Casablanca, Morocco: Most Underrated City in the World

I wasn't expecting much when I arrived in Casablanca, Morocco. The Bogart-Bergman movie was not filmed here--it took place almost entirely in a Hollywood movie studio. Even so, several enterprising businesses have not disavowed the link, and a Rick's Cafe replica exists. 

When I arrived, I realized I had stepped into the equivalent of Morocco's NYC. Although Rabat is the official capital, most of Morocco's economic activity occurs in Casablanca, its largest city. Pollution is not noticeable, but grime is. Here are two photos, unfiltered, of the exact same area. 

Beautiful place, beautiful weather.

Neglected.

For whatever reason, no one has cleaned up Casablanca, so fewer tourists choose it over Marrakech, Chefchaouen, and Fes--a big mistake. Casablanca has medinas, beautiful architecture, attractive costs, and arguably the grandest mosque in the world. While London and Vancouver suffer rain or snow, the weather is almost perfect in December. 

Hassan II Mosque.

In addition, just one hour away by train is Rabat, which houses the Tomb/Mausoleum of Mohammad V, another stunning attraction. Cost of the train ride? About 4 USD--the same from the airport to the city center. (I stayed at ibis Casa Voyageurs next to the train station, avoiding the need for taxis.) 

Outside the Tomb.

Although Rabat has its own large mosque (Assounna) and a surprisingly good museum of modern art, nothing can compare to its tomb. You need only one day in Rabat, but it will be one of your most worthwhile experiences. 

You will want to spend three to five nights in Casablanca. With its fairly new Alstom-built tram, getting around the city is convenient, though the ticket machines could use an upgrade. (Choose the English option on the home screen and buy two trips, which should generate a renewable card.) 

A typical itineary will include seafood at the Central Market (tram stop: Marche Central); 

the modern Seddiq mosque in the business district; the Habous district, which contains incredible Andalusian-style architecture and the beautiful Muhammadi Mosque or al-Mohammadi Mosque; and of course the Hassan II Mosque. (Don't forget to wear respectful clothing, as you would if you were visiting the Vatican.) 

Cafes are everywhere, so you can try tagine with beef or lamb and the famous Moroccan mint tea. The avocado shakes were an unexpected bonus. [Update: don't miss "kika," or Moroccan almond cake.] 

Avocado shake with mint tea. Inside the teapot are mint leaves.

I enjoyed pastries at Patisserie Serraj, an institution since 1954, and sugarcane from street vendors (about 50 cents). If you see an outdoor market, you can buy meat or liver from a butcher and take it to BBQ at a nearby stall. 

Cost: 60 dinars or about 6.40 USD

Not one person overcharged me, and everywhere I went, I saw an old elegance, the kind you expect to exist only in movies. 

Morocco is famous for its tiles. Visit the museum inside the Hassan II complex.

Perhaps Casablanca wasn't filmed in Morocco, but I don't mind--no movie could ever capture its variegated beauty. Come before everyone else discovers this gem. 

Bonus: I took the train to Fes (about three and a half hours from Casablanca). I didn’t like Fes except for a cute crafts bazaar (Poterie de Fes) located outside the walled medina. 

On the way back to Casablanca, I stopped at Meknes, which has the best vibe of all the Moroccan cities I’ve seen. Meknes is where the youth are, and it might be the most open-minded city in Morocco. Perhaps that’s one measure of a society’s success: the more the adults let the youth roam free, the more the circle of life can continue. Why? Because all kids stretch the boundaries of authority as much as possible to see if the social fabric foisted upon them is stable. If the adults are fair and confident rulers, the rules they’ve made—both formal and informal—will bend but not break. This generational testing, this stretching, is what we call progress—if we’re lucky. #Youth #DontTrustAnyoneOver30

Tunisia

I have never felt as sorry for Muslims as I did in Tunis.

Mohamed Bouazizi’s name and spirit are missing. The men here dally in dark cafes, drinking tea with mint leaves, watching soccer. There is no trace of any revolution. Ben Ali is somewhere comfortable, his Saudi backers even more comfortable. The new-old government in Tunisia’s capital have banned a political party, forgetting Britain's lessons with Sinn Fein. Hundreds of people dead in 2011, for what?

I have never felt as sorry for Arabs as I did in Tunis.

In 1956, freed from the yoke of French colonialism, President Habib Bourguiba convinced the Tunisian National Assembly to pass the Personal Status Code, which prohibited polygamy, defined court procedures for divorce, granted universal suffrage, and required the consent of both parties to a marriage. “With this one law, women became equal to men before the courts.” (Third World Women Speak Out, by Perdita Huston)

But Bourguiba miscalculated. Tunisia’s rural villagers did not know about the Personal Status Code. When a country is illiterate, how can they know the capital city’s intentions for them? They continued the old ways.

