FIRST HOURS IN MOROCCO, a flashback:
Long line at the border, two Canadian girls eating pita on the train from Casa airport to Casa Voyageurs. My sheepish French and ears straining to understand the Arabic around me (nope).
I had to switch trains in Casablanca, where ticket lines were long and I witnessed and, somehow, was included in a little quarrel between an official and a bunch of heckling ladies who were complaining that not enough ticket booths were open. One of the ladies offered to accompany me to the right train, patting me on the arm and smiling like a doting grandma, but when I bought my ticket the man in the booth said, “C’est celui-la, dépêchez-vous.” I turned, scared, imagining the train leaving while I helped my little old lady to the platform; waiting for hours for the next one; falling asleep in the interval and having all of my stuff stolen; taking a late train to Fes with nothing but my passport and the clothes on my back; wandering a deserted, sleeping, unfamiliar, unsavory train station neighborhood; being forced to hole up in a dingy, stinky hotel… But as I swung around, panicked, my little old lady was capering off through the crowd and leaping onto the train, with just one backward glance and “hurry up” gesture to encourage me. I just made it.
Through the train’s windows, everything is bright light and bright colors. Flowers, dust, apartment buildings, sky. Ladies wrapped from head to toe and carrying things down a path through the dusty fields, their clothes fluttering.
A woman in my compartment has farted loudly a few times with no reaction from anyone. Her husband has spent the whole trip talking on his cell phone and working on the first Arabic crossword I’ve ever seen.
Trash, skinny livestock. People just sitting out in the middle of the scrub. These well-dressed young Moroccan men intrigue me. I want to talk to the girl next to me; I tried; I asked a stupid question. Out the window, nothing but coastline, but I whispered, “Nous sommes près de la mer ici?” She gave me an indulgent smile.
Fig trees, lemons, oranges. So many satellite dishes! Everybody has a bottle of water. Now is the time for me to put my confidence in action, to remember to say “b’s’laaama” when I leave, despite my nervousness and wibbly accent. It took me a long time to resolve to eat my apple earlier because I wasn’t sure whether it would be appropriate to eat it without sharing. I just stood in the corridor and chomped it by myself.
The well-dressed young Moroccan’s name is Jamal, and the nice-looking girl next to me is Amina. We finally started talking to each other after a pack of boys at one of the stops threw rocks at our train, surprising us all. They both gave me their phone numbers and invited me to meet their families. Jamal helped me find a good hotel and left me with his good wishes. Such nice ambassadors of their country, such a nice first day in this place that feels very foreign, but thanks to them, very welcoming.