To Marrakech

      Wind blasted through the open doorway and made the hair of all parties involved dance like deep-rooted wheat caught in a hurricane.  The grassy plains of Morocco swept past with a flourish; the foreground flashed by in milliseconds while the northern slopes of the Lower Atlas Mountains, rising just an inch or so above the horizon, slowly crawled along in the distance.  The air was heavy and clear, and redolent of rain, but no clouds were visible through the three-by-eight metal frame. 
      Inside, two men were handling with much asperity a third who, for his part, was working to free himself of their grip and trying his best to calm the pair with mellifluous speech; actions which did not serve to decrease the roughness with which they laid hands on him.  The shorter of the aggressors was dressed sharply in a conductor’s uniform and hat; buttons done all the way up, shirt tucked, shoes shined, and metal-framed glasses sitting way up on his nose.  His drooping jowls were flushed from prolonged physical exertion and his thick, graying mustache had tiny drops of perspiration collecting at the corners.  His partner was dressed in similar colors and fashion, though without the jacket, hat, or attention to detail.  He was taller and younger than the other, and displayed the diffident obsequiousness of a new employee.  Though his grip was tight and his feet were firmly planted, his wide eyes and dilated pupils betrayed his surprise and fear at the redoubtable situation.  The third man was facing the other two, back to the doorway, arms out to either side intensely grabbing at the various extraneous metal protrusions inherent in large, 20th century mechanical apparatuses.  His sallow face was lean and tan.  His dark, narrow eyes darted back and forth between the two on-comers and the sides of the car where his hands were fighting furiously for new grips to grab.  Never once did he look back over his shoulder.  A river of unctuous declarations poured forth from his mouth without stop; though he was constantly shifting and fighting and ducking and grabbing, adroitly maneuvering so as to stay erect and inside, his words never once halted; he spoke like a garrulous charlatan at a Gullible Peoples Anonymous meeting.  A tightly packed throng of bystanders stood staring over the shoulders of the two ticket collectors with rapt attention, eyes wide and mouths agape.  As the noise grew louder, more riders left their seats and joined the crowd, pushing and straining to get closer until all interstices had been eliminated.  And so they all stood, bunched together like cattle, calves burning from standing on tiptoe, watching the melee unfold.
      Next stop: Mechra-Benabbou, seven kilometers.