Casablanca’s Social Leveler

Split-Second Decisions

Finding the crew in their usual spot preparing for the evening’s feast, I sat down dreaming about outsmarting Ramadan and inconspicuously sneaking some watermelon into my growling stomach. I was approached by a stranger who asked me in French what languages I spoke. This gentleman, who happened upon the scene, had no way of knowing that I was protected by the locals, who I had shared some beers, laughs and moonlight with on previous nights. Due to the fact that they didn’t recognize him from the neighborhood, they insisted he leave. Lost in the Arabic, I asked in Spanish and French if they could let him stay. He seemed harmless enough and helped me translate. His name was Mohammad and he began to tell me his story. I pleaded with the impromptu neighborhood watch group to let him hang around.

Nabil, the spokesman of the group, was particularly belligerent before the “stranger’s” presence in his neighborhood. Nabil’s mean-mugging sent a message that things could soon escalate. I implored him to keep it cool.  My “longtime friends” — I had spent two nights with them the previous week — looked on with great suspicion. I was new to this sense of territorialness.

Mohammad’s enthusiasm and story won me over.  He lived some years in Italy and Spain before he was deported.  He spoke a rare combination of French, Italian and Spanish.  When he invited me to hop on his moped and set out in Casablanca for the night, I leaped at the invitation.  I was en route to the eminent Blue City for some natural healing with Raw Foods Steve Melken — a legend in the world of natural medicine — but this sounded like an offer too good to turn down. I procrastinated between a train, about to depart for Fes, or taking Casablanca by storm with Mohammad.  I had no illusions. Seeing a foreigner in this neighborhood, he was “on his hustle.”  But so was I.  If he was poised to gain a few extra bucks, I was now positioned to experience a night out in Casablanca. In a split-second decision, I elected to stay.

A question of loyalty

I assured the crew that I would be safe hanging out with Mohammad.  They were irate.  What guarantees did I have?  Well, none really, but what assurances did I ever have gallivanting across the globe?  With fear at the helm, a journey is only half-lived.  Mohammad invited me to dinner with his family and told me I could sleep there, if I wanted to.  It seemed honest enough.

Mohammad had a moped in its final stage of deterioration, hanging on for dear life.  He had a makeshift, elevated wagon structure in the back that he dragged along in order to offer taxi services for three or four dirhams, roughly thirty five cents per passenger.   When Nabil — the leader of the group and my self-appointed protector — saw me throw my gym bag into the wooden box attached to the moped, he went into a full sprint towards Mohammad.

The two protagonists faced off.   Mohammed initially remained calm, ignoring Nabil’s yelling in his face. But then Mohammed snapped. He dismounted his taxi service and the two men grappled with one another rolling on the ground. Nabil’s crew was not long behind. I was baffled by the frenzied exchange, as it all unfolded in Arabic. Four of Nabil’s mates wrestled the over-zealous bodyguard off of his opponent. Another local enforcer emerged, who I had seen selling tobacco on the corner. His name was also Mohammad.  He yelled my way in French: “this guy” — motioning to my new acquaintance, Mohammed — “your friend?”  I shrugged my shoulders, then gave a reluctant thumbs up as if to say How can I vouch for him?  I’ve known him for 20 minutes. The rest of the crew finally separated the two grapplers, leaving me to think: How admirable the loyalty is in Morocco!

Ramadan’s short-fuse  

These street squabbles were not uncommon.  What was the most peaceful month, was also the tensest. Local wisdom teaches that during Ramadan everyone is at their wits’ end because of the fasting from food, drink, smoke & sex.  The sheer quantity of street confrontations — even by Bronx standards — was impressive.  It was commonplace to see angry posturing and yelling, completely devoid of any listening. I respect Ramadan as a religious exercise. But many families starved and dehydrated themselves by day, only to gorge three meals in the middle of the night. Was the time-honored month of fasting a recipe for both social and nutritional disaster?

Mohammad — the man who the locals sought to push into the background of the night — was now at the helm of our evening. We were free to embark upon our journey. I thought I was to be the sole privileged passenger in his wagon but I was mistaken. Within minutes, our protagonist had spotted fellow travelers who were headed our way. Four young gentlemen, Ahmad, Khalid, Amal and another Mohammed mounted the wooden compartment. How I learned their names will soon become clear. Our captain’s moped teetered on the brink of disaster.  Suddenly it sputtered to a stop.  I thought maybe I should have gone to Chefchaoien after all.  Mohammad had a spare plastic bottle with twenty ounces of gas. We again moved forward but we needed fuel. We arrived at the two closest Oilibya stations but they were out of gas.

We rolled down a hill and before we came to another complete stop, the freshly recruited troops hopped out and scattered off.  I thought they had found their escape from the inevitable collection of the fair. How I underestimated their sense of solidarity!

Ahmad tried to stop the motorcycles that sped by to retrieve a fresh injection of fuel from their tanks. The other crew-members split up in search of petroleum. Khalid and Amal sprinted into a garage.  Mohammed — at this point vexed by the onslaught of misfortune — raced up a private staircase and knocked on the door of a residence with the same mission.  What teamwork! It was as if it had all been coordinated. I was left to ponder the unfolding dynamics as the squad of five shot off in every direction in search of hope.

The entourage came back empty handed, at least in terms of gasoline. Mohammad — transformed into the happiest and most energetic of characters — brought back an entire tray of food with seven mini bowls full of shibakiya sweets, slilo (ground almonds and wheat), hariro soup, prickly pear, mesimane pita bread, chicken & dates. A family sent a Ramadan buffet with him when they learned of our troubles. Mohammad laid the tray over the passenger bench constructed in the wagon. The six of us stood around the banquet like a reunited family and feasted.

