Menacing Glances in Casablanca, Morocco

Bratislava, February 2004

Dear Friends and Family:

I am writing to you from Slovakia but wanted to tell you of my short trip to Casablanca before my thoughts turn to Europe.

I had decided to spend an afternoon and a night in Casablanca (or Casa, as it called by the locals) on my way back to Washington from Agadir in Morocco. Three flights and two connections (one in Casablanca and one in Frankfurt) among three continents seemed to be too much to hope for in a single day. I thought it would be better to stop at one of the connection points and see the town. After all, I had always wanted to see the city made exotic by Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart—and for which a song has stayed in my head for years, “You must remember this…”

Casablanca literally means white house, although it is not clear just which white house was referenced. Certainly the city is not white but varying shades of gray—such a difference from the magnificent blues and whites of the beach at Agadir.

I quickly became aware that that was not the South Coast tourist city as was Agadir. My taxi from the Casablanca airport was a yellow 20-year old Mercedes-Benz with no seat belts and little underpinning but with a classic Mercedes hood ornament. The driver looked as if he were in his 60s. He wore a long flowing robe and suffered from a less than complete set of teeth—and perhaps not very good hearing. My calls to drive slower than 160 kph in a 100 kph zone were largely unheeded. It was not clear if he spoke neither French nor English or just wanted to drive as he wished, and probably had always done.

Upon arrival at the Hyatt Regency, my first instinct was to see if my dress was appropriate. I had worn jeans and a black tee-shirt for the one-hour flight from Agadir. It seemed not to have been the right thing. When I arrived at Casa airport, I was stared down by a woman in full burqa uniform. Her eyes followed me—and only me—as I walked through the airport terminal. Morocco’s tourism posters present the country as a modern and tolerant, though Muslim, nation. What I found in Casa was different: there were some very modern elements but also some very conservative strands. The woman with menacing eyes seemed to be part of the latter.

So my first step was to review my clothing. From my hotel window, I did an analysis of women walking on the street and sidewalk. Even the most modern women in tight jeans seemed to have loosely-fitting long-sleeved shirts and so I went looking through my suitcase for something suitable. I pulled out a loose-fitting long-sleeved beach sweater. I took a quick lunch in the hotel bar and then it was time to explore.

“Don’t go too deep into the Medina,” warned the very polite front desk staff. “If you do, you’ll get lost.” I thought perhaps the clerk had been told that I am directionally challenged. But there was no one to have given him such a warning about me. It must be their advice for all western tourists.

I wasn’t quite certain what a medina was, but the hotel’s map indicated the Ancienne Medina was virtually next door and I thought it would be interesting. In fact the Medina was just a flea market for junky new stuff, and shirts and slacks hanging from hooks like tree branches in a rain-forest. I kept going deeper and deeper inside, trying to memorize landmarks—a right turn at the stall with plastic dishes, left at the long robes. I received a constant entreaty. “Que cherchez-vous, madame? What are you looking for, ma’am?” “Rien du tout. Je me promene,” was my response, “Nothing at all. I am just taking a walk.” “Venez voir mon magazin,” was the response from inside the stall. But I didn’t want to see anyone’s store or buy anything. Here I was walking through a market that had been in the same place for several centuries, probably selling the same sort of thing. Then I heard some noisy yelling and screaming. A group of about 20 women was crowded around in an elliptical circle. They seemed to be bidding to buy a pair of cotton men’s pajamas. Finally I didn’t matter. For them, I was irrelevant, so much so that I had to hold myself in as I slid past a big woman leaning forward in a burqa. I certainly didn’t want to touch her butt as I slid past but it was nice to be ignored for a while.

I traced my way back through the forest of clothes and watched as a motorcyclist drove through, hardly stopping. It was then that I became aware that I had seen only one police officer. In Agadir—and other parts of Casa—the police were present almost everywhere. But not in the Medina. There the street lights have not been fixed nor the streets repaired. It seemed that this old, once beautiful, area received few public services.

I walked for another hour down by the container port and past the waterfront where prime land stood vacant. The empty real estate looked like it had once been a trash dump. In most cities, the land at the waterfront is some of the most valuable. Not in Casa. Small pieces of plastic bags and odd pieces of glass bottles still remained, but it seemed someone had only recently sent in tractors to clean up the area.

Finally I came to the famous mosque, pronounced as Mos-Kay in French. The mosque was closed. It was after 4:00 pm and I was not Muslim, as I was informed by the guards, when they finally stopped their conversation to answer my inquiry. I also felt badly that I had no scarf to cover my head in a religious Muslim temple. So I walked through the outer courtyard where the afternoon light and a series of steps and arches combined to form a checkerboard of light on the ground. I found women in dark black burqas with children (including girls) in western jeans and overalls. From a distance the mosque looked as if it were floating in the sea. I took photos of the floating mosque and the fishermen as they tried their luck at catching fish, and other men tried their luck at talking to me. “I am a very serious person,” proclaimed (in English) one handsome fellow in his 20s when I refused to talk to him. I finally replied in English, “Then you will stop bothering me.” Even still he followed me for a while. I would guess that it was so unusual to see a woman walking alone in western dress, that that in itself must constitute an invitation.

Later that afternoon I found myself in an artisan’s cooperative craft shop of bowls and other ceramics. I bought some hand-painted containers for potpourri for myself and bowls and boxes for my friends at home. The clerk wore tight jeans and high heels and seemed to be in her 20s. I asked her about living in Casa and told her about the menacing looks I received at the airport. “Je n’aime pas ces dames. Elles font des mauvais choses, ” volunteered the sales-woman. She had said that she didn’t like such women and that they did bad things. I asked what kind of bad things, but the modern Moroccan in her jeans and black high heels wouldn’t say more.

After some deliberation and checking of the map—none of the streets had its name marked—I finally found my way back to the welcoming Hyatt and its sense of modernism. I figured that it would be best to pray that in the morning my airport taxi might have either seat-belts or a driver who obeyed the speed limits. One of the two occurred (there were seat-belts) and I came home safely.

Here in Bratislava, my taxi was again a Mercedes but it was a black 730i of recent vintage, with seat-belts and heavy tires that hug the slush-covered roads. And my young driver had a muscular chest, a tight tee-shirt and a full set of teeth. It’s comforting to be back in Europe but there was also an allure to Morocco.

Sue