Bluegrass, Moroccan-Style

Last week a few American friends and I attended a bluegrass concert at the Centre Culturel Sidi Belyout. A Moroccan bluegrass band had been touring Morocco with a couple of musicians from the states with thick but very charming southern American accents. This kind of event is put on for free by various American associations and the State Department in an effort to promote appreciation of American culture. (insert obvious and misinformed joke about the US’s lack of true culture, har har)

As much as I loved reminiscing about Fourth of July barbeques and basking in nostalgia with my American friends, here is what really blew my mind: a bluegrass take on a hugely popular Andalusian song. The lyrics–the refrain at least, which a friend taught me and which has been playing in loop in my head ever since–basically ask, “Why worry? God will take care of me.” This was a great choice for the finale. The audience, mostly Moroccans, sang along. The combination of American folk music and Moroccan (Andalusian) folk music was breathtakingly beautiful.

Way better than Zara (bien mieux que Zara)

Spotted at “lbal” (the flea market) in Kenitra, a city just an hour north of Rabat.
Au marché aux puces à Kénitra, à une heure au nord de Rabat.

Go Bulls! (circa 1996, when I cared). Meanwhile, in the bags department…go Turkey?
Allez les Bulls (même si on est plus en 1996). Sinon dans les sacs, allez la Turquie ?

I won’t go on and on about how cheap this flea market is compared to my favorite second-hand spots in Chicago and Madison because that would fall under a term I found myself explaining to a friend today: “tacky.”

I suppose what was most exciting about this market was not so much the cheapness of it but the familiarity of the bargain clothes shopping experience I didn’t even know I missed so much.

Bien entendu, ça serait de mauvais goût de me vanter des prix ici par rapport à mes magasins « deuxième main » préférés à Chicago et à Madison, alors passons.

Je pense que ce qui m’a le plus emballé c’est plutôt d’avoir retrouvé l’expérience très familière du second-hand shopping. Je ne m’amuserais même pas à traduire cette expression, car c’est justement une expérience que j’associe à mon mode de vie américain. Qu’est-ce que ça me manquait !

Casa Negra

I once asked a friend what the movie CasaNegra (2008) was about. “It’s about what life’s really like in Casablanca,” he said, darkly.

A few other friends told me they hadn’t seen it: “I heard it’s very vulgar so I’ve stayed away.”

Mostly, I hear rave reviews because, honestly? This. Movie. Is. Epic.

The idea behind the film is that for the working class and those living in the city’s underbelly, Casablanca is so hopeless, so dark, and so literally and morally polluted that it should be called Casanegra

The movie is set mostly in the centreville, which is incidentally right around where I live. This used to be the commercial center of town, and it’s filled with very cool and beautiful architecture dating back to early to mid-twentieth century. In fact much of the movie is shot in and around the Assayag, an architecturally innovative building dating back to 1929 where the offices of Casamémoire are now located.

Check out the beautiful opening shots. Very Noir, heh.

Casanegra tells the story of a couple of friends, Casaoui guys trying to make it as small-time crooks. The characters are tragic, spinning their wheels and basically powerless to improve their situation. One of the main characters, Adil, dreams of immigrating to Sweden. The other, Karim, admires an upper-class woman from afar. Each character has something they cling to for their sanity. An evil gangster for instance, the kind of guy who threatens to drill holes into people’s knees, loves his little dog above anything.

One by one the characters fall apart as they realize that their dreams are unattainable and the bits of hope they cling to, fragile. At the end of the preview, the evil gangster, who’s just lost a ton of money and crashed his car, cries out the name of his dog: Nicooooooooo!

Despite the tragic and dark take on life in Casablanca, the movie is hilarious and redeeming.

Casanegra presents a bleak portrait of Casablanca, but the frustration of the characters and their hatred for the city are folded into what is basically an homage. Casablanca is harsh, but it’s home. It’s ugly, but beautiful. It’s urban grit–dangerous and tragic yet glamorous, even epic.

Grand Taxi

This is the curbed version of the vehicle known as a “grand taxi.” It’ll take you (and up to 5 other passengers, plus the driver) where you need to go, if you know the hand signals to flash to the driver as he rolls past you on his route.

I most often take the grand taxi from Ben Msik, where my campus is located, to the centreville. The end of the line is Bab Marrakesh, the main entrance to the old medina. For reasons that are murky to me, the signal for Bab Marrakesh is pointing vigorously to the left with the right hand. More of a windshielf wiper motion than a back and forth, “look at this guy” gesture.

Actually, I grab that taxi at a taxi stand across the street from campus, and only need to tell the attendant, “Medina.”

I always make the gesture anyway as the taxis pull up, because I’m the kind of gaouria who likes to feel the rush of knowing the codes.

