I remember the first time I went to Morocco. It was like being transported into another time. We went to Marrakech for an extended weekend for a friend’s 50th birthday. We didn’t leave the hotel without a guide. The Souks (markets) felt unsafe and we were more than happy to have this local guy helping us maneuver our way through the city. It was fascinating. There were men dressed in long gowns drinking tea and cooking in these little huts. There were heads of animals hanging on hooks, women coming along in their long dresses and veils, grabbing your hands and designing a beautiful henna that went up your arm. They were so quick and before you could say “no” they were so far up your arm that it was better to let them finish. Of course, they wanted money. I loved it but not sure everyone does. It was like a movie.
Flash forward 6 years and I would be moving to Morocco. What?! I remember when Nic asked me what I thought of the idea I just kind of looked at him like he was crazy. Remember the snakes, the monkey, the guy putting his hand up my butt……….? Was this really a place for us to live?
We decided to check it out. We all went for a weekend to Casablanca. The vibe there was more modern than Marrakech and after touring around for a few days both Pia and I were sold and thought that maybe it would be okay, after all. We went to a couple of restaurants on the beach and there we were surrounded by a lot of ex-pats (mostly French) and I thought that we would probably do okay there.
So, by August, we’d packed up our house in Dubai and we were on our way to Morocco. For the first month or so, we stayed in an apartment in downtown Casablanca. It was very modern and nice inside but outside was another story. Every morning when I opened the windows, I would hear all kinds of vendors walking by trying to sell their goods. Each vendor had their own call. Like birds. The man selling eggs would loudly roll his “r’s” making a loud sound and then ending with a click. There was the guy with the wheelbarrow who would yell “heeeeeeey hup, heeeeeeey hup”. He was offering his services to pick up any unwanted household items. Anything. There were the musicians that would come by, dressed in long traditional outfits. They had all kinds of instruments that they were banging and blowing on. It was like a Moroccan version of the pide piper. They would look up at all of the buildings, hoping to see a head pop out to provide them with entertainment in exchange for a coin or two. People would throw down coins from their windows. Clink, clink. We had to be careful because if they saw you look out, they would play even louder so that you would stay. If you went back in, they would play in front of your window until you came back with a coin. Once I realized what was going on, I stopped popping my head out. It was amazing. This was every day. I only mention a few but it was like a parade of people all day long.
What I quickly learned in Casablanca was that there was either the good part or the bad part. However, to get to the good part, you usually needed to walk through the bad part. There was no choice. As we were going to live there, I just did the best I could to familiarize myself with the atmosphere in this new city. I found that people were very friendly. There was a lot of poverty. I have never seen anything like it and I’m still not over it, to be honest. The number of kids in bare feet strewn all over the streets just hoping for some kind of handout. They looked dirty and drugged out. I can’t say I blame them. A lot of these kids were strung out on some kind of glue that they would sniff. They had no chance at life. It was very sad. So, as we leisurely strolled along the main boulevards, heading into the shops, we’d find ourselves walking over some of these kids. It was awful and it made me feel guilty about buying anything.
It wasn’t just kids, either. It was everyone. Women, men, children, grandparents, everyone. When I arrived, many people said to me “you’ll get used to it”. I never did. I wanted to take everyone home. I found it very difficult.
My Daily Commute
After a month or so, we moved out to a suburb of Casablanca. We had found a nice house with a pool and it was just around the corner from Pia’s new school. The house had a big wall around it, like all of the houses there. This was to prevent unwanted visitors from getting into your home. This was reassuring (?). Everyone on the street had a guard. We did not. We decided against this. As it was, our house came with a man who lived in the garage and took care of the grounds. His name was Hussein. We decided that Hussein was enough to make us feel protected. He knew all of the other guards on the street and they all looked out for each other. Before long, I realized that we were in good hands. They didn’t want anything to happen to us, either. We were their livelihood. Without us, they didn’t have a job.
What I would see when I left our house was a woman who was always sitting on the curb, waiting for a handout. I decided early on that I could not offer this woman anything. She was probably about 70 and she would look me in the eye every time
I drove out of my house. I wouldn’t make eye contact with her. She was too close to my house. I felt like it was like giving milk to a stray cat. If I started giving her money, she would never leave me alone. I faced this every day. I hated it.
Our neighborhood was one of the nicest in Casablanca. It was called "Californie". Regardless of the high standard, there was a shantytown right around the corner from our house. I found this unsettling. A stones throw from our front door, people were living in tents with no running water and there we were in these big houses with our help running around doing everything for us.
