Casablanca

I went to Morocco for a reprieve from West Africa. Imagine when I found myself walking briskly through the streets of Casablanca with a Senegalese merchant. For 100 euros he traveled from Senegal through Mauritania to the North African coast. He took me through the maze of the old medina, past robed men answering to the call to prayer; past tables of steamed snails, dimly lit cafes, tiny bars with men smoking hookahs, and up to the cheap room he shares with three other Senegalese over the Cafe des Stars. Abu Bakar showed me water-stained photographs of his family and friends but he was careful with what he told me. We wrapped our way back through the maze, Moroccan music wafting from tiled staircases. I had never been to a country that exists perfectly in two languages. We walked down into a smoky nightclub with two men playing a keyboard and an electric violin hanging between his knees like a cello. I sipped a Flag Especiale and nibbled on salted cucumber. The music ululated without a fixed tempo. The eyes of the women lined with kohl, their hair covered in scarves, shared round tiled tables with dark-haired men in leather jackets. All eyes were drawn to the foreigner, out for a night on the frantic streets.