30 September 2013
On the train to Casablanca
plains of saffron-colored grass, rows of green olive and argan trees, and houses of salmon-red clay greet me as I relax on the 12:10 train from Marrakech to Casablanca, a three-hour train ride to the northern coast of Morocco on the way to the next leg of this North African adventure, on to historic Fez and then to Merzouga, the last village before reaching the Sahara. I am excited about what lies ahead, but also enriched by the surreal experience that was Marrakech and Essaouira. The monotony of the landscape lulls me to sleep, and I drift off into my reveries…
my mind wanders back into the colors, scents and sounds of Marrakech. The emphatic chants of adhan, the Islamic call to prayer, blaring from the minaret of the Koutoubia mosque punctuate the scenes as I relive the paradox that is Marrakech. There in my mind’s eye, I am lost again in the labyrinth of the souq, overwhelmed by the colors of various spices (35 or so varieties I’ve been told), nuts, dried fruits (prunes, dates, figs), and traditional leather slippers, and enveloped by the aromatic scents of oils, herbs, spices and grilled meat.
I am taken aback by the in-your-face intensity of young men selling their wares and tricking gullible tourists into giving them monetary tips for “helping” them find their way out of the souq. In my reveries, I recall the moment when the frenzy of the souq is just too much to bear and all the energy has been sapped out from my body by the intense heat and a full day of wandering. It is then that I find refuge in my riad. Tucked in a hidden alley just feet away from the tumult, it seems like a well-kept secret. As the riad’s door closes behind me, a completely different world, an oasis, awaits me, as I am welcomed by the gentle voices of a respectful riad staff. The warmth of mint tea soothes my lips and soul as I take slow sips in the quiet of my suite.
I am astonished at the contrast between the mayhem of the medina and the serenity of a riad, hundreds of which are hidden within the walls of Marrakech. I am amazed by the contrast between the grit of these medieval streets and the opulence of palaces. In my reveries, I am wide-eyed as I marvel at the intricate artistry of the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa, the enchanting medieval Koran school just north of the souqs.
And there I am again, burnt by the sweltering sun, taking pictures of the reddish hued corridors and sunken gardens of the enormous Badi palace.
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The train makes a stop at a small rural town. I am awoken for a moment as I see a few ladies in colorful bourkas get on the train; I soon drift off again and continue on in my slumber…
My thoughts bring me back to the dusty road on my way to the breezy and blue Atlantic coast, miles away from Marrakech. Along this drab drive, a look of child-like astonishment comes over me at the sight of goats standing on the branches of argan trees! Lots of them!
And before I could even catch my breath, I am soon swept away by the sight of blue fishing boats, soaring seagulls and the white and blue houses of Essaouira, a sleepy former Portuguese fishing village jutting into the Atlantic Ocean.
I am wandering around again in its more subdued medina with vendors selling thuya wood, pashmina scarves and silver jewelry. The catch of the day is being sorted by the local fishermen at the port; the fishy smell starts to cling to my clothes.
And there I am leisurely enjoying my delicious lunch of grilled sardines and langoustines, sipping nice Moroccan white wine while a game of soccer is played by the locals on the pristine ochre beach.
A soft breeze from the Atlantic caresses my face as I close my eyes…
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“Gare Casa Voyageur. Gare Casa Voyageur” is blaring from the train speakers and I am roused from my sleep. It is my train stop. I see people slowly starting to get up from their seats. We step off the train and walk towards the surprisingly small and austere train station. I strap my backpack onto my shoulders and walk out into the busy streets of Casablanca. The rest of Morocco beckons…
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