Arriving and Settling into Casablanca
Upon arrival at the Casablanca airport, I thanked the Moroccan man I met on the plane and wished him a good summer. The baggage area was crowded with uniformed people and arriving passengers looking for their bags. Men in three-quarter-length royal blue jackets were asking people if they wanted help with their bags.
Women in long djellabas, some with veils leaving only their eyes uncovered, were attached to children, or to a man, or to both. Many of the male passengers were wearing suit jackets without a tie. Quite a number of men were wearing beige military or police uniforms. Other men wore grayish uniforms with postal-carrier-type hats. They seemed to be waiting for something or someone.
We waited for our bags, then got in line to pass through immigration. The immigration officials had serious expressions on their faces. No smiles.
When it was my turn to step up to the window, the officer carefully scrutinized my papers, then asked, “Where are you going? What are you going to do here? Where will you be staying? Put your name and address down here.” After a few moments, he stamped my passport and slid the papers back to me.
Brian and I got through customs and immigration before the other group members. While we were waiting for the others, we noticed a young man and woman waving at us from the other side of a glass wall separating the customs area from the rest of the airport. The man was wearing sky blue casual slacks and a white sport shirt, and the woman had on a beige skirt and a pea green top. We were looking for a Mr. Driss Alaoui, the president of the Moroccan Experiment in International Living, but I suspected he would be much older than the man waving at us.
After we got our bags checked, we proceeded to the arrivals area, and the young couple came toward us and excitedly introduced themselves as Driss and Zhor Alaoui. Mr. and Mrs. Alaoui were so warm and friendly. Their graciousness had a calming effect on me. As we moved en masse to the parking area, I tried to understand some of the French being spoken. Some of our group rode in taxis to the home of the Alaoui’s, and Brian and I rode with Driss and Zhor. On the way, we saw donkeys and horse-drawn carriages along the road. The new scenes were truly exciting. My nervousness about being in a new place was decreasing rapidly.
Driss and Zhor’s house was called a villa, and its name was Villa Safia. It was on the outskirts of Casablanca. We sat in their living room, drank mint tea, and ate cookies while we continued to learn about each other.
One of the new persons I met was Omar, a cousin of Driss. Omar was tall, dressed fashionably, and began chatting with me in French, with some Arabic expressions and a few words of English. This forced me to speak French. He was a warm guy who seemed to want to make me feel comfortable in Morocco.
Omar stayed with us at Villa Safia, and we soon established a relationship in which I could ask him anything about Morocco and how things worked without feeling embarrassed. Driss and Omar both worked at the Régie des Tabacs, which was the tobacco monopoly in Morocco.
Omar had a younger brother, M’hamed, who was also staying with us. M’hamed was quiet but friendly. He and Omar were from Meknes. The thick Moroccan couches (banquettes) which surrounded three sides of the living room were all connected, and at night could be turned into beds with the addition of a sheet or blanket. This system supported the Arab custom of providing hospitality and shelter for all guests and visitors. A round table was placed inside the three banquette areas and is where we shared meals.
I was happy when Driss informed me that I would be staying with him and Zhor. They said they hoped I would not mind that the rest of my group would be staying with families in Rabat, but that we would get together from time to time. I could tell that they would be interesting to live with and know. They had a way of making me feel totally at home and respected. They both spoke English fluently, which was a big help to me. They were young, personable, and much more sophisticated than I was. I would learn a lot from them, and we would enjoy many pleasant moments together, along with the extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins — and friends who dropped in frequently.
Being some distance from my group would force me to get to know Morocco and its people intimately.
That first night in Casa, our group was invited to Uncle Moulay Mustapha’s house, which was located around the corner from Villa Safia. His home was surrounded by concrete walls about ten feet high. Pieces of broken glass were cemented into the top of the walls like barbed wire, intending to communicate: Don’t even think about coming over the wall!
Inside the walls, we found a large, beautiful villa with an inviting swimming pool in front. Our group, along with our new Moroccan friends and my host family, sat around the pool and continued to learn about and appreciate each other.
We had a sumptuous dinner. It started with a pureed vegetable soup and then various Moroccan salads and vegetables along with brochettes of beef and Moroccan bread. Just as I assumed that we had finished the meal, a maid brought out a large roasted turkey surrounded with French fries. When I was about to bust, the maid took away the turkey and came back with a huge serving plate of cantaloupe, watermelon, bananas, and cherries, and another plate of cheese.
