Postcard from Morocco

Wednesday September 13th 2006

Helen Copperman

It's 8am and we set out for our twice-weekly walk. We leave our semi-detached villa and turn the corner. Immediately the scene changes from uniform, well-kept houses to two strata of society face to face. The left continues the same, but the right is just a line of shacks, one of three ranged round our block. These homes are cobbled together with anything the inhabitants can lay their hands on: corrugated steel held down by stones, hardboard, plastic sheeting, old cooking-oil jars. Many have cemented walls and some a pirate satellite dish.

A few metres further on we pass the communal water area. Today there are a few women and small children, who are entrusted with empty bottles to fill, and a grazing donkey. The women all have their heads covered, not with the public scarf, tied under the chin, but the working scarf, twisted around the head and knotted on top. Their skirts are hoisted for practicality, while they remain modestly covered by pyjama layers underneath. They are hard at work, washing clothes, dishes and children. The children offer their usual "bonjour", giggling and turning away shyly.

Many of the men work as local guards. Two men will share a week-long rota, 12 hours a day each, and their territory can vary from a private house to part or all of a street. Their sentry boxes are roughly the size of those outside Buckingham Palace. They usually have a padded bench, a gas burner and a curved Moroccan teapot, dishes, bedding, toiletries, etc. Some are brightly painted in the national colours, but most are white, blending with the high garden walls, overhung with bougainvillea and hibiscus.

Along the streets these guardians congregate to chat, sit, play cards, squat round a pot of mint tea and most important, at least in theory, keep an eye on their allocated properties.

The surveillance element of the job is somewhat in question. Last month a neighbour's car was broken into and the CD player taken. There isn't much crime here, so it was a little odd for it to have happened in view of the three guardians within a 50m distance.

Towards the seafront the parking meter men, in bright blue overalls and red badges, survey their regulation patch of road. It's not that there are no parking meters in Casa, but it seems to be another example of job creation. Cars park in deserted streets under their careful instruction whether it's wanted or not. Drivers are often steered slowly and carefully into the car behind. The director of operations then relinquishes any responsibility, yet still expects his dirham on your departure. If cars try to leave without paying, a trail of meter men follow in their wake, in full hue and cry.

Next is the 17-screen cinema complex. Rarely full, it dominates the seafront. Along the Corniche the wealthy and leisure-rich predominate, power-walking, going to sports clubs, lounging in cafes and later nightclubs. There is a European, Mediterranean feel - apart, that is, from the female walkers covered head to foot in designer tracksuits and trainers. Their branded baseball caps secure scarves, allowing only the eyes to show. It's nor clear if this is for reasons of religious conviction, or health and beauty. This city raises questions that it doesn't always answer.

Photograph: Judith Thomas

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