Not China or Europe: The high-speed train revolution in an unlikely country

As I was sitting on the platform of Rabat Station, about three metres away sparks literally flew as a welder finished a lift shaft for a new section; as I moved between cities, construction as wide as a football pitch ran continuously alongside the track; new, spotless stations bookended the main lines, resembling the trophy cabinets Morocco hopes to fill when they co-host the next World Cup. All lines are heading towards 2030.

All this is evidence that a quiet revolution is happening in Morocco which will not only make it the most connected high-speed rail network in Africa, but the world. By (that year again) 2030, 630 kilometres of high-speed track will have been laid, with more than 100 new trains connecting Tangier to Marrakesh in record time. This will not just change the country’s infrastructure, but potentially its entire character – Morocco’s own mini industrial revolution. What is already a fantastic – though little-known – destination for a rail holiday will become a global hotspot. By 2040, it will be 1100 kilometres, welcoming in Fes, Agadir, and Oujda. The plan one day is for a Strait of Gibraltar tunnel.

That’s for the future. My own recent train journey across the country began in Tangier, known as the Door of Africa and home to what is currently the only true high-speed line. The Al Boraq train, with its Shinkansen-esque pointed nose, air-conditioned carriages, free (though sometimes patchy) Wi-Fi and reasonably priced first-class seats, connects Tangier and Casablanca in just over two hours, a 323-kilometre journey which used to take around five. It opened in November 2018, taking seven years to build at a cost of about $3.1 billion. Which compares rather favourably with, say, the cost of Melbourne’s Metro Tunnel project at about $15 billion.

My memories of a previous visit to Tangier are hazy. I was eight years old, on a day trip from Gibraltar, and it was the first time I’d set foot in Africa. I recall a chaotic market, my dad having a snake draped over his shoulders, and debates about a potential rug purchase (never realised). This time I headed straight from the airport to Tangier Station, where the arrivals hall is conceived as a traditional market known as a souk, the departures hall a caravanserai (a kind of roadside inn, only with a Starbucks), and the boarding hall as a garden.

We grazed the show-off top speed of 320km/h a few times during the first half of the journey to Casablanca, whizzing through arid then arable landscapes, past tumbledown Moorish architecture and inevitable retail parks, really getting behind the scenes, as trains tend to do. They circumnavigate the often berserk traffic, push seamlessly through the rough terrain, forgo the learning of the country’s intricate headlight-flashing rules for any foreign driver (when changing lanes; when straddling lanes; when close to another car; when you feel like flashing your headlights), and throw you right into the thick of things – with no parking – at your final destination, often at a very beautiful station.

After stopping in Kenitra, we switched to the older tracks, transitioning from high-speed to merely smooth, comfortable and efficient, for the final approach to Casablanca Voyageurs Station.

Morocco’s largest city, business-minded Casablanca is more ordered than Tangier or Marrakesh, but less polished than Rabat. It’s like the difficult middle child, trying to live up to its showy siblings, and there’s a bratty frustration evident in the driving styles on display, quite possibly the most agitated and chaotic I have witnessed outside of Naples. Thankfully, legs and public transport are easy to use here, and there is a very good tram service.

I experienced a city at the tail end of Eid al-Adha. Most offices were closed, and the crowds were thinner. It allowed me almost free rein around the winding alleys of the old town, the covered markets of the souks, the cavernous Hassan II Mosque, and the open municipal square, buffered on one side by the soon-to-open Casarts Theatre, with which the city is hoping to plant its flag as a cultural capital (by 2030).

Having selflessly served as a human buffet for Casablanca’s mosquitos, I headed to Casa Port Station, its pillars resembling the towering indigenous Date Palms to be found throughout the country, well-groomed stray cats meandering on the concourse as if killing time between meetings. The train was old rolling stock, but I always delight in a double-decker. A mere 50 minutes through the Moroccan night in a spacious, though ageing, first-class carriage, I was deposited at Rabat Agdal.

Rabat – dubbed the “Arab Washington” – is a shiny, wonderfully kept, sun-drenched playground for Morocco’s politicians and royal family. But there’s plenty for ordinary folk to enjoy. I toured the beautiful, Unesco-listed ancient city of Chellah, where storks have taken control of the trees; found, in Café des Oudayas, the perfect nook for mint tea, pastries, and a sea view; and learned that this (not Tangier) is the city to buy rugs, with less of a “tourist tax” (seek out Rabat Tapis, in the souk).

Unable to fit a rug on a train, I settled into my longest journey, the stretch between Rabat and Marrakesh. It was old rolling stock again, with the first-class carriages – separate compartments with six highly sprung seats – recalling the ones on British Rail slam-door trains, with all the Wi-Fi that implies (none).

It appeared to be a network used by all. In my compartment alone, after helping her haul her case into the rack above our heads, I chatted with a mother going to visit her son in Skhirat; a young couple sat opposite holding hands, using their spares to scroll TikTok; a businessman tapped furiously at his laptop before furiously alighting in Casablanca. The carriage aspired to air conditioning, and the snack cart was cash-only, so I saw out the four-hour stretch (it will take just under two hours when the high-speed line arrives) with water, a book, and views changing from coast to Marrakesh’s low-rise, urban sprawl.

The Red City encapsulates everything brought to mind at the mention of Morocco. There are terracotta riads, hidden gardens festooned with geometric mosaics, beating heat staved off by hung fabrics and Mashrabiya shielding, and the call to prayer echoing through the twists and turns of the medina. There are chaotic markets – leather, then lamps, then rugs – where you are absolutely being given the best price. Then there’s the main square – Jemaa el-Fnaa – which comes alive when the day’s punishing sun starts to create an impressionist painting in the sky.

Forty minutes away (on a chauffeured SUV day tour offered by my hotel) in the Atlas Mountains, the air was fresher and sweeter, the colours more luminous, yet the tourists just as dense in busy but beautiful Sti Fadma, the home of the Seven Cascades. But my day trip took me to the lesser-known places too: the seasonal ski resort of Oukaïmeden, where they use mules instead of lifts, wildflowers blooming over steep drops and dramatic vistas; and the rural commune of Ourika, where I learned with genuine astonishment just how much sugar goes into Moroccan mint tea (three golf ball-sized chunks).

Back on lower terrain, I reflected on how much there is for rail travellers to look forward to. In 2030, when all that high-speed shininess is on track, hopping between Morocco’s metropolises will be easier than ever, and that’s before the country’s even-grander plans are realised. If you’re already feeling nostalgic, however, catch the fun slow trains – the slide-door compartments; the double-deckers; the precarious luggage – now.

The writer was a guest of Four Seasons’ Morocco Collection, which has properties in Casablanca, Rabat and Marrakesh, with another planned for Tangier.

The Telegraph, London