It was dark although surprisingly busy for the time of day – men and women on bikes and on foot, going to who knows where. Fifteen minutes later I find what looks like the station, except it's a building site. And a signpost states in French that it will be opening soon.
After walking around for several minutes, I finally decide to ask – glad that I was listening during the French lesson that covered asking for the station.
“Ce ici” was the response, as the man passed on his bike, hardly slowing to answer my question.
Several more minutes wandering around and I finally found the station, hidden behind what would be the new station when it opened. It was already busy at 6:15am.
I bought my ticket and went to the café for coffee and pan au chocolat. You've got to love the French - they know how to do a good breakfast.
The train was clean, cheap, and on time. When I'd asked the night before if the trains left on time, the man had laughed and said: “of course”. Stupid me – of course trains always run on time.
I found a window seat in second class, and settled down for the journey to Casablanca. The landscape was barren. Rocky mountains dominated, and the only signs of life were the small villages built out of mud. Occasional flocks of goats grazed amongst the rocks, often with a small child in attendance. Mist came and went, interspersed with an incredible blue sky – it felt like a journey across another planet.
Just wish I'd taken some pictures. But I was still half asleep.
The one problem with the train was knowing where to get off. There were no announcements, and most people seemed to know which was their stop. I'd been expecting that we would travel through the city of Casablanca before stopping at the station, but when we finally arrived at a station with only the word Casa in the title, I decided it was time to ask. And yes – this was one of the many stations at Casablanca. So I decided to take my chances.
Another wild taxi ride into the City, and I was left standing at the Central Market.
Casablanca – or Casa as it seems to be known – is unlike anywhere else I would visit in Morocco. It feels old – in a graceful way – but strangely modern at the same time. Built by the colonial French in the 1930's, the city still retains an art deco French feel, with incredible architectural gems at every turn. While there are few true tourist sites, there's still plenty to see.
I finally found the hotel I'd been planning to stay at - described by the Lonely Planet as: set in one of Casa's Art Deco gems, this 1922 hotel has buckets of neo-Moorish character.
Great I thought - only to find that they wouldn't let me have a room because they didn't think I could afford it. Strange really - as the rooms were only forty pounds a night and I was more than happy to pay that just for the experience.
In the end - they let me stay next door in the cheap bit of the hotel which clearly they thought matched my price range...it was a dump - but at least it was convenient for the market.
I'd caught the early train, because I wanted to visit one of the few mosques that are open to non-Muslims in Morocco – and given that the next day would be Friday – I knew that the 2pm tour would be my only chance to get a look inside.
I decided to get food first, and walked back to the Central Market to try the
national dish: Tagine.
Tagine - being cooked in the market place:
The choices were lamb or fish - and the fish sounded good - so I took a table in the incredibly small shop and waited for the food to arrive.
The Tagine is something seen in almost every town, village, and market. The bottom of the dish holds the food, and is used as a plate at the table. The lid holds in the steam, and condenses the liquid, allowing it to replenish the stock the food is cooked in. It's a little like a cross between a pressure cooker and a slow cooker.
The Tagine is then served with bread, known as Koobsh, which is unusual in that while the outside is rock hard – the inside is incredibly light and fluffy.
After ten minutes or so, the Tagine arrived, and I tucked in - and it was one of the best meals I ate in Morocco. And it cost less than two pounds.
One of the best meals ever - anywhere in the world:
After standing on the roadside for a few minutes I managed to get a taxi to take me to the mosque. While we were making our way across town I had a conversation with the driver, who spoke only Arabic and French. We chatted the whole way, backwards and forwards, both hardly understanding the other - despite the obvious challenges we ended up having a conversation of sorts - about what I'm not really sure - but still - it was fun.
You know when you've arrived at the Hassan II mosque - it's one of the biggest in the world. Although it's only when you actually get up close to it that the size becomes evident.
The minaret is 210 meters high, and the prayer hall has enough room to fit the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris inside it. Enough to hold 25,000 worshipers and 80,000 outside. No expense has been spared in the creation of this building – even down to the sliding roof, which not only ventilates the large prayer room, but provides views of the open sky.
The photo's don't do the place justice. It is jaw dropping in it's scale and beauty.
The Hassan II Mosque - look carefully and you can see that the little dots by the minaret are people:
Mosaic work:
The ritual washing area - specifically designed to cater for over 100,000 people:
It doesn't look it - but this place is huge:
The guide book said that you could do Casa in 24 hours – so with the challenge firmly laid down, I decided to do the walking tour. I strolled through the busy vibrant streets, amazed by the incredible gems that were hidden down one back street or another. From the incredible Cinema Rialto to the Hotel Transatlantique.
Typical Casa street:
And the main part of town:
Classic art deco cinema built in the 1930's - and still open:
And then it was on to the Medina to see the old part of town. This labyrinth of tiny streets inside the original city wall was packed with locals strolling through the market stalls. I walked deep into the Medina, away from the market to the residential area, where children play in the streets and the sounds of life echo against the walls.
The bell tower:
The police station:
That night I decided to try Cous Cous at the best restaurant in town. I hate cous cous - and it didn't taste any better in Morocco than at home. But at least the dips, bread, and olives were amazing.
And then it was an early night - the next day I was going to hit the open road...
No comments:
Post a Comment