Look at me! I’m streetsmart!

Learning, and teaching, the “Patrimoine” of Casablanca

I’ve hinted before at the tension that surrounds narratives of Casablanca history. During a tour I took recently through Casamémoire, a French man who’s lived here for years and wrote a book on the history of the medina, concluded his lectures with: “Je suis désolé pour nos amis marocains, mais Casablanca est essentiellement une ville européenne.” (“Sorry for our Moroccan friends, but Casablanca is essentially a European city.”)

That’s actually a much subtler claim than it sounds, but it points at the politics lurking behind every conversation about the “patrimoine” of modern Casablanca. Who created it? Who does it belong to? Who even cares?

Casamémoire is the only association that advocates for historic preservation in Casablanca. This year they’re organizing the third annual Journées du Patrimoine de Casablanca, in partnership with a few other sponsors like the city and Institut Francais. For three days the association will offer tours of historic sites in the centreville, the medina, and Habbous.

Hundreds of people are expected to take advantage of these free tours, which are guided entirely by volunteers. Regular tours are given by volunteer expects in architecture and urban planning—not your average architecture amateur or Casaphile. The Journées du Patrimoine offers us amateurs a chance to take a crash course in Casablanca history and share our newfound expertise with other curious people.

The tours don’t focus purely on architecture, but rather “patrimoine” in a broader sense. Now here’s a word that carries a lot of weight in French. Its English translation, “heritage,” just doesn’t measure up. Patrimoine is synonymous with “culture,” and implies an extremely high value for local and national identity. It simultaneously represents and defines the shared cultural heritage of a community, which is why it turns out to be a slippery term.

I’ve been attending training sessions to be a guide, and I’ve been pleased to find that although there are a good number of French expatriates interested in the architectural heritage of the city, the vast majority of trainees are Moroccan. Some people who have been living in Casablanca remarked that they had never before explored these neighborhoods, and found themselves discovering parts of the city as tourists.

For my part it was refreshing to be part of a group of mostly Moroccan visitors. If you’ve seen some of the millions of tourists coming through Morocco, it’s easy to forget that many Moroccans themselves travel, explore the country, and are passionate about Moroccan culture and history.

After our tour of the medina, I walked back to my neighborhood with two other students who were also training to be guides. We walked through the centreville, which is rich with Art Deco architecture, and chatted while pointing out the details on buildings that the women admitted they had never really noticed before. They saw in the Casamémoire training a chance to learn and meet interesting people, though they’d never before had a particular interest in architecture or urban planning.

Thanks in large part to a retired English teacher-turned-guide named Abdou, the visits took place in an atmosphere of discovery, fun, and connection with students, professionals, retirees, working class people and upper class people. It was Abdou’s idea, for instance, to all have tea at the end of each tour, introduce ourselves, and…sing songs. (Yes, our group gelled that well.)

To be continued… La Journée du Patrimoine will be held April 14th, 15th, and 16th. For those of you living in Casablanca, on Saturday and Sunday you should be able to show up at a number of sites and get tours. I’ll update when I have the complete list. I will be at the Marché Central.

Harira

*scroll down for English*

La tradition veut que la harira soit servie pendant le mois de Ramadan, au repas du ftour. Fait à base de viande et de tomate, on y ajoute pois chiches, lentilles, vermicelle, persil, coriandre…avec quelques variations. Il n’y a rien de mieux quand on est affamé, que ce soit à la fin d’une journée de jeune ou, dans mon cas hier soir, après un cours de yoga. Heureusement, cette soupe est servie toute l’année dans la plupart des restos marocains, pour moins d’un dollar/euro pour un bol.
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Traditionally harira is a soup served during Ramadan when breaking fast. Meat and tomato-based, with chickpeas, lentils, vermicelli, cilantro, parsley…or some variation of those ingredients. There’s nothing better when you’re weak with hunger after fasting or, in my case last night, a yoga class. Fortunately, it’s available year-round in most basic Moroccan restaurants at less than a dollar a bowl.

Individualism

This apartment building caught my eye during a walk with a couple of classmates last week. We were in the quartier populaire (working class neighborhood) of Hay Sadri, not far from Ben Msik where we study. Most apartment buildings are painted either white or some light, warm color like yellow or orange.

Remarked my friend Zainab: “Individualism!”

Why I love to take the bus

Two months ago, one of the most intimidating prospects of living in Casablanca was taking the bus. Which went hand in hand with my anxieties about finding a place to live, in a neighborhood where I wouldn’t have to catch a taxi every day to get to campus, far, far away.

