because I had spent too much time Googling variations on "is Casablanca safe...[for women/at night/etc]" beforehand, only to come up with unsettling results that made me feel exceedingly paranoid by the time I disembarked at Casa Voyageurs. (Mugging at knifepoint, according to the interwebs, is not uncommon).

But beneath the grubby exterior is a trove of Art Deco buildings, vestiges of a bygone golden age, that deserves to be appreciated. Such is the mission of the Casamémoire organization, which normally offers walking tours to showcase the best architectural specimens but, alas, not during Ramadan. However I did get in touch with them via email early enough that they sent me a list and map of their standard hit list.  

Yet for all this twentieth century nostalgia, I need to get one thing straight: not a single frame of Casablanca was shot in Morocco. I know, I know, Rick's Cafe is convincing, but in reality was founded by an entrepreneurial American riding the wave of tourism sparked by a seventy year-old film. (Not to knock the cafe - I went my first night in Casablanca and it's just as glamorous and decadent as you'd expect an homage to Old Hollywood to be). But the fact remains,  they didn't shoot on location back in the day.

Apart from the above, really the only reason to spend any time at all in Casablanca is to visit the majestic mosque Hassan II - the third largest in the world and one of the few in Morocco that non-Muslims can enter. I'd say it's almost on par with St. Peter's Basilica in terms of magnitude of size and opulence but, of course, being built within the last few decades the mosque lacks the same richness of history. However it is pretty awe-inspiring to stand in the grand hall decked out with titanium gates that won't oxidize, marble columns featuring disguised loudspeakers, massive chandeliers, hand-carved stucco, and an orate cedar ceiling that can mechanically open to the heavens like Safeco Field, where 25,000 worshippers can all pray at the same time. Our tour guide dubbed it the "iMosque," but you wouldn't know just by looking at all the traditional embellishments. The walk to the mosque may feel a bit sketchy, and it doesn't take a great stretch of the imagination to picture slums where the multi-million dollar structure now rests.   

The city is worth spending one or two nights here, but if you're still not sold it did make the NYT list of places to go in 2013. The nightlife scene is supposed to be quite lively, but given the harassment that ensues simply from walking around in broad daylight it didn't really seem a worthwhile thing to pursue.

Below: 

1. Tribunal. 1922. 

2. Rick's Cafe. 

3. Post office. 1918-1920. 

4. Mosquée Hassan II, exterior. 

5. Mosquée Hassan II, interior. 

More Casablanca (and the grand mosque) on Flickr. 

Essaouira in Photos

Essaouira has the vibe of a Mediterranean coastal town, except probably a bit cooler since it rests on the Atlantic Ocean. The walled blue and white medina rests partially on a cliff, offering lovely views from the ramparts and the port. To the south of the old city sits the beach, where families and children frolic midday and, in the late afternoon, boys and young men play soccer on the hard-packed sand. The strong winds also make for a (kite)surfer's paradise. Walking north from the beach along the wall, you eventually come to the port - a chaotic, lively and stinky ecosystem of fisherman, seagulls and cats.

There are no specific sights to see here - nothing to wake up early, stand in line, buy tickets for and plan your day around; rather, it's the sort of place you come to for aimless strolling, beachside lounging, and sipping beers on a rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean. This is my kind of Morocco, and I'm glad I saved it for last.

***

If you go...

1. Eat fresh fish in the shacks by the port. Negotiate the price before you sit down. They'll try to get you to pay 100d per person at first, but both times I negotiated down to 65-70 dirhams - and that included ample fish for everyone, plus salad, bread and drinks.

2. Get juiced. Ginger serves wholesome juices, salads and sandwiches. The staff is multilingual and the place has wifi. On the way from the main square to the ramparts if you follow the wall.

3. Do a mini pub crawl. The cafe closest to the port on the main square (it's just to the left of the bank) has 25cl beer for 20 dirhams. (Not great, coming from 2.50€ pints in Paris, but probably one of the better deals you'll find in Morocco). You can only drink on the upstairs terrace - which is fine, because the views are great. Afterwards head over to Taros (on the other side of the bank) for more expensive drinks but a better ambiance. They even have thick woven ponchos for when the cold settles in after dark.

