The seven hour train journey arched from Fes in the foothills of the Middle Atlas range to touch the Atlantic at Rabat (the capital of Morocco) and Casablanca then a straight southerly run to Marrakech. As we rushed further from the ocean, the landscape quickly changed from the verdant coastal plains to scrubland to a more hardscrabble, treeless, semi-arid setting. Mud brick wall-surrounded ksours (family compounds) and kasbahs (small villages), barely distinguishable from the native earth save for their vague geometries, stake claim near the few dry riverbeds. We pass many shepherds dressed in their wool djellabas, seeking fresh grass perhaps revived by the recent rains, as Berbers have for centuries.
A 300 dirham ($35.00) ticket had secured me a place in First Class by the window on a serviceable train system, comparable to an emerging Balkan state. My fellow passengers in the train compartment changed over the course of the trip- no one else was making the full journey. A student embarked with me in Fes and I offered him a pastry from a package that the hotel had hastily prepared for me (as I had left earlier than the appointed breakfast time). He was a student returning to Casablanca after the New Year to continue his matriculation in chemistry. My terrible French really did nothing to further the conversation beyond pleasantries. ( I could throw out comments from my primary school lesson books like “The book is on the table.” Or “The hat of my aunt is blue.” How about “The weathers are bad, is it not?” But neither of those were actually true.)
The two gentlemen who made the Casablanca to Marrakech run with me kept to themselves, reading newspapers or staring drowsily out the windows. As the trip occurred during midday and afternoon prayers, one of the men from his long djellaba twice produced and clutched prayer beads and bobbed his head slightly as he whispered his praises to God. The vigilant Muslim takes the time to pray as required no matter the circumstance, even in a train compartment. He caught my eye once as I stared like a curious six-year-old, somewhat entranced with his display of piety. “Salaam,” I said instinctively, “Peace,” and smiled. He smiled back. “Allahu akbar,” I thought, “God is great, buddy.” And we continued south.
For all my life the name of this place has evoked exoticism, mysticism, intrigue. I have a romantic notion of places like Goa, Timbouctou, Petra, Samarkand that I feel drawn to. Istanbul was one such place I can strike from the list and now I am finally in Marrakech. Many of my generation relate to the place that became a scene for the Beat and Hippy crowd in the Sixties and Seventies. I see it as the confluence of Mediterranean, African and Arabic cultures only slightly removed from a brazenly raw, archaic past that is so counters my idea of culture and civilization.
After breaching a low range of hills we descended into a wide bowl of a valley with Marrakech sprawled out dead center. The snow-capped High Atlas cupped half the sky to the south in tones of blue and aquamarine. It was a justifiably wondrous entry to one of my own Fabled Cities.
A 300 dirham ($35.00) ticket had secured me a place in First Class by the window on a serviceable train system, comparable to an emerging Balkan state. My fellow passengers in the train compartment changed over the course of the trip- no one else was making the full journey. A student embarked with me in Fes and I offered him a pastry from a package that the hotel had hastily prepared for me (as I had left earlier than the appointed breakfast time). He was a student returning to Casablanca after the New Year to continue his matriculation in chemistry. My terrible French really did nothing to further the conversation beyond pleasantries. ( I could throw out comments from my primary school lesson books like “The book is on the table.” Or “The hat of my aunt is blue.” How about “The weathers are bad, is it not?” But neither of those were actually true.)
The two gentlemen who made the Casablanca to Marrakech run with me kept to themselves, reading newspapers or staring drowsily out the windows. As the trip occurred during midday and afternoon prayers, one of the men from his long djellaba twice produced and clutched prayer beads and bobbed his head slightly as he whispered his praises to God. The vigilant Muslim takes the time to pray as required no matter the circumstance, even in a train compartment. He caught my eye once as I stared like a curious six-year-old, somewhat entranced with his display of piety. “Salaam,” I said instinctively, “Peace,” and smiled. He smiled back. “Allahu akbar,” I thought, “God is great, buddy.” And we continued south.
For all my life the name of this place has evoked exoticism, mysticism, intrigue. I have a romantic notion of places like Goa, Timbouctou, Petra, Samarkand that I feel drawn to. Istanbul was one such place I can strike from the list and now I am finally in Marrakech. Many of my generation relate to the place that became a scene for the Beat and Hippy crowd in the Sixties and Seventies. I see it as the confluence of Mediterranean, African and Arabic cultures only slightly removed from a brazenly raw, archaic past that is so counters my idea of culture and civilization.
After breaching a low range of hills we descended into a wide bowl of a valley with Marrakech sprawled out dead center. The snow-capped High Atlas cupped half the sky to the south in tones of blue and aquamarine. It was a justifiably wondrous entry to one of my own Fabled Cities.
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