Teapots, Ghosts, and Rick's Cafe -- Marrakech and Casablanca

Two months ago, I was jogging around the Mourillon, contemplating my spur-of-the-moment Moroccan travel plans, and wondering how in the good lord's name I'd make my dwindling finances last until mid-May. I would like all of you to know that I'm absolutely horrible when it comes to making money. During my nine months of travel, I've probably earned 200 dollars total. But even though I fail at making money, I'm brilliant at not spending it. So I knew I could afford the plane ticket to Marrakech, and that if I could live on five euros a day worth of food, I'd make it to mid-May just fine. As I'd been told (incorrectly) that food in Marrakech is very cheap, the five euros a day budget for a hunk of meat and a chunk of cheese seemed adequate enough to suit my simple lifestyle. The only unfortunate aspect of this master plan was that I'd be grounded, having pretty much zero money remaining to travel to other cities in Morocco. But I thought that some of Morocco would be far better than none of Morocco, so I bought the plane ticket regardless of the frighteningly small figure in my Wells Fargo checking account, and figured that I'd just get to know Marrakech very well. Very, very well. 

And then I met Mike: one of the most generous, jovial gentlemen I've had the pleasure of meeting on this trip. He purchases groceries, I cook very nice dinners. He takes me on magnificent trips around Morocco, I teach him yoga. 

I do believe I'm the luckiest lady in the land. I really, really am. 

One of Mike's many french friends had asked him to stop by a shop in Marrakech to pick out a table, so I was able to accompany Mike to one of the most beautiful knick-knack/lamp shops I've ever seen. The owner of the store is heavily in Mike's debt, as my host has directed about 200,000 dollars worth of business his way. Mike used this as leverage and was able to procure some free Moroccan leather sandals for me. They're pretty fantastic. 

 Wednesday afternoon, I was able to join Mike and Gad (one of Mike's Jewish friends) to Casablanca on a business trip. Casablanca is massive. It's the economical heart of Morocco, and boasts one of the nicest malls in the world. It also contains slums where people live in makeshift one-room building clusters. The traffic in Casablanca is worse than it is in Marrakech, but both Gad and Mike seemed unperturbed by the testosterone saturated roads (excessive honking is how people display their manhood in Morocco), so I decided it would be silly to worry myself about what Moroccans consider normal. 

I really haven't the faintest idea as to why the government bothers constructing one way signs, crosswalks, and lines down the middle of roads. Seems like an awful waste of time and money when Moroccans prefer to drive down the middle of the road. They're very economical, these Africans. If three cars can fit on a two lane road, why the hell not squeeze 'em all in?

The drive to Casablanca was much greener than the ride to Essaouira, and I was very happy to be sitting in the backseat of an air-conditioned Chrysler as we sped down one of Morocco's main motorways. I enjoy a good adventure, but my ass had just recovered from the 4 hour roundtrip ride to Essaouira, and I was reluctant to relinquish the pleasure of sitting so soon after recovery.

The roadside was strewn with rubbish and dotted with scruffy looking sheep, foraging for lunch amidst the lucy landscape of cacti and colorful plastic bags. The shepherds sat idly by, wearing their flowing djellabas and dilapidated straw hats. A perfectly groomed policeman stood at attention about every other mile, keeping an eye out for wealthy speeders.  People in other countries rely on mile markers to tell them how far they've driven -- people in Morocco can just count policemen. 10 policemen = 5 miles.

People in Casablanca seem to be more focused and a little less crazy than people in Marrakech. Perhaps this is because it's a bigger city and there are more opportunities. Perhaps it is simply because it is more European and the perceived diminishment of crazies is merely my western mentality rearing its well-developed head. It was nice to see more women without veils, though. Casablanca has more of a face than Marrakech, that much is sure.

Mike and Gad had their business meeting just outside of Casablanca, so I waited in the car and wrote/studied french for the hour it took them to conclude their business. After the meeting had finished, we ventured back onto the suicidal streets and haphazardly made our way to Casablanca's famous new mall.

It has an aquarium inside. If you're willing to dish out a few Dirham, you can take the glass elevator inside the aquarium  all the way to the food court.  

Stores in which this couchsurfer/volunteer will probably never shop. 

The mall's backyard

A really gorgeous mosque near the ocean

After we'd dropped our bags at Mike's father-in-law's apartment, we went out in search of Rick's Cafe. I understand that Casablanca was filmed in a studio in LA, but the romantic side of me still wanted to sit in a cafe called Rick's Cafe in a city called Casablanca.

So I did. And it was nice.

This is what I was always trying to make my bedroom look like in college.  Perhaps I have some Berber roots. 

I met with Youssef for a cup of coffee and a chat on Friday, but other than that, I've been spending most of my time practicing yoga, writing, and studying french. Mike is an excellent teacher, and makes sure that I practice consistently. We went out for lunch with a business friend, and I listened to the welcoming man speak only french for over two hours. I wish I could have understood more, because the story (as Mike translated it to me) was incredible. Mike's friend is an orphan who had had terrible trouble with business for the first 30-odd years of his life. After his second business had gone bankrupt, he went to stay with his adopted mother for her last two months in the hospital. Before she died, she promised him that she would come back and help him in some way. Exactly one year later, she appeared as a ghost in this man's house. He talked to her, but she didn't respond. A rather reticent guardian angel. Mike's friend decided to take a picture of the ghost to see whether or not he was crazy.

I saw the picture.

He's not crazy.

The next day, Mike's friend won the lottery. BIG time. With both the lottery tickets he had bought.

Mike took me out for a ride on the motorcycle to a nearby dam. We stopped at a gorgeous restaurant for lunch, and then headed over to check on the progress of Jean-Christof's hotel.

Those three words are Morocco's motto: God, People, King

I'm always afraid to take pictures when they're looking. Mike says that he's seen a bearded Moroccan get so angry at seeing his picture taken, that he grabbed the tourist's camera and broke it. I don't take pictures of bearded Moroccans.