Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca

Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca

by Tahir Shah

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In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems….

Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader.

With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it.

Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780553902310
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 01/31/2006
Sold by: Random House
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 368
Sales rank: 126,475
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Tahir Shah was born into an Anglo-Afghan family with roots in the mountain stronghold of the Hindu Kush. His ten books have chronicled a series of fabulous journeys. He lives with his wife and two children in Casablanca.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Two reeds drink from the same stream.
One is hollow, the other is sugarcane.
—moroccan proverb

There was a sdaness in the stillness of dusk. The cafe was packed with long-faced men in robes sipping black coffee, smoking dark tobacco. A waiter weaved between the tables, tray balanced on upturned fingertips, glass balanced on tray. In that moment, day became night. The sitters drew deep on their cigarettes, coughed, and stared out at the street. Some were worrying, others dreaming, or just sitting in silence. The same ritual is played out each evening across Morocco, the desert kingdom in Africa's northwest, nudged up against the Atlantic shore. As the last strains of sunlight dissipated, the chatter began again, the hum of calm voices breaking gently over the traffic.

The backstreet cafe in Casablanca was for me a place of mystery, a place with a soul, a place with danger. There was a sense that the safety nets had been cut away, that each citizen walked upon the high wire of this, the real world. I longed not merely to travel through it, but to live in such a city.

My wife, Rachana, who was pregnant, had reservations from the start. These were fueled all the more when I ranted on about the need for uncertainty and for danger. She said that our little daughter required a secure home, that her childhood could do without an exotic backdrop. I raised the stakes, promising a cook, a maid, an army of nannies, and sunshine--unending, glorious sunshine. Since moving from India eight years before, Rachana had hardly ever glimpsed the sun in the drab London sky. She had almost forgotten how it looked. I reminded her of what we were missing--the dazzle of yellow morning light breaking through bedroom curtains, the drone of bumblebees in honeysuckle, rich aromas wafting through narrow streets, where market stalls are a blaze of color, heaped with spices--paprika and turmeric, cinnamon, cumin and fenugreek. All this in a land where the family is still the core of life, where traditions die hard, and where children can grow up knowing the meaning of honor, pride, and respect.

I was tired of our meager existence and the paltry size of our apartment, where the warring couple next door plagued us through paper-thin walls. I wanted to escape to a house of serious dimensions, a fantasy inspired by the pages of The Arabian Nights, with arches and colonnades, towering doors fashioned from aromatic cedar, courtyards with gardens hidden inside, stables and fountains, orchards of fruit trees, and dozens and dozens of rooms.

ANYONE WHO HAS EVER tried to make a break from the damp English shores has needed a long list of reasons. I have often wondered how the pilgrims on the Mayflower ever managed to get away at all. Friends and family regard would-be escapees as crazed. Mine were no exception. At first they scoffed at my plan to move abroad, and when they realized I wasn't interested in the usual bolt-holes--southern France or Spain--they weighed in with fighting talk. They branded me as irresponsible, unfit to be a parent, a dreamer destined for failure.

The pressure to abandon my dream mounted. It became so great that I did almost back down. Then, one dreary winter morning, I passed a crowd of people on a central London street. An elderly man at the middle of the group was being wrestled to the ground by two police officers. He was dressed in business attire--pressed white shirt, silk tie, and three-piece suit, with a plump red carnation pinned to his lapel. In a bizarre display of eccentricity, he had taken off his trousers and was wearing his underpants on his head. The police, who were not amused, were busy cuffing the man's hands behind his back. A young woman nearby was screaming, begging the authorities to lock "the madman" up. As the man was bundled into an armored police van, he turned and shouted:

"Don't waste your life following others! Be individual! Live your dreams!"

The steel doors slammed, the vehicle sped away, and the crowd dispersed--all except for me. I stood there thinking over what I had seen, and what the supposed madman had said. He was right. Ours was a society of followers, trapped by an island mentality. I made a promise to myself right then. I would not be subdued by others' expectations. I would risk everything and leave the island, dragging my family with me. Together we would search for freedom, and for a land where we could be ourselves.