What happened to the ideals of this leader of women’s rights, this Arab feminist? Where is his spirit in Tunis? It is in a street named after him and a statue. (At least the street is lively.)

I have never felt so sorry for Arabs and Muslims as I did in Tunis.

A capital city should be filled with activity and discussion, but Tunis at night is dead. Most shops close at 8pm, street lighting is irregular, and finding the way back to my riad is difficult. Only stray cats, graffiti, and small garbage heaps acknowledge me. Sanitation workers cannot clean the garbage heaps from the busy day quickly enough—the streets are too narrow, too winding, too dark. I have seen men using handheld carts, the kind farmers attach to the back of oxen, hauling garbage alone.

There may not be enough money to fix potholes, install proper lighting, clean graffiti, create a flag that doesn’t look like a Turkish copy, or improve sanitation, but the police near the presidential palace ride shiny BMW motorcycles. In the city centre, numerous security forces carry the latest semi-automatic weapons.

Tunisian women have not convinced politicians to pay them to stand around with guns, but they have their own defense tactics. When an impatient grandmother wearing a black headscarf crosses a busy street, she wags her finger at each oncoming driver, not bothering to look, confident cars will stop.

I have never felt so awful for Arab Muslims as I did in Tunis.

Wherever I go, I enter at least one government building and take a photo. I take the photo behind the security barrier or entrance check. The photo is always of something harmless or within easy sight, something I can zoom in from outside if needed. In San Francisco, California, the police officers do not bother me, even when I loiter in their lobby. They have discretion and are above following pointless rules for the sake of following rules. Their job is to keep the peace and bothering a potential taxpayer does not make sense.

In Havana, in Tunis, and in any society with too few women workers and too much security spending, the story is always the same. When I step inside Tunisia’s Ministry of Finance and take a photo of the tiled wall, an armed and uniformed security guard runs up to me and grabs my arm, angrily ordering me not to take photos. He knows his job is pointless, but he must follow orders, tu comprends? Not following rules affronts his manhood, and in Tunisia’s post-colonial world, enforcing pointless rules is his raison d’ etre.

Other government workers, equally useless, not used to commotion, come outside their offices to observe. They have very nice suits. A nonconformist in a Tunisian government building must be an interesting sight to behold. Meanwhile, EU finance ministers approved a blacklist of 17 jurisdictions deemed as tax havens. Tunisia is on the list.

I have never felt so despairing for young Arabs as I did in Tunis.

When I ask a guide the following day if we can enter a government building, the one over there with the interesting tiles, he calmly explains the building I would like to enter is for government employees. He does not need to add the word “only.” It is understood in Tunisia, which held democratic elections for the first time in 2012, the government does not work for him.

I have never felt so sad for young Muslims as I did in Tunis.

My host, a kind man named Oussama, the owner of both French and Tunisian passports, tells me politicians loyal to Ben Ali, the president who fled to Saudi Arabia after the student-led revolt in 2011, are re-gaining power. It is unclear whether the police or military would arrest Ben Ali if he returned, despite outstanding warrants for money laundering and drug trafficking.  

Oussama opines that the students’ 2011 nonviolent approach may have been a mistake. He does not look like a man who favors violence. He is slender, calm, has many books in many languages. He explains that after the revolution, the state disappeared and the mafia entered the void, but now the state is making a comeback. Unfortunately, Tunisians have lost the most important thing—their energy, so palpable in 2011. Young Tunisians today say they—the politicians—are all the same, which is the worst possible outcome. I do not tell him my successful Arab friend in America refers to the “Arab Spring” as the “Arab Winter.”

I have never felt so happy for Arab Muslims as I did in Sidi Bou Said.

The sidewalks are (mostly) clean, excellent coffee exists in enough places, students with laptops write eagerly, and no one objects to people taking harmless photos. Posh restaurants, late hours, and stunning views of the sea and mountains seem indigenous, as does the color blue. It is impossible to be sad in a city where almost everything has been painted blue by man or Allah.

I have never felt so optimistic for African Muslims as in Sidi Bou Said.

Men and women sit together on rooftop salons, black and Arab Africans walk side by side, and men do not need soccer or cigarettes to socialize. Police officers with shoulder-strapped guns are also here, but they bring a different energy. They are more purposeful, more determined, more proud. One plainclothes officer in Sidi Bou Said is worth ten uniformed personnel in Tunis.

I have never felt happier for African Arabs as in Carthage.

Carthage has the nicest houses, the most money, the best-paved roads, and the most interesting history in Tunisia. Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca, was born here, his military tactics striking fear and respect into the hearts of the Roman Empire.

Tunisia’s most vibrant cultural center is here, away from most government ministries. Inside, surrounded by movie posters, I see, for the first time, Heinrich Böll speaking on television. Outside in December, young men and women of every shade of color mull about, chatting and laughing.

I have never felt so happy for Arabs and Muslims as in Carthage.