I’m not Moroccan, but I recently read Salvation Army by Abdellah Taïa. I wanted to ask: to what extent does the book reflect the social atmosphere and everyday reality of the period in which it’s set (I’m guessing the 1980s–1990s)?
The second story I want to tell is about Anis (also a pseudonym). Anis, if this somehow finds its way to you, I want you to know right away that this is your story. To prove it, I will only mention the yellow-covered book by Daniel Walter—the one you so earnestly wanted to give me. If that detail confirms it for you, please promise me you will keep reading.
In life, some friendships are destined to last for only a single encounter. Just like Samir, whom I wrote about in my previous chapter during that short ride across Casablanca, my paths crossed with yours, Anis, on a train journey from Fez to Tangier. It was a long ride, stretching from 6:00 PM until well past 11:30 at night. A fleeting intersection of two lives, never to be repeated. I only hope I left some small impression on you, too.
The train was scheduled for 6:00 PM. Boarding the carriage, I found my seat was in an eight-person compartment. Initially, I was quite pleased. That morning, on the way to Fez, I had sat in a standard, open-plan carriage that felt much like a crowded bus. Walking past these private compartments back then, I had been envious. But once inside, I quickly realized how suffocatingly cramped they actually were.
To my left sat a couple in their thirties with their child. The husband, sitting directly next to me, was a slightly stout man who spoke Darija. I want to leave these words here, even just for the wind: I received your kindness, sir. Every time he sat down, he would half-stand against the backrest and slide down with agonizing slowness, deliberately trying not to crowd me. A truly gentle man.
As we sat in the sweltering carriage, the train remained motionless. Many young men spilled out onto the platform to escape the heat. I asked the gentleman next to me what the delay was; in his limited English, he mentioned a holiday and the resulting traffic. Out the window, a woman holding a baby in one arm was locked in a relentless argument with the station staff. They argued for an entire hour, stopping only when she finally boarded another train on the adjacent track. My friend remarked on how strangely civilized it was—a full hour of heated dispute without it ever escalating into physical conflict. Finally, at 7:00 PM, the train lurched forward, and the sky outside began to dim.
As the train picked up speed, my thoughts drifted back to my day in Fez. The Medina wasn't the terrifying maze the internet had made it out to be. Armed with Google Maps, I navigated without a single wrong turn. Yes, there were crowds, but the locals didn't maliciously lead me astray. Only once, heading toward the tanneries, a man yelled at us, "You are on the wrong way!" I almost second-guessed myself, but then logic kicked in: He doesn’t even know my destination, so why would he shout 'wrong way'? It turned out I was exactly on the right path. I remain deeply grateful to the owner of Shop No. 10, who generously brought us up to his balcony for free to see the vats. Even the infamous smell was tolerable; my friend even claimed to like it.
Later, I wandered to Bab Guissa, the earthen-yellow gates at the northern edge of the Medina. The setting sun superimposed a vibrant, golden hue over the ancient stones. There were no tourists, no guards—just a group of local children using the centuries-old gate as a goalpost for their football game. It brought to mind a classic Chinese poetic verse: "West wind, setting sun, imperial tombs of Han."
Because of the nature of my work, I often feel a profound, pervasive anxiety regarding the dizzying pace of our era—akin to the impending darkness Stefan Zweig felt in The World of Yesterday. My mental state is nowhere near as vibrant as those children’s. Seeing them play football against such a significant piece of history didn't feel inappropriate in the slightest. This great monument was still serving the new generation, bringing them joy. It wasn't just preserved as a sterile relic; it was actively framing the beautiful childhood memories of the city's youth.
Afterward, I climbed up to the Marinid Tombs, which were fenced off for reconstruction. A middle-aged guard sat atop a dirt mound by the gate, his face bathed in the fading light. Seeing us hesitate, he slowly walked down, opened the gate, and rubbed his thumb and index finger together—asking for 20 dirhams in what seems to be a universally understood gesture for money. The site is officially free (a point on which Fez is usually incredibly generous), but I didn't mind the unofficial toll. I couldn't bring myself to feel cheated. To collect those 20 dirhams, he had to bake in the sun on that dirt mound all afternoon. The truly wicked villains who embezzle the wealth of hardworking people deal in millions, not 20 dirhams. Just then, a Japanese tourist walked out. In shy English, he admitted he had paid, but enthusiastically assured me it was "very worth it." I pointed him westward, showing him photos I had just taken at the Shpigel Lookout, and told him the equally stunning view there was completely free.
