That was until I caught the legendary Marrakech Express from Casablanca with my family.

We had opted for first class seats — so cheap they scarcely dented our budget — and settled into one of those six-seater compartments redolent of the old British Rail trains.

Before long, a smartly dressed man with a briefcase entered and asked whether we minded if he joined us.

He offered to buy us coffee and after exchanging pleasantries over our beverages, said Moroccan began to regale us with a history of his business.

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