Mo Rocca, part une

 

As a regular flyer into a Third World country, I can tell you this much: As soon as you set foot on the plane, you know exactly what’s coming to you. It happened to Chotchsky when he came to visit me in Argentina. While the plane was still motionless at JFK, all the Argentines on board kept milling about the aisles until the flight attendants had to threaten everyone with a hefty delay unless they sat the hell down and strapped themselves in.

Same deal for this Morocco-bound flight from Barcelona. Not that I expected a luxury flight from a Moroccan carrier named Jet4You.com, which sounds like the mere act of booking a ticket will get you infected with spyware. I looked around inside the plane: Crying babies all over, kids scurrying up and down the aisles, grown men jockeying for overhead bin space, women sitting quietly in their head scarves, everyone wearing white. This is where I first started to get self-conscious. I was one of two Caucasians aboard, and even worse, Chotchsky wasn’t around to make me look tan and exotic by contrast.

(He had decided to stay put in Barcelona for some extra beach and rest.)

The two-hour flight took me over southern Spain and the Strait of Gibraltar into Casablanca’s airport, which is named Mohammed V. Say it with me. Mohammed V. That’s a badass name. But that’s about where the awesomeness ends. Mohammed V is located half an hour from downtown Casablanca and, therefore, my hotel. Because we landed after midnight and the train wasn’t running anymore, I was forced to take an extremely expensive cab: 300 dinars, which sounds like funny play money but is actually worth about 28 euros.

The taxi was a cream-colored Mercedes, probably an early-90s edition, with a nice purr to the engine but an ancient dashboard. The driver did his best to strike up conversation. He tried French, and that lasted all of one minute. We did better in broken Italian, but eventually we both gave up and he switched on the radio. On came a man singing a capella, uninterrupted, in a style of music that, given my ignorance, I can only characterize as religious and filled with weird throat tricks and wobbly intonation.

Meanwhile, we were cruising down a dark two-lane highway, directly above the yellow line. It felt surreal. Apparently, like Argentina, traffic laws are purposely disregarded here. Even worse, it appears you’re a huge loser unless half of your vehicle is on the opposing lane, which is mildly terrifying.

The first word that comes to mind when you look out the window is “precarious.” Everything’s ramshackle and stained, the paint peeling, the laundry drying in the open air. Even at night, you can feel it right away. Your mind registers it and switches to ready-for-anything mode.

Around 2 a.m. I got dropped off at the alley that contained my hotel, Hotel Astrid, of which I will have plenty to say later on. The lights in the lobby were off and the glass doors in front were locked. Fuck, I thought to myself. Out of the corner of my eye I kept check on a suspicious group of men in the corner.

I desperately rapped on the glass door and, praised be Allah, a disgruntled old guy made his way over.

“What do you want?” he asked in French, cracking the door open.

(Uh, what do you THINK I want.)

“Check-in,” I said, pointing to my bag.

He considered this for a few seconds.

“It’s 2 a.m.!” he complained.

(No shit, Sherlock.)

“I have reservation,” I countered.

He sighed and let me in. He took my passport, gave me the key to room 18, and shooed me away.

“Third floor,” he said.

I took the elevator. It was no normal elevator. Most elevators have two doors – one on the outside, one on the inside. This one lacked an inside door, so you could see the walls and doors rushing past you, inches from your nose.

I collapsed into bed, sleeping alone for the first time in a month.

 

DAY ONE

Casablanca is utterly unfit for tourism. Even though I like that idea on paper, I don’t even know where to start exploring this city. No maps, no tour guides, no Lonely Planet, no helpful hotel employees, and, to top it off, very little English – just Arabic and French.

“Any good, cheap places to eat?” I asked the desk clerk.

“Everywhere,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. Very useful.

So off I went into the streets. I wore flip flops, because it’s the closest thing I have to the locally favored sandals. And I put on my Manu Chao T-shirt, because not only is Manu Chao French, but the shirt is red with a yellow star in the middle and it slightly resembles the Moroccan flag. I was banking on Moroccans assuming I’m a fan of their country.

After a few blocks I spotted a convenience store and braced for my first transaction: purchasing fruit juice. I went in, grabbed a small carton of peach juice and took it to the counter. The attendant mumbled the price in French.

“Forty?” I asked.

“[Unintelligible French response]”

“Forty? No, thanks.”

[Guy laughs]

“Ohhhh, FOUR. OK.”

Embarrassing, but I got the job done. I never claimed my French was anything but disastrous.

Now it was time to address my hunger pangs. I ducked into a kebab place and ordered the most familiar dish from the menu board: a cheeseburger with fries (which, at two euros, seemed nicely priced). The burger was generally normal, except for a layer of transparent mushy stuff which I hope was onions but am not so sure. Fries were good, but the ketchup taste very strange, as if they had overdone it with the sugar. The food sat in my stomach like a rock for a few hours afterward. I’m guessing there’ll be an extensive acclimation period before I can digest this crap like everyone else does.

The roads are trash strewn and somewhat dingy but not that much unlike any major South American city. What is different, though, is the drivers’ complete and extreme disregard for pedestrians. There are a total of zero walk signs in Casablanca. Judging by what the locals do, it appears you’re supposed to jump out into oncoming traffic when cars are going slow enough to brake or, at least, cause non-life-threatening injuries. Every major intersection feels like a perverted game of Frogger. My solution has been, obviously, to shadow a local across the road. It might look weird, but I trust that these people are adept at not getting killed.

I wandered into the funky Old Medina, a walled-off compound of crumbling buildings and narrow, nameless passageways. The Medina is completely overrun with street peddlers and is a counterfeit-goods center only comparable to Piraeus plaza in Athens or Retiro in Buenos Aires. I wouldn’t pull my camera out here if my life depended on it.

In case I wasn’t clear enough earlier: there are no other white people here. Or tourists. I feel like people don’t know how what to make of me. On the bright side, all the tourist-swindling industries that plague Europe haven’t been fully developed here. I haven’t seen any prostitutes or aggressively friendly locals looking to make some money.

That night I watched the U.S.-Brazil soccer game at a restaurant with a bunch of Moroccan men. Thankfully, soccer is the universal language, and we all expressed similar emotions and outrage at similar times.

At every turn, I thank my lucky stars that I was raised in Buenos Aires. I knew all the training would come in handy someday.