I had seen the vibrant, living pulse of Morocco's youth juxtaposed against its ancient walls in Fez. And soon, in the narrow space between train carriages, I would collide with that very same vitality.
By now, the sky had turned completely black as we neared Meknes. Having finished a canned Starbucks espresso, I stepped out into the vestibule between carriages to find a trash bin. A young conductor stood there, surrounded by a group of young men from Fez. I mimed throwing the can away and asked where to dispose of it. He pointed at the seam where the floor met the wall. I bent down, searching for a hidden slot, but found only solid metal. Looking up in confusion, I watched as he simply took the can from my hand and placed it on the floor against the wall. Ah, so that was it!
I lingered there watching them chat. One youth kept saying "give" to me, pointing at his pipe. Another guy explained in English that he was smoking a local tobacco, which I later realized he was pronouncing as "kif". I neither smoke nor drink. The vestibule instantly filled with pungent smoke, thankfully kept out of the main carriage by a glass door. I exchanged a few words with the English-speaking youth. A guy next to him asked something in Darija, and he casually replied, "Chino." That word, I understood. The Qin Dynasty of China dates back 2,200 years, yet locals here—and in many languages around the world—still refer to us by this ancient echo.
Unaccustomed to the smoke, I retreated to the vestibule at the rear of my carriage, where the air was clear. That was where I met Anis.
He was a slim Moroccan man in his twenties, wearing a thin, white floral shirt unbuttoned almost down to his chest. He leaned casually against the carriage wall. Beyond the glass, the night was a rushing, impenetrable black, a quiet reminder that the miles to Tangier were steadily slipping away. Inside, the bright lights and the rhythmic, metallic clatter of the wheels filled the space. This is what a train ride is all about.
"Do you happen to know why people come out here instead of sitting in their seats?" I asked him. "People don't like sitting," he replied easily. "It's too cramped."
And so, our conversation began. I introduced myself, explaining that I was originally from China but had been living and working in the West for over a decade. He shared that he worked for a Chinese company in Tangier and was heading back from a vacation. Fearing I hadn't caught the company's name over the train's noise, he quickly Googled the logo on his phone. I smiled and told him I recognized it—a Chinese company with a significant presence in Morocco.
He told me his company had sent him to China last year, where he met his girlfriend—a colleague who would soon be moving to Morocco to join him. He proudly showed me her picture. He had traveled all over China: Hong Kong, Guangdong, and even Xinjiang.
"The lamb there is incredibly delicious," he told me. "But my hometown is Agadir, and Agadir's lamb is famous. You have to try it! It's a different flavor from Xinjiang, but just as amazing." He swiped through photos of him and his family slaughtering a sheep on a balcony for Eid al-Adha. "That’s me on the right," he pointed. "I’ll be going back to my hometown then. You should come visit!"
He showed me more photos: a brilliant yellow canyon framing emerald-green water, and the stunning blue alleys of Chefchaouen. My prior knowledge of Morocco had been embarrassingly shallow. Hearing that I was leaving from Casablanca soon, he seemed genuinely disappointed for me. Looking at his screen, I realized this country was vastly more colorful than the narrow slice I had seen. It of course deserves a second, perhaps a third visit.
As the train hurtled deeper into the night, the roar of the wheels sometimes grew so loud that we had to practically shout to be heard. I praised Rabat’s cleanliness.
"Rabat is where [inaudible] and the rich people live," he replied.
For that inaudible part, his voice dropped significantly. Between that and the loud clattering of the wheels, I didn't catch it. It was quite a funny contrast, actually—the noise of the tracks was sometimes so overwhelming that, despite standing right next to each other, we had to shout just to be heard.
I told him how impressed I was by Morocco's high-speed rail, the first in Africa. "Of course!" he beamed. "I am very patriotic."
I told him that, as a first-time visitor, I was deeply struck by the vibrant energy of the country and how wonderful it felt to witness its rapid changes firsthand. He asked about my own travels. I mentioned feeling comfortable in Paris but facing severe discrimination in Milan. "I don't like France," Anis countered firmly. "I worked there. The French are too racist towards us Moroccans. I won't go back to Europe. The wages aren't even as high as in Morocco. My sister is in Spain, and she keeps calling me to go, but I don't want to. I like it here. When I was in China, I would leave at 5:00 PM, but the Chinese employees kept working. The hours are too long. That's why many Chinese people also like coming to Morocco to work."
