Casablanca. The White House. Home of the feared Raja Casablanca, recent winner of the African and coached by the infamous Frenchman Patrice Carteron, and the fierce rivals of Wydad Casablanca. The legend of the city born from the passion of its supporters.
Far from the madness from the stands of Mohammed V Stadium, where flares are kings, peaceful playgrounds in the district of El Hank, concrete pitches live in the middle of the blocks. Heart of the hood for the local kids, these football grounds act as a stage of expression surrounded by a concrete jungle. Perfectly integrated into the landscape, they offer a unique perspective on the permanent activity. In the centre of the pitch, facing rusted goal posts and without nets, we can notice hidden smiles behind the clothes drying on the balconies of the apartments. Shy but warm smiles, with a spark in the eye. Proud to see someone visiting and taking pictures of the neighbourhood, but too modest to come to you, the locals feel more at ease waving their hand to you or to give you a genuine smile. Long conversations with strangers are not really there thing, unlike people in Italy or Corsica we’ve met before. But still, they leave you the door open, to step on the pitch and share their privacy. However, they would never kick-off. In any case, images speak louder than warns.
Photographies from Jeremie Roturier, who got damn sick drinking tap water in his hotel room.
