It was a cold December evening, in the north westerly city of Fez, in Morocco. The hour clock had struck 11, and a light fog was starting to engulf the now deserted alleys around the railway station, which is situated a bit removed from the older city - the Medina which seems like a set from Aladdin - and the new modern Fez, with its wide roads, modern cafes - serving strong black coffee, and sweet mint tea, theatres running popular Hollywood movies translated in French, and even a McDonalds.
Co-incidentally it was Christmas day, the 25th, but there was not a lot to show for it in Fez, Christmas is still a foreign concept here.
Back at the railway station, the three of us, two Indian guys with long curly hair, Agyant and Avdhey, and a lanky Chinese guy with short straight hair, Zheng, all in our mid twenties, were randomly wandering around the deserted streets and the station, waiting for our overnight train to Marrakesh, scheduled for 1.30am, and expected to pull into Marrakesh around 8/9 in the morning, a convenient red-eye journey. People lay around resting on the benches and the clean marble floor waiting for their departures. It had been a long day and we were eagerly waiting to finally lay in our berths in the train - We had booked first class (the Euro to Dirham conversion makes for pleasant arithmetic) - from the official website which was only in french, google translate helping us along the way - and the expectations were of long spacious cushy berths. We had driven in from Rabat in the morning, experienced the tanneries of Fez, explored the Medina and the city, and in the evening, to bide time, watched the newly released edition of Star Wars, in French, without subtitles (none of us understood French so it made for a funny viewing).
As the clock finally struck 1.30, the train pulled in to the junction, and we boarded, eyes red and tired, hoping to revisit the splendours of the day in our dreams. We entered our first class cabin in the Modern high speed TGV train, and to the shock of our tired stiff backs, we saw 6 straight back chairs with fixed armrests, 3 on each side facing each other. The aspirations of deep slumber shattered, we dumped our baggage on the top shelves, and settled into our seats. The cabin opened up to the alley of the carriage through a small partition with no door, and a set of bright red curtains. We were traveling light, with a few set of clothes in our small backpacks, the only precious baggage our DSLRs and the passports. The train, with sparse occupancy, pulled out of the junction, and as it started gathering speed, the silent Moroccan countryside whizzed past us, covered in patches of fog. The first class bogey was largely unoccupied, with only a few other occupants a couple of cabins away. The only sound was that of the train, gliding on the railway tracks, and the occasional track switch. I had almost entered into the oblivion of deep sleep, head rested on one side of the neck rest, the back strangely contorted in an effort to find the most comfortable compromise, legs stretched on to the seat in front - suddenly a distant sound in the bogey broke through the silence, someone making their way from the adjacent carriage to ours. The sound moved closer, and stopped outside the cabin. Slowly, the curtains parted, as I sat up straight, startled out of my sleep by this activity, and so did the other two, sharing confused glances through weary half opened eyes. The source of the sound entered the room, the silhouette slowly taking shape as the eyes adjusted to the dark. The new comer had now entered the cabin, a peculiar little man, probably in his late 30s or early 40's, with a small paunch, around 5’2’’, wearing beige pants, a half sleeved off-white bush shirt - with fine vertical lines and a chest pocket with a ballpen tucked in it. He wore black unpolished, black oxford shoes, worn out on the edges, covered in Morrocan sand. He carried a small tote bag in his right hand, and a rolled up copy of the local French newspaper tucked under the left arm. His face was an ordinary one, a face that is relatable and forgettable at the same time. In contrast to our confused, dazed faces, his face sported a peculiar confident smile and radiated a freshness strange for this time of the night. `Bonjour, French or Arabic?` he said. `English` Agyant replied. `Ahh english! Good, I know` he replied with a satisfied grin as he sat on the edge of the seat closest to the partition, resting the tote bag and the newspaper on his lap. `Where from?` he asked in his broken English, with a subtle French accent, and a tone and excitement you would generally associate with tourist guides. `umm, India, China, Ireland` was the confused, garbled reply, as we spoke out in unison, cutting across each other. `Wonderful, Morocco welcomes you` he said, earnestly. `Thanks` said Zheng. By now, he had settled himself well, his eyes scanning the compartment. He looked up at the baggage, and commented, `You must be careful in Morocco with baggage, especially in trains. Don’t worry, I will keep watch if you sleep, by chance`. My eyebrows raised instinctively at this comment, as I shared sideway glances with Agyant. `Thanks, that is good to know`.
