Stirring Point

I’ve been here before; I know this place. Not the physical patch of earth, per se. Morocco is fresh: my first glance, a new flavor. The multiple flights getting here, sprinting to catch a departing train, the strain of pack straps as they dig into the front of my shoulders; this place—I know it well. I’m comfortable here.

I can feel the sun raise the sweat from my pores as I stand between train cars. I’m en route to Rabat from Casablanca, my first stop on a 3-month journey. For an additional $2 bucks, I could be sitting in the first-class carriage with air-conditioning streaming through the vents. But life has been softening as I climb in age, so little touches of discomfort feel healthy. The other passengers jockey for spots, finding prime real estate, like handrails and walls to lean against. I wait until they stake their claims and take the leftover scraps of a doorway. Beyond the window, I notice three horses and a foal galloping through a field. No bridles, no riders. The earth below them is worn, dusty, and sunbaked.

The man next to me holds a backpack to his chest. The main flap is open to the base of the zipper, offering a glimpse inside of a small cardboard box. It bears the name “Brenton Lemons” and sits with one lip ajar and a few holes in the side. A lemon box is an uncommon sight back home. A single lemon? Yes. A mound of lemons at the grocery store? Of course. Maybe a bag of lemons if you’re shopping in bulk. 

Inside the box, I spot a bird. A Parakeet? I can’t tell, so I google the name. Well look at me. Nailed it. It’s a common bird though, so my pride quickly fades. The man sticks his index finger to its tiny beak with somewhat paternal affection. It nibbles at his calloused skin, searching for crumbs or maybe suckling for bits of moisture. My attention wanders to our strained relationship with nature. Why do we keep birds as pets? Doesn’t it deny them the most fundamental aspect of their being? 

Sweat forms on the small of my back and soaks through my shirt. It’s July in North Africa and the air feels thick. The foreheads around me are prime to burst with perspiration at any moment. Clothed skin gives way first, soaking the torsos of the men around me. The gangway is hot, yet faces seemingly take longer to sweat in this heat.

I make eye contact with the bird. It’s a real sight, with bright green feathers covering its breast, and a mixture of black and yellow stripes along the head and back. It’s sleek and beautiful, one of nature’s more vibrant species. His little beak moves from the man’s finger to a hole in the side of the box. It latches onto the cardboard and begins tugging.

At each station, the door opens and 10 to 15 people pile into the car. They’re followed by a rush of cool air from the outside, soaking the room with fleeting reprieve. Faces of all shapes notice me as they step in, but pay no mind once the train begins moving. Morocco is a popular destination for Europeans and easy to travel. I’m no novelty here. But my fatigue forces me inward and I avert my eyes towards the window. I’ll talk tomorrow, I think. I’ll meet the world in the morning. For now, I’ll lean against this door and watch the cold blue of the nearby Atlantic Ocean crash against the barren, rocky shoreline.

I’m dozing while standing, before a southbound train rips past and the door wallops my back with a resounding “WOOSH!” Ah, this is why the spot was empty. It’s over in seconds but pulls me from the jetlagged hypnosis. We travel another 5 minutes before the train begins to slow and an announcement in Arabic screeches through the overhead speakers. “Rabat Ville,” it says, reminding me today’s travel is not yet finished, but a shower and rest are almost within reach.