Morocco, day eleven: Casablanca

My room at the Hotel Astrid is wonderful. I have my own little balcony and a bathroom with an Italian shower that has proper pressure. The bed is firm, to my liking, and generally everything is in order, except for the potato internet, which leaves a little to be desired.

Breakfast was not included in the room, but I ordered it anyway for thirty-something dirhams and contemplated my plans over coffee and some other yums. It was a short contemplation, as there were only two things on my list: get some washing done, and see the Hassan II Mosque. 

The first task was relatively easy as there is a small pressing two streets away from the hotel, where a week's laundry was taken care of on my behalf for 80 dirhams. For the luxury of not having to do my own washing, I was quite happy with this. For the second task, I was assured by the man in the hotel that the mosque is easy to find (to be fair, you really can't miss it) and his instructions concurred with Google Maps, which were essentially "go along this road; you can't miss it."

On reflection, I should probably have taken an InDrive or a little red taxi, because it was a three-kilometre walk in the sun, but it was at least a walk that allowed me to see bits of Casablanca that would only have blurred past a window had I not. Google suggested my best bet was to walk along the boulevards of Paris and Bordeaux, bear right on the rue d’Asny and then continue walking until I couldn't miss it. 

The walk was an experience. I had not walked far through the slightly grubby colonial French architecture, when it became apparent I'd reached the point where the French had discovered the shisha, given up imposing Haussmann onto the locals, and subsequently buggered off in a Renault 4L for a spot of Sidi Brahim on the beach. It quickly turned to run-down single-storey buildings, with vehicles seemingly parked but possibly abandoned everywhere. If I'd been better organised, I could have walked through the old Medina, but I wasn't and therefore I didn't.

Student messaged me to say he was at the Marina Shopping mall, so I diverted there past Rick's Café, for a quick mint tea and a packet of plasters, before we walked the few minutes to the mosque. It is true that you can't miss it, as it is a massive edifice, and its minaret – at 210 metres – is literally a beacon with lasers that point towards Mecca, perhaps because from the ground it is not possible really to determine which way the crescent is pointing. Of course neither I nor Puppet were allowed in, but Student popped in to grab a few photos on my behalf, while I hung around at the entrance like a lemon chatting to the security guards. 

I learned that there are scheduled tours for the impure, three in the morning and one in the afternoon. I shall contemplate this, because on principle I baulk even at the idea of places of worship charging people to enter, so I remain unconvinced that I shall go inside.

However, that is not to diminish the experience I had even from the outside, which is stunning. I was allowed to peek in through the door and take some photographs, so long as most of me remained behind the red line. I was treated to the most beautifully melodic call to prayer I have ever heard, played from speakers way up in the sky, so that the call echoes around the city. There is no throat-clearing or tapping of microphones to be heard here. It was all surprisingly moving, really, and it all felt wonderfully serendipitous that I should hear and see it all at the same time, but I couldn't help wondering what motivated someone to such overt expense, right next to some areas that looked as if they would have better benefited from a few hundred million dollars. 

Student and I had a game of "spot the tourist" – oh the irony – and it became apparent some people have an egregious interpretation of what "modest attire" might be. To add insult to injury, they were photographing it in an increasingly pouty series of influencer poses that were not really befitting of the place, but I might just be getting old. It was decided we'd seen enough mosque and influencing for one day, and that it was time to hop into a little red taxi, after some trouble getting one, to the Arab League Park where it was nice to relax after my first proper urban taxi experience.

Casablanca's traffic situation is manic, but I have learned to trust it for the most part as most of the Sanderos appear to be in one piece. I have, in fact, been reading a little about how to drive in Morocco, and one of the things I've learned is that the French did not leave priorité à droite here, as I thought and that everything is, on paper anyway, priority from the left. That is, unless you're coming from the right and reckon you've a shot at executing your manoeuvre flawlessly and without causing consternation, and even that's not going to stop you trying. Some official guidance I read suggested people be “the person who gives way", but having observed the driving, it's likely that's one way of never getting much further than the first stop sign.

When moving, the trick appears to be to drive as close to the middle of the road as possible because that's where there's the most road, obviously, changing lanes only to avoid oncoming traffic – also in the middle of the road – or to undertake traffic driving in the middle of the road at a speed not to your liking. Should you see anything, stationary or otherwise, beep at it until it either does something or stops doing whatever it is doing, or beeps back. Should a pedestrian have the blind faith required to cross the road in front of you, beep cheerily at it but be prepared to slow down or swerve at the last moment lest it impede your passage or damage your paintwork. Beep more if this is the case.

If someone else has priority, beep at them rhythmically to remind them that if they weren't there, you would have priority, and then try to exercise your priority anyway, beeping angrily if you fail. Should the traffic stop moving for whatever reason – traffic lights, pile-ups, policemen – hold your hand on the horn until traffic starts moving again, or your hand gets tired – in which case beep a series of shorter beeps with the other hand until you regain the strength to maintain a longer beep. At all times, keep at least one hand on your mobile phone so you don't drop it, or if the passenger looks nervous, put it on the carpeted dashboard that references a Dacia different to the one you're driving. Keep the other hand on the horn. Where possible, ensure the seat covers on the back seat hinder access to the seat belt anchoring points, for the amusement of your passengers. If you have been in a collision, cover up any minor damage with masking tape, and repair any major damage with masking tape. 

Be sure to test your horn every few metres, in case you need to use it.

The thing is that it works, which is quite surprising. I'm also surprised at how easy it appears to be to drive a moped between two cars without having to slow down, or put your foot on the ground, but I wouldn't want to be on one. As far as cars are concerned, and despite the illusion of it all being random and terrifying, it's all quite well choreographed and remains somewhat courteous and doesn't feel aggressive like driving in Paris, for example, where everyone's just resentful that other people have the audacity to be using the roads.

But it is random and terrifying.

The Arab League Park is a 30-acre park built in 1913 in the centre of the city by a French architect, where it is possible to sit and relax in the shade of a palm tree and watch people doing all manner of park activities. Originally named Parc Lyautey in honour of the first French résident général in Morocco, it was renamed the Arab League Park after independence in 1955.

From there it was a short walk back to my hotel, where Student waited for me as I dashed to the pressing to collect my washing, everything beautifully folded and presented to me sealed in plastic. I felt most decadent indeed as the man wrapped my ironed linen trousers in super-thin paper, then handed the whole to me, and set me on my way. I wasn't sure whether 80 dirhams was steep or not, but as it's not much more than I'd pay to use the launderette in France which I'd have to do myself, I thought it was worth every penny for the experience.

In the evening, I walked into a combination of gin joints – which both felt a little naughty.