Why is the ‘tobis so intimidating, besides the fact that almost every time I mention it to people in Casa they cringe and suggest–pretty forcefully–that a grand taxi might be a better option? Bus routes aren’t published anywhere, although sometimes there are signs like the one shown here. The buses themselves are always old, lumbering things driven in the same way that most vehicles are driven here. That is to say, recklessly. Buses are often crowded, and there’s a jostle to get on, to pay, and find a seat.

And then there are the passengers. A recurrent theme in my ‘tobis-related conversations with people here is that no one takes the bus unless they have to. As such, buses in Casablanca are the realm of the working class.

Yet, until the Tramway is finished buses are the only form of public transportation here in Casablanca, the biggest city in the country. Other options include the petits taxis, which can get very expensive over long distances and the grands taxis, which are a kind of hybrid between buses and taxis. Those are slightly more expensive (7 Dh versus 4 Dh on the bus) and, some argue, more comfortable. A seat is guaranteed, and there are usually few stops between your point of departure and destination.

But I prefer taking the bus. This statement has really puzzled some of my friends and classmates, and in fact I’m dedicating today’s post to a classmate who brought this up in the context of a class discussion on travelers and visitors to foreign countries, and the things they notice, or appreciate, or marvel at. You’d be hard-pressed to find a Casaoui who claims to actually enjoy, rather than tolerate, taking the bus.

Every morning, though, as I wait for the bus, I feel safe in my knowledge of which bus to take, and where it will take me. Even after over a month of commuting by bus, this feels like a huge achievement. I hop on, pay, and usually find a seat where I can sit back and either read the paper or a book, or just enjoy the scenery.

By scenery, I mean the neighborhoods that we go through over the course of my commute, an hour each way. I start out in Mers Sultan, on a boulevard with wealthy-looking residences and fancy cafes, and end up on the outskirts of town, with rows upon rows of new multi-family apartment buildings. Ben M’Sik is a quartier populaire, that is to say a working class neighborhood. As I look out the window, I wonder when buildings came up, how they were designed, and who lives in them. I think about how ten, twenty, thirty years ago there was nothing but countryside where some of these neighborhoods now sit. I people-watch, and wonder where everyone comes from. So many people in Casa are from somewhere else.

On the bus I can be an observer and at the same time just a commuter. No one bugs me, I’ve never felt unsafe, and I’m never in a hurry because a) I’m compulsively early and give myself plenty of time, and b) in any case tardiness is not as unforgivable here as it is in my home culture.

I get to relax, I get pumped about Casa and its neighborhoods, and I bask in the satisfaction of overcoming intimidating and unfamiliar situations. When I’m on the bus I feel like I’m right where I should be.
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See earlier post, Taking the ‘tobis’

Finding an apartment in Casa

***Apologies for the length of this post. If—spoiler alert—you just want to see pictures of my new apartment scroll all the way down.***

The month I’ve spent so far in Morocco can be divided into phases of figuring out several logistical issues. First I was officially accepted to the Masters program—success! A week later I finally started to receive my scholarship funds, which kicked off my year as an Ambassadorial Scholar. With enough money now to put down a security deposit and pay rent, all I had left to worry about was finding an apartment in Casa.

Oh boy, did I worry.

In Chicago, I’m an adult. I call my mom from time to time when I’m confused about something, but generally I manage to take of business on my own. I’m able to get around town, find and rent an apartment and stay on top of my bills like a big girl.

This probably goes without saying for those of you who have lived abroad, but in other places, things are different. An adult who does adult things with adult efficiency at home feels more or less helpless in another country. And I speak French, which makes getting things done around 200 times easier.

At first, I had a few leads from friends, so I wasn’t too stressed out. This period of the apartment search can be described as Waiting by the Phone.

Sometime around Eid, though, I crossed that fuzzy threshold when you start to feel like you’ve been imposing on a nice family for far too long. Problem was, of course, that it’s hard to get anything done when everyone is celebrating the holidays. I like to think of this period as, “man I hope something comes through from my friends because I have no idea what else to do.”

I got the phonecall, and visited a very nice one-bedroom apartment a few days later. A move-in date was set and, relieved, I announced to a few friends that I’d have a home by the weekend.

But then, as each person I told reacted in shock at the price—more than what I paid in Chicago—I started to have some doubts… Do I even need my own place or can I share? Should I have looked for something closer to the bus line that will take me to the Ben M’Sik campus?

My host mom, sensing my deflation and sensitive to my concerns about cost, suggested that I might stay a little longer so that I could find something better.

This hadn’t even crossed my mind, and here’s why. Keeping in mind that my host family has been incredibly generous, know that I’d been living in their house for three weeks. I’d been around for almost every meal, often requiring preparation of a meal even when the rest of the household was fasting. I was around for Eid, when the house was crowded with actual family members. I went out a couple of times with some Rotaract friends and since I rely on them for a ride home my host mom had to wake up to let me in the house when I came home late.