*** 

Fresh Air, Fresh Fish

I stepped off the bus from Marrakech bracing myself for the locals to start badgering me.

"Excuse me, miss, you need hotel?"

"Can I help with your bag?"

"Taxi?"

But the barrage of hustlers never came. Whereas in Marrakech I had to thrice fend off local men trying to give me directions* during the short walk across the main square and over to my hostel, in Essaouira no one accosted me. As the wind from the Atlantic ruffled my shirt (which in Marrakech had been perpetually stuck to me with sweat), I breathed a sigh of relief.

While exploring the medina that afternoon, I noticed that, save for an occasional "Hello, bonjour," the shop owners seemed like they really didn't give a shit whether you entered or not. It's so much more enjoyable that way; being able to take in the surroundings rather than staring at the ground trying to avoid that fatal first eye contact which, in all other cities, will have the business owners yelling and gesticulating wildly for you to come in and hear all about the "special price" that awaits.

"Why would you go back to fucking Marrakech?" a hostel staff member demanded a fellow traveler trying to sort out his last few days in Morocco.

Essaouira has that effect.

For dinner that first night, a large group of us that had first met in Marrakech went to the blue-and-white shacks near the port and enjoyed a massive meal of fresh seafood grilled to order. After negotiating the price down to 65 dirhams per person (including salad, bread, drink, two large fish and four sardines), we sat in the semi-darkness of an old-fashioned gas lamp, picking our way through tuna and sole as they came straight off the grill to our table, while feral cats lurked in the shadows hoping we'd toss them some scraps. It was a delicious but thoroughly messy affair and at the end of the meal looking at the mounds of balled-up napkins and fish bones on each plate, we debated whether this would be a really awesome or really terrible first date.

I went back the following night with some other new acquaintances. We paid a bit more but got to try red snapper, tuna, calamari and shrimp as well. The host let us take turns being photographed holding live crabs and lobsters. Doesn't get more fresh than that!

*This is how the scam works. A local - generally a young guy in his teens - sees you with a large backpack or suitcase and asks if you need a hotel. You say you already have a reservation. Instead of going away, he asks where you're staying. It matters little whether you tell him or not, because he knows all of the hotels and hostels in the area, so will continue to walk a few steps ahead of you in the same direction. It sounds completely illogical that a person can lead and follow you at the same time, but that's exactly what happens all the way to the hostel where, at the door, he will stop short of following you inside but will demand money. The staff is used to this and doesn't intervene. So in the end you toss the kid a few dirhams just so he'll fuck off. 

Marrakech: Crazy, Hot, Crowded

Marrakech is like Fez but stretched to the extreme: dirtier, smellier, more packed with tourists, more "Moroccan" (in the main plaza in the medina there are snake charmers and monkeys on leashes). The people are more aggressive too - not only the shopkeepers and the fake guides who follow you around and then ask for money, but also the locals. Men holler louder and more freely at passing women than in previous cities, and in the first 48 hours of being here I witnessed three street fights - one of which climaxed with one guy pulling a knife and hopping on a motorbike to pursue the other guy into the medina. The hostel staff said that fights were common during Ramadan, when everyone is already near the tipping point due to hunger, thirst, and the perpetual heat. (Not to mention they can't smoke or have sex).

The city is best enjoyed in small doses with liberal breaks in between. Saturday afternoon I went with a couple girls from my hostel to a nearby hotel where we swam in the pool, read, sipped milkshakes and forgot about all the things outside that drove us crazy but were so inherently Marrakech. On Sunday I took a day trip to the Ourika Valley, driving along the river and stopping to take a hike up to the Fatima Waterfall. The locals treat the river like their beach, damming parts of it to form pools, and even setting picnic tables and chairs in the shallow parts. During the hike I thought it was strange that there were so many shops along the path, but once we reached the pool where the falls gracefully fell into a pool that fed the river, I realized that not only was it a popular destination for van loads of tourists, but there were also tons of locals.