Once I would pass the shantytown, I would hit a light. If the light turned red, I would have a stream of people tapping on my window begging me for a coin. The same people were at the light every day and they all seemed to have their territory. They all held up their index finger indicating that they were asking for one dirham. I figured out that this equaled about 10 cents. Once I realized how little it was, I kept a pot of coins in my car and would spend the day handing out coins to as many people as I could in the city. It just became part of life. They would do everything to make you feel bad for them. They would bring a handicapped person in a wheelchair or a person who had some kind of deformity. I think they must have seen this as a gift from god. The worse the ailment was, the more pity they would receive and the more they could collect from the passersby.
The freakiest thing that I ever saw was a guy in his 40’s or so. He came up to my windshield when I was stopped at the light, He put his face right in front of my window. He showed me one side of his face and then quickly turned it to the other side where he was completely deformed. He looked like the elephant man. I will never get his face out of my head. One side was perfect and even attractive. The other side was something out of a horror movie. He knew how to use his face as a way to collect money. The first time I saw him I nearly screamed. The times that would follow I barely even blinked an eye.
After I'd pass the elephant man I would come to a light where there was a McDonald’s, stationed on the corner. The exit was just before the light. The entrance was just after the right at the light so you could easily go through the drive through and buy something for them to eat. At the exit to McDonalds, there would always be a family sitting there, hoping that someone would feed them. It was never the same family. They probably did a rotation amongst themselves. Often, I would go through the drive-through and order myself a drink so that I could pick up as many happy meals as I saw kids, along with a couple of sandwiches for the adults. They were always very grateful. It was difficult not to.
This situation is different than what I got used to in Europe. Where people begging in Europe is common, they tend to be the Roma (gypsies). It is their chosen lifestyle and it is a culture upon itself. Here, however, the people in Morocco are really poor. Destitute. They are not educated, they have absolutely no chance of making it. They are literally surviving. It is heartbreaking. The one saving grace in Morocco is that there is an abundance of food. The fruit and vegetables are amazing and there is more than enough to go around. Thanks to this, there does not seem to be much starvation in Morocco. There is always something to eat. There is a lot of generosity when it comes to handing out food. It still doesn’t help the fact that there are homeless people walking all over Morocco. A few dirham does go a long way in Morocco.
After the McDonalds, I would finally reach my final light where I'd be almost home. I'd made it through the jungle. At this particular light, there were always about 4 or 5 young boys running around with a spray bottle and a squeegee. Once the light turned red, they would run around to every car, hoping that someone would say yes to a windshield cleaning. When I'd first arrived, one of these boys looked right at me with the biggest smile and the brightest eyes. I nodded yes and he very efficiently cleaned my windshield. I reached into my little pot and grabbed a few coins. He was so grateful and bowed to say thank you. I took a liking to him. He knew how to work with his customers, he was engaged and worked very hard. There was a group of them but he stood out. He walked with pep and when he approached every car he made eye contact but kept his distance. He was not intrusive. I thought to myself, how strange to see all of these boys and this particular one just had it. He stood out. He was the smart one. I often thought that if he could just be taught how to read, he’d probably find a way to succeed in his life. He had absolutely no chance. This would be his life and nothing would ever change for him. As days went on, each time that I saw him I would give him a dollar or so’s worth of coins. I told him he didn’t have to clean my windshield. He always offered, I rarely said yes but I always gave him the money. He always thanked me with a big smile. He knew I had a special place for him. I sometimes wished that I could kidnap him and take him home to be taught. It would never be possible.
I also wondered what these young people thought. They were at an age where they were beginning to realize the world that they lived in. The younger ones are oblivious. These kids, in their early teens. What were they thinking? They saw people driving by, in their beautiful cars, kids in uniforms coming from school, running to play sports. Did they ever think, why can’t I do that? I really struggled with this. It was a clearly defined culture of us and them with very little in between. You are on one side or the other and there is next to no cross-over. It is an imbalance that was very difficult to understand.
THE MAN THAT LIVED IN OUR HOUSE - HUSSEIN
When we arrived at our house, we were greeted by a very kind man, named Hussein. Hussein did not speak French. He was able to say “bonjour, au revoir”, bonne nuit, merci, yes and no”. I think that was it. Somehow, despite this language barrier, he and I managed just fine. I did eventually learn a few words in Darija (this is the local Arabic dialect).