Given all that, I was deeply touched by my host mom’s invitation and took her up on it, resolving to do everything I could to get out of their hair ASAP, and stay out of the way in the meantime.

But how do you go about finding an apartment in Casablanca anyway?

You can scan the classifieds, where I had no luck. Most places were too expensive, and I was dead set on finding a place in a hip neighborhood where I know for a fact there’s a bus that takes me to Ben M’Sik. (Trust me, there are more ‘tobiss’ posts to come…) Sometimes the places were already rented out, or not furnished.

I had one extremely frustrating phonecall with a very racist prospective landlord who, in addition to having no tolerance for africans, apparently doesn’t like to rent to students, either. (I hesitate to mention this here because I want to be careful when I broadcast that, well, Morocco “has issues” when it comes to its sizeable population of sub-saharan Africans. I’m hoping to gain a nuanced perspective on the matter, which I’ll share on this blog at some point.)

On Sunday, wanting to visit the neighborhood where I’d be checking out an apartment, I set off in the direction of Maarif extension and promptly got lost in the very crowded working class neighborhood of Derb Ghallef…right after a local team won a soccer match…as it started to rain. I was simultaneously disappointed at myself for being so freaked out by a neighborhood where thousands of people live, and proud of myself for admitting this difficult truth. Kathleen is used to “certain comforts”—not many, I might defensively add, considering I’m from the US—but I won’t be Thoreau-ing this next year.

Discouraged and feeling the pressure to leave my host family’s home, I email blasted my friends, became penpals with other people in Casa looking for apartments, and talked with everyone about my predicament.

Pouring my heart out to strangers is how I ended up finding a two bedroom apartment in the building where friends of a good friend of mine live. As is pretty typical in a word-of-mouth housing market (I now know), we asked “a guy” who lives in the building to show us an apartment upstairs. These “guys” are samsars who work as informal real estate agents—they hear of an opening, they show you around, and of course take a commission.

You just have to talk to the right person. This is generally true in all kinds of situations, but it’s especially true in Morocco in all kinds of situations.

I found my roommate the same way. Not to bore you with the details, but I do want to give you an idea of the chain of contacts and helpful people who led me to her: I “met” a Casaouia online at www.expat-blog.com, where I was hanging out looking for housing; she was looking for a language partner; I told her I’d be happy to meet, once I was settled, and by the way did she know of any places for rent? She didn’t but sent me a long email with tips and contact information for a guy who works for a student network; meanwhile I found an apartment; the friend of the expat-blog.com woman contacted me via facebook and told me that a French student was looking for a place; Frenchwoman and I corresponded by email and I was happy to learn that she is a nonsmoker; we met for coffee and hit it off.

The Apartment

Last night my roommate and I met with our landlord to go over the details one last time. When we were all in agreement, the landlord said, “Alors, on dit bismillah?” (In French, except for the last part: Alright, so, shall we say bismillah?) Actually, bismillah is something you say right as you start something-your first bite of a meal or as you get into a car to go somewhere, for example. It hadn’t occurred to me that we might say this as we signed a lease, but it was a nice touch of officiality.

Now that I’ve landed what feels like the perfect place, at the right price, with a wonderful roommate, I’ll admit that it might seem to have been irrational of me to stress out so much (so much!) about finding an apartment. However, friends agree that I got lucky. This seems to be a recurring theme in my Casa adventures, actually.

Our apartment is furnished, and includes such rare comforts as: a TV with cable, a washing machine, and a patio. Those are never guaranteed when renting even a furnished apartment, but our landlord rents mostly to foreigners who stay in Casa for a few weeks. Foreigners with usually deeper pockets and particular needs.

And now, having talked up this place and walked you down the path that led me to it, without further ado, here are some pictures:

Our dinner table sits in a hall that leads to a Moroccan-style living room. Moroccan-style refers to a certain style of couches that wrap around the wall.
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Kitchen is well equipped with dishes and appliances.
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A full size bed. I must be dreaming…
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Do I really have to explain that this is the picnic table on the terrace with the view of the neighborhood of my dreams?

Pastilla

Today for lunch: pastilla!

Here’s an example of a special, as in Not Everyday Moroccan dish. Traditionally, the recipe calls for pigeon, but today’s was made with chicken. I got a list of the basic ingredients while we ate lunch.

Usually I’ll just pipe up in the middle of a family conversation, apropos of nothing, with remarks about the food: Is that peanut I’m tasting? (actually, it’s almond, mixed in with the chicken) Hm, there’s a lot of butter at the bottom. Delicious! That’s cinnamon! That’s sugar–how do you say powdered sugar?