Casa, city of dreams

We arrived safely to Casablanca yesterday morning. I am in an internet cafe that supposedly closed one minute ago, so in the interest of saving thinking-time, I will quickly copy an entry from my journal last night:

"Ecstatic. The kind of ecstatic of finally living a dream, so anticipated and exotic that it filled my imagination for months on end. We are here. Casablanca is our first of many peepholes into Moroccan life. Soon after pulling away from the airport, impressions and gut reactions--those so important but often overlooked or washed out--soaked into me. Smells, sights, sounds. Solid.

Ramadan rests like a heavy winter quilt over the outskirts of Casablanca as we drive northeast from the airport towards the Moroccan commercial capital. The muggy air engulfs me boldly, nailing me to my seat in the back of the minibus (which on the outsight reads in cute yellow writing, "We love Morocco"). Eyes peeled wide, looking and listening and absorbing the firsts: the first [used-to-be] white stucco building (for which the city was named: Casa Branca by the Portuguese in the 1500s and later changed to Casablanca by the Spaniards) in slighly desolate condition; the first whif of roadside construction, burning rubber and hot hot African heat; the first sounds of fluent darija, a rythmic dialect highlighted by the occasional staccato 3yn; the first old woman, dark-skinned with deepset eyes, hijab revealing only a few straggling gray hairs and a long cloth dress that strikes me as hot. Very hot. The excited chatter of my American crew provides a background as I sit behind an automobile window looking outwards from my tiny perch.

As we approach the city, the deserted atmosphere of the outskirts is replaced with the bustling about of errands to be run and preparations to be made for the night's feast. Broken down stucco homes are replaced by delicately tiled high rises, and despite the occasional watermelon-toting donkey cart, small farms are replaced by corporate buildings and silence is filled with honking horns, putting cars, and busy people.

I understand from some readng the context for my observations. Built as it stands now within the past century (in dire contrast to the rest of Morocco), and mostly by the French at that, Casablanca represents the hopes and dreams of capitalism Moroccan-style. Who will come here and make it big? Who wlil be able to flaunt newfound riches for the metropolis to see? And who, much more often, will find themselves left dirham-less: living in vast and sprawling city slums, unemployed, unfed, unsanitary, and without any chance at an even sup-par future. And who might even turn to fundamentalist Islam as their only hope--this is where it all begins, for Moroccan extremists at least (for more, google Casa bombings).

But now, here I am in the city centre, watching the tides of traditional Morocco colide with Westernization at its peak. And I could not be happier to be here, where I am now. No other place or moment would so suffice my desires. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. Ecstatic."

Apparently I still have a few more minutes even though the cafe now supposedly closed 26 minutes ago, so a quick update on my first full day in Morocco: This morning we went to see the Hassan II mosque. Finished in 1993 after only six years of construction from start to finish, the mosaue now stands as the third largest in the world, and one of the only mosques in Morocco that is open to non-Muslims. I will try to upload pictures later, but needless to say, it was absolutely fantastic. Dad, you may be interested to know that in the hamman (bathing room) in the basement of the mosque, I learned that although the pillars are made to look like they are made of marble, they are actually a composite of limestone, clay, and eggyolk, a substance believed to absorb moisture from the room and preserve the true color of the brass chandeliers. I think that you should look into it. Wouldn't it be cool to use eggyolk in the walls of Client X's home?

After the mosque we ate a quick lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches in privacy at the hotel (it's not too appropriate to eat in front of fasters and no resteraunts are open), and then headed out to the Jewish Museum in Oasis, one upper class Casablancan suburb. The only museum of any kind in the city and the only Jewish museum in the Muslim world, the small building was home to a wonderful picture gallery and many artifacts from Jewish communities throughout Morocco. Particularly interesting was a "Megillah Hitler" which looked like it replaced Haman's name with Hitlers and although I couldn't see the rest, must of been a story of Jewish escape and survival. Although my French isn't wonderful, the French captions seemed to say that the writer was soon after exectued and somehow the work ended up in the hands of a Casablancan Jew.

We left the museum about two hours ago and wandered through a fish market on the oceanfront, stepping over shark heads and fish guts. Men preparing for the night's break-fast shopped around and we wandered through taking in the strong smells. And sights.

My darija is beginning to establish itself in my mind, and I can't wait to begin language classes later this week. Hopefully I will get some exsposure to fusa'a (Modern Standard Arabic) too, but I'm happy with whatever I take in. Will leave Casa for Fez tomorrow. So excited to meet my home-stay family.


if there are any spelling/grammatical errors here i apologize, now the cafe is waiting for me to leave to close

lauren