`No problem friend, you are guest here, it is my duty`
`We like India` - he continued, oblivious to our tired sleepy expressions - `bollywood is big here, you know Shahrukh Khan, King Khan?` he asked, beaming. ‘Yes, that’s nice` I replied, keeping the answers curt, the mind still hoping to go back to sleep after this momentary disruption. He moved his gaze to Zheng, `We like the Chinese as well, they bring a lot of tourism, and trade, you know?`. `Thats great` said Zheng, with a visibly tired tone. `They gave us these modern trains, we can move easily and fast across Morocco, very good for the economy. Also, Chinese mopeds, they are everywhere now, so cheap and convenient, everyone can afford them. You help make Morocco modern`. While this conversation ensued, Agyant said to me, in Hindi `I think we cannot sleep now, someone will have to keep guard`. `Yes, we must sleep in shifts`. You have to be careful in foreign countries. We couldn’t say the same thing to Zheng, our common language being English, but based on our expressions, he understood. The newcomer seemed strange for a passenger on an overnight journey, with literally no luggage and only carrying a tote bag, probably with some food. The guy unfurled the newspaper, and stared reading it, hinting at the end of the conversation, as Agyant took the first shift, glancing outside the window and partially keeping watch at the reflection of the stranger. Zheng had already dozed off, and I tried going off to sleep again. The express continued its journey towards Casablanca, the only stop before Marrakesh. A little while later the gentleman, with a sudden movement, almost as if he remembered something urgent, kept aside the newspaper, and took out an old battered Nokia out of his shirt pocket, a very old version, probably from the early 2000s, one that had actual buttons - yes, that old, and exclaimed `Your English very good` addressing Agyant, `Will you help me write message?`. `Sure` came the reply. `Wonderful, so take this phone and you must write as I say, ok?` as he handed over the phone, as I was roused up by this commotion. Zheng seemed not to bother. What ensued for the next while was a dictation, and a translation session, with him dictating in his broken english, the writer improvising, paraphrasing, and then a review by the speaker, all summing up into a text message to a likely client quoting the price for a trip to the Sahara. Okay, so, he’s a tourist guide?
Satisfied at the message, and ensuring it was delivered successfully, he looked up from the phone, his hands putting it back into the shirt pocket, and said `This is my side business, you know? It brings some money on the side.` `That’s cool`, I said, unsure if I wanted to pursue further to see what his real profession was. We were 3 hours into the journey at this stage, and he mentioned `We must be getting close to Casablanca now, I must get off. I take this journey very often, convenient, you know?`, as he started packing up, rolling up the newspaper, and straightening up his shirt. The train started slowing down, as it made its way into Casablanca, not a lot was visible, there was a thick blanket of fog; the gentleman stood up, as the train stopped and said `Enjoy Morocco, and remember, take care of your baggage` with a curt nod and a sly smile, as he parted the curtains and stepped outside the cabin. Outside in the alley, an incomprehensible conversation ensued between the stranger and someone who had just boarded the train, probably in French. Inside the cabin, we exchanged glances, still digesting this interesting encounter. No one else boarded or de-boarded the first class carriage from the pitch dark open platform shrouded in thick fog. The doors closed, and as the train started pulling away from the platform, ‘Yalla, Yalla’, a dark figure, faintly visible in the fog, holding a lantern shouted, wearing the traditional djellaba - a loose long gown that goes down to the knees with a conical long, almost wizard like, cap attached at the back - waving a green flag animatedly at the train, the tone of his voice very familiar.
The stranger was the night flagman at Casablanca.
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