September 26, 1980

OUJDA, MOROCCO
The train has first-, second-, and third-class cars. The major difference between second and third, I think, is not in the car or the services, but in the class of people surrounding you. In third class, it’s mostly poor people and my wagon was full of toothless old women in rags, 19-year old girls with children, some very scroungy-looking men and a few penny-pinchers like myself. The train was slow and stopped a lot, so it was dawn before we were halfway there. Since I wasn’t sleeping well, I at least got to see the countryside: BARREN. It looked like it would all just crumble up and blow away. I had an idea that this area would be somewhat lush, but it’s desert. Apparently, the winter rainy season perks things up, because there are dry stream beds, but after the tough summer heat, there’s practically nothing growing.

What amazed me most of all was that, once in a while, there would be a little cottage, far from any others and very far from useful vegetation. I can’t imagine these people’s existence. When I see people like this, I think of how completely trapped they are. Now it’s unlikely that any of them would ever want to leave Morocco, but I imagine myself there, with no money or American contacts, having to spend the rest of my life there, and it terrifies me. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered what I’ve done to deserve earning money in excess of my needs, going to college, trips like this—how it happens that I’m doing all this and I’ve never even earned money at a skilled job, and these people struggle just to survive.

At the border town of Oujda, I was only five steps from the train when I had my first solicitor. The Algerian dinar is inflated and there’s an active black market exchange on both sides of the border. I very cautiously went into the deal, changing $100 for 500 dinar, a profit of $25-$30. A taxi driver bid 25 dinar to take me to the border, but I held off for my next offer, 2 dinar. It seemed I’m catching on.

Between countries, there are two borders, with a no-man’s land in between. I crossed the Moroccan border with no trouble, but was warned that the Algerian border guards would not let me in on foot, even though I was just going from train to train. I got friendly with three young French people and they agreed to take me through in their car and pretend that I was with them. The guards were suspicious enough about our different nationalities, but I clinched it when I wrote a different destination on my entrance form. My entrance stamp was nullified and I was sent back to Morocco, told that the only way I could enter now was by air and the nearest airport is in Casablanca. Dejectedly, I got back on a train for a 12-hour trip back to point A.

Unlike on my first trip, I got a seat right away, across from a pretty girl who was traveling past Casablanca with her 9-year old nephew. She broke the ice by offering me part of a fish sandwich and continued to share their picnic dinner of eggs, potatoes, fruit and bread, til I was stuffed. For the rest of the twelve hours, I would be completely distracted from the hassles of international politics.

PHOTO CREDIT