CASABLANCA
‘THE CITY IS ON FEW TRAVELLERS’ ITINERARIES’
But Casablanca has a sublime and unsurpassable allure – a magic
that lurks in the detail. Spend time rooting it out, and you get a sense
that Caza (as it’s pronounced by locals) was created as cutting edge
beyond belief. From 1912 until independence in 1956, Morocco was
swallowed up in the French colonial mission to gain control of North
Africa. The kingdom was regarded by the French as a protectorate,
and placed under the authority of a seasoned officer and administrator
- Marshal Lyautey. Basing himself in Casablanca, Lyautey personally
oversaw the city’s construction. He wanted an expression of French
culture that was grand and modern, yet set beside the kingdom’s
medina and diehard traditions that he so adored.
The entire city is an architectural sourcebook of early 20th century
mod-cons – most of them far ahead of their time: underground
parking, purpose-built cinemas, electric street-lights and elevators.
The Art Deco signage is reminiscent of Miami or Mumbai. And,
curving and zigzagging along balconies and around doorways, the
wrought ironwork is breathtakingly graceful.
Running right through the heart of the old French quarter lies
Boulevard Mohammed V. The grandest street ever constructed in the
Gallic Empire, it once teamed with well-dressed young men, ambling
about in straw boaters and suits – the ladies on their arms strutting in
Parisian heels, silk stockings, and wide-brimmed hats.
Halfway along it, at the Marché Central, battered wooden crates are
being hauled in from the port on hand-carts. Paw-licking cats circling
like sharks, crushed ice spills out onto the floor, as the day’s catch is
unpacked – swordfish and sea bream, squid, tuna, shrimp and shoals
of glistening sardines. The market resounding with bustle and noise,
the catch is laid out hastily for sale. At a row of stalls in the middle of
it all, fresh oysters are being shucked, served up with lemon wedges
and a splash of hot sauce.
In the square surrounding the fish market, at a makeshift beauty
shop, Aziza is filling a row of little glass bottles with argan oil. Never
without a smile, she spends her days making natural lotions for her
regular customers, as well as dreaming about the man who’ll one day
sweep her off her feet. ‘Can’t you find me a nice foreign husband?’
she asks with a giggle. ‘I’m looking for a man who’ll treat me kindly,
and who I can love very much indeed.’
Not far from where Aziza works, a pair of wizened old friends are
playing draughts on the shadowed side of the great boulevard. An
antique sign screwed to the wall above them advertises the finest
FROM LEFT Cemetery portraits;
caretaker Mohammed at work;
Art Deco detail on the doorway
of an apartment block.
BELOW In the Marché Central