Casablanca: Past and Present by Stephen Emms

"Of course, Casablanca is not Moroccan," said Estrella, my petite co-host at the Dar Itrit, as we lounged on their leafy terrace, discussing the city’s industrial status. Her husband Jean-Pierre nodded sagely. But the ancient market opposite their white villa begged to differ: chicken claws and fish guts lined its rickety wooden floors, storks guarded mini-mountains of scraps, and the screech of caged hens jarred with tinny Arabic music: wasn’t this city – at least in parts – as ‘Moroccan’ as the Fez medina?

And therein lies the conundrum. Casablanca, a largely French colonial creation, is Morocco’s economic capital, a Lyautey-designed grid of wide boulevards and stucco municipal buildings built less than a century ago. Locals and guidebooks alike argue that it’s a purely Westernized city, warranting just a brief inspection, before fleeing to the more ‘real’ Moroccan pleasures of Fez or Marrakech. Yet even though I visit the country regularly, what struck me – at least initially – was just how Moroccan Casa (as everyone calls it) actually is.

Yes, there are the towerblocks, and the five-star hotels, and the businessmen swarming around Place Des Nations Unies, but the old Medina, which dates back only to the 19th century (although its ochre walls are 18th), spirals with timeless neighbourhood life.

Slip past stalls flogging teapots, watches and jewellery, all blinding in the glare of the sun, and you’ll discover pencil-thin alleys and tiny squares, where bleached towels cling to window sills, and old men inch past in white djellabas, the shuffle of their slippers syncopating the sizzle of squid in oil.

And the medina – like Casablanca as a whole – doesn’t court tourism. In fact, the faux guides of the imperial cities are nowhere to be seen: Casablancans are way too proud to throw themselves at you. Lost, my friend? Too bad!
    
The elegant ‘new medina’, Quartier Habbous, a layout of Provencal-styled squares and arches built by the French as a place for Muslims to live and trade, is a clean and inviting souk selling everything from oil paintings to deco statuettes.  But, even here, the ‘real Morocco’ lurks nearer than you might imagine: just over the railway bridge is Rue Taroudant, whose dusty stalls dangle dried chameleons, hedgehogs, and live baby tortoises. ‘No photos!’ the bearded sellers cried in unison as I whipped my camera out: these are ancient charms, after all, with their own magical powers.

Rather than zip around in the swarm of (admittedly very cheap) petit taxis, I decided to walk the sprawling city, home to an official four (but rumoured eight) million people, to soak up its juxtapositions: Mauresque mansions, crumbling deco villas, and gleaming office blocks lie side by side with the notorious bidonvilles, or ‘tin can cities’ (the name originated here), their roofs half-collapsed under rusty satellite dishes. Whilst every large city is a jumble of rich and poor, nowhere seems to embody this tension – and it can feel tense – quite so much as Casablanca.

‘Authentic is the word,’ says Kathy Kriger, a former US Embassy counsellor and self-confessed ‘eccentric’ who moved here in 1998. Sitting opposite me at Rick's Cafe, the mythical saloon from the Bogart movie that she brought to life in a beautifully restored riad, she continued:

“When I arrived in Casa, I was overwhelmed by its authenticity. It’s such a complex city, and very anonymous because of its economic power. But it’s the real deal, like Marrakech was more than 10 years ago.”

Surprised that no-one had ever tried to recreate the bar, she quit her government role to raise funds, and painstakingly launched Rick’s, designed by Marrakech-based US architect Bill Willis, in 2004. It wasn't an immediate hit – “most Casablancans haven't seen the movie so it was just another opening to them” – but now, with the right menu, and nightly music schedule, the place is packed out.

This ‘go-getting’ air has long typified the city, from its original ‘Wild West’ feel in the early 1900s to its ever-expanding business district, complete with 28-storey Twin Center and urban playground La Corniche, whose beach clubs bask in sunset names like Tropicana, Tahiti, and Miami Plage.

The spirit of enterprise is most visible, however, in the $800 million Hassan II Mosque, completed in 1993 on a stony outcrop, its 200-metre minaret the highest in the world, its interior able to gulp down 25,000 worshippers. Approaching on a sizzling Sunday afternoon proved, as always in Casa, a pleasing contrast of sensory stimulations. A mild sea-breeze swept over its vast concourse, which sheltered hundreds from the sun in its arches, whilst a sickly-sweet odour of popcorn and corn-on-the-cob wafted over from the seaside promenade.
 
Does Casa’s roving eye to the future negate its past?  Its Deco and Neo-Moorish heritage certainly isn't valued as you might expect: the iconic Hotel Lincoln, opposite the Marché Central, has collapsed, with no salvage plans. Other buildings languish, unloved, on and around Boulevard Mohammed V (which boasts some of the most dazzling period architecture) and the Parc de la Ligue Arabe.

But perhaps there's something honest about such disregard: should Casablancans have to bow to their colonial past? And anyway, isn’t Morocco's ‘real’ past more than represented, as I discovered, in the medinas and backstreets? 

“It's hard to explain the spirit of Casa as it’s home to so many displaced people,” said Kathy, as I left Rick’s Café, “and civic pride is not a thing demanded of them.”

I whiled away my final evening at Café Ayman in the medina, the mouth-watering smells of chargrilled sardines and fish stew hanging in the hot air, as carts piled high rattled along, and sellers greeted each other with kisses and a firm shake of the hand.

Night descended slowly onto these narrow streets, as if challenged by the intensity of life itself -- men shouted down alleyways, or from the outside of cafés to their smoke-belching interiors, whilst two mothers shrieked nose to nose in the square, arguing faster and faster. Whilst Casablanca may not shimmer like mythical Fez or Marrakech, its grubby, glorious present is where history is being made now, and surely illuminates the direction Morocco is heading.

“I came here in 1964,” Brittany-born Jean-Pierre said, scratching his beard, back on the terrace at Dar Itrit. “And after I’d travelled all over Morocco for work, I realised one thing: I can’t live in another town.”

Things to See and Do

Dar Itrit: This 1940’s villa is furnished with Moroccan and French objets d'art, and owners Jean-Pierre and Estrella will greet you with outstretched arms like an old friend. Breakfasts include Berber breads and pancakes, as well as cakes, omelettes, and fruit platters. Evening meals cooked by Estrella might include duck pie, Moroccan salads or lamb and pear tagine. Jean-Pierre gives informal tours of their artworks (mostly by Moroccan-born or based artists). 9 Rue de Restinga

For contemporary art, Villa Des Arts (Bvd 30, Brahim Roudani), opposite the shady Parc De La Ligue Arabe is a stunning gallery featuring diverse city-born or dwelling artists. Nearby is the commercial Venise Cadre gallery (25 Bvd Moulay Rachid); afterwards, enjoy coffee on the elegant terrace at Villa Zevaco (corner of Moulay Rachid & d’Anfa), a 1949 modernist masterpiece. Other architectural highlights include the Mauresque Cathedrale de Sacre Coeur and the araibisant PTT (main post office) on Boulevard de Paris.

Eat cheaply in and around the Marche Central: the Snack Amine café offers bargain plates of fried fish and salad; if you dare, grab a Speciale beer afterwards at one of the rowdy bars on Rue Abdellah (best is Le Peau De La Vache).

Or splash out: sensational fish at Ostrea on the port, or La Taverne du Dolphin (sit inside to avoid the tourists), top French at La Table du Retro or La Maison du Gourmet, or international/fusion in the medina at Rick's Café. Try Casablanca beer or Moroccan Guerrouane or President wine.

For inspiration on places to stay, check out TI's listings for luxury hotels in Morocco.