| Summary | None |
| Owner | Matthew Gilbertson |
| Creation Date | 2012-10-23 11:03:35 UTC-0400 |
| Description | A Road Trip Through the Moroccan Sahara
Matthew Gilbertson (& 3 Polish friends) Oct 12-15, 2012 1,687 miles / 2,715 km § § § § § § THE BRIBE “Stop, stop!” the guard yelled. Anton, at the wheel, slammed on the brakes as the guard approached our car. We had just slowed to 1 mph at the stop sign in front of the police checkpoint, and the guard’s nod of approval and hand gesture had been unmistakable – we were certain that he had just motioned for us to continue on our way. So Anton had started to accelerate. “Bonjour monsieurs,” he said, “passports.” We handed over our passports as usual and the guard opened them up. He looked quickly through all of them, saying nothing. He asked none of the questions that we had gotten at all ten of the earlier checkpoints. We sensed that something was up. This policeman was dressed differently than all the other policemen we had encountered so far. He wasn’t even wearing a uniform, just dark clothes and a reflective vest. He closed the stack of passports and handed them to Anton. “You didn’t stop at the stop sign,” he said, smiling. “Sorry sir, we thought you waved us by,” Anton replied. “You must stop at every stop sign,” the guard answered. “Do you know how much a ticket costs? It’s very expensive. Hundreds of dirhams. If you don’t want to pay the fine, …” he paused, with a big smile on his face, “… then you’ll need to give me something.” We were certain he was joking – the police had at some of the earlier checkpoints – so we played along. “What do you want?” Andrzej asked, “here’s two dirhams!” And we laughed. The guard smiled. “Are you kidding me man? That’s not enough.” “How about two apples and two dirhams?” I suggested. The four of us laughed but the guard suddenly became irritated. Something was definitely up. “You kidding me? You need to give me something.” The four of us looked at each in shock. Did he really just say that? We looked around for anything in the car that we might give up. “Uh, what do you want?” Witek asked. The guard thought about it for a moment. “Give me some beer.” “Sorry but we don’t have any,” Anton answered truthfully. “Give him 20 dirhams,” Andrzej whispered to us. We presented 20 dirhams to the guard, equivalent to about USD $2.40. “Are you joking? You need to give me more than that. One hundred dirhams.” “One hundred, no way,” Andrzej said. “Let’s give him 50,” Andrzej whispered. We produced 50 dirhams and the guard hesitantly took it. “I need more than that.” Anton, sensing that the guard would accept it, began to push back. “No, we gave you fifty, that’s plenty.” “Come on man, you can give me more than that,” the guard answered. “Oh come on, that’s more than enough, we’ve got to go,” Andrzej said. The guard slowly backed away, mumbling that he wanted more. As we slowly rolled away we continued yelling at him, and he mumbled to us, until it was clear that we were safe. “What just happened?” I asked. “We just bribed a cop. First time I’ve ever given a bribe. Well if six dollars is the admission fee into Western Sahara then so be it.” “Yeah I don’t think he was actually a cop,” Witek said. “It’s a different world down here.” § § § § § § MAURITANIA? ALGERIA? WESTERN SAHARA. I was on the second leg of my quick four-day Moroccan adventure. On the summit of Jbel Toubkal, Morocco’s highest point, earlier that day, I happened to meet up with three Polish fellows – Witek, Andrzej, and Anton – who were also in search of adventure. With three empty seats in my car, we had decided to combine forces and drive as far south together as we could over the next two days. The only hard constraint was that we needed to be back in Marrakech in three days for Anton’s flight back to Poland, and in Casablanca the afternoon of that day for my flight back to the states. As we rumbled down the rough, windy highway with Anton at the helm of the trusty little Hyundai i10, I explained to them the evolution of my plans for this trip. Originally, months ago, I had hoped to be able to touch my toe in Algeria after climbing Toubkal. But extensive research on Lonely Planet forums revealed that all road border crossings between Morocco and Algeria were closed – the two countries aren’t exactly buddies these days. What about mountain biking to the border? No, the entire thousand-mile border is landmined. I discovered an especially telling indication of the relations between the two countries when I zoomed into the satellite photos at one point on the border: N29.132352, W7.964512. At that location, two gigantic satellite-visible signs are painted on a Morocco-facing Algerian mountainside that read (in Arabic and French), “God King Homeland.” Also known as “don’t even think about it.” What about driving or mountain biking into Mauritania? No, the only open road border crossing is at the southern end of Morocco, in Western Sahara, much too far to drive in any