atlas ii

atlas

The streets of Casablanca are well marked; navigating the roads that lead to the coast is no problem at all, the dry and mild climate - about 28 degrees centigrade - makes for comfortable wandering. Dressed in sandals, tan chinos and a white linen shirt, I am mistaken for a local and addressed in Arabic; I answer in French that I haven't the vaguest idea what has been said. He asks again, now in French, for directions toward the medina, I point to our left, and off he goes; it wasn't a deceptive gesture - I looked over the map whilst sitting in bed the night before.

Before too long, we are on Boulevard Moulay Youssef, which runs directly toward the coast where it meets the national mosque, Masjid al Malik Hassan II; it is the second largest mosque in the world, and is, by functional area, the largest religious monument on the planet after the Ka'aba, Mecca, with a capacity for 105 000 worshippers; it is built to inspire, as surely it does, judging from the profound eloquence of my reaction, "Crikey, s'big!"

A modern building, it looks every part the opalescent jewel that was intended, yet it isn't grandiose, any potential interpretations of indulgence or vulgarity having seemingly been anticipated and avoided with great skill; the detail is astounding, and ascends from base to top, though from below, even the sharpest of eyes would be hard pressed to appreciate the thirteen years of effort that went into it; it is homage to something greater. My only reservation comes when I pivot on the spot, resting dazzled eyes on the neighbouring slum, a reality that would have so benefited from the same degree of investment and care.

A couple of photos and several hundred steps later, we enter the medina; the old city. Within the walls of the medina, the buildings close in on you, and you are taken into cool shadow. The air is that of some fantastical bazaar; a throng of brightly dressed people go about their business, and all manner of goods, from comestibles to fine clothing, are laid out on sheets, piled high in baskets, or strung up like festive decorations everywhere you look. The vegetables, if not all the produce on show, seems to be organic, the twisted chillies and deformed, muddied peppers little resembling their supermarket cousins, yet radiant with the heavy, healthy wholesomeness that intense sunshine and haphazard irrigation bring.

Their colours, rich, varied and altogether dazzling, combine with the multiple aromas of the spice sellers' wares to launch an attack on the senses. Azouagh Abdellah breaks the spell to usher us into his shop; silks, in all hues and artfully embroidered with silver thread, hang upon the walls, leaving no plaster uncovered. He gamely tries to communicate with us in English and maths, though as admiration turns to business, we are reduced to my poor French and start haggling like professionals; my vicious mother's poker-faced bargaining skills, somewhat more effective since she has to communicate through me and can pull funny looks as I return with his responses, brings the charismatic gentleman to his knees. I feel a measure of guilt, though I know how easily fleeced tourists tend to be in these parts. Nonetheless, he makes tremendous concessions, and we leave him with a bonus anyway.

As thoughts turn to food, we come upon the market stalls, where my kebab-shop heaven is suddenly made manifest. Large steel plates lie suspended by iron links over gas burners, smoking heavily in the still of the hot afternoon. The smell of cooking meat is everywhere, as skewers, made to order, are thrown onto the searing plates to be cooked to perfection, while unleavened breads do their thing alongside. A swarthy man with dark, hairy arms jabs large forks into an unusual cut, and rotates it so that it might cook more evenly; blind eyes are turned my way, and I grin, jabbing my mother to get her attention and mock-puking for effect, yet head of goat has never seemed so appetising.

There is dirt and poverty all around, but the richness in the lives of these people, if different to that which Westerners broadly value, is undeniable. I like it here.

We head for the marina, ready to eat just about anything, and settle for better when we locate a café that serves all manner of fresh seafood; the plate of grilled sardines and a calamari starter tally at less than a quid fifty, but what comes out probably amounts to half of the North Atlantic's daily takings of fresh fish, equally so for the squid, lightly breaded and oh-so-crispy. This, along with the fresh bread, olives, olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice, make for a perfect meal. There was a time when I detested most seafood, and I can only thank fortune for allowing me to grow beyond that childhood irrationality. Mmm, mmm, mmm!

The day draws in, and we continue to explore, but eventually time is called, and we retire to the hotel to make good our departure to Casablanca International. Fairly soon, and without hassle, we find ourselves sat on a Royal Air Maroc Boeing 737 a few hours after sunset. The darkened heavens bear hints of scarlet, though the sun has long since fled, and the sky is otherwise clear and still; our flight across the Atlas mountains to Ouarzazate, garrison town on the Marrakech-Agadir road and gateway to the Sahara, will proceed without let.