Street Carts of Morocco: Catering to the locals (MOROCCO - part 2 of 3)

The sights and smells of fresh baked bread and griddle-fried blankets of dough fill the early morning maze of the Ancient Medina of Casablanca. The souk or "marketplace,"most cities will have at least one, are gritty and tightly packed with vendors of cheap, colorful Western goods. (Think Chinatown crammed into half the space). Sunlight passes through gaps in the plastic tarps hung as makeshift shelters between storefronts. The counters of bakeries and minimarts spill over with the traditional Moroccan rolls; thick, flat wheels of essentially French bread (French domination from 1912 through WWII to Moroccan independence in 1965). The souks are mainly a marketplace for durable goods and raw ingredients: spice mosaics, raucously flapping chickens, and fresh produce. Despite the large gathering of individuals in a central location, restaurants and even small eateries are only sporadically dotted amongst the other shops.

After winding through a decent portion of Casablanca's souk, I passed by a legitimate street vendor doling out slivers of (cornmeal?) cake from a shallow, round tin steamer. 180-degrees heel turn brought me face-to-face with the man's simple operation. He and his small rickety pushcart were temporarily stationed in an unremarkable corner while he carved out breakfast for a middle-aged woman, swathed in dark draping cloths. I was sorely conflicted to try some but felt hindered by the absurdly large bills I had just withdrawn from the ATM minutes ago, and also by the cultural intimacy of the transaction of which I was observing and intruding upon. The cake bridged a consistency between semi-soft and firm polenta and perfumed the air with an intensely rich scent of sweet butter and dairy.

Beyond the boundaries of the souk, continuing our tour on the streets of Casablanca, we ran into another similar enterprise. This cart, nearly identical in appearance and functionality to polenta-man's, featured a one-item menu of boiled chickpeas sprinkled with a fragrant spice mixture, of which I'm positive contained cumin. A large slotted spoon scooped a generous load of steaming chickpeas into a plastic bag followed by several shakes of the seasoning.

A MOBILE OPERATION
Polenta-man appeared as taken-aback by my sudden interest in his business as I felt suddenly plopped down in North Africa. My presence startled him enough to stop serving his awaiting customer and contemplate me, contemplating him. All eyes suddenly turned towards me, and the vendor seemed warily confused as I edged forward for a closer view into his steamer. Truly mobile street vendors such as Polenta-man and Chickpea-man serve a distinctly local consumer base. Their food is unapologetically basic and cheap, a few ingredients thrown together as a quick in-between-meal ration in exchange for a few coins. My near-miss encounter with Polenta-man (despite my street food mindset) demonstrated how easily overlooked these simple snacks are to tourists and Westerners, even middle-class natives.

Street vendors have historically been known to move continuously throughout the day in search of customers or perhaps in avoidance of the local police. The men pushed their carts loaded with ingredients, serving and eating-wares, cooking vessels etc. until hailed by a hungry truck driver or laborer. Over three days, I ran into another chickpea seller in Marrakech, a total of three street carts. Unless one knows where to look, the portable nature of these operations make them difficult to come across. Another form of Moroccan street vending were stationary table vendors providing nutritious grab-and-go lunches of bread stuffed with hardboiled eggs, canned tuna, olives, and mayonaise.

ORGANIZATION AMIDST TOURISM
Certain lineages of street vending have blossomed into touristic enterprises in Morocco, namely in Marrakech's major market-square, Djemaa el Fna. Upon entering the largest plaza in all of Africa (if you're not immediately overwhelmed by its vastness, you will be by the cobra charmers and monkey trainers who sidle over to lay their "tamed"creatures across your shoulders and demand money for the unsolicited joyride), I ran into a few dozen identical stalls of fresh orange juice and bulk nuts and dried fruit vendors grouped together in blocks of five or six vendors. The stalls are designed in a circus style complete with false wooden wheels, canopy facade, and gaudy, flaking paint. A small placard labeled with an identification number 1 through 40+ dangle from above the vendor's head. Number 8, a young man with a childishly disarming grin waved us over and squeezed out a citrus blend of Moroccan oranges, grapefruit, lemon, and possibly mandarins in record time. One twenty ounce glass rid me of three bulky dirham coins (33 cents) and was delicious. The ruby-coral hued liquid was inexplicably fresh, perfectly blended, and sweetly rounded. Unlike his peers, #8 was friendly without being harassing and I walked away with the plan to revisit later in the afternoon for an interview and another glass of OJ. As if Spain had not offered enough of a lesson, I returned a few hours later to discover that #8 was replaced by #8b. Through a series of mocking gestures and an uncomfortable dialogue, I pieced together that the vendors rotate shifts throughout the day with probably two daytime shifts (including OJ and candied nuts or dried fruit), before the evening cooking shift appears. The highly structured organization of the market's transactions was fascinating to come across after the mainly informal street food of Casablanca.

* photo of #8 OJ to come.

A NECESSITY FOR RECYCLING?
(A final observation from my Moroccan eats.)
Forms of recycling are present in the absence of cheap disposable materials that fuel our on-the-run lifestyles in America. Paper cups with their "recycled"cardboard holders stand in for authentic glassware or mugs. Overlooking an aesthetic appreciation or the implications of paperware on our social interactions, the simple act of using durable eating-ware be it spoon, bowl, cup etc. plays a role in conserving resources and reducing waste.

We toasted our final meal in Casablanca with bottles (not cans) of soda. While paying for our food, our cashier gestured that we could not take away the bottles, they would be refilled with soda and sold again at a later time. Noting the disappointing in our faces from nearly securing a cheap, Arabic-inscribed Coke bottle for a souvenir the owner allowed us to walk away with the bottles for the equivalent of a CRV of 1 dirham (or about 11 cents USD). The soda itself, or I suppose the liquid inside, only cost 6 dirham. (Incidentally there is a controversy in Arab countries over the multinational domination of the beverage industry by Coca-Cola. Small, though growing competitors are fighting back with an independent brand of Cola. I was half-asleep to escape the pangs of seasickness while watching this (a BBC production for those interested) so someone may want to fact-check me.

Other recycled dining ware I used included a ceramic bowl of fresh unpasteurized yogurt and metal spoon that the baker wrapped up in a brown paper bag for me to take "togo"as long as I promised to return it to him later that day. Orange juice in Marrakech was also served in hefty IKEA glasses.

Street cart foods were "packaged"in disposable plastic bags or square of paper.

If for nothing else, I must return for the chickpeas, and perhaps another glass of OJ with the first #8.