I had worn my bathing suit but, as with everything in Morocco, the falls were a major sausage fest. Feeling too uncomfortable to strip down, I contented myself with dipping my feet into the freezing water.

Marrakech has plenty of other things to do and see, of course, but they're all best enjoyed in the morning before the sun and the crowds reach peak intensity. Below, a few of my favorites.

1. The Fatima Waterfall. 

2. Soapstone carver we passed during the hike. 

3. Medersa Ben Youssef. 50 dirhams to get in, but worth it because you get to explore the upper floor that used to be student rooms. Oh, and the central pavilion is breathtaking.

4. Musée de Marrakech. Honestly I couldn't have cared less what was inside this converted 19th century palace, since anything that keeps me out of direct sunlight and away from people vying for my money makes me happy. I speak French in the loosest sense of the word, so I didn't understand a lot of the accompanying text, but sometimes art and architecture need no explanation.

5. Jardin Majorelle. What put Marrakech on my mental bucket list of places to visit was actually a documentary about Yves Saint Laurent that I reviewed a couple years ago. In it, they briefly explore the love affair the late designer had with the Moroccan city, to the point where Laurent and his partner Bergé purchased and lovingly restored a piece of land originally belonging to the French painter Jacques Majorelle. Today the garden exists as a succulent (there are lots of cacti, get it?) oasis not far from the medina, where terra cotta pathways lined with bamboo fences and brightly painted pots wind between tall palm trees and wisteria-covered lattices. You completely forget where you are; that is until you step outside and - news flash - have to haggle over cab fare with the taxi driver because the meter is "broken." 

Welcome to Marrakech, indeed. See the rest of the photoset here.

Medersas, Merenides, Mosaics

While mosques in Morocco (with a few exceptions) are off-limits to non-Muslims - a vestige of French colonial times, the medersas* (religious schools) accept visitors for a small fee. I wish I had discovered them sooner because they offer a much-needed respite from the pushy merchants and fake guides that seem to cover every inch of the medina. You can sit, sip water (something I feel too self-conscious doing in front of all the fasters) and admire the incredible Islamic architecture and mosaics.

In the afternoon I caved and hired a car to take me up the hill above the old city to see the Merenid Tombs (not really tombs but ruins of an old castle). I had planned to just go on my own, but the hostel staff warned me it wasn't safe. How dangerous can a panoramic viewpoint be in broad daylight? Apparently there are still some cave-dwellers up there, and travelers have been mugged before. But besides, with the temperature in the mid-90s I lacked the motivation (not to mention the proper footwear) for a hike. 

As we wound our way up towards the ruins, the guide explained to me the lay of the land - the white tombstones of the cemetery that cover the bottom of the hill, the Berber mountains where olive trees grow, the caves where people still live, etc. It was breathtaking at the top, albeit burningly hot.  

Our next stop was a ceramics factory outside the medina, which I let the driver talk me into visiting because having seen hand-painted dishes and intricate mosaics everywhere, I was curious to see how everything was all made. The day before I had stepped inside a leather workshop and witnessed all manner of bags being stitched, trimmed and embossed. The obvious skill required and the dismal working conditions made me feel less outraged by the astronomical asking prices that shopkeepers open the haggling with, but something tells me that the money is probably not distributed in a very egalitarian manner.

The ceramics factory itself was fairly empty due to Ramadan, but a handful of artisans remained. It's quite something what they can achieve just using a chisel - from chipping away at a blue-glazed vase to create a design with the exposed clay to creating stars and other shapes for mosaics. Yet as fascinating as the tour was, the entire time I was bracing myself for the inevitable hard sell at the end. The owner would have loved it if I had purchased a custom mosaic table or fountain (or both!), but in the end I left with a pair of tiles.

I ended the day with a refreshing iced mint tea from Café Clock, playing with the little bits of mosaic tile that the owner had let me keep.  I thought back to how a boy - probably not much more than eighteen or so - had cut the perfect star in just one minute. I mean, hell, what can I do in one minute? Nothing nearly as productive, that's for sure.

