Morocco’s Train-Bus Agadir Express

posted on: Feb 3, 2021

By: Habeeb Salloum/Arab America Contributor

At 9:39 a.m., precisely on the minute, our train heading for Marrakesh lowly pulled out of Casablanca’s Voyageurs Railway Station.  It moved so smoothly that I hardly knew we had begun our journey to Agadir.

In a few minutes, Casablanca, Morocco’s chief commercial and industrial centre, was left behind as the train moved through green fields of newly sprouting grain and vegetables.  The countryside looked serene with shepherds tending their flocks and cattle peacefully grazing on the lush foliage.  Alongside, both men and women robed in colourful Moroccan attire were either riding to work on donkey or working the land.  In the background were their homes surrounded by luxuriant growth.  Most were whitewashed but some were showing age with the white fading way.  It was a pastural scene fit for an artist’s brush.

As is common in Morocco’s winters, on that early March day the brightly shining sun gave one a feeling of relaxation and contentment.  I looked around our second-class compartment at my four fellow travellers.  Three were reading newspapers, but every once in a while, glancing up, apparently sizing each other up, including myself.  The fourth was dozing away, oblivious to the world.

My fully awake companions were all reading French newspapers.  My Arabic journal seemed out of place.  One would think we were in a French country but for an Arabic sign on the door, the dress of the peasants and mosques towering above he villages.

When each one finished reading their paper, they would hand it over to the next person.  I wanted to join in this pleasantry and passed my newspaper on.  Alas! No one wanted my Arabic journal.  Even though they conversed in the Moroccan dialect, thoroughly impregnated with French words, they barely knew the written language.

Morocco has become much more Frenchified since 1956 when it gained its independence.  There is no doubt that if this trend continues, it cold well become, like a good number of African counties, a French-speaking nation and lose its rich heritage.

At our first stop, Sidi el Aydi, one of our fellow travellers left, then as the train softly moved, introductions were made.  Abderaheem Kamal, an administrator in the Agadir National Office of Fisheries, Mohamed Belabdi, an office worker in Rabat and Nadia Fehmi, a secondary student in Agadir were my travelling companions.  As our warm and friendly conversation developed, at times, I felt lost.  Even though I was fairly proficient in Arabic, many words in the dialect, especially the Moroccanized French words, were to me incomprehensible.  Yet, the atmosphere was homey, and I felt that I had known my fellow passengers for years.

As we talked, I eyed the lush green fields and was amazed that the country was so etile.  Travelling, in bygone years, he same route during autumn and early winter, the land had appeared to be semi-desert.  The winter rains had, like a magic wand, transformed the countryside.

By the time we stopped at Settat, the coffee man was rapping at our door.  Disregarding the protests of Abderaheem and Mohamed that I was their guest, at a cost of 10 DH ($1.25 U.S.), I treated everyone to a cup of coffee.  Their words of thanks and kindness made me feel ashamed.  No one could have been made a Pasha for so little.

After our next stop, Khemisat, the land began to progressively become less fertile and full of hills.  On their semi-arid sides, small fields of grain, broken by patches of cactus and rocks, struggled to grow.  This continued until we passed Ben Guerir, our last stop before Marrakesh, after which the hills became almost bare.

Suddenly, a rich oasis was before us.  Palm trees stretched as far as the eye could see.  In between them, Marrakesh’s reddish structures appeared like rubies in a field of emeralds.  The words of the bard who wrote:

“O! Marrakesh!  O!  Rose between the palms,

Your days are pleasant and happy,

Unequalled is your beauty, tis a song”,

could well be the thought of any visitor who first views that historic town.

At the eye-catching reddish railroad station in Marrakesh, our train ride ended, and the bus portion of our Agadir express journey began.  The air-conditioned vehicle was waiting for us as we alit.  There was no fuss.  Everyone had their seat number, given when we purchased our tickets in Casablanca.  Quickly, we filed into our allotted places and the bus departed at 1 p.m., the exact time it was scheduled to leave.