CASABLANCA'S EVENING RUSH OF traffic rivals any in its ferocity. But it has never been so wild as it was on the late spring day that I took possession of the Caliph's House. I had sat in the cafe all afternoon, waiting for the rendezvous with the lawyer. He had told me to come to his office at eight p.m. At seven fifty-five I pressed a coin to the tabletop, left the cafe, and crossed the street. I passed a glass-fronted hotel flanked by proud date palms. An empty tour bus stood outside it, a pair of donkey carts beside, each piled high with overripe fruit. A moment later I was climbing up the curved stairwell of a dilapidated Art Deco building. I rapped at an oak door on the third story. The lawyer opened it, greeted me stiffly, and led the way into his office.

There was an official-looking Arabic document on the desk. The lawyer ordered me to read it through.

"I don't know Arabic," I said.

"Then you'd better just sign it," he replied, glancing at a gold Rolex on his wrist.

He handed me a Mont Blanc. I signed the paper as instructed. The lawyer stood up and slid a hefty iron key across the desk.

"You are a very brave man," he said.

I paused for a moment to look him in the eye. He didn't flinch. I lifted the key. As I did so, I was knocked to the floor by the force of a violent explosion. The windows blew inward, shattering with spectacular energy, sending a hailstorm of glass through the office. Deafened, covered in broken glass, and confused, I struggled to my feet. My legs were shaking so badly that I had trouble standing. The impeccably dressed legal man was crouched beneath his desk, as if he had previous experience of this kind. He rose silently, dusted the glass from his shoulders, straightened his silk tie, and opened the door for me to leave.

Out on the street, people were screaming, running in all directions, fire alarms shrieking, police sirens wailing. There was blood, too. Lots of it, strewn across faces and over slashed clothing. I was too shaken to be of any use to the injured, who were now streaming from the glass-fronted hotel. As I observed them in slow motion, a small red taxi pulled up fast. The driver was calling desperately from the passenger window:

"Etranger! Monsieur etranger!" he yelled. "Come quickly, it's dangerous for the foreigners!" I clambered in and he swung the wheel, hurling us into the slipstream of traffic.

"It's bombers, suicide bombers," he said, "they're going off across Casablanca!"

The red Peugeot slalomed westward, out of the center of town. But my mind was not on the traffic, the bombs, or the blood. Rather, it was on my wife, at home in London. I could see the news flash tearing over the TV screen, and her clutching our toddler to her very pregnant belly. I felt sure she would now be in no mood to embrace a new culture and a dream. She had been fearful of Morocco's Islamic society, especially in light of Al Qaeda's September 11 attacks and the second Gulf conflict, which had toppled Saddam Hussein only days before. But it was too late to turn back. The money had been paid, the documents signed, stamped once, and stamped again.

In my hands was the key: a symbol of the future or, perhaps, of a deranged purchase. I stared down at it, taking in the ancient iron notches, cursing myself for having courted danger so openly. At that moment, the driver slammed on the brakes.

"We have arrived!" he exclaimed.

MY REASONS FOR MOROCCO were many. They were endless, and began a long time ago. Throughout my own childhood, my father, who was an Afghan, had wanted to take us to his homeland. But the nation's enduring wars prevented us from ever venturing to the lofty mountain strongholds of Afghanistan. So, from the time we could walk, my sisters and I were frequently bustled into the family station wagon, vinyl cases laden high on the roof. Our gardener would drive us from the dull, serene lanes of the English countryside, through France and Spain, and up into Morocco's High Atlas Mountains.

For my father it was a chance to reveal to his children fragments of his own homeland. We found a tapestry of mountain passes and steep-sided valleys, of deserts and oases and imperial fortress cities, a culture bound by the tribal codes of honor and respect. For my mother, it was an opportunity to snap up all manner of bargains, from caftans to candlesticks, and to order the delirious heaps of hippies home to their own mothers far away.

We would spend weeks at a time trundling through the mountains, and driving down to the soaring dunes of the Sahara, where the "blue men" traipsed in from the desert, their dark skin dyed by indigo robes. There would be regular breaks to throw up in the bushes, to gorge ourselves on cactus fruit, and to trade our pocket money for chips of amethyst at the quarries in the hills.

My earliest memories are of the great walled city of Fes. Cobbled lanes no wider than a barrel's length, dimly lit and bewitching, where street-side stalls sold anything you could ever wish to buy. There were mountains of spices and fresh-cut herbs--saffron, aniseed, paprika--pickled lemons and mounds of gleaming olives; small cedar boxes inset with camel bone; fragrant leather sandals and terracotta pots; rough Berber rugs, golden caftans, amulets and talismans.

