Street Economies In The Heart of Casablanca’s Night
Sound and smells
It’s 8 pm, and my fieldwork in Casablanca city center is about to start. I leave my flat, and I make my way to the Avenue Abou Bakr El Kadiri. I lean on the bus station pole stop, watching cars pass by. Waiting for a cab, a big taxi as it is called in Casablanca, one of those that shorten the distances between cities. I need a white taxi to get to the city, one of those marked with teal-blue checkered stripes along the sides. A few minutes pass, a few minutes trying to stop a car with my hand, with little success. After many tries, I managed to stop a car! It has a clear “TAXI” sign on its roof, and now I know all my efforts paid off. Learning taxi signs in Morocco is like learning a second language: each direction has its own hand gesture. Tonight I go to the Medina, so I lift my hand, silently summoning the passing taxis. My index finger moves slowly to the right, pointing out the way. The car stops, and I jump in after briefly talking to the driver. The radio crackles with modern pop music, and the noises become the music of the city.
After 35 minutes, the taxi reaches the Station de Taxi Opera. Many other taxis are waiting for passengers. The line of white cars is filled with noise, drivers talking to each other over the constant radio chatter. The inactivity I witness is unusual. On regular days, there are long lines of people waiting for big taxis to pick them up, and the rides never stop.
It is 8:40 pm. I walk along Boulevard Hassan I. The pavement is wet, dirty, faintly reflective, with patches of light trembling under passing cars. My steps are regular, almost mechanical. The rain never really stopped today, it dissolved into a fine mist that hangs in the air and settles on skin, clothes, and surfaces. The city feels saturated, slowed down, as if caught between movement and suspension.
The Boulevard is under the spell of the night. I can only see parked cars; my pace is no longer steady, it’s more rushed. I still find the quiet of the night strange and uneasy. As I reached Place Maréchal, I let out a quiet sigh as people moved slowly across the square, their pace unhurried. Recently, the municipality opened what is now called Parc Hypercentre of Casablanca. Only a month ago, it was closed, surrounded by metal barriers. Now it opens onto the street, with benches and tall lantern poles casting light across the space. This new lighting offers reassurance. As it colonizes the space, it renders it livable, an environment conducive to slow, aimless walks. The metal benches are less occupied than usual, the dewy rain making them easier to avoid, while the softly glistening trees reflect the light from the poles..
As I reach Place des Nations-Unies, there are no longer buses at the station. They usually finish at 9 pm, so it is not surprising. Even though it’s just 8:40 pm, the few buses still in circulation are already full. There is a quiet tension, as if people are afraid of not making it before the 9 pm deadline, of being left behind.
At the corner of Rue Félix et Max Guedj and Boulevard Hassan II, Café Rotterdam emerges into view, its presence cutting through the damp evening. This landmark takes over the corner of the street. The façade reflects a colonial design that still marks the street. The café is not just a place, it is a pause in the flow of movement, occupied mostly, if not almost entirely, by men.I could hear their chatter, as they usually sit in groups; it is an ideal place for socializing. The light flicks from the cafes’ signs, reflecting off the wet concrete in blue, red, and purple. A few steps from the café, small shops selling Moroccan flatbread emerge, their stalls layered with semolina loaves and folded m’semen pancakes; the clash of light between shop and café crystallizes into a tangible fragment of atmosphere.
I make my way to the tramway station. It runs early in the morning and stops at 11 pm. I look to my right and to my left to make sure the rails are empty. As I continue walking, I pass women selling Briouats, their trays of sweet and savory pastries folding into my memories of earlier (younger) nights. The smell of fava beans, seafood, and deep-fried dough drifts from nearby stalls, thickening the air and settling onto bodies, clothes, and passing gestures. Arranged on plastic trays and covered in cellophane to preserve their warmth, the food emits a quiet, persistent heat that radiates into the surrounding space. The women tap the stall with a metal handle, a sharp, percussive gesture designed to draw attention. Their voices follow, rising in repetition, “Briouat, Briouat, Briouat…,” a call that threads itself into the surrounding atmosphere.
Read the field narrative here Chaimaa_Aït_Elkadi
ORCID: 0009-0000-3278-950X
Chaimaa Ait El Kadi est doctorante en sociologie à l’Université Hassan II de Casablanca- FLSHAC, et affiliée au Laboratoire de recherche sur les différenciations socio-anthropologiques et les identités sociales. Ses recherches portent sur l’informalité et les pratiques urbaines nocturnes. Elle prépare actuellement une thèse sur l’économie informelle à Casablanca à travers le cas des gardiens de voitures nocturnes. Publication (lien vers l’article servir by night)
OpenEdition vous propose de citer ce billet de la manière suivante :
gregam (6 mai 2026). Street Economies In The Heart of Casablanca’s Night. Groupe de recherche et d'études sur le genre au Maroc. Consulté le 10 mai 2026 à l’adresse https://doi.org/10.58079/166o0


