Book Name: No god but God
Writer: Reza Aslan
12 PM, AND FIVE hours to Marrakech. I have consistently had
inconvenience resting on trains. There is something in particular about the unwavering
beat and murmur of the wheels as they turn over the tracks that consistently
keeps me wakeful. It resembles an inaccessible tune that is too boisterous to even think about ignoring.
Not even the murkiness that immerses the compartments around evening time
appears to help. It is more regrettable around evening time, when the stars are the main lights
obvious in the tremendous, quieted desert zooming by my window.
This is a deplorable idiosyncrasy, in light of the fact that the most ideal approach to go by
train through Morocco is sleeping. The trains are overwhelmed with unlawful
fake aides, who move from the lodge to lodge looking for voyagers with
whom to share their suggestions for the best eateries, the
least expensive lodgings, the cleanest ladies. The fake aides in Morocco
communicate in about six dialects, which makes them hard to disregard.
As a rule, my olive skin, thick temples, and dark hair keep them under control.
xii Prologue
In any case, the best way to evade them totally is to be snoozing, with the goal that they
must choose the option to proceed onward to the following ambushed explorer.
That is correctly what I thought was occurring in the compartment close to mine when I heard raised voices. It was a contention
between what I accepted that was an artificial guide and a hesitant traveler. I
could hear an inflexible cluck of Arabic spoken too rapidly for me to
comprehend, hindered by the intermittent aroused reactions of an
American.
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