By far my favorite corner of the souq was where the black magicians would go to buy ingredients for their spells. The walls of those shops were hung with cages. In them were live chameleons, cobras, salamanders, and forlorn-looking eagles. There were cabinets, too, made from battered Burma teak, their drawers brimming with dried whale skin, the hair of dead men, and other such things, so my father said.

Morocco had brought color to my sanitized English childhood, which was more usually cloaked in itchy gray flannel shirts and corduroy shorts, acted out beneath an overcast sky. The kingdom had always been a place of escape, a place of astonishing intensity, but, beyond all else, a place with a soul. With a young family of my own, I regarded it as my duty, my responsibility, to pass on the same gift to my children--a gift of cultural color. It would have been far easier to have given in and not to have made the great escape from the island's shores. But something deep inside me goaded me on: a sense that if I did not seize the moment, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

There was another strong reason for Morocco--my father's father. He spent the last years of his life in a small villa near the seafront in Tangier. When his beloved wife died at just fifty-nine, he was broken. Unable to bear the memories, he moved to Morocco because they had never traveled there together. One morning while walking the usual route down the hill, from Cafe France back to his home, he was struck by a reversing Coca-Cola truck. Unconscious and bleeding, he was rushed to the hospital, where he died hours later. I was too small then to even remember him, but I felt a sadness all the same.

WE SEARCHED MOROCCO FOR months, desperate to find a house where my delusions of grandeur could run wild. Our starting point was Fes, undoubtedly Morocco's greatest jewel. It is the only medieval Arab city that remains entirely intact. Walking through the labyrinth of streets that make up the vast medina is like stepping into The Thousand and One Nights. The smells, sights, and sounds bombard the senses. A stroll of a few feet can be an overwhelming experience. For centuries, Fes was a place of impressive wealth, a center of scholarship and trade. Its houses reflect a confidence in Arab architecture almost never seen elsewhere, their decor profiting from a line of apprentices unbroken for a thousand years. We found the alleyways of the old city teeming with workshops where the traditional skills of metalwork and leather tanning, of mosaic design, weaving, ceramics, and marquetry, were still transferred from father to son.

By chance we were taken to a large merchant's house on the northern edge of the old city. It had been constructed in the grand Fasi style and dated back at least four hundred years. Six cavernous salons were clustered around a central courtyard, each one adorned with mosaic friezes, the floors laid with slabs of marble hewn from the Middle Atlas Mountains. Around the courtyard, columns towered up to the sky, and at its center stood a lotus-shaped fountain crafted from the finest alabaster. High on an adjacent wall was a modest glassless window, veiled by a wooden filigree screen, a lookout point from what once would have been the harem.

The man showing off the building was a kebab seller with contacts. He said it had been empty for just a handful of years. I balked at the remark--the place was in need of desperate repair. It looked to me as if it had been abandoned for at least half a century.

"In Morocco," said the kebab seller with a smile, "an empty house invites the wicked."

"You mean thieves?"

The man shook his head violently.

"Not wicked people," he said, "wicked forces."

At the time, I had no idea what the agent meant. Brushing his comment aside, I began at once negotiating for the house. The problem was that it was owned by seven brothers, each one more avaricious than the last. Unlike the West, where a property is either for sale or it is not, in Morocco, it can be in the twilight zone of realty--possibly for sale, possibly not. Before even getting to the price, you must first coax the owners to sell. This coaxing phase is an Oriental feature, no doubt brought to the region by the Arabs as they swept across North Africa fourteen centuries ago. As you sit over glasses of sweet mint tea, cajoling madly, the vendors look you up and down, inspecting the craftsmanship of your clothing and the stitching of your shoes. The better the quality of your attire, the higher the price is likely to be.

I must have been too well dressed on the morning of my meeting with the seven ghoulish brothers who owned the merchant's house. After four hours of coaxing, cajoling, and quaffing gallons of mint tea, they agreed in principle to a sale. Then they spat out a fantasy price and narrowed their eyes greedily. My bargaining skills were undeveloped. I should have stayed, sucked down more tea, and bargained through the afternoon and into the night. But instead I leapt up and ran out into the labyrinth, cursing. In doing so, I had broken the first rule of the Arab world--never lose your cool.

