Through passport control in the modern Casablanca Airport we descend an escalator into masses of swirling white robes in baggage claim. We reach the bottom as three robed women pass hurriedly by and I catch the scent of roses that lends to my impression of being amid a host of angels. Men and women are distinguishable mainly by their head dress. The women, with white scarves wrapped securely over their heads, mostly veiled but some not, sort and search through baggage. Men, heads topped with white round close fitting caps, look regal and important as they talk seriously and with animation to airline employees. I don't understand Arabic so I assume it is the universal “lost baggage” query. Despite the guide books and internet research, nothing has prepared me for the uniformity of dress that surrounds me as I stand expectantly by the baggage carousel. I pray my bags show up.
As I listen to the cacophony of voices around me, I wonder why I am here. Southern Africa has come to feel a bit like home to me – when I step off the airplane I can feel and smell the difference in the air. It is familiar and evokes a sense of evolution in me. I am never ready to leave. I wonder if I’ll come to feel that kind of connection with the northern end of the continent over the next two weeks.
From the onset, I am struck by the contrasts.
On the way from the airport to Fez, the car radio plays a mixture of 70’s disco – Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff”, “Night Fever” by the BeeGees and other artists I haven’t heard for years. Disco is interspersed occasionally with a Moroccan tune. I find it strange; our driver doesn’t understand. Soon Sayeed interrupts our drive and conversation about his passion for American movies, TV and his budding acting career. We pull into a very modern looking gas station to rival anything seen along US expressways. It offers petrol, restrooms, a convenience store, a fast food restaurant and a prayer room to accommodate the devote in their call to pray that comes five times a day. We “rest”, Sayeed prays.
We drive on and pass donkeys and camels dragging wooden plows through fields making slightly ragged patchworks on the hill sides.
Over the next two weeks these low tech plows are a regular sight. Then, out of the blue, John Deere will loom on the horizon amid fields manicured to perfection by a combustion engine.
Still, donkeys are the Ford F-150’s of Morocco.
From the rooftop of our riad, I can peer onto a neighbor’s roof and watch her squat next to a flame fueled by a small bright blue tank of propane gas. A steaming pot perches above the heat balanced on a flimsy metal stand; garlic and onion waft my way. The robed pot watcher stirs the ancient vessel with a coarse wooden spoon and speaks rapid Arabic into her hot pink cell phone replete with camera. Oversized satellite dish antennae attached to the highest part of the roof seem to watch her as she cooks as her grandmother did while enjoying the best of new communication technology.
In the market, sides of meat and a sheep’s head hang in the open air stalls unprotected from flies while in the background sit huge stainless refrigeration units.
All over I am met with the juxtaposition of modernity overlaid starkly on the last century.
Scantily clad images peer down from billboards that tower above groups of Muslim women covered from head to toe. Only their eyes visible as they wait for the traffic light to signal them across the street and away from the tasteless advertising for a western product.
Nikes and espadrilles peak from beneath djellabas, the caftan like garment of many Moroccans. There is a plethora of western brand names….
And products available...
Yamahas wait by ancient gates…
Boys in jeans and leather jackets slip past traditionally dressed contemplative men in the markets. No apology, no defiance – it is simply a world with one foot planted firmly in this century and another, seemingly, in the last.
As the time passes, I am struck, too, by the warmth of the people, the mysterious glimpse we are allowed of their complex culture, the colors, the foods... so, more stories to come.