less than a week. And did I mention that the entire border is landmined too? Well, I can deal with climbing mountains and crossing creeks, I thought to myself, but when it comes to landmines, I’m out of my element. It seems that the entire land border of Morocco is mined. So I looked at the map and thought about other options. I couldn’t just hang out on the beach, that wouldn’t be very fulfilling. What about Western Sahara, I wondered? On my National Geographic world map, at first glance, the northwestern African region of Western Sahara looks like it’s just part of Morocco. It’s same yellow color as the rest of the country. But if you look a little closer, there’s an intriguing dotted line that separates it from the rest of Morocco. The font suggests that something special is going on with Western Sahara. Hmm… is part of Morocco or not? Would Jbel Toubkal still count as the high point for Western Sahara, or would I need to climb another mountain? I was intrigued. A little Wikipedia research on Western Sahara only served to pique my interest: Western Sahara, it turns out, is an “occupied” territory in North Africa; most of the region is controlled by Morocco, but some parts are controlled by the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic, which is backed by Algeria. In 1991, the United Nations brokered a ceasefire between the two warring parties, but tension and unease persist today. Meanwhile, as far as geography goes, it’s “one of the most sparsely populated territories in the world, mostly consisting of desert flatlands.” Most of the people live in Laâyoune, near the border with the rest of Morocco. So, what Western Sahara lacks in terms of, well just about anything, it makes up for in terms of political spiciness. The US State Department advises American travelers to use caution in the region, but the level of danger appeared to be within reason. Next, of course, was the most important question: what about the high point in Western Sahara? After some digging I discovered that the Western Sahara high point is actually just a few miles from the nearest road – right next to a United Nations regional base, in fact – in the southern part of the territory. Google Earth satellite photos even show a faint road to the summit. However, it would be a tremendous drive to get there, especially if I was alone, so I gave myself a low likelihood of reaching it. I would be satisfied simply by touching my toe in Western Sahara. But with three adventurous companions to help drive, the possibility was still on the table. “Hey, I bet it’ll be a lot less European down there in Western Sahara too,” Witek said, “Lonely Planet said it’s pretty wild.” According to Witek, the rest of Morocco had been “too European.” To me, driving through the streets of Marrakech had seemed about as non-European as you could get. But Witek had seen a lot more of Europe than I had so I believed him. “I want to really feel like I’m in Africa,” he said. “I want to feel like I’m somewhere completely new.” Anton, Andrzej, and I shared his sentiment. CHECKPOINTS So, we headed south, seeking the “real Africa.” First, we swung by the Marrakech airport in search of a place to stash some of our extra gear. It was going to be a long drive, and with four big guys and packs crammed into the tiny Hyundai it would be even longer. Unfortunately there were no lockers at the airport so we would have to suck it up and hold the extra gear on our laps. In the parking lot we tried to plan our journey south to Western Sahara. My National Geographic map, as well as Google Maps, were both a little ambiguous as to whether a particular major highway was complete. After a ten minute discussion with a few taxi drivers in the parking lot, we gave it a 70% chance that the road was open. A few of them didn’t quite know how to read a map – they must rely on their memory for navigation – but verbally they spoke of a fast road to the place we were headed to. The highway was indeed open, and Anton made good use of the 120 km/h speed limit. We turned off the main highway near Agadir and were on the N1, which leads all the way to Nouadhibou, Mauritania – 1,000 miles away. A few miles later, we noticed some mysterious flashing lights up ahead. “Uh-oh, looks like someone got pulled over,” I said. But as we got closer it became apparent that it was a police checkpoint. I had read about these checkpoints online a few weeks before the trip so it came as no surprise to us. We slowed to a stop. “Bonjour, monsieur!” Anton yelled to the officer, who smiled wide as we approached. It was nice having Anton, Andrzej, and Witek along – they always managed to get people to smile. “Passports, please.” We handed over the passports. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Three of us are from Poland and he is American.” “And what do you do?” “Three of us are students and one is a fireman.” Well, that wasn’t completely true, but Andrzej and Witek didn’t know the French terms for “independent investor” and “window cleaner,” so we decided to keep it simple. “Where are you going?” “We’re driving to Western Sahara to climb the highest point.” “OK, one moment,” the officer said, disappearing into his booth with our passports. It seemed like a Canadian border crossing I thought, I just hope they don’t have to search our car at every checkpoint, or we’ll never make it to Western Sahara. I remember reading that they didn’t like journalists; perhaps they didn’t like people documenting the uneasy political situation in Western Sahara. A few minutes later the officer returned. “Ok, merci monseiurs,” he said, “you may go, drive safely.” “Thank you sir!” Witek said. “Bonne soir!” We continued on our way, thankful that the encounter had gone smoothly. Little did we know that this was merely the beginning of the checkpoints. The sun had long since set and we were looking for a little rest stop to stretch our legs. I spotted a little “beach” icon on my map just a few miles down a side road, so we pulled off and parked the car within earshot of the crashing waves. But, alas, the beach was guarded by a 20 ft cliff so we would have to enjoy the sound of the waves from the safety of the car. “Well now that’s not exactly the beach we were expecting, was it?” I said. We backed away and scarfed down some food. I volunteered to take over driving for Anton – he had already driven for about six hours. Just a few miles down the road we approached checkpoint #2. “Man, this is going to be annoying if we’ve got to deal with these things every twenty miles,” I said. We pulled up next to the officer, who was clad in intimidating black plastic armor. After handing over the passports, explaining our story, and then getting back the passports, Witek decided to lighten the mood. “Wow, I like your armor,” he said, reaching his hand out the window to tap on the plastic, “very cool!” “Oh yes, thank you,” the officer said. “Can we make picture of you?” Andrzej asked hopefully. “No, sorry,” he answered. “I hope you boys have a good night, and enjoy your time in Morocco.” We continued on our way, and pretty soon the checkpoints became routine. Stop, hand over the passports, tell them that we’re students, wait a few minutes, get the passports back, have a nice night. We never really did figure out what the officers were doing when they went into their little offices with our passports. Were they really checking our names against some known terrorist database? Could they really have a computer with an internet connection in that little stone shack? Or did they actually just go inside, play a round of solitaire on the computer, go to the restroom, then hand us back our passports? We never did find out, but at least they broke up some of the monotony of driving through the desert at night. INTO THE DESERT By 2:30am, with my companions asleep, I was exhausted and it was time to activate campsite finding mode. There weren’t any towns or trees around, and the land was so open that we knew no area would be secluded. But we also knew that nobody would care if we camped out here in the middle of the desert, even if it was right next to the road. So I took the next side road and parked the car. It had been a long day, from Toubkal in the morning all the way to the Sahara, and we fell asleep in our two tents almost immediately. We awoke to the sound of footsteps and a bizarre grunting noise in the distance. What’s that? I thought to myself. I didn’t know there was anything living around here… wait, it must be a camel! I quickly poked my head out of the tent in time to see a startled camel running away at a distance of several hundred yards. If there was any doubt about it last night, the early morning daylight revealed for certain that we were officially in the middle of nowhere. I looked around, for miles in every direction, and there was not a single building. The only living things were a few camels and the occupants of the cars driving on the road. We had camped in a dry riverbed, covered with a thick layer of cracked mud. I picked up one large cracked piece and examined it. It was wide enough, thick enough, and concave enough that you could use it as a nice little dinner plate – well, as long as you didn’t get it wet. In the mercifully cool October air, it was actually downright pleasant. We hoped that the cloudy skies would keep us from needing to roll down the windows in our A/C-less car. We packed up and continued south with Anton at the wheel. Somewhere around the village of Zriouilla, Anton asked me “do you have anything a little more… lively?” referring to the music. We were already on loop #3 of my classical music CD and it was getting a little stale. There weren’t any radio stations, and we didn’t have an aux cable to hook up an iPod, so my CD had been our only source of audio entertainment. I had a rock n’ roll CD, but I was worried they wouldn’t like it, so I had stuck to Bach as a safe bet. “Well, I do have