Husein lived in a little room that was at the end of the driveway. It is warm in Morocco so there is a lot of outdoor space. His room was just big enough for a single bed that looked like it was 100 years old. There was an old metal frame that looked like it would break at any minute. He was very happy because there was an old fridge that he managed to fit into the back corner of the room. He also had a t.v. and a Bunsen burner, which was how he cooked. He had a little metal grate that he put on top of the burner and this is where he put his pots. I offered to let him use our kitchen but he refused. He made couscous, stew, anything on this one little burner. I sometimes thought he ate better than I did. LOL
When we arrived, the landlord told us that we were responsible for paying him a monthly salary of 200 dollars and that we needed to feed him. Poor Hussein. I spent the first month cooking food for him. I probably scared him with my idea of a good meal. He very graciously accepted it every evening. I made sure that he had basics for his fridge and I was doing my best to live up to the deal we had made with the landlord. After a few weeks of this, the rental agent came by to show me a few things about the house. She was French but she spoke Darija. I took this opportunity to have a conversation with Hussein. She translated for me and I asked him all of the things I wasn’t able to, otherwise. It turned out that he preferred to cook for himself. He was so kind and was embarrassed to ask for a little money to buy his own food so that he could cook. He was very grateful for all of the meals I had offered him but at the same time, he preferred to do it by himself. He was embarrassed to ask but looked at me from under his cap to see if it was okay if we gave him 5 extra dollars a week to pay for his food. All of his meals. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for 5 dollars a week. I couldn’t believe it. A dollar a day. Of course, I said yes. This was no problem. On top of this, I would keep him stocked up on the essentials. His fridge was always full. I made sure he had milk, he loved tea and little chocolate puddings. Whenever I shopped for myself, I bought him stuff too. He was so nice and so helpful towards us that I only wanted to help. I figured if he didn’t want it, he could bring it home to his family.
On the day that the rental agent translated for us, I asked about his family. He told me that he had two children. She told me that he had a 17 years old daughter and a 6 years old son. As it was “back to school”, I went to the supermarket and loaded up on school supplies. I bought all kinds of cute things for his son. Spiderman pencils and erasers with cartoon characters on them. I was so proud of myself. I think I bought enough stuff to last the entire year. I came home and presented it to Hussein. He smiled and said thank you and quietly went into his room. I saw him sitting on his bed looking through the bag. He looked in the bag and gave me a big smile. I was happy to help. The following month, it was getting a bit chilly in Casablanca so I thought that maybe I should buy his kids a coat or something. I went into this reasonably priced store next to the supermarket. I bought a jacket and a polar fleece for his son and for his daughter, I bought a jacket and a couple of other items for winter.
Again, I came home and presented him with this stuff and he graciously took it and said thank you. He left for the weekend with the bag and I was so happy that he would have these jackets for his kids. The following Monday, a guy who worked for my husband (Omar) had stopped by the house to pick up something to bring to the office. At that moment, Hussein pulled Omar over and asked him to translate something for me. He appeared with the bag of clothes and explained something to Omar. Omar's head was pivoting around, looking at me, then at the bag, then at Hussein, then back at me. Finally, he said, “Hussein wants you to know that he is very grateful for all of these gifts. The only problem is that his son is 16. The jacket is a bit small”. Holy crap!!!!! I felt like such an idiot. Suddenly, all I could think of was the back-to-school stuff I’d bought. Spiderman! Ha, ha, ha. He must have thought I was nuts. The woman who translated for me understood 6 years old but he was 16. We laughed for a minute and Hussein was very embarrassed but I think that I was even more so. I immediately ran to get the receipt and told him if it wasn’t too complicated for him that he could go and exchange it for something else. Oops. Wrong again. Hussein didn’t have a car and he couldn't read. So, I went back and did my best to find something suitable for a 16-year-old boy. Who knows if they even used it? I have no idea. From then on, I didn’t buy things for his kids and I stuck to buying food. He would get very excited if I bought big bags of flour and sugar. In Morocco, you can buy 5-kilo bags of any grain. This, for his family, was the biggest help.
We finally figured it out and in the 2 years that I lived in the house, Hussein and I had a very nice relationship. We couldn’t talk too much but we had an understanding. It was nice and I really liked him.
Hussein worked 6 days a week and went home on Saturday nights at 5 o'clock. He was supposed to be back on Sunday evening. He never failed to show up. After a couple of months of this, I said to my husband that I thought he should at least come to the house on Monday mornings. He could come early enough to be there to help us open our garage doors (which were not electric). This was one of his jobs. Garage door opener. It was very useful, I assure you. He very happily agreed to this arrangement and more often than not, we started to tell him to go on Fridays. I didn’t see why he needed to stay for the whole weekend and be away from his family. He was very appreciative and quite honestly, I liked having the house to ourselves on the weekends. As nice as it is to have help, it sometimes feels intrusive. No matter how discrete these people will be. There is always someone there.
Hussein had a sweet deal. He had his little room and he had his own bathroom which was downstairs and outside. There was a shower and a Turkish toilet. There was a room off of that part of the house but I never went down there. I felt like it was his space and I had no need to go down there.
