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Prologue
THE CLASH OF MON O THEISMSMIDNIGHT, AND FIVE hours to Marrakech. I have always had
trouble sleeping on trains. There is something about the unrelenting
rhythm and hum of the wheels as they roll over the tracks that always
keeps me awake. It is like a distant melody that’s too loud to ignore.
Not even the darkness that inundates the compartments at night
seems to help. It is worse at night, when the stars are the only lights
visible in the vast, muted desert whizzing by my window.
This is an unfortunate quirk, because the best way to travel by
train through Morocco is asleep. The trains are flooded with illegal
faux guides, who shift from cabin to cabin searching for tourists with
whom to share their recommendations for the best restaurants, the
cheapest hotels, the cleanest women. The faux guides in Morocco
speak half a dozen languages, which makes them difficult to ignore.
Usually, my olive skin, thick brows, and black hair keep them at bay.