We’ve been in Morocco two weeks today. Already! Time is both slow and fast. It’s the end of January, and we are taking the train from Marrakech to Fes for the next leg of our trip. Another first: a train ride, in Morocco. It’s a never-done-this-before-hoping-it-goes-well kind of morning. We are up early, a quick breakfast: coffee and hard boiled eggs prepared the night before. We collect everything, close up our luggage. Darn! Why do we still have so much luggage? Now, little anxious scenes of the day ahead sneak up at the back of my mind - my little travel troll is throwing me little video clips to scare me and make me anxious: late at the train station - fighting off throngs of people crowding the entrance - running to find the right gate - struggling to get our suitcases on the car. I mentally swat them off, check the time. “We’re fine.” I tell myself. My little troll is not convinced.
Zakaria, our AirBnB host in Marrakech, has arranged for a driver to pick us up. Henry takes the suitcases one by one down the two flights of winding stairs - gotta watch those wedge-shaped steps around the corners… I make one more last minute round of the apartment. Nope! Not forgetting anything. I put the keys on the desk and close the door. No getting back in now!
Downstairs, I find the same driver who met us at the airport.
The ride to the train station is short - ten minutes. The station is new, there is no crowd, people look calm. Good. Good. Grab our luggage - wheel them in. The Marrakech train station is fairly small - reminds me a little of the one in Ottawa - only three voies. I check the board: train 601 to Fes - 9:50 - voie 1 - Great! There’s only one way to the trains, and there is a short line - I look unsure. An agent asks “Madame, puis-je vous aider?” “Le train pour Fes” “ Ah! Ici, madame, on fait la ligne. On embarque dans environ dix minutes.” “Merci!”
See! Shut up! Troll!
The line starts to move quickly. There are many Moroccans in line. An older Moroccan man wearing a jelabah, the traditional overcoat, walks to the front of the line and cuts in. He’s carrying a leather briefcase. I wonder, a little bit, why he thinks this is okay. But never mind. I notice tourists ahead of us, a couple, about our age. We roll our luggage forward “We’re in car 11. Here it is!” I get up the steps. Henry lifts the suitcases in. There is no space to park them, we have to take them in our compartment. We look around, wondering how we’re going to manage. We must look a little lost. A young man stops by, maybe 18 or 19. He has earphones in and is carrying a back pack. He points to a shelf above the seats.
“You can put your luggage up there.”
“Thank you. Merci!” I say.
Clearly we still look like we need help.
“Here, I’ll do it!” He says. He sounds kind and patient, not irritated as I would expect from a young man.
He grabs each suitcase and lifts them up.
“Thank you so much!”
“No problem” he says, with a quick nod, and he walks off to find his own seat.
I give my troll a raised eyebrow…
We have seats 25 and 26, by the window with a folding table. Perfect!
We settle in and go through the usual wishful routine. “If we’re lucky, nobody else will sit here and we get the whole cabin to ourselves.” People walk by, check the seat numbers… and move on. We look at each other and smile.
A couple walks by, rolling two big suitcases. I recognize them as the tourists from earlier. They walk back, stop at our compartment door, and look at the seat numbers.
“We’re here.” the woman says. They roll their suitcases in. No more space on the shelves, and they would be too heavy to lift anyway. That young man is not likely to come back. They take their seats: 21 and 22, by the hallway, their suitcases in the space between us, in front of seats 23 and 24. Henry and I give each other a look: Oh well, let’s hope 22 and 23 don’t show up…
Everyone settles in, and we greet each other.
“Hi, I’m Linda, this is my husband Tony. We’re from England.”
And we reciprocate. Henry. Lorraine. Ottawa.
We exchange travel info: arrival, destinations, so many days here, a few more there. Sounds like Linda and Tony have similar traveling styles as Henry and I. We chat a little more. The train is about to leave.
A man stops at the door, checks out the seat numbers, glances at Linda and Tony’s suitcases. There’s some apologies, shuffling of luggage in the hallway. The man, a Moroccan, is in seat 23. Luckily, he only has a briefcase.
Linda, Tony, Henry and I continue chatting, but now it’s awkward. We have to speak across the man in seat 23. Tony asks him a question and he is now trapped in our conversation. His name is Ibrahim. Over the next hour or so, we learn that he is a math professor. He teaches at the university. Tony and Linda’s daughter, we find out, is working on a PhD in philosophy and mathematics. She studies black holes. Our chat takes a turn to our shared fear of equations, to which Ibrahim gives an understanding chuckle. He speaks English quite well. His specialty is algebra. We talk about mathematics, how it is just like a language, whether it is invented or discovered, how we can see its presence in nature, in ferns, in shells, in trees, even though we couldn’t possibly begin to speak in equations.
We come to the next stop and Ibrahim leaves. We are all a little sorry to see him go.
But soon, another Moroccan man stops by the door, check out the seats - he points to seat 23, walks in and sits down.
Same routine. Introductions. Henry, Lorraine, Canada, Linda, Tony, England.
His name is Mohamed. He seems to be in his early fifties, perhaps? He is smartly dressed with a wool coat and cap. “I apologize. I do not speak good English.” Time for my French. It’s come in very handy in Morocco. So I translate a little. It’s just awkward for us to talk across him, and I try to include him the conversation at first. We find out that he is a professional mediator, for issues ranging from civil to family problems. I translate back and forth a little more, but before long, the conversation has split in two. Henry, Linda and Tony continue to chat in English, and Mohamed and I, in French. He used to work for the OCNF - the railway company, but several years ago he started to work as a consultant. We talk about working conditions, how people who have professional jobs or who work for larger employers accumulate pensions over their years of service, how their pension system is similar to the one in France - yet more influence from the French occupation.
