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runswith · 4 years

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Travel diary: Casablanca. Entry 4 – Monday, March 1, 2004.

His name, he told me, was Mousthfa (MOOSE-ta-fa). He said he had family in Spain, up Barcelona way, though he seemed vague on the details, his Spanish thin enough that he quickly lapsed into passable English. Something I said made his eyes widen, his expression indicating he’d just had a brainstorm. There is, he informed me, a Spanish cathedral in Casablanca -- would I be interested in seeing it? Of course, I answered. He immediately turned and headed off along the avenue, gesturing for me to follow. I trailed after, past vendors selling glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice from rickety, jury-rigged tables, the fruit bright orange amid the muted colors of muddy ground and the locals’ clothing. Other vendors stood by trays piled up with what looked like rice-krispy bars, the squares glinting with the sheen of dried sugar syrup. Still others stood or squatted by small trays of cigarette packs, lighters, packages of batteries. Both sides of the street were crowded with pedestrians walking, with others clustered together waiting for buses, talking, the sound of passing traffic and conversations drifting through sunlit air and clouds of vehicle exhaust.

Mousthfa motored along at a pretty good clip, talking less now. I stayed by his side, trying not to trip over wildly uneven ground and randomly-strewn expanses of ancient, fractured sidewalk. We were headed into an area I hadn’t yet explored, through streets of both residential and commercial character, past blocks of buildings, small scrubby gardens, the bursts of green standing out nicely amid the city. Down various avenues, around corners, me wondering where the hell we would end up, him steadily moving onward, focused ahead in a strange way, as if there might be more going on than guiding me toward a little-known sight.

We finally turned a corner that gave out onto a view of a large, white building thrusting up from tropical greenery -- the Cathedral of the Sacré Coeur, a strange hybrid of Christian/Arabic/art-deco design and architecture, complete with stained glass and flying buttresses. That, said Mousthfa, pointing, is the Spanish cathedral, his pace unslacking as we moved toward it. The grounds were surrounded by tall, iron fencing, I reached out my hand, let my fingers brush against its bars as we walked along. Mousthfa spoke quickly, saying the building was closed at this time of the afternoon, might be open later, and continued striding on, toward a neighboring park (le Parc de la Ligue Arabe, I found out later). Through fencing and palm trees, I could see a young couple walking together, someone else riding an old bicycle along a dirt path.

Mousthfa steered me into the park, maintaining the fast pace, making brief, almost terse comments about this being a good place to sit, something he said he’d done in his student days. (Hmmmm, thought I on hearing that.) He walked briskly on, his air that of someone with a purpose; I tagged along, waiting to see what would develop. He said folkloric events took place in this park in the evenings, that I might want to return and see that, continued moving diagonally through the expanse of land, along walkways, through spaces between trees, toward a far corner where I could see a street and one or two commercial buildings beyond the park’s boundary. We came upon a remote bench, no other people around, he finally slowed, gestured for me to sit, parked himself near me.

I thanked him for taking the time to show me this bit of the city. He nodded his head in acknowledgment, got right to the point: in exchange for the time he’d taken, he wanted me to (a) either buy him a new phone card to replace the exhausted 10 dirham (about $11.50) card he had or (b) give him some cash. As tales of this kind of encounter abound in Moroccan travel lore, I wasn’t shocked --- I had no problem with giving him a little money, pulled what euros I had from my jacket pocket, 9 or 10 in total. He extended a hand to accept it, then stopped mid-motion

He asked if I had any Moroccan money -- I did, a 20-dinhar bill. All I had of local currency, so I was not prepared to hand it over. He launched into a recapitulation of the hard-luck boating business story he’d told me when we’d first met, saying he was broke, that he needed the phone card to call his father in Mauritania. I offered the change I’d already shown him, he could see I wasn’t prepared to budge, patted my leg, saying never mind, he appreciated the offer, we were both gentlemen, apologized for hitting me up.

For a moment, he stopped talking. Silence descended around us, the sounds of the city drifted faintly through the park. Then he began a second assault, touching on all the points he’d previously presented.

Nothing about his manner felt threatening -- just insistent. So for a while I stayed there, letting him do his thing, me offering what I’d already offered, nothing more. Strangely, as he made no headway, he began inflating the sum he wanted, until he asked me if I had an ATM card, suggesting we find a machine, that I withdraw some cash for him. I blinked in amazement at that, again offering the money I’d already proffered. He finally extended a hand, picked out a modest one euro coin, leaving the rest. At which point he asked which hotel I was staying at.

That was my cue to take off. I stood up, thanked him again for his kindness, said so long, left him sitting on the bench in the late-afternoon sunlight.

The next afternoon, I took a long walk through the city center’s western expanse, toward the ocean and the Hassan II Mosque. My route took me past the wall of the Medina, where the sidewalk narrowed and a Moroccan man and I jostled each other. A slim individual in a dark suit, a bit shorter than me with graying, close-cropped hair. As on the previous day, I said, “¡Perdón!” He immediately looked over, asked, “¿Español?” I responded as I had to Musthfa, we chatted a while in Spanish. He also mentioned having family in Spain, in the north -- west of Bilbao he said, in Asturias.

He had a gentlemanly, respectful air, asked me where I was off to. I told him, he mentioned that we were passing the market, that I might enjoy seeing it. I thanked him, saying I’d already passed through it (twice, by that point). He nodded, we talked about something else for a moment. At the point where our paths diverged, he again mentioned the market, suggesting once more that I consider going in. I declined, thanking him. We said good-bye, I continued on.

The Hassan II Mosque: beautiful, impressive, and situated to one side of an enormous stretch of poor neighborhoods. I passed streets busy with kids playing fútbol, the air filled with their voices, other streets empty and derelict, the sour smell of garbage carried by the breeze.

I took a different route back from the Mosque, along the city’s port, where I stumbled across the only reference to Bogart, et al. encountered during this trip. One lonely, gratuitous reference, planted in the middle of an otherwise unglamorous area.

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