Taking a Moroccan shortcut
Marrakech, Morocco, Sept. 15, 2006—I’m the tour guide since Vertis and I have driven through Morocco twice during our time in Libya and we know the roads. We’re with three other couples, and I expect this to be a fun trip with good friends. Our group is in two cars, and I’m driving the lead car as we leave Marrakech heading across the Atlas Mountains to Ouarzazate, the movie producing capital of Morocco. A number of American movies have been shot there, and one is currently in production.
I’ve been through the pass to Ouarzazate twice and don’t think we’ll have any trouble. It’s a steep, winding road, but it’s paved. The drive usually takes two hours.
We’re leaving early, but I’ve just been pulled over by the local police, and now I am paying a cash fine to the officer for questionable speeding. A few minutes later and we’re whizzing toward the pass without any problems. Just on the other side of the pass, about 10 miles off the main highway, there is an ancient casbah. We decide to take a look, and in 20 minutes we pull up to a remarkable sight. The large multi-floored series of mud-plastered buildings are spectacular, and we’re spending a couple of hours touring the partially ruined structures.
The families who lived in this particular casbah cooperated with the French when the country was a French colony and took the French side when Morocco sought its independence. The result was that anybody who had worked with the French or helped the French during the independence struggle was shunned. The families fled to France.
The stain of pro-French tainted the casbah, and it was left to survive the elements. The use of a mud-like stucco for construction means the building must be repaired after rains, and if it isn’t kept up, it will slowly crumble.
We’re about to leave when I pull out our Michelin road map. I notice a secondary road leading from where we are straight to Ouarzazate. The map has the road printed in yellow, indicating it’s not completely paved, but it’s a much shorter route, and I suggest we take it instead of backtracking to the main road. It’s only about 40 miles, and the main road is twice that far. It’s a shortcut that will save us an hour of driving.
Everyone agrees, and we head across some of the Atlas Mountains’ foothills in the direction of Ouarzazate. After about 30 minutes of driving, I’m becoming concerned, because calling them foothills is turning out be the understatement of the year. It’s more like being in the center of Atlas Mountains as the road winds up and up and up. I’m guessing we’ve come about 15 miles, and I’m about to panic. The road is a lot narrower and the terrain is rugged and mountainous. I want to turn around, but I figure we are over halfway, so after we talk, the vote is to continue on.
Ten minutes later, I know we have made a huge mistake. The route winds higher and higher, and at times the rocky road is only slightly wider than our car. On top of that, it’s hugging the side of a mountain. One slip and we’ll tumble 1,500 feet straight down into the valley. I take a deep breath as I look down at the valley below.
“My God, Richard! Your back tire was hanging over the cliff on that last curve!” Edwin yells.
Dropping into the valley and dying is only part of the problem. As we continue, the road is so rocky that I am sure we are going to knock off the oil pan and be stranded. At times the cars drag on rocks so badly that I cringe. “Oh, my gosh!”
It’s a fork in the road. To the right there’s a little village hanging on the side of the mountain. To my left, I spot a man on the side of the road. Diane can speak a little French, so she hops out and after some hand-waving, he sends us to the left toward Ouarzazate. Now we’re going up the steepest road I have ever seen.
“Oh, no!”
We’re hanging off the side of the mountain and here comes a tractor. Of course there’s no room to pass. A bicycle couldn’t pass us. I’m out of the car talking to the driver, negotiating with him, and about $20 later, he’s backing up for about 100 yards to let us pass.
Now we’re passing a tiny village, and kids are putting rocks in the road to make us stop, where they can offer to move them for a few coins, but I’m so ready to get that ride over with that I just run over the rocks, and I can hear them banging against the oil pan. Steve, the driver of the other car, stops, pays a little money and then follows. Finally, we’re dropping into the valley, but as we round a curve, I see Steve’s car sliding into a rock wall. We have walkie-talkies and Steve yells, “I can’t go on!” He scraped the side of the car, dragging the oil pan across bare rock, but did go on. I’m glad we took the full insurance for the rental cars.
The road is better now, and after a few more miles and one hellacious hill, we’re on the main road to Ouarzazate. As soon as we pull onto the pavement everyone jumps out of the cars, cheering. We feel like kissing the ground, we are so happy. We’re composing ourselves, when a car drives up.
It’s a French couple. The man walks over and asks the condition of the road we had just traveled. We wave, yell, and tell him the horror stories of nearly being killed. He just politely smiles, gets back in his car and drives down the road we had left. I guess the Frenchman thought we’re spoiled Americans and not used to rough backroads.
I’ve driven halfway across Libya, across the mountains of Mexico, been through Colorado backcountry and south Arkansas swamp roads, but in all of my travels, I’ve never seen a road even close to as bad as that Moroccan road. As the couple drives off it’s getting dark, and of all the bad things I can imagine, the worst would be to try and drive that road at night. I hope they don’t end up at the bottom of one of those canyons somewhere deep in the Atlas Mountains.
Richard Mason is a registered professional geologist, downtown developer, former chairman of the Department of Environmental Quality Board of Commissioners, past president of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation, and syndicated columnist. Email richard@ gibraltarenergy.com.