Mohamed left us in Marrakesh but Abderaheem and Nadia were still my travelling companions.  As luck would have it, Abderaheem’s seat was across the aisle from mine.  In the ensuing 260 kilometres to Agadir he was a valuable source of information about the southern part of Morocco and its history.

Through the bright Marrakesh sunshine, we made our way across the older section of the city.  In about 10 minutes we were passing a suburb being newly built, then on to the Essaouira roadway.  The two-lane highway was edged on both sides with eucalyptuses and cut through orchard after orchard of grape, lemon, olive, orange and other fruit trees, divided by the odd grain or vegetable field.  Further on, the fruit trees gave way to poor looking grain fields.  After passing a modern cement plant, even the eucalyptuses had disappeared, and the reddish coloured homes gave way to dull grayish-brown buildings.

Abderaheem and most of the other passengers were now dozing.  Apparently, the smooth bus ride and roomy seats had put everyone at ease, that is, except myself.  But I had a reason.  In my travels through Morocco, I had always been impressed with the excellent physiques of most men and women.  I had seen very few who were obese.

What luck!  Sitting next to me was a huge farmer, made even larger by the jellabya he was wearing.  I could hardly move, let alone take notes.

About an hour after leaving Marrakesh, at the town of Chichaoua we turned south toward the foothills of the Atlas Mountains whose snowy peaks towered in the horizon.  A short distance before reaching Imin-Tanout, the reddish homes returned to dot the countryside.  Past this attractive town, ringed by acre after acre of newly planted olive trees, our bus entered the mountains.  We drove upward through a green valley dominated by the encompassing hills which were overshadowed by the white topped Atlas peaks.  Soon we were in the land of the argan tree, native to Morocco where the oil of its fruit is much prized.  It covers a good part of the land in the southwestern part of the country between Essaouira and Agadir.

Nestled amid the argans were the poor looking villages.  They were hardly visible, so well did they blend into the earth from which they were built.

Halfway between Marrakesh and Agadir, we reached a flat mountain top and stopped at Café Demira, a charming eating place surrounded by an oasis of argan and almond trees.  Abderaheem wanted to treat us to barbecued lamb sandwiches, but Nadia, who had joined us for lunch, and I, gracefully refused.  Although the sandwiches cost only 10 DH each, I knew it was a large amount for a Moroccan on a salary.  Yet, to him it was a shame not to invite strangers he had befriended.  Arab hospitality was alive and doing well in that almost Frenchified land.

We both settled for a coffee and spent a pleasant half hour together.  Nadia took part in all our conversations.  She was well read and knew much more about North America, than the vast majority of either Canadians or Americans would know about Morocco.  She represented the new Moroccan woman at her best.  Beautiful, cultured and not afraid to talk to men, especially strangers, she was a fine representative of the modern daughter of Eve in that land of Islam.

From Café Demsira, the highway ran along a scenic valley edged by sparsely forested hills.  The snow crowned mountains appeared to be very near until we passed a manmade lake created by the Abdelmoumen Dam, 70 kilometres from Agadir.  Beyond this lake, as the scenery became more picturesque, the sows in the background disappeared from view.  Moving forward, the argan forests began to thicken, gradually turning the mountains greener until we reached the Sous plains, 40 kilometres from the Atlantic coast.

Ten minutes after letting off a few passengers in Inezgane, we were driving through Agadir with its magnificent hotels and gleaming white buildings, all built after the earthquake of 1960 which completely destroyed the city.

In this ‘Queen of Moroccan Resorts’ I planned to luxuriate in the sunny cool temperature averaging 75o F for a few weeks while relaxing atop its quarter mile wide beaches and bathing in the safest water on the Moroccan coast  One of my favourite resorts, Agadir had everything I longed for in a vacation.

At 5 p.m., half an hour before our scheduled time of arrival, the bus let us off in the heart of the city.  We had ended our 7 1/2 hour comfortable and interesting journey with its human contact, spectacular scenery, and new discoveries in one of the most fabulous countries of the world.