Now it was as if there were no stress or worries. This was all part of the everyday journey.  It reminded me of experiences I had before in Havana, Praia, Istanbul and Guatemala City.  The solidarity, at a society-wide level, was beautiful.

We Americans could learn a thing or two from this impromptu, collective “rolling with the punches.”  Upon finishing the great spread, we returned the tray and the team returned to their assignments.  They flagged down a father, who came sputtering down a hill on a motorcycle with his son on his lap. He donated some gas from his tank to get us up and going again.

Five minutes later the motor again died.  Fortunately, this time we were on a decline and glided into an open gas station. As Mohammad pumped the gas, another family donated a tray of food to our cause. I liked the quickly-assembled crew and their temperaments. They were a solid squad from what I could gather in the last forty five minutes. I didn’t want us to separate but everyone headed in their own separate way.  It was an all-too-quick farewell.

Meeting the family

We were now en route to meet Mohammad’s family.  I wondered what their perception of me would be. He quickly coordinated these very details with me. “Tell my father and my brothers we met in Spain.”  I responded, “Ok, which part?” “Barcelona,” he said. “Perfect” I retorted, as it was the only city I could think of quick besides Madrid anyway. I reflected some more and asked “Well, what were we doing there?”  Mohammad responded: “That’s too many questions. My father is from the desert.  He is very suspicious.” “Ok I got it,” I said, wondering if this personality trait was typical of all people from the Sahara. In the back of my mind, these small details were further guarantees that Mohammed’s intentions were sincere.

Meeting Mohammad’s family was a true privilege. The intimacy offered a snapshot of family life in Morocco. Upon my entrance, the husbands ushered their wives and sisters into the other room so I did not interact with them. They talked back and forth to each other through the walls.  Mohammad’s brothers sat down with me and we conversed in broken French over dinner. Another sublime spread was laid out in front of us; it was my third feast of the young evening.

It was midnight now.  Barcelona had just beat Casablanca´s soccer team 7 to 0.  I was exhausted but destiny urged me on. There was a city before us to explore and no stone could be left unturned. I tossed a fresh bucket of water over my head, put on some clean clothes and off we went.

Repatriated 

Always chasing a few extra dirhams, Mohammad picked up another crew. It was a group of teenagers out to smoke some hashish. I observed that Mohammad was both their supplier and their ride. When one youngster was slow to pay, I witnessed the second confrontation of the evening. In the middle of the teenagers’ Saturday night parade, Mohammad dismounted his moped and threatened the young man if he didn’t pay. I offered a few dirhams to the collective cause to try to calm the waters. The chauffeur interpreted my donation as an affront. I retreated back into my rectangular box disgusted at Mohammad’s yelling and bullying antics over what seemed like petty change. He was twice the kid’s age.  The brouhaha stole some of their high but within due time they compensated for the missed puffs.

It was clear now that Mohammad was a hot head. His story was quite different than those of his deeply religious family members. After dinner, he told me about his stint in Italy and Spain. He grew frustrated with the low paying service jobs that the economy offered North African immigrants and found himself with a foot in the hashish trade. He rose up in the drug trade dealing light and heavy drugs. After a drug deal gone bad and an armed confrontation, the authorities imprisoned him for two years. He was then deported and banned from Spain for ten years.

The Vengeance of the Poor

Amidst the tension, we cruised into to La Corniche. La Corniche is Casablanca’s main drag, the Sunset Boulevard of Northern Africa so to speak. Some guys showed off their new Lamborghinis, others their girlfriends and others their sharpest clothes. There was a giant stretch of hotels, restaurants and recreation. Couples, groups of youth and entire families strolled up and down the strip. We made a stop to pick up some of Mohammad’s money at a local smoking den. The smoke was overwhelming. As I coughed, I took in the ambiance.  Some of the den dwellers had a look of elation, others that of zombies.

Before the collective merriment, our main character was clearly depressed. Picking up a few coins here and there for rides and selling small quantities of hashish was a far cry from where he had been. His rage before life’s chances was latent. His attitude and grimace told me things were again about to explode. I was on the opposite side of the tavern when I saw him slam his fist down before a table full of smokers, warning them to give him his money.

I should have known, he had come to collect.  The owner and an entourage of security guards surrounded him and spit him back into the night. Now he was fuming. He again took his anger out on the teenagers waiting for us by the moped. At this point, I stopped counting the confrontations.

I wanted him to calm down but he insisted we keep moving down La Corniche to take our modest place in the fashion shows that the night unveiled. Mohammed’s humble vehicle was locked in traffic with BMWs, Ferraris and other luxury cars. The tension was pulsating in the scowl on his face.

Impatient at the seemingly endless line of vehicles, Mohammad elected to follow the mopeds and create a third lane. There was only one issue, his ride came with an extension, the very wagon in which I found myself. From my view in the back, I thought he was cutting it close. Then, sure enough “Clank!”  He yanked the passenger’s side mirror right off of a brand new silver bullet Fiat. I caught a glimpse of the horrified faces of three women as we zoomed by. This did not slow our bitter chauffeur’s pace down one bit. It only infused fresh, acrimonious winds in his sails. He wore a viscous smile as he sailed off victoriously with the wind at his back. Again, his ungraceful taxi tore a mirror off of a blue Citroen. I yelled to get his attention but his imagination was off and running.  He laughed uproariously as he continued unimpeded. Powerless, I sat back wondering what to make of Mohammad’s strange brand of revenge. Our Casablanca ride — the Scourge of the Rich — had the final laugh that evening. Mohammed cruised along the coast of the Mediterranean, the master of La Corniche’s destiny.