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I keep hearing from
passengers that they didn't enjoy Casablanca. I can understand why,
but at the same time I can't.
Casablanca is really
alien. I was prepared for it after Marrakesh, but it was a
hyperactive version of the same. On my second visit I had an even
better time.
I went to look for
Rick's Bar, of movie fame. It isn't real, but I guess that's the done
thing to do in Casablanca, and I figured I'd try. God knows where it
was, I couldn't find it. Anyway, I found myself lost deep in the
Souks miles away from the tourist track, where nobody spoke any
English, or accepted Euros. The streets were dirty and smelt of
everything under the sun, crowded, ramshackle and an impossible maze.
Exactly where I wanted to be.
My first stop was
bread. The Morrocans have this round flat bread, backed in stone
ovens on wooden paddles over a wood fire. I’ve seen it made and it
tastes like nothing you can possibly buy in a shop. I struggled for a
while to find anyone who would sell me a loaf of bread. Be it the
quantity of one loaf, or the Strange foreigner money I was trying to
pay in, some just got annoyed. Eventually a man took my money. The
bread tasted sweet, rich and refreshing, and could have been my meal
for the whole day. For many people it would be.
I passed fish cooking
on what looked like thick black garden barbecues, the smell was
insane. Men with sheets on the floor sold electronic goods,
multi-adapters and phono to scart leads. Surprisingly, SD cards were
easy to obtain in Casablanca. One man even offered me Argon Oil,
ceramics or some quality marijuana. Judging by the quality of all
their other plant produce, he probably wasn't lying.
My big scoop came from
a table chock full of strawberries. There weren't any flies around
it, and the guy looked friendly, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Now
Morrocan strawberries are nothing like English strawberries. You know
when you really fancy some strawberries, you have that sweet sweet
taste on your tongue, you go to the supermarket and buy a pack and
that taste like misery objectified, all sour and yucky? Not in
Morroco. And not just because the only supermarket for miles is the
street itself. These strawberries are big, juicy rich and red, each
one like a small heart, with two swelling chambers. You bite into it
and receive a little head-rush from a taste so rich you believed it
to be a mere fantasy of sugar and e-numbers. How could such a dry and
barren land yield such glory?
I digress, so I found a
strawberry seller. I asked him how much I could get for two Euros. He
took it and looked at it suspiciously. He shouted over his friends,
and before long a huge crowd had gathered, to watch the strange
tourist buying strawberries. He loaded a Kilo of strawberries into a
bag, while his seniors discussed the exchange rate. When they finally
worked out what I was paying them, the shop owner crammed even more
into the bulging plastic bag. As I left he clutched my hand and
looked at me with delighted eyes and said 'My house is your house'. I
had to smile. That's what I love about Morocco, it pokes you and
reminds you how lucky you are.
On the way back to
Majesty, two young Muslim women demonstrated to me the key to pulling
in Casablanca. 'La Frais'.
Au Revoir x
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