After we were all finished eating, a maid brought each of us a glass of sweetened mint tea. This is when Uncle Moulay Mustapha told jokes and stories. Everyone laughed and enjoyed themselves. I wished that my French was better so I could understand more of the discussions.
After dinner, we returned to the pool area, and Mirjana played the guitar and sang some American and Yugoslavian folk songs. We all sang some songs together, like “Guantanamera” and “This Land Is Your Land.”
Zhor’s family was from Tangier, which is why she was able to speak Spanish, as well as Moroccan Arabic, French, and English. She was the first person I had ever met who spoke four languages. Zhor explained the words to “Guantanamera”:
Yo soy un hombre sincero de donde crece la palma.
I am a sincere man from where the palm tree grows.
Then Uncle Moulay Mustapha turned on his stereo and played the album from Hair, and we all jumped into the pool. I can still remember racing Driss in the pool to the sounds of “Aquarius.” I knew Morocco was going to be great.
I had been psychologically preparing myself to live with a poor family in a poor country, but I realized that I had fallen into a family that was well off, well educated, and sophisticated. Moulay Mustapha was the CEO of a large milk company and later became the Governor of Casablanca. Driss’s father was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Things could be worse.
* * *
One afternoon, a cousin named Abdeltif came to have lunch with us. He was on summer vacation from his studies at a university in Grenoble, France. After lunch, Driss dropped Abdeltif and me off downtown. It was my first look at central Casablanca. There were pretty shops and stores. Some of the people walking around were dressed in traditional Moroccan clothing, but most were dressed in a European style. We walked around a bit, stopped by some newsstands, visited a record store, and then established ourselves at the Café de France on Place Mohamed V.
Place Mohamed V was the largest and busiest square in the city. There was a lot of hustle and bustle. The street leading from the port intersected at the square with the very busy Boulevard Mohammed V and Boulevard Hassan II. It was also a center for catching many of the buses that served many parts of Casablanca.
As I sipped a bottle of Flag Pils beer and Abdeltif had an espresso, we chatted while we observed everything going on around us. A shoeshine boy came by and shined my shoes. As he was shining, he said he needed a work contract so he could go to the United States. I told him I would do what I could but that I couldn’t promise anything. His name was Brahim. I wrote down my address and gave it to him. He seemed like a hardworking, friendly young guy.
When Abdeltif and I asked for directions, I was surprised that people would walk us halfway to the place we wanted to go. People were friendly and helpful.
* * *
It was always a pleasant time at the Alaoui’s. Visitors and extended family members were always coming and going. We always had visitors with us when we sat down to eat, and many times they would spend the night. Zhor’s family came for a while: her mother, father, and several brothers. Everyone was accommodated. There was always a place at the table or a place to sleep for anyone who was visiting.
Zhor’s father, Taieb, and I got along well, even though we could not communicate with words. We communicated with gestures, laughs, smiles, and courtesies. He was a gentle and friendly old man. He wore a red fez on his head, even when he slept. Zhor told me that her father had extended an invitation to me to stay with his family whenever I was in Tangier. (Later I would find out that Si Taieb ran the Mobil gas station on Avenue Mohammed V in Tangier, and he would become a significant person in my life.)
Fatima and Rachid were the servants at Driss and Zhor’s. Fatima was not usually seen unless she came out of the kitchen to serve or take up food, or if she was called on to do something. She cooked the meals, cleaned the house, and ran errands. Rachid worked in the garden and also cleaned and ran errands. They were both very polite to me. I tried to communicate with them, although they spoke only Arabic.
We lived in the “Californie” neighborhood, a “newer area” on the outskirts of Casa. When Driss went to work after we had breakfast, I would occasionally take walks around the area. We were right on the edge of some farms and the countryside.
On my first walk, I met two little girls who were collecting brush and small pieces of wood. When they saw me, they called to two other little sisters. They all stood together on some land that contained brush. They smiled, and the oldest one, about ten years old, kept repeating “Sawarnee”. I didn’t understand, and I wished so much that I could. I took their picture and tried to communicate friendliness non-verbally. The little girls waved good-bye and continued gathering up branches and brush.
Not far from the girls stood a ram. It was hard to see it because he didn’t move at all, just observed. I took a picture of him also and continued walking down the dirt road.
