The Arab world is not known for its transportation excellence.

Inhabitants of most Middle Eastern nations go about their daily business via miserably overcrowded buses, smelly taxis, unventilated trains and unreliable subways. Domestic flights typically aren't much better; there's a reason EgyptAir is known as EgyptScare.

So, it was with wariness that I booked a ticket from Casablanca to Rabat on Morocco's national railway, Office National des Chemins de Fer (ONCF). Don't worry, friends had promised, Morocco's railway system is among the best and cheapest in the world.

I didn’t believe them at first, but they were right. I was addicted after that first little jaunt to the capital. Provided you plunk down a few extra dirhams for a first-class ticket, trains are the way to go in Morocco. You get a plush seat and a huge picture window that allows the country to roll by in lush, textured panoramas.

That early Casa-Rabat commute (one hour, $7) led to longer and more interesting train rides: Rabat-Fez (three hours, about $11), and then Fez-Oujda (five hours, about $20). Emboldened (and out of options because all the planes were booked, anyway), I finally went for the long haul: all the way from Oujda, on the Algerian border, back to Casablanca.

It was a 13-hour overnight trip in a “wagonlit,” a private sleeper cabin with bunk beds, a faux leather couch and a nifty table that lifted up to reveal a washbasin with hot and cold running water. A plastic pouch contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream and a towelette, all stamped with the railway’s logo, ONCF. The ticket cost the equivalent of $60.

At risk of sounding like a passenger on the Orientalist Express, Morocco looks pretty exotic from the windows of a rumbling railway car. On one trip, the white-capped waves of the Atlantic Ocean appeared out the left window. A tall, red-and-white striped lighthouse cut through the horizon. On another journey, neat squares of farmland unfolded. Shepherds tended flocks of sheep and goats, while donkey carts ambled down dirt roads.

The scenes were alternately barren and brilliant. Sometimes, there was nothing but desert that stretched for miles and miles. Other times, we passed stucco homes splashed with indigo, pink, white or turquoise paint. Satellite dishes sprang like mushrooms from urban apartment rooftops and even from tin-roof shacks in the countryside.

Moroccan women hung out their laundry on trees in front of a stately villa topped with Spanish tiles. Railway workers sought shelter from the blazing sun underneath LG refrigerator boxes they’d fashioned into makeshift tents along the tracks.

Graffiti-spattered walls showcased the handiwork of Moroccan taggers. A vast field of white crosses signaled a Christian cemetery. There were streams and cactus groves, windmills and soccer stadiums, white birds perched on the backs of cows.

In theory, smoking is banned on all trains. In reality, groups of passengers gather between railway cars to light up (and not just cigarettes) without protest from the gray-capped attendants.

The attendants were more stringent with place-hoppers. On one trip, a noisy trio of pretty boys – each with gelled hair, aviator sunglasses and sagging jeans – grew sheepish as they were escorted to their second-class seats when they failed to produce the correct tickets to remain in the air-conditioned, first-class cabin.

Fellow passengers launched into long discussions of politics, al Qaida and the war in Iraq. Young Moroccans drowned out the conversation by cranking up their iPods and securing their headphones. The occasional European or Asian backpacker joined the fray, consulting dog-eared guidebooks and anxiously asking other travelers where they should get off.

On the trip from Fez to Oujda, I caught sight of three young boys lying shoulder-to-shoulder just a few feet from the railroad tracks. Their rusty bikes were propped against a wall. The boys were stretched out on their backs, arms folded like pillows under their heads, as they watched the trains go by.