The Marrakesh Express

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The roads were gridlocked, we hadn’t moved for about 15 minutes and looked like we might not move for another 15 at the very least. The air was full of car horns and car exhaust. But no amount of honking was going to get us moving, the streets were constipated and ironically it was an overturned lorry load of plums causing the problem. My train to Marrakech was due to leave in 20 minutes, we were only 5 minutes from the station by car but that would be at least a 15 walk and with a suitcase and 40 degree heat I wasn’t sure I wanted to try it. My driver honked the horn again, why? It would do no good, maybe honking the horn was cathartic, maybe it helped him feel less powerless. I wasn’t powerless. I opened the car door, grabbed my suitcase and made a dash for it.

It was hot, damned hot, the sun was baking down from clear Moroccan skies, I could feel sweat dripping down my back, my armpits were drenched and it felt like I was wearing someone else’s jeans. I walked as fast as I could in the heat, dodging the pedestrians on the pavements like Shane Williams jinking down the wing. Well it would have been, if the great welsh winger had had to drag a suitcase instead of a rugby ball.

I was so glad I had a ticket and a seat reservation so that I could just leap on the train, I’d even got a bottle of water in my bag so I didn’t need to stop for anything. Still I daren’t look at my watch, I just had my head down and kept my feet moving. I could see the station up ahead, it was in reach. I crossed the gridlocked road, pleased the traffic wasn’t moving or else it would have been hell with the suitcase in tow. But I’d forgotten about the motorbikes, a scooter shot passed me, almost taking my toe off, while the cacophony of horns drowned my thoughts, which was good because my thoughts were all panics.

I’d reached the station, the air in the building was cool on my wet skin but I didn’t have time to savour it. I moved through the building looking at the screens, It seemed to say platform 5 for the Marrakech Express. I ran up the stairs hulking my suitcase by the wheelie handle. To my great relief, the train was still there. I heard the whistle blow, so without thinking I hoped aboard the train at the nearest available door.

The train was full to bursting point. The compartments made for 8 people had at least 10 people in each. Woman with colourful headscarves had tired children on their laps while men hunched over their mobile phones, sending texts to god knows who. The luggage racks were precariously jammed full of suitcases and carrier bags; one jerk of the train and they would come tumbling down. The corridors were jammed with people too, standing, looking annoyed that they would in effect be walking to Marrakech. I had to try to manoeuvre my way down the carriage to find my seat, but with my suitcase and the overflow of people, that was going to be easier said then done. If looks could kill, I ran the gaunlet of a hail of bullets as I tried to smile and apologise my way down the train. I noticed that despite the whistle, the train hadn’t moved, that we were still in the station. I thought about getting off and walking down the platform to the first class compartment but that was surely too risky. So I continued my battle through the ruck, through the scrum like the great Alun Wyn Jones tustling for the ball. Three carriages I battled through, and it felt like I’d taken on the whole of Morocco to hit the first class compartment. But once I did, it was worth it. Quiet, calm, cool, clean, the first class carriage felt like the Hilton in comparison to the carnage I had left behind. I found my compartment, six seats, not 8. I smiled. There was the reason I’d taken the train, there was the thing that made the sweat, the sprit and the battle worthwhile. She smiled at me, her big Moroccan eyes sparkled as I smiled back.

‘So you made it,’ Latifa said.

The train jerked and slowly began its journey south.

‘Just about’ I said and flopped into a seat, relieved that my adventure could begin.