“I heard a story once - as a matter of fact, I’ve heard a lot of stories in my time. They began with the sound of a tinny piano playing in a parlour downstairs…” Bogie (aka Rick). The movie, the one and only, the brilliant, Casablanca. A city named after a movie?
Hello, everyone. It’s been a while. Ready for a fresh caper?
Same as Rick, I've a couple of tales for you. My first story comes from a Moroccan massage establishment. The second from a bar/casino named Rick’s Café. Of course, there’s also a 12-km run to squeeze in.
Scene one. Concerns pushed aside. I’m through the multicoloured beaded curtains. Immediately I'm lost in the fog of instruction. Some French. Some Arabic. Fast forward ten minutes.
... I'm perched on a heated marble bench in my soggy green boxers, alongside my Moroccan shipmates in various stages of undress. Look over there, a fellow wearing a bright red fez and a modest wrap. I glance down at my props; a tub of black tar soap and a blue spiked oven glove. The large room is like a Vegas casino. No windows, no clocks.
I'm quickly sweating like a teenager whose mum has just borrowed his laptop. The famed Hamman massage. It's what one does in Morocco and Turkey.
When in doubt, observe the locals. As a rule, I'm not happy with chaps applying sun cream to my back. Here, teamwork. A little pouring of cold water here; a little communal scrubbing there.
Oh, oh my shipmates are scrubbing each other. The fellow with the red fez and a broad smile is particularly energetic. Meanwhile, I'm messing about with my soap and half-heartedly patting myself. A member of staff, from nowhere, starts scrubbing me. Now it's a Japanese game show. He removes my tan. If I had tattoos, they'd be gone. He’s brutal. I look down. There's dead flakey skin everywhere. Who knew?
Another staff member collects me. Cold shower time. Now, massage time. This wiry fellow has thumbs like steel rods. I plead, “Monsieur, prenez-en plus easy, je suis suffering.” Custom dictates I give a small tip to the people who’ve assaulted me, some MAD (Moroccan Dirham’s). Here’s a tip, ‘ease off will you’…
Mind you; I’ve never felt this clean.
After the recent 'Tumble in Tunisia' and they're ‘Playing our Tunis’, it’s back to N. Africa. A three-and-a-half-hour flight north from Freetown, courtesy of Royal Air Maroc.
'Air Croc', often as reliable as a cheap Persian rug spectacularly arrives on time. It’s Easter weekend, 2017. I’m on R&R for a few days.
Run this morning? Bien sur. You know the drill. 0600 hrs. A pleasant 16c. Allez. A ten-minute stretch on the beach.
We’re in the largest city in Morocco. A cosmopolitan port on the Atlantic. Basecamp is Hotel Val D Anfa on the corniche, in Anfa District. Let's head east along the ocean's edge.
First stop, four km away. The pace is comfortable. It's still dark. Mostly beach clubs, cafes, and restaurants are in this area. A wedding party convoy pulls over for the sunrise photo call along the rugged coastline. They’re all so young, courteous and happy; everything life can offer is ahead of them.
In the UK, I’m not sure the average wedding party would be in this sort of shape at 0615 hrs, at least a couple of guests might be worse for wear. Are you kidding, an Anglo-Saxon wedding? As I dodge around the laughter and the taffeta, I remember Uncle Terry’s big day and his latest wife, Daryl. What a wedding.
I can make out Morocco’s largest mosque coming into view. Let’s lift the pace. I’ve timed the mosque photo for first light. I’ve read this is the tallest minaret in the world. 210 metres high topped by a laser directed towards Mecca.
The mosque sits beautifully, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. 105,000 worshippers can gather for prayer; 25,000 inside and another 80,000 on the outside grounds.
Next stop, the famous Rick’s Café. We’ll have run about 6.5 km when we arrive. We’re heading south and into the port area. 0630 hrs; it’s quiet. A Sunday morning. In fact, Easter Sunday. Here is Rick’s, unremarkable from the outside?
Shall we go inside and magically rewind the clock eight hours? Come on!
It worked. Easter Saturday. 2200 hrs. I’m enjoying a fabulous dinner, aided by some rather splendid Sancerre. A starter, hang, even a pudding this evening.
I’m chatting with the owner, an ex-US Diplomat, who opened this venture 13 years ago. An interior lovingly restored. She has stunningly captured the essence of the 1942 Californian movie set. She tells me she lives in an apartment upstairs, just like Rick. She informs me Rick’s has a roulette wheel. I should see it.
Blackjack is my preference but, if I had just one spin of the wheel? I’d chose 22, every time. My favourite number. 22 seldom lets me down.
I visit the upstairs lounge bar for a nightcap. The movie plays continuously in a loop around the space. The waiter, resplendent in his red fez, brings over a JD on the rocks. I glance at the movie. It’s coming to the casino scene. Where the husband is playing roulette attempting to pay for the young couple’s transit visas to Lisbon, and out of German-occupied N. Africa. He’s losing.
Bogie, the old softy, whispers to him to place all his chips on 22. The man wins. Bogie tells him to let it ride, on 22. The man wins. Bogie tells him to take his money and leave.
I have a strange feeling. Call it fate. There can be only one outcome. One spin. Round and round she goes, where she stops no-one knows. I do… we do...
The little white ball jumps, cracks, and settles. A sharp intake of breath… you won't believe this...
You’re thinking no, hang on a minute; this is like a big bottomed German lady in a purple ski suit, a bit of a stretch. I kid you not, ta-da…
Bum... 36, red. Scheisse, I need a new lucky number...
Time to hit the hay. I might be outside in about eight hours taking a photo for the blog. A quick pose with my superb server, Mohammed. A final look at the pristine architecture, the arched doorways, the sultry lighting and the mosaic floors as a Moroccan fellow (I think his name was Sam) on the piano gently begins to play a familiar medley. He plays superbly.
"It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
as time goes by."
OK, Rick’s Cafe is a pastiche. But, what a pastiche. Cheesy? Hokey? Depends on your outlook, your frame of mind. I loved it. I’m still humming as I push through the thick black curtains…
... daylight. Easter Sunday again. 0637 hrs. I want to take you to Habous. It’s five km away. I’m exhausted. A combination of a lively evening in Rick’s, a brutal massage and the early hour. We’ll have a quick jog through Habous and take coffee and a warm pastry as the cafes open. Refreshed we’ll take a taxi back to Anfa.
Habous quickly lifts the spirits. Built by the French in the 1930s. It has a beautiful mix of European and Moroccan-inspired architecture.
Most of the area is a vast souk. Alleyways, courtyards and cubby holes abound. Later these traditional streets will come alive with local traders selling everything; from traditional clothing, like abayas, djellabas, and kaftans. To the renowned babouche slippers (I bought a fetching yellow pair), fez's, olives, herbs, spices, oils, handicrafts, ceramics, and Persian rugs. You’ll haggle; I was here yesterday.
I like leafy Habous, the cafe culture, the people watching. Talking of coffee; two choices, strong coffee (think espresso plus) with water on the side, or local mint tea.
Casablanca is crammed full of Instagrammable backgrounds, especially in this area.
Oh, forgot to mention, I had planned for a guest runner this morning. A local Moroccan clairvoyant, a charming fellow, called Mustafa. Unfortunately, he cried off last minute due to unforeseen circumstances. Taxi...