one other CD,” I said, “I’m not sure if you’ll like it though.” I popped it in and cranked up the volume. “Born to be Wild” blasted to life. “Now that’s more like it!” Anton shouted. When the CD was up, we found a $1 aux cable at a roadside electronics store and hooked it up to Andrzej’s iPod, making our music selection infinite. Up ahead we noticed two giant white concrete camels standing above the desert, guarding the entrance to the town of Tan-Tan, a large city of 60,000. We rolled to a stop at a police checkpoint at the edge of town. It would have been just another routine checkpoint if it wasn’t for the big steel spike strip blocking the right lane. This was one checkpoint you wouldn’t want to drive around. We took a little detour to the Tan-Tan plage and hoped to do some body surfing, but an abundance of trash and plethora of rocks kept us confined to a calmer, cleaner stretch of beach. As we bobbed in the surf, Anton, Witek, and Andrzej showed me a brilliant trick: to simulate a bath, you put shampoo in your hair and then duck under the waves. Voila, now your whole body is clean. The sights in southern Morocco are a bit limited – there are police checkpoints, a few flamingoes, and some giant sand dunes. In a few spots, especially near Khenifiss National Park, the sand was actually drifting over the road and was being cleared by some front loaders and dump trucks. It was Africa’s equivalent of drifting snow. SAHARAN SEAFOOD A few police checkpoints later we entered the tiny town of Sidi Akhfennir, population probably 100. A restaurant caught Witek’s eye. “We’ve got to stop there!” he exclaimed, “I’ve been looking for seafood in Morocco and now we’ve finally found it!” I couldn’t read the Arabic writing, but with a few squids and other interesting fish hand-painted on the steel sign, combined with the fact that the Atlantic was the town’s only apparent natural resource besides sunlight, it was a good guess that it was a seafood restaurant. I was a bit reluctant to stop, and still held out hope for reaching the Western Sahara high point, but I was OK as long as we made it quick. “Don’t worry, Matthew,” Witek reassured me, “we’ll make it to Western Sahara.” The stop was definitely worth it. One big fish (who knows what kind, but it was tasty), a bunch of bread, salad, and bottled water for just 20 dirhams apiece, the price of a small hamburger in the States. The restaurant owner could tell that we were intrigued. “Please come,” he said, gesturing for us to follow him, “I show you something.” He proudly opened up a big freezer, revealing an impressive ichthyological collection inside. There were two crates full of hundreds of little pink squid, other crates full of something resembling sunfish, and taking up half the freezer were two giant fish, each about three feet long. It was amazing to see such bounty, given the hundreds of miles of lifeless sand dunes we had driven through. With a firm handshake and an enthusiastic “merci” we hit the road and continued south. It was interesting to keep track of all the different vehicles we encountered on the road. Most of the vehicles were semi trucks, carrying who knows what. But occasionally we’d pass a more interesting vehicle; there’d be trucks stuffed with so many hay bales that you’d wonder how many must have fallen off over the last mile. One pickup truck was packed with about twenty sheep. And the most intriguing vehicles were the occasional Mercedes SUVs, Porsche Cayennes, and BMW X5s with Italian license plates. They were all loaded high with random items, mostly mattresses and bicycles strapped to the roof, and were driven by dark-skinned fellows. They were always headed south, and there were always two guys. Witek said he had read about guys from Mauritania who would fly to Italy, buy a high-end SUV, and then drive it and other necessities all the way down to West Africa to deliver to wealthy clients. It was a professional business, and the guys that did it probably made good money. WESTERN SAHARA By early afternoon we approached the magical N27°40’ latitude – the tantalizing dividing line between official Morocco and Western Sahara. There was no “special” police checkpoint, no welcome sign, no visitors center, nothing to demarcate the border except a little dotted line on my GPS. The border flew by in the blink of an eye. All right, we’re officially in Western Sahara! We patted ourselves on the back. After a few miles we passed a police checkpoint, no different from the nine others we had encountered thus far. We noticed a sign up ahead for Laâyoune, the first settlement of any decent size for the past several hours, and the northernmost settlement in Western Sahara. The plan was to drive into Laâyoune and, well, figure out the rest of the plan. Would we continue south or turn around? But as we turned towards Laâyoune we soon noticed a surprising second checkpoint. “Come on, another checkpoint?” Witek said. “We just passed through one!” As we neared