A Moroccan Shortcut

                     A  MOROCCAN SHORTCUT

Marrakech, Morocco, September 15, 2006

            I’m the tour guide since Vertis and I’ve driven through Morocco twice during our time in Libya, and we know the roads. We’re with 3 other couples, and I expect it 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 Warzazat, the movie producing capital of Morocco. A number of American movies have been shot there, and one is currently in production.

I been on the road to Warzazat through the pass twice, and I don’t think we’ll have any trouble. It’s a steep, winding road, but it’s paved. The drive through the pass 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 ten miles off the main highway, there is an ancient casaba. We decide to take a look, and in 20 minutes we pull up to a remarkable sight. A large multi-floored series of mud plastered buildings are spectacular, and we’re spending a couple of hours touring the partially ruined structures.

The buildings are a major attraction, but the families who lived in this particular casaba cooperated with the French when the country was a French Colony, and they took the
French side when Morocco sought their independence. The result was, anybody who had worked with the French or helped the French during the independence struggle, was shunned. The families fled to France.  However, the stain of pro-French tainted the casaba, and even though it could be a very interesting tourist attraction, 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 the structure isn’t kept up the building will slowly crumble.  

            We’re about to leave, when I pull out our Michelin Road Map to see how much farther it is to Warzazat. As I look at the map I notice a secondary road leading from where we are straight to Warzazat. The map has the road 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. After all 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.

            “Hey, everybody; check out this map. If we take this shortcut and don’t go back to the main road, we’ll be in Warzazat in less than an hour. This Michelin Map says it’s a secondary road, but it shouldn’t be too bad. It’s less than 40-miles.”

            Everyone agrees, and we head across some of the Atlas Mountain’s foothills in the direction of Warzazat. After about 30 minutes of driving, I’m becoming concerned, because the foothills are turning out be the understatement of the year. I think we’re back 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 actually rugged mountainous. I want turn around, but I figure we are over halfway, so after we talk, the vote is to continue on. Ten minutes later and I know we have made a huge mistake. The road winds higher and higher into the rugged Atlas Mountains, and at times the rocky road is only slightly wider than our car. On top of that the road is hugging the side of a mountain. One slip and we’ll tumble 1500 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.

But 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 just cringe.

“Oh, my gosh!”

It’s a fork in the road, and to the right there’s a little village hanging on the side of the mountain. Then 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 Warzazat, and 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 not 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 dollars later, he’s backing up for about a hundred 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!” Well, he scraped the side of the car, drug the oil pan across bare rock but did go on. I’m glad we took the full insurance for the rent-a-cars.

The road is better now and after a few more miles and one hellacious hill, we’re on the main road to Warzazat. 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, but 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, back roads. I’ve driven halfway across Libya without any roads, across the mountain of Mexico, been through Colorado back country and south Arkansas swamp roads, but in all of my travels, I’ve never seen a road even as 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’m sure they’ll end up at the bottom of one of those canyons somewhere deep in the Atlas Mountains.