Below, some shots from my last day in Fez.  See the rest here.

1. The gorgeous Medresa al Attarine. 

2. View of the medina from the Merenides. 

3. The kid who cut the star. 

4. Mosaic table in progress. 

5. Inside Café Clock.

*I have also seen it spelled 'madrasa.' Not sure which is correct. If you know the answer send me a message! 

Cooking In...Morocco

I was checking my email over breakfast Wednesday morning when I saw a response from Café Clock (English-owned restaurant in a beautiful riad with an American coffee shop vibe - basically if you're in Fez you need to go at least once) to my inquiry about cooking classes. Sorry for the late reply, it said, but we have a class today at 11am. I checked the time: 20 minutes to get there and find the place. Inhaling the rest of my food, I collected my things and hurried outside; or rather as much as one can hurry in 80+ heat along streets that are unmarked and connected in ways that make very little sense. (The Fez medina has over 9,000 streets; I doubt even a special ops team could successfully track a person once they entered). 

I arrived just in time to meet our chef, a friendly Berber woman, and my other classmate, an Aussie about my age, who had already decided on the menu: lentil soup, aubergine salad, lamb tagine and a dessert of phyllo pastry with fresh fruit and yogurt. Washing my hands and donning an apron, I joined them in the kitchen. For the next few hours we talked, joked around and learned some of the secrets to Moroccan cooking (lots of garlic! lots of spices!). 

What follows is what I can remember to the best of my ability. Nothing was measured nor timed, which pretty much sums up everything I dislike about cooking and, hence, why I am a pastry chef. 

Prepping the herbs with the "bellydancing" knife. (Using it properly feels like a full body workout).

Lentil Soup 

500 g lentils

1.5 L water

1 yellow onion, chopped finely

1 head of garlic, minced

Fresh parsley and coriander

Tomato paste 

Olive oil (~2 T)

Place all ingredients in a pot. Add spices (paprika, salt, pepper, cumin, tumeric) to taste. Mix well. Bring to a full boil and cook until lentils are soft.  

Grilling the eggplant.

 Zaalouk (smokey aubergine puree)

1 eggplant

2 bell peppers

1 head of garlic, minced

Olive oil

Paprika

Cumin

Chili Powder

Tumeric

Grill eggplant and bell peppers over gas flame until charred. Let cool, then peel. (You can wrap them - especially the peppers - in a plastic bag to get them to sweat, then after you can scrape off the charred bits with the back of a knife). Remove the stems from the grilled vegetables. Cut the eggplant into chunks. Remove the seeds from the peppers and do the same.

Sautee garlic in olive oil in a pan. Add eggplant, peppers, and spices. Mix well and continue to cook until thoroughly heated. Serve. 

Finished salad.

Finished tagine.

My new Aussie friend, as it turned out, is quite the globetrotting foodie herself. On this particular trip she was with her parents, but previously she'd been to some of the world's more dangerous cities (Nairobi, Johannesburg) alone, and felt perfectly at ease using the one form of lodging I was not brave enough to try on this trip: couchsurfing. I was impressed, and inspired. Did I mention that she also likes taking cooking classes wherever she goes? We made plans to stay in touch so that she can show me around her hometown, Sydney, once I get to Australia.  

You Know Nothing of Fez

...you come into Fez by train and someone talks to you saying he is coming to visit his relatives, and is actually a respectable outsider (e.g. an owner of a hotel). He will then ask you to come eat with his relatives and when you get there they will spend most of the time trying to suggest accommodation, offering you tours where they gain commission from all the (especially Carpet) shops, and even organize expensive desert excursions that are actually just you driving in circles just outside the city for three days. 

- Fez Travel Guide on Wikitravel

Such is what happened to me upon my arrival in Fez.