"The working hours in China are indeed long," I agreed. "Also, your comment about France reminds me of how some Southeast Asian countries dislike China. There might be nationalistic or historical reasons, but I think a lot of times it’s just netizens venting online. When people actually meet offline, they are usually quite friendly." "I hosted a meeting last week," he noted, "between a Chinese team and a Japanese team. Neither side would speak to the other." "Ah, that's a bit severe," I admitted. "But that shouldn't be common."
He then asked why Chinese tourists often prefer domestic travel over going abroad. "Visas are a big hurdle," I replied. "Also, some feel safer in China and believe the rest of the world is dangerous, which obviously isn't entirely true. I think travel should make people more inclusive and open-minded. Some people go abroad only to look for things that are worse than their own country—things that might not even be true. The more they travel, the more narrow-minded they become, and that's not good."
I confessed my fear of Moroccan traffic, baffled by the endless roundabouts and lack of traffic lights. He laughed, pulling out his phone to enthusiastically teach me the local roundabout signs. "It's so easy!" he promised.
We chatted for the entire journey. With less than an hour left before Tangier, the train's rhythm seemed to steady as the city lights began to faintly glow in the distance. Suddenly, he asked if I was interested in psychology. Before I could answer, he turned and walked down the aisle to fetch something from his seat. Watching his retreating back navigate the swaying carriage, I felt a sudden, quiet realization that our journey was entering its final stretch.
He returned a moment later with the yellow-covered book by Daniel Walter. Flipping to the table of contents, he passionately summarized the chapters, insisting on how much it had helped him. He wanted me to have it.
I saw that it was published in the US. Knowing it might have cost him a lot of money, I gently declined, despite his persistence. I still wonder if I did the right thing, or if my over-caution inadvertently wounded a genuine gesture of kindness. If you are reading this, Anis, I hope you can forgive my hesitation.
My friend had been sitting in the sweltering compartment guarding our bags all this time, so I told Anis I needed to go back. I gave him my carriage and seat numbers, inviting him to come find me before we arrived. He repeated the numbers back to me, nodding. I stepped away, fully believing he would push open our compartment door soon. We still had time, I thought. His seat was just in the next carriage over.
But the train soon pulled into Tangier, and he never came.
As we disembarked, I thought I might catch him on the platform to say a proper goodbye. Because my carriage was ahead of his, I was closer to the exit. I walked a few steps, paused to look back, and then walked a little more. It was half-past eleven at night. Throngs of people drifted through the blurry, hazy ambient light of the Tangier platform, their silhouettes dissolving into the night. I scanned the faces passing under the lamps, but the night had already swallowed him.
My friend, noticing my lingering, asked what I kept turning back to look for.
"A friend," I replied softly. "Someone I will probably only meet once in my lifetime."
This is my first visit to Morocco, and my very first time setting foot in Africa. Before the vividness of these days bleeds into memory, I want to document the Moroccans who anchored my journey. This is by no means the sum of Morocco—a land I, as a Chinese tourist who has lived in the West for a long time, tried to observe with fresh and respectful eyes. There is so much I want to say about this country, but every narrative demands a beginning. I choose to begin with these three individuals.
Whenever I travel, I try to chat with locals to calibrate my understanding of a new place. Hampered by my inability to speak French or Darija, my world here was narrowed to those I could reach across the language barrier. (I will definitely return. There is a vast south beyond Casablanca waiting to be explored, and I look forward to riding the new high-speed rail to the 2030 World Cup—perhaps, by then, with a better grasp of the local tongues).
The first of these voices belonged to Samir (a pseudonym chosen to protect his privacy).
I met him on the afternoon I visited the Hassan II Mosque. The weather was beautiful—breezy and deceptively comfortable. Under the canopy of that dazzling sun, I didn’t feel hot at all; I was entirely unaware that the Moroccan sun was quietly at work, leaving me with a severe sunburn I wouldn't notice until much later.
I had done my homework before the trip, perhaps too much of it. The internet had warned me of the bitter, sometimes volatile turf wars between traditional taxi drivers and ride-hailing apps. Anxious about preserving my cash and spooked by tales of rigged meters and labyrinthine detours, I decided to bypass the street cabs entirely. (I didn't take a single regular taxi during my stay, so I can't verify if those online warnings are completely true—but the fear, however misplaced, was real, and it dictated my steps. Please correct me if I am wrong).