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Caliph's House 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 27 reviews.
SphinxFeathers More than 1 year ago
I read this book shortly after a trip to Morocco, and it's wonderful! The descriptions are poetic and the hustle and bustle is so true to the country. I also liked the illustrations and the sayings Shah included in the book. Life leaps off these pages and soaks into the reader. I've recommended this book so many times and I will continue to do so for years to come.
Guest More than 1 year ago
What fun and joy this book brings to the reader. Adventures and calamities galore. All delivered with love and sensitivity on the part of the author.A lovely story about just doing it!A wonderful armchair travel escape book. Can't wait for more from Tahir.
akeela on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In an attempt to realise his "delusions of grandeur", Shah moves to Morocco with his family of four, from London, buys an expansive house set on an acre of ground and starts renovating it to make it more habitable. Apparently the house had been vacant for ages. This delightful memoir spans the year of renovations and of coming-to-terms with the sometimes outlandish customs of the locals. This was well-written and very entertaining!
varielle on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Anyone who has ever taken on the challenge of remodeling an older home will shake their head in wonder at the fortitude of Tahir Shah in facing the monumental task of modernizing a rambling, but beautiful old wreck on the edge of a slum in Casablanca. Even more astonishing was his wife's patience with this never-ending, jinn plagued task. He left his London flat with his wife and two small children to live in his future dream home (read money pit). No matter the culture, carpenters, masons, plumbers and the rest of that lot share a universal brotherhood that could drive the sanest home owner mad. Shah eventually surrenders his western attitudes and relaxes into the wheeling-dealing world that is Morocco.
debnance on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Tahir Shah wearies of London and its safe banality. He finally convinces his pregnant wife to buy a disaster of a mansion in Morocco and relocate there with their young daughter. From the beginning, their adventure feels doomed. Cats are found hanging by ropes from trees, strangled. The next door neighbor is the mysterious head of the Casablanca Mafia. Renovation efforts are led by a team of workers who can¿t seem to complete anything. Everyone seems to believe in diabolical jinns, spirits who live in the mansion and who appear to want the family to abandon the house. Banality starts looking better and better to Tahir.
allison.sivak on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Reading Shah's other books, I thought he was a very together, maverick, confident man. But this read as obsessive, and manic. Maybe those are the traits that would allow someone to try and dive into other cultures and lands the way Shah has.
soylentgreen23 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Tahir Shah quits the comfortable convenience of London with his wife and young children, and buys a beautiful, but run-down, estate in Casablanca. The book is about his first year's experiences in Casablanca, and is a more gruelling "Year in Provence."I struggled through parts of the book. I found the story to be captivating, but when a writer describes a difficult experience well, it can prove to be a difficult reading experience too, and I certainly found that to be the case. Shah's writing style was also sometimes distracting - he has a tendency to run from one topic to another, keeping each story ultrashort, when perhaps it would have been better had he kept to one issue at a time and explored each more fully.Still, a really worthwhile read for the insights it offers into Moroccan living.
aahlvers on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The Caliph's House: A Year In Casablanca by Shah is a humorous look at the Moroccan people and culture from an outsider's perspective. Shah does a great job at presenting the humor and affection for the culture when describing disastrous moments (of which there were many) as well as the every day details about his new home. I love these kind of books where expatriate are offered advice by a series of well intentioned but ultimately baffling local residents.
Stevejm51 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Tahir Shah's memoir is a fascinating glimpse into the every day life of an family living in a rundown mansion in Casablanca. Tired of the dull gray life of London, Shah buys a rambling home and moves his family into one of the mansion's rooms. He contracts with architects and artisans to renovate the house, but the presence of spirits, or Jinns, makes even the most simple job complicated. There is humor on every page as Shah struggles to understand life in Morocco.
teaperson on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Quite the home renovation project from heck. In Morocco, the author finds that you can't get workmen, you need to buy supplies from them on the black market, and they never finish. But he tells it with British good humor. I was slightly annoyed at first that the author's move to Casablanca seemed designed mainly to produce a travel book, not for any other reason. But I got caught up in the great characters he met, and genuinely got a better sense of parts of life in Morocco.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I very much enjoyed the book and I feel like it prepared me for my travels to Morocco for this upcoming spring.
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