One of the last times I saw Hussein, it just happened to be before Ramadan. I had gone to the store with our cleaning lady and she helped me pick out food for all of them. I told her to buy everything that they needed for Ramadan. It was a lot. Mostly, the grains, big cans of tomato (to make Herrera soup). There was a full caddy for both of them. I could tell that the cleaner never shopped in the supermarket. That was a place for rich people. Anyway…..Hussein.
As there was so much stuff for Hussein to bring to the house I told him that I would drive him home. He could put everything in my car and off we’d go. He was very excited and was looking forward to introducing me to his family. I had no idea how he lived so didn’t know what to expect. He seemed so comfortable in our garage that I almost assumed that he was living in a shantytown. When we arrived, I was happy to see that he lived in an apartment building. The building was tucked away behind a long dirt path. We bounced our way down to it and his building was smack in the middle of a little shop on one side and an unfinished building on the other. Everyone looked and came out to greet him. His daughter came swiftly down to help bring things upstairs. They lived on the 3rd floor, with no elevator. I started grabbing things to bring up and they wouldn’t let me touch anything. I insisted and took a few light things up as there was no way that I was going to watch everyone huffing and puffing so that I could just walk up to the apartment like a princess. Lots of kids were running around the car. Of course, my car was a bit luxurious and they probably didn’t see cars like that often in their neighborhood. Just suffice it to say, that anyone in this neighborhood who was lucky enough to have a car was probably driving something from the ’70s with pieces missing. That was their luxury. Having a car was already a big deal. Many people in these neighborhoods still use donkey carts to get around. Hussein assured me that the car was safe ( I wasn’t worried) and off we went to meet his family. His wife was happily waiting. She had a smile from ear to ear and was so proud and happy to have me at their home. Hussien’s son was not there but his daughter, Hind, was there and she greeted me in French. Hussein was so proud that she could speak to me. Her French wasn’t perfect but it was definitely enough to get by. We took our shoes off at the door and I was given the grand tour. Upon entering there was a door to the right that led to the kitchen. We passed that and entered into a large room which was divided in two. A hallway in the middle and 2 open rooms on either side. Both sides had a big bench that went around in an L shape and there was a table. This is usually to divide the women and men. A bit further on, there were 2 bedrooms. One on the left, one on the right. We went into the one on the right. Here, I sat with Hind……………. She asked me many questions. She thanked me many times for all of the help I had given to their family. She told me about her job and how it was difficult to find work in Casablanca. She was so smiley. It was such a big deal for her to have me there. I enjoyed talking to her. She had a beautiful hijab that was very colorful. She looked like a picture of what you’d expect a Moroccan girl to look like. After we’d talked for a bit, we went back into the living room area and her Mom and Hussein motioned for me to have a seat. At this moment, the mother began to prepare the Moroccan mint tea. They had pulled out their nice tea ware. The daughter went into the kitchen and came out with two trays. One with bread and another with cookies. Then she went back to bring out one more tray of another kind of cookie. She had made everything. I was very impressed. So, Hussein’s wife poured me tea and I watched as if in slow motion as she raised the tea pot high into the air and let the hot tea find its way to the cup down below. It is how they pour here and no-one can tell me why. Once the tea was poured, they pushed all three plates in my direction and motioned for me to taste. I suddenly noticed that they were all just staring at me. Sitting still, with enormous smiles, hands folded nicely in their laps and waiting for my reaction. Once I’d had a sip of their tea and a taste of one of the treats, I asked if they’d be joining me and they said no. They wouldn’t eat in front of me. I was very embarrassed but did not want to insult them. I drank my tea and tried all of the different breads and cakes. They were all so good. This went on for about 10 minutes. Silence as they watched me eat. It was nuts. Once I’d finished and insisted that I couldn’t eat anymore, Hind took me into the kitchen. There she showed me a counter filled with tray after tray of cookies and other things that she was baking on that day. She told me that she did this every day. The kitchen was so basic. I think there was a counter that had a sink and a small space for working. They also had an oven and a fridge. That was it. With this little space she was baking up a storm and I looked at that and thought that this would be an amazing visit on a Moroccan tour. This was the real deal.
I finally had to go and we all said goodbye and they invited me to come back whenever I wanted. I would’ve loved to have come back. Unfortunately, I was moving and they didn’t know it. It broke my heart to think that they had no idea that this nice situation that we had together was coming to an end. I felt so guilty. Going to their house that afternoon was one of the nicest experiences that I had in Morocco. It was simple and very very real. It was a real look-see into the life of a very common family in Morocco.
The daughter and I had exchanged phone numbers the day that I was there. After a few months in Florida, I got in touch with her and asked how everyone was doing. I explained the situation and apologized to Hussein for not being able to say goodby to him. From that day on we have been sending occasional texts and photos. I do hope that one day I can say hello to them again.
None of them have ever left Casablanca. Just amazing. Another contrast.