Several years back, Vertis and I took a driving vacation through southern Morocco. Recently I found my notes on the trip, which bring back some interesting memories.
Air Moroc flew us direct from JFK to the ancient imperial city of Marrakesh. It's surrounded by massive reddish-brown walls encircling a series of shops, or souks, as they are called in North Africa. The center of Marrakesh is Jemaa El Fnaa Square, which is a continuous festival. It contains vendors, music, dentists sitting on a carpet with piles of teeth, and a snake charmer with two large cobras. We wandered through the souks and finally had dinner at a restaurant overlooking the square.
The next day we headed south in an old Renault, straight for the Atlas Mountains. The road was paved wide enough for only one car to drive on, so it was a game of chicken to pass until someone drove the rocky shoulder of the road.
An hour of driving put us deep into the mountains. There were breathtaking views, unhampered by guard rails that would block views or a 500-foot plunge from the narrow roadbed.
The mountains were totally bare, but for a geologist, this was rock heaven. The faults, bedding planes, and structures stood out. I have never seen anything geologically to compare with that.
We stopped at Tizi n Tichka Pass, altitude 11,000 feet, and after bargaining with a rock shop owner and having tea, I bought some remarkable minerals and fossil specimens.
After the pass, we turned off the main road and traveled 15 miles to the Telouet Kasbah, a four-story mud-brick fortress built by the Glaoui clan. During the Moroccan war for independence, they supported the French. Big mistake. After the French Foreign Legion troops left, the Glaoui family fled, abandoning their fortress. Inside, the richly detailed inlays and carvings are slowly being destroyed by the elements.
Later that day we arrived in Ouarzazate, our jumping-off point to the deep south of Morocco. The city has been a movie set for numerous pictures. An abandoned ancient kasbah village nearby is where Jesus of Nazareth was filmed.
The next day we drove east to Todra Gorge, called a saber cut through the Atlas Mountains. After wiring the Renault's muffler to the frame, we drove up the Todra River. Several times we drove across the river without benefit of a bridge, as it's one of the few with any water. The gorge is only about 100 yards wide, with sides that tower 800 feet high. In the 1950s, Moroccan guerrillas mounted the heights to pick off French troops below.
The next day we drove south, crossing a second mountain range, the Anti-Atlas. Our route, a constant string of palm oasis. was along the Draa river valley to Zagora, where we stayed for two days. Each village had connected houses forming a medieval wall-like fortress. As the weather erodes the adobe construction, the residents merely add mud.
The next day we drove to the village of M'Hamid, which is the end of the road. South from M'hamid is the Sahara Desert, and there is a scrawled sign in English saying, "Timbuktu 54 days by camel."
It was market day, and the town was packed. We plunged in. I had on cutoff shorts, running shoes, a cowboy scene T-shirt, and a Gibraltar Energy baseball cap. Vertis wore cutoffs with a black Fort Benning paratrooper cap.
We stopped traffic. Not many Americans make it to the market at M'Hamid. Local guides tried to speak to us in broken French. When we said "Americans", they gave us a "how did you get here?" look.
We were approached by a tall Moroccan, dressed in the Tuareg tribal dress of the desert blue people, who spoke broken English and offered to show us the best merchandise. We resisted, but finally we just said, "Why not?"We knew his presence meant a 20 percent markup on anything we purchased, but we weren't really interested in buying much.
We ended up squatting under a tent having tea while a merchant pulled out a dusty bag of Tuareg necklaces. Trade beads, bits of amber, a little silver, and some corral, were all strung together. As another merchant not three feet away began to cut up sheep entrails, Vertis picked out three necklaces.
"You bargain." she whispered.
A special price "for Americans only" was offered. I countered with 10 percent of what he asked. After a few more minutes, we were at a stalemate.
"OK," I said. "Thank you for the tea," and to Vertis, "We've got to go."
He caught up with us within 20 yards. Prices were closer, but we walked on to the car. The merchant stopped us as we started to get in. The Gibraltar cap became part of the trade. Finally, a price was agreed upon, plus the baseball cap as a trade for a Tuareg headdress.
As we left the merchant said, "You bargain like a Berber." I guess that was a compliment. I have bargained in Mexico markets, and the walk-away always gets the best price.
We concluded our trip in Taroudant, a walled city of about 35,000 people. The first walls were constructed in the 12th century and have been repaired and reconstructed through the 18th century. Several times Taroudant was conquered and the entire population was slaughtered.
The last day was from Taroudant to the airport at Marrakesh across another pass called Tizi-n-Test. This road cuts right through the heart of the high Atlas, and is considered quite an engineering feat. My Michelin map describes it as "Secondary road."
How much worse can it be? I wondered ... a hell of a lot worse.
We started driving along the front of the mountains, then turned and drove right into them. At first, things were about the same as other passes we had traversed, but as we crept along. driving on a one-lane path cut through solid rock, we realized this road was far more treacherous than anything we had traveled.
Streams splashed across the pavement and rocks slid from the mountain to almost block the way. I prayed for no traffic. Especially when I had the outside, swinging around a blind curve.
"What if we meet a bus?" I said.
"Well, we'll be killed, but I just hope I go quickly and not linger," Vertis laughed.
Then my dashboard lit up "Service immediately!" But we didn't stop until we finally reached civilization, and pulled into a gas station in a small village. They pumped gas by hand from a 55-gallon drum.
The owner came out and I showed him the service light. We started looking for the hood release, and 30 minutes later, after four Moroccans and two Americans had punched and pulled every known button on the car; we gave up.
Another 60 miles with a flashing emergency light, and finally the airport. I have never been so happy to turn in a car.
Email Richard Mason at richard@gibraltarenergy.com.
Editorial on 04/19/2020