I ask where he is going today, feeling a little trapped and wondering, a little bit, if I will be able to rejoin the conversation with Linda and Tony. “Casa.” He says. “Ah. Casablanca?” Yes. I am a little relieved that he is not going to Fes. He lives in Casablanca and has four children, he tells me, all of them in medical school. He is very proud of them, and rightly so. They will all likely become specialists, because it is better. “Here in Morocco, people will go directly to a specialist, not to a family doctor, because each time they visit, it costs them. So they would rather go directly to a specialist and pay only once.” Then, he enquires about immigration to Canada, for physicians. I try my best to convey what I know - it’s not a given that qualifications will be recognized. “It’s possible, but it really needs to be researched.”
We are getting near the Casa stop. He asks if I am on WhatsApp. We exchange numbers.
“If you change your plans and decide to come to Casa, get in touch. I’ll show you around!”
I thank him, and tell him I appreciated our conversation. I know I missed out on some of the chat with Linda and Tony, but I learned a little more about life in Morocco, from a Moroccan outside the tourist industry.
“Bye! It was nice to meet you!”
“Au revoir!”
Seat 23 is again available, but not for long. Before the train starts again, a youngish man stops by our door and sits down in Ibrahim and Mohamed’s place.
The train leaves. Introductions. Linda, Tony, England, Henry, Lorraine, Canada, yada…yada…
His name is Mohamed, our second in seat 23 today. There are, we noticed, many, many Mohamed in Morocco.
And the chat begins. Mohamed speaks English quite well. “I am learning.” He says.
He is in the military, going on while on leave. He joined around 2013.
“What is your rank?” Tony asks.
“Major”
I could never understand ranks in the military, anywhere. I know that soldiers are at the bottom of the scale, and that generals are at the top. What happens in between is always a mystery to me. So I don’t know exactly where Mohamed fits in the hierarchy.
Tony asks what … section? Department? Division?… what part of the military he belongs to.
“Infantry”.
So, over the next while, we find out a little more about the military in Morocco. Military service is mandatory. Everyone has to serve at least one year, anytime between the ages of 18 and 25. When they join, they are given a rank commensurate with the level of education achieved. Mohamed, however, joined the military for a career.
“Do you go overseas?”
“No. Just here in Morocco.”
“When can you retire?” The four of us are retired and very happily so, so you get our line of enquiry. 62. That is the age of retirement in the military, for a full pension. You can retire earlier, but you get a much smaller pension.”
Soon, it is his turn to leave. By now, it’s become a thing.
“This is starting to feel like a talk-show.” I comment, and everyone chuckles.
And our next guest is….
Yup! You guessed it!
Mohamed!
This Mohamed is a young man who works for Intrepid, a tour company.
“I just left a tour group in Tangier and I am making my way back to Fes. I live there.”
His English is very good. I’m not sure if he is happy or disappointed to find himself with yet more tourists, but he seems to get right back in tour-guide mode. When we ask about how tourism has been, he tells us that it is slow with tours in January, but it gets busy in March, April, May, and then again in the Fall. Summer is just too hot, 40, 45 degrees. Not good for tourism.
Somehow, the conversation winds its way to what it is like for Muslims to work during Ramadan. Tony lived and worked in Saudi Arabia for several years. He lived in some 10 or 12 countries over his career. He is interested in how things are here, in Morocco. Mohamed explains that, sometimes, it is very difficult, especially when Ramadan is later in the year and it is very hot. “From the first prayer, we must stop eating, drinking, and… no wife.” He pauses. “You know what I mean?!” Yes, we get it. No wife.
“So, when it gets very hot, it is very difficult because we cannot drink.”
He continues to talk about Ramadan, and about Islam.
“The Koran tells us we must do good. And we don’t know what God will accept from us. It can be a very great deed, or a very small gesture. So whenever we can, if anyone needs help, we must help. Especially before Ramadan.”
Henry asks: “Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“In what?”
“Do you believe that we come to live many lives?”
“No!” He replies, quite emphatically. ‘No. We only have one life. After this life, there is another one, but it is not here.” He goes on to tell us more. It is very interesting. He seems to be very devoted to his belief, even, a little intense, perhaps.
But soon, the conversation shifts back to tourism, to Fes, what we should see, how to get a good tour guide, a couple of restaurant suggestions in the Medina. “You will love Fes. It is really very beautiful.” He asks about our plans and makes more suggestions. Soon, we all exchange number on WhatsApp. “If you want, while you are in Fes, call me and I would love to get together with you for coffee.”
He gets off the train one stop before Fes. He is meeting a friend and will get a ride home from there. Linda, Tony, Henry and I all chuckle about our interviews in seat 23! it has turned out to be a most interesting, informative and agreeable train ride. It made the 7 hours go quite quickly. We make plans to meet up for coffee or lunch while we are in Fes. The train stops, the last one on the line so we can take our time getting out.
Thank ;you, Linda, for taking this selfie and sharing it with us!
They go catch a taxi, and we meet up with our pre-arranged ride to our AirBnB in Fes.
Linda and Tony are returning to Marrakech in ten days, and they have the very same seats on the same train… Perhaps they can have the next episode of what could be “And for our next guest! in seat 23!
We get to our AirBnB and it is amazing! It is even more beautiful than it looked in the pictures!
So wasn’t that a great day? Take that! Damn troll!