Following the advice of travel forums, I slipped away from the mosque's grand exit, ducking into a quiet, inconspicuous alleyway to summon a Careem. The narrow street was a bit gritty—though honestly, no worse than some of the so-called "good" cities I've visited in developed countries; it possessed a raw, lived-in charm. Even in the shadows, however, local life pulsed. A few boys were kicking a scuffed soccer ball back and forth around a parked flatbed cart. They paused their game just long enough to shout a cheerful "Ni hao!" at me before playing on. It was a sudden, grounding moment of ordinary life that briefly pierced my tourist paranoia.
Then, my ride arrived. The driver who claimed my ping was Samir.
He pulled up: a handsome man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed mustache. My destination, Casa Voyageurs, was already in the app, so he simply glanced at his screen and asked, "Are you... noname?"—softening the syllables into a distinctly French "noh-nahm."
It was a comical introduction—the app's default, system-generated moniker rendered with unexpected elegance. "Please," I told him in English, my voice still carrying a trace of caution, "feel free to drop me off wherever it is most convenient for you."
"Okay," Samir replied.
I was pleasantly surprised. After days of linguistic stumbling and polite frustrations on my end, his English was a sudden, clearing sky. But it wasn't just his fluency; it was his specific cadence. He spoke with the measured, precise tone of someone accustomed to corporate boardrooms—a distinct departure from the casual, transactional banter of typical tourist encounters.
Eager to pry open the history of this beautiful city through a voice I could finally understand, I ventured, "Are you a local here, if I may ask?"
"I moved here in 2022," Samir said smoothly. "Is there any information I can provide?"
I said no, I was just asking casually. Confronted unexpectedly with someone who could converse with me so fluently, my mind went blank, and I hadn't prepared the right questions. The journey was short. We arrived at the periphery of the Casa Voyageurs station, where he courteously checked if the drop-off point was acceptable before I stepped out.
But in my mind, Samir’s story had just begun.
Later that same day, aboard the fantastic Al Boraq high-speed train to Rabat, I watched the Moroccan landscape blur past the window—sun-drenched agricultural plains and flocks of sheep scattered across the rolling Mediterranean scrubland. In that quiet carriage, my thoughts drifted back to the thoughtful driver with the corporate cadence. Driven by profound curiosity—and admittedly, a traveler's incurable nosiness—I searched his name on Google.
The digital breadcrumbs led me to his LinkedIn profile. He spoke multiple languages, rating his English as merely "limited working proficiency"—he was being far too modest. Scrolling down, his professional history came into focus: his last role was in middle management at a top-tier multinational corporation, but the timeline had abruptly halted recently. Now, he was driving a Careem.
I don't know what happened. Perhaps he simply chose to walk away, trading the corporate ladder for a completely different life. I genuinely hope so. But his abrupt transition acted as a mirror for my own anxieties. Not knowing his reality, I couldn't help but wonder if he had faced a sudden professional setback. I’ve heard that Moroccan men are often expected to be the sole providers for their families, and imagining the immense psychological gap of such a shift deeply affected me.
I do not say this from a place of condescension. Even though I am an AI researcher, I don't feel guaranteed to successfully ride the current wave of Artificial Intelligence. On the contrary, I feel a profound, persistent sense of crisis. Whatever Samir’s true circumstances may be, his profile made me realize that we are passengers on the same fragile boat. The sudden displacement I feared for him could easily happen to me. In China, many business owners and white-collar professionals have experienced downward mobility, ending up behind the wheel for ride-hailing apps, where their daily labor is controlled by ruthless platform algorithms. Whether Samir is merely in transition or caught in this invisible grind—while also navigating the potential blockades of traditional taxi drivers—his journey resonated with my own deepest uncertainties.
There is one lingering regret. Twenty-four hours after our ride, I realized I wanted to leave him a tip—a small gesture while I am still in a position to help others. But the window had closed, and the app no longer allowed it. I am currently trying to contact Careem support to resolve this.
Before I closed his LinkedIn, I noticed a recent update: a license from a recently completed online course. Whatever his reasons for being behind the wheel, he is clearly still moving forward. If you ever happen to read these words, Samir, I wish you all the best in your future.