Well, almost. I was on my way to the family's house when a protective male staff member from my hostel chased me down the street and begged me to go back inside. Matching his gaze, I caved under his sense of urgency and did as I was told. The last thing I saw before I turned my back was the staff member and the boy from the train having a heated discussion in Arabic. The staff member returned ten minutes later in a huff; I never saw train boy again.

It seems pathetic, even to me, as I write this. Going in I had only his first name. A pinky promise. No phone number. Nothing traceable. Usually I'm more careful. But hindsight is 20/20 so here is what I knew before I boarded that train to Fez. Within 48 hours of me setting foot on Moroccan soil I had already had two iftars (which is two more than some of the expats I met in Rabat, not to trivialize personal safety by turning it into a pissing contest). Oriental exoticism aside, I knew that locals were generally friendly and that Ramadan is a time when family and togetherness is especially important. Besides, the internet agreed - Googling "Moroccan hospitality" turns up a myriad of anecdotes involving invitations to someone's home. And I never thought I would ever use these words in reference to myself, but after a few days of being stared at and cat-called, I was used to attracting attention - in fact I came to expect it when I went out in public, armed as I often am with the coldest bitch face I can muster (although looking pissed off still doesn't stop people from approaching).

So imagine my bemused surprise when, during check-in, number six on the list of house rules was a curfew for female guests. (Okay, Morocco is by no means an ideal place for girls - especially single ladies - but, c'mon, it's not that bad!) And when I attempted to go off in search of dinner, the female proprietor told me, point blank, that it wasn't "safe" within an hour of iftar. I think her concern arose from the fact that, just before sunset, everyone is out buying last-minute things for dinner and heading home. But, again, it's Morocco. The pervasiveness of the male presence in this country is comparable to, I don't know, a bed bug infestation in a college dormitory, a lice outbreak in a kindergarten classroom, etc.

The following day I decided to play by the hostel's rules and had them arrange a walking tour of the medina. It was a walking tour in the sense that I had a guide, and that we walked around, but I'm fairly certain that the few historical tidbits he managed to spit out were complete fabrications. Instead, most of the tour went something like this: we entered a specialized artisanal shop (weaver, leather co-op, apothecary, silversmith - in that order), the owner would show me around and explain the process, during which my guide conveniently disappeared, and after, as a captive audience without my guide, I was subject to a high-pressure sales pitch. Once I had blown all the cash I had on hand (I don't trust my credit card with individuals who seem overzealous about swiping it), I began to notice other suspicious things, like how the guide was constantly taking calls (i.e. coordinating arrival) and generally staying several paces ahead of me (i.e. avoiding plain-clothed cops as fake guides are wont to do). I'm happy with my purchases (even though the bargaining was undoubtedly rigged by the commissions for the guide), and I love supporting the local economy as much as the next Seattlite, but still...I prefer to do it on my own terms.

As an anthropologist I can't help but analyze each encounter for some hidden meaning. How is trust established between two individuals without prior knowledge of each other? How does one signal trustworthiness to others? Is money ever an honest signal? I have a few ideas, but I guess I'll have to put myself out there more to test my hypotheses. For now all I have to go on is my gut feeling, because if I can't trust myself than I'm even worse off than just being alone.

Below, some photos from that cringeworthy scam of a walking tour paired with questions I often ask myself when engaging with strangers. Check out the rest on Flickr. 

(Also, sorry about the lame Game of Thrones reference, but coming up with punchy titles was always more my editor's domain than mine). 

Woodworker

Does the person seem overly curious about my immediate plans (e.g. how long I'm staying, where I'm staying, where I'm going next)?

Weaver

How far into the conversation does the question of my age arise?

Apothecary

How far into the conversation am I asked if I'm single? (If it's in the same breath as my age, then game over. The conversation is finished as far as I'm concerned).

Silversmith

If I've agreed to meet someone later, does the plan sound stupid when describing it to a friend? We are dangerously good at justifying things in our own minds, but sometimes when you say it out loud the logic of it disappears.  

Tannery

And, finally, could I potentially outrun and/or take this person in a fight? If you're shaking your head right now, it's like Shakespeare wrote: "And though she be but little, she is fierce."