Impressions -- ONCF

I’m starting this post from my second-class seat on the oncf train from Casablanca to Marrakech. The air inside the car feels as if it’s been inhaled and exhaled far too many times already, and the humidity is giving me that hot, claustrophobic itch just under my skin. My armpits are sticky, I have the awkward, telltale dark line around my chest that all overly endowed girls experience when things get a bit too warm. The trip is three hours total, but Mike and I spent the first 40 minutes or so sitting on the floor in the bumpy compartment between trains where folks lucky enough to have gotten seats keep their luggage. Folks who missed out on the seats don’t give up their luggage to the racks, though. They prefer to use the precious bit of cushioning to ease the pain in their asses that the mad jangling of the train engenders.

After the stop at the first main town we reassessed our situation. We were happy to find that passengers who had disembarked the rumbling beast had left a few empty places behind.  We were able to scramble into a couple of the still-warm seats before the next throng of people boarded, desperately bumbling around the narrow passages in search of seats of their own. Second class differs from first class in that the company limits the amount of first-class tickets it sells. You know, actually limits it to the number of seats it provides. There is also air-conditioning, and in Morocco, air-conditioning is very much appreciated. Second-class seats are just as good, but it’s a “fend for yourself” environment, and the company sells far more tickets than it can provide seats for. It’s very much like a metro in this regard. A three-hour, hot, clammy metro ride.

I enjoy looking out windows in trains. I also enjoy looking at the tops of heads poking out over the tops of seats. The top of the head in front of me is covered with the olive green hood of a djellaba.  Djellaba The arm of a small girl extends up over the seat and the fingertips tense out and curl under as she tries to stretch her cramped spine. The top of her hand is covered with brown marker in an attempt to mimic the henna art seen so often in Morocco. Henna The olive hood turns every now and then, and I glimpse the elaborate braiding adorning the sides, and the copper skin of the Moroccan man inside. He seems to enjoy looking out windows nearly as much as I do.

Seated opposite of the Moroccan girl with the navy blue sleeve and the amateur henna is a serious looking man wearing a black and white striped turban. His eyes are closed and his head has sunk down to his broad chest in either fatigue or heat stroke. Two black earbuds are inserted into each dark ear, and he seems to be very much resigned to his fate of spending the next hour onboard an overcrowded, delayed oncf train.

“I’m going to die,” Mike mutters uncomfortably as he flips through his solar installation instruction manual for the nth time this trip. 

A boy sits next to the man in the striped hat. He wears a blue, white and black baseball cap splashed with English words that I can’t quite make out without appearing to stare. I like to look, but I never like looking like I’m looking. The boy leans up against the window and cradles his left cheek in his left palm, covering his eye and shielding his face from the hard, hot train window. He tries to sleep, but appears to be very unsuccessful in this endeavor as he keeps shifting his sit-bones uncomfortably every couple minutes or so. His left eye is covered by his cradling hand, but his right eye is closed underneath the heavy shadow cast by the boy’s very prominent black brows.

The train is moving again. Each stop takes an unreasonable amount of time, because many of the doors are jammed. People can’t exit properly and the aisles are hardly wide enough for one to pass through at a time. Add the luggage and the size of the average Moroccan (sugar and bread and couscous doesn’t do much for the figure), and you have a traffic jam of colossal proportion.

We have one more hour.

A Muslim family sits across the aisle from the boy up against the window. A small boy stares at me with his curious brown eyes as he leans up against the armrest of his green and dirty brown striped seat. He will be an exquisitely handsome young man when he grows up, with his sparkling eyes, his happy mouth and his already strong jawline. He switches between staring at me as I write and sucking on his fingers. His blue coat is quite becoming, and I enjoy the grasshopper green color of the belt that keeps his jeans firmly secured to his thin waist. I smile at him. He continues to stare. Perhaps he’s making notes like mine in his mind. “A girl with short hair and a Moroccan scarf is sticking out her lip (I always stick out my lower lip when I write) and giving me strange looks. I wonder what she’s writing about.” He raises his eyebrows and creates four deep wrinkles in his forehead.

I love wrinkles. Footprints of the face.

I can see a hand and the Taguia of the man (I assume to be his father) sitting next to the sparkly-eyed boy. The hand is pale (for a Moroccan) and bulging with green veins. It rests gently on beige linen pants, and I get the impression from the relaxed fingertips that this lucky fellow has actually managed able to drift off into sleep. I could be very happy for him, but the selfish side of me just hates him a little for being able to escape the perils of riding second-class oncf. His taguia is white with green and gold embroidery encircling the footstool shaped hat. The top has an intricate green design that comes together to form some sort of flower, but I’m not sure what.  His face is full of wrinkles. Deep wrinkles that seem to be raised skeptically even in sleep. I wonder what his dreams are like.

A woman sits across (I assume the wife and mother), but I can only glimpse a black leg, the bottom of a long, brilliant blue shirt, and a black headscarf with just a bit of dark brown hair shyly peaking through. Her phone bursts into a sharp, obnoxious ring, and she answers quickly enough to avoid accruing accusing stares from nearby passengers. Her voice is quiet and soft, and I catch a few words in French before she hangs up the call.

Okay. Enough impressions.

Mike and I are on our way back from a relaxed, family oriented trip to Casablanca. The last time we were here, business was the main purpose, and we didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time with his friends and family. This time, I was able to meet his mother, his cousin, his nephews, and spend an evening with Sebastian and two of Sebastian’s friends from work. Sebastian’s family owns a jewelry shop called Azuelos in the famous Morocco Mall. The friends from the adjacent shop worked at Louis Vuitton.

Have I mentioned just how nice this mall is?

Outside the mall

I had interviewed Sebastian at the Sofitel Hotel in Marrakech, and he seemed to enjoy and support the project. So when Mike and I arrived at his bijouterie yesterday afternoon, he immediately set up an interview with one of the employees at Azuelos – a beautiful young woman named Virginia. The interview was fast, fun, and she told me that the process was “therapeutic”. This is something I love to hear.  I was also able to interview Mike’s outgoing, good-hearted mother this morning before we left for Marrakech, so that makes nine interviews in Morocco thus far. As my goal is to record one interview per week, I already have all the interviews I need from Morocco. The more the merrier, though, and Mike has promised me an interview with a friend of his (the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen) who teaches Tai Chi and voice at a nearby art studio. After interviewing Kenza, I’ll probably contact a couple more couchsurfers and see if I can generate any interest.

The final note for today’s post: At the restaurant where Mike and I joined Sebastian and his Louis Vuitton friends for an after dinner glass of wine (we'd already eaten at a kosher grill), I was told, “You have to use the restroom. But make sure to ask for the ocean view. This is very important.” When Mike told me to ask for the ocean view, part of me just expected some ocean painted wallpaper, or that the theme of the bathroom would be “ocean.” You know, with shell-shaped soap dispensers and sea-foam hand towels.

Nope. I took a pee whilst looking out at the Atlantic through sliding door sized bathroom windows. I never knew sitting on a toilet could feel so romantic. The tea candles helped.