Never Better

For the hopelessly indolent, it doesn’t get much better than this.  Here I am seated in the first class compartment for a comfortable train trip from Fes to the city of Oujda.  The air-conditioning is working well, providing relief from the heat in excess of 90 degrees; I have my New York Times crossword from the International Herald Tribune spread out on the small writing table provided; and my bottle of Sidi Ali mineral water, purchased at the train station immediately before boarding.  The trolley boy happened by just as the train left the station, and I purchased a cappuccino.   It’s not Starbucks, but I did manage to pay for it without having to use a credit card.  In addition to the newspaper, I have one or two of the challenging books Jamey left for me from the eclectic collection he had brought last month, but given my verified commitment to idleness, I’ll likely stick to my Patricia Cornwell novel.

The downside of all this, what seems to me, good fortune, is the guilt that inexorably begins to affect my frame of mind. I obviously did not inherit the gene that so defined my father; he had a difficult time not devoting every single available hour to productive activity.  But I did inherit the trait, it seems, that causes one to believe they have a serious character flaw, when feeling good about behavior that is at best marginally beneficial to anyone.

That partially explains, I suppose, my choice of vocation.  I’m sure I provide evidentiary proof for many who enjoy repeating the mantra, “those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”  I have to admit I relish the time off my profession permits, and if my time in Morocco convicts me of lack of ambition, I shall have to live with the unpleasant consequences of my increased self-awareness.

In the meantime, however, I plan to sit back and enjoy the ride as we are transported to the northeast corner of the country.  Oujda is located a few miles off the Mediterranean coast and just 10 miles or so from the Algerian border.  The first two hours of the trip provide some truly spectacular scenery. The Middle Atlas mountains march northward from the Sahara Desert until they intersect the Rif mountain range, which hugs the Mediterranean coast, in an east-west orientation.  Geologic forces have carved large gashes in the landscape, canyons that divide the mountain sides, providing wind-swept texture to the scenery.  Deep wadis appear below, some with water coursing through them, and as a result, blooming shrubs and wild flowers line the banks.

Along most of the trajectory, the railroad bed is located significantly higher than the winding highway below, and I watch the traffic, comparing the relative speed and position of the train to the cars, located some 100 feet or so below.  It brings to mind that familiar word problem from Algebra, “If a train left Fes at 11:00 a.m. and traveled 90 kilometers per hour, and a car left Fes at noon traveling at 100 kph, etc., etc.  I have discovered over the years that most people could care less about when the car would overtake the train!

We reach the town of Taza about 1:00 p.m., the only town of any size other than the much smaller Taourirt, through which we pass during the trip of over 200 miles.  Soon thereafter, the scenery becomes less mountainous.  It changes more to rolling hills of brown and white; there are hardly any trees, and those that appear, seem to be struggling to maintain their scanty vegetation.  The view gradually becomes more bleak and stark, and it is evident that desertification has made advances not only from the south, but has looped around to the east, and is encroaching from that direction as well.

There are miles-wide expanses, when I see not a single person.  Occasionally, an isolated farm dwelling is visible, but population density is hardly a problem here.  On one vast plain, I see a nomadic Berber family’s tent, low-slung and made of dark-colored goatskins.   It’s their home.  Their flock consists of maybe 200 sheep and goats, but there is hardly enough vegetation to sustain the animals for more than a day or two.  Then, I suppose, they pull up stakes (literally) and move on to the next grassy site available for foraging.

It’s an interesting and enjoyable trip, but that anxiety still gnaws at me a bit.  I’m glad I have a pastor that talks a lot about the importance of life being measured by relationships.   That’s the escape hatch I need to justify this self-indulgent spree.   Because, you see, I’m on my way to visit friends in Oujda that I haven’t seen since our trip in March of last year.  They visited us in Birmingham in April 2003.  In addition, I plan to spend some time with a member of the English faculty at the university located there.  A former customer of ours at the bookstore in the 80’s and a long-time friend, he is applying for a Fulbright grant that could enable him to be on Jacksonville’s campus for a few weeks next Spring.

I’m not sure my rationale is sufficient to justify my selfish enjoyment, especially when Denise is already home and back at work. But, until I can find a compelling reason not to indulge myself in this manner, I suppose I shall continue to chase whatever it is that lures me back here every year.  

In the meantime, I could use a little help.  Does anyone know a five-letter word for Hudson River town?  It starts with N.


Fred

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