TIME OUT
Delightful Moroccan mélange
SUDHA MAHALINGAM
|
Casablanca is a hybrid, cosmopolitan city, more European than Madrid or Naples.
|
PHOTOS: SUDHA MAHALINGAM
AN ARCHITECTURAL STATEMENT: The Hassan II mosque in Casablanca.
FOR those of us on the wrong side of fifty, the mention of Casablanca brings alive black and white images of that electrifying pair — Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, exquisite in their 1940s outfits. But don't go to Casablanca with stars in your eyes and nostalgia tugging at your heart. Now it is a digital city that has little that is black and white. A sprawling metropolis more European than Madrid or Naples, Casablanca is going through an identity crisis. The picture-book emerald palm trees that line the streets like soldiers in a parade are still there, but so are the art-deco buildings and designer-ware shops, the homes of the ultra rich with their manicured lawns and sparkling swimming pools. Whoever would say Casablanca is in Africa? This seems more like the California coast.
Entirely metropolitan
Well that may be because I had pre-conceived notions of Africa — of ebony-skinned, curly-haired statuesque men and women in chunky bone and horn jewellery and colourful bandanas, souqs heaped high with spices, endless stretches of sand interspersed with lush jungles and untamed rivers and hordes of wildebeest seen only in National Geographic channels etc. Perish the thought. Morocco is hybrid, neither African nor European and yet, entirely metropolitan. The Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, Portuguese and finally the French, all of whom have ruled Morocco some time in the past, have surely left their legacy, but Casablanca itself is the most French of all Moroccan cities. On to this delightful mélange is grafted modern Islamic architecture in the form of various palaces and mosques built by their beloved monarch, Hassan II.
Our train from Marrakech deposits us at Casa Voyageurs station. The jade minaret of the Hassan II mosque — the mother of all Moroccan sights — looms over the Atlantic coast. We hire a taxi and head for the mosque. Our drive takes us along the beach, which, on this working day morning, is so crowded, despite the relentless African sun! And along the beach are endless swimming pools, all of them choc-a-bloc, presumably with tourists! Vendors are selling baskets heaped with what seems like peanuts. On closer inspection, I find they are boiled clams! Our driver wants to show us the sights of Casablanca, especially the rich people's villas and mansions. When we ask to be taken to Bogart's Rick's Café, he takes us to Rex Café and insists the film was shot only there.
Dramatic construction
The Hassan II mosque, built at a cost of $800 million to commemorate the monarch's 60th birthday in 1993, is the third largest in the world while its jade minaret, at 210 meters, is the tallest in the world. In true Casablanca style, the minaret adds a touch of drama when at night it sprays laser beams in the direction of Mecca. There is a steep entry fee of 120 dirhams (Rs.600), but who will grudge it when it comes with an English-speaking guide? You're overawed by the décor and the staggering expanse of the mosque — its esplanades alone can accommodate 80,000 worshippers. Once you cross its steel-girder suspended high-tech gates operated electronically, another 20,000 can be seated inside. I shut my eyes and visualise the esplanade on Id — all those fez-covered heads bowing in unison.
This mosque, which looks more like an ornate mall, was designed by the French architect Michel Pinseau and looks suitably French outside. It's only when you step inside you realise how typically Moroccan the construction is. Cedar wood from Middle Atlas, marble from Agadir and granite from Tafraoute adorn its floors, walls, arches, columns and ceilings. As many as 6,000 skilled craftsmen worked for years to complete this mosque which is more a statement than a place of worship. There are more tourists than worshippers. The mosque itself stands on an erstwhile slum whose residents are reported to have been evacuated without any compensation. The basement houses two enormous hammams, one Turkish style and the other Moroccan and several fountains for ablutions. Apart from the mosque and the beaches, there's little else to see in Casablanca.
Next on our itinerary is Fes, a good seven hours by train from Casablanca. Fes was an imperial city with a distinct Arab identity. Even today, this confluence of Muslim Spain and Arabic identities is what attracts the discerning traveller to Fes. The Moroccan landscape reminds me so much of Ladakh — with its Berber villages made up of stark mud-huts and bleak all the way. At Fes, we get into a taxi and head for the Medina to look for a hotel. The taxi drops us off at the entrance to the ancient heritage town — one famous for over 8,000 lanes and gullies, where even locals get lost. But we are undeterred, empowered as we are by our faithful companion and guide, Lonely Planet. The first pension recommended by the guide looks a bit seedy so we decide to try the next one, which seems even seedier. The third one seems good, but has no vacancies. As we tick off the list one by one, we find that each new hotel we check out turns out to be pokier and seedier than the earlier one. It is getting rather late — almost close to midnight — and we're already deep into the maze of alleys. I am not sure we can find our way out of here even if we wanted to.
Authentic experiences
So we decide to take the next one, come what may. Pension Tala is perched on a terrace and boasts of terrace views — of other similar pensions no doubt! We poke our head into the cave-like stairwell and ask if rooms are available and a disembodied voice answers in the affirmative. We pick up our backpacks and go in search of the voice, ascending the narrow winding staircase. The reception is a hole in the wall on one side of the stairwell. But that's not the problem. To reach the reception, I have to plaster myself like a lizard on the wall and shinny up to the entrance. And having entered, I find that the roof is so low that I — all of 5'4" — have to kneel. There are three other backpackers already kneeling or squatting before the reception desk which is a low stool on the floor! They look at me with dismay, wondering whether I am a threat to their claim to a room in this cubbyhole! However, after two hours of loitering in the winding alleys of Fes, we're truly grateful for a bed even if it is in a windowless dungeon. After all, we came to this heritage town only for the authentic Fes experience!
Printer friendly
page
Send this article to Friends by
E-Mail
Magazine