At the intersection of the dirt road and the paved Route de Marrakesh, I came upon some men grilling ears of corn over hot coals. I said, “Salaam alaikum” (“Peace be with you”), which I had learned from The Autobiography of Malcolm X. They smiled in a friendly way and invited me to join them. They offered me an ear of corn, but I politely declined. I squatted down with them, and we “talked” for a while. I am not sure how we conversed. A couple of the men knew a few words of French, which matched some of the French I knew. The men made me feel comfortable. They seemed honorable and hospitable.
After fifteen minutes, a flat cart pulled by two horses came by. There were three men of various ages sitting on the cart. They stopped momentarily and asked if I wanted a ride. I said to myself, “Why not?” and jumped up on the cart with them. I looked back at the people I was leaving and yelled, “B’slema!” as the cart began to move forward. They all waved, smiled, and yelled “B’slema” (“with peace”) back to me.
The greetings, salutations, and goodbyes that were part of every day salutations valued peace, health, and a belief in the support of a great spirit. I thought of some of the young people in America who were saying “Peace brother” as a greeting or good-bye.
As soon as I got on the cart, one of the younger guys asked, “Amerikani?”
“Oui, comment savez-vous?” (“Yes, how do you know?”)
“Blue jeans.”
We all laughed. The cart ride reminded me of hayrides back home in upstate New York.
When we got to Boulevard Panoramique, I knew I had better get off so I could find my way back to Villa Safia. They stopped at the corner of Route de Marrakesh and Boulevard Panoramique. We exchanged salutations and gestures. I thanked them (“Shoukran”) and bid them peace. “B’slema.” They smiled and wished me peace also. All men seemed to be brothers.
I was excited about my first solo experience in the real Morocco. I told Zhor all about it when I got back home. She was surprised at how many people I had met.
I asked Zhor what “Sawarnee” meant.
“It means ‘Take my picture,’” she said.
I was glad that I had taken the photo of the girls working in the field. I hoped I would be able to find them later to give them a photograph of themselves. Many times I returned to the dirt road, but I never found the girls or the men again.
* * *
Driss worked from 8 to 12, then came home for lunch and returned to work at 4, staying until 7 in the evening. He told me these were the Moroccan summer work hours. At the end of the summer, they would return to regular hours, which were 8 to 12 and 2 to 6. The summer hours provided a respite from work during the hottest part of the day.
When Driss was away at work in the morning, Zhor and I (or whoever else was around) would eat a continental-type breakfast or a Moroccan version. Then we would listen to music, discuss lots of subjects, read, go swimming at Uncle Moulay Mustapha’s, or run errands.
Driss would come home around 12:30 or 1:00, and we would have a big lunch. He often brought someone with him. Often Omar joined us. I was always meeting new people.
For lunch, we would usually have a pureed vegetable soup or “harira,” a beef, chickpea, and lentil soup. Then we would have either couscous, the national Moroccan dish, or a tajine, a delicious stew with various combinations of meat, vegetables, and spices. Alongside these dishes, we would always have vegetable salads, like carrots, potatoes, beets, or cucumbers with an oil and vinegar dressing, as well as small dishes of eggplant or cooked tomatoes and green peppers. I cannot describe to you how delicious and filling these dishes were. I suppose this was the best food I had eaten in my entire life.
After the main part of the meal, Fatima would bring a fruit salad or a big serving plate of fresh fruit, or both. We would also have a dish of various French cheeses. Moroccan bread was available during the entire meal.
Usually we drank Coke or Fanta, or a bottled mineral water like Vichy or Sidi Harazem. A drink was usually not offered until we got about halfway into the meal. I couldn’t understand this. Later someone told me that if you drink too much too soon, it will spoil your appetite.
After the great lunch, Fatima would clear everything away, and we would all sit back and relax. We would discuss the world, tell jokes, and listen to music. We would talk about current events, political issues, famous writers, different fields of study, the beauty and importance of foreign languages, and so on. During this “after lunch” period, a lot of Moroccans take an afternoon siesta. We did this only occasionally. If a siesta was in order, Fatima would bring everyone a sheet and see that everyone was comfortable. We’d knock off for an hour or two, and then Driss would get up and get ready to go back to work.
In the early days, Driss would tell me about a friend of his and Zhor’s whom he wanted me to meet. He described this friend as crazy in an interesting way, and Zhor chimed in with her own descriptions. One example of this friend’s bon vivant nature was that when they were students in Rabat, he would suggest driving all the way to Casablanca for a cup of coffee. This friend was also a member of the Board of Directors of the Moroccan Experiment in International Living, and he was on his way back to Morocco from an experience in the UK. We would see him soon.
Next Chapter — Missing the Boat in Gibraltar
