Okay, so I was digging through some old travel notes the other day, and it got me thinking about a trip to Casablanca quite a few years back. It wasn’t about the big sights, you know, not the Hassan II Mosque this time, but something smaller, kinda stuck in my memory.
I remember sitting in this small café, away from the main tourist drag. It was hot, dusty, the usual Casablanca vibe which I kinda love. I got talking to this older gentleman sitting nearby. We were just killing time, watching the world go by. His French was way better than mine, but we managed.
Hearing the Name
Somehow, we got onto the topic of how the city had changed. He started telling stories, rambling a bit like old guys do. And then he mentioned a place, he called it something like “Camp du Marzhen“. My French isn’t perfect, so maybe I got the name slightly wrong, but that’s how I remember it.
He didn’t say much about what it was, more like where it used to be. Near the port area, he gestured vaguely. He talked about people coming and going, times being tough. It wasn’t a long story, just a fragment, really. But the name stuck with me. Camp du Marzhen. It sounded… well, it sounded like a story.
Trying to Find It (Sort Of)
Later that day, I walked around the port area, trying to see if anything clicked. You know, just exploring. Asked a couple of shopkeepers if they knew the name. Blank stares mostly. One guy thought I meant a market, maybe “Marché Central”? But no, the name the old man used was different. It felt more specific, maybe historical?
- Walked around the old port streets.
- Asked a few locals.
- Looked at my basic tourist map – nothing.
Honestly, I didn’t try that hard. It wasn’t like a treasure hunt. It was more the feeling the name gave me. Like one of those little footnotes in a city’s history that doesn’t make it into the guidebooks. Maybe it was a temporary settlement back in the day, maybe something colonial, maybe just the old man’s personal name for a spot long gone. Who knows?
The thing is, I never found out what “Camp du Marzhen” really was. Maybe it doesn’t even exist or didn’t exist exactly like that. But it’s funny how a little snippet of conversation, a name you half-hear in a noisy café, can stick with you for years.
It just reminds me how cities like Casablanca are layered. Full of stories you just stumble upon, or maybe mishear, but they become part of your experience of the place anyway. It’s not always about ticking boxes off a list, sometimes it’s just about listening and wondering.
So, yeah. That’s my little non-adventure about Camp du Marzhen in Casablanca. Just a memory triggered by old notes. Makes me want to go back and just sit in more cafes, you know?