the checkpoint and Anton slowed down, I noticed something a little strange. The police man at the checkpoint was dressed differently than all the other policemen we had encountered so far. He wasn’t even wearing a uniform, just some dark clothes and a reflective vest. As we approached, he waved to us, and then turned away. We were at a stop sign in front of the guard house, and had slowed to about 1 mph. We assumed that the guard had just given us the gesture to proceed. But as Anton accelerated, the guard suddenly turned around and began waving his arms at us. It turned out that he wanted a bribe, and it took us a few minutes to negotiate him down to 50 dirhams (~$6), much more reasonable than the 100 dirhams or the case of beer that he had originally demanded. We considered it a fair admission fee into Western Sahara, considering that the past 400 miles of road had been toll-free. LAÂYOUNE As we entered into the town of Laâyoune something just seemed different. Our guidebook had advised avoiding the town altogether, and we were about to discover why. Most of the first-floor building windows of businesses and houses were covered with thick steel bars, and dozens of police cars patrolled the streets. Every minute or so it seemed that we passed another police car. We turned one corner and noticed three big white Land Rover SUVs parked together with “UN” painted on the sides and roof. “Well that’s not something you see every day in Boston,” I said. They must be part of the peacekeeping force here in this politically volatile region, we figured. We reached a cul-de-sac at the end of a residential street and Anton parked the car. “Let’s take a break here and figure out what we’re going to do,” he said. We stepped out of the car, took a deep breath of the dry Saharan air, and began to deliberate. We had reached another crossroads in the adventure. Anton and I needed to get back to Marrakech the evening of the next day so Anton could catch his early morning flight back to Warsaw. I would fly back to Lisbon that afternoon out of Casablanca. I had reluctantly come to the conclusion that the Western Sahara high point was no longer within our reach. Perhaps it never had been. It was still ten hours away, meaning a drive of at least 24 hours back to Marrakech, and would cut our timing very close, even if we drove through the night. Alas, it would not be in the cards. But we had done Toubkal, officially the highest point in the country, and that’s what mattered. It was time for me and Anton to start thinking about our return to society and productivity. But Witek and Andrzej had no leash. With no schedule or return flight to Poland they were free to go wherever they winds blew them. On the summit of Toubkal the previous day, they had expressed interest in pushing farther south into Mauritania. Then perhaps even farther into Senegal. It would be a wild land, they had read, far less “European” than Morocco. Now we were halfway there in far less time than it would have taken to hitchhike. “So, Andrzej, Mauritania?” Witek asked. As Witek and Andrezj deliberated in Polish, a mother and two kids walked by, staring intently at us. It struck me because nowhere else in Morocco had we really received any stares – the locals always seemed pretty accustomed to seeing foreigners. But not so here in Western Sahara. Others walked by, with the same unfriendly stares. “Man this place gives me the creeps,” Witek said. “There’s something different about it, and I don’t like it. Let’s get out of here and find an internet café so we can do some research about getting into Mauritania.” We loaded back up into the tiny i10. To some extent, I envied Witek and Andrzej, and was curious to experience the sights and sounds of Mauritania myself. But, as an American, I would have needed to get a visa weeks in advance to travel to Mauritania. Witek and Andrzej would have similarly needed to have obtained a visa in order to enter “officially,” but they sensed that they could probably obtain an “unofficial” visa at the border if the price was right. After the bribe at the entrance to Laâyoune I had no doubt. I suppose there are one or two benefits of corruption, after all. We passed a police station and stopped to ask for directions. In front of the station were parked five police cars and one heavily-armored tank-like law enforcement vehicle, which looked capable of driving over just about any obstacle the Sahara could offer. A police officer, fully equipped with protective plastic armor, emerged and pointed us in the right direction. As Andrzej and Witek did their research at the internet café, I had my own little mission: to obtain a genuine Moroccan license plate. Eric and I always try our best to obtain a license plate from every country we travel to; for us it’s the ultimate souvenir, the definitive proof that we did indeed travel there. So, when I noticed a license plate store right across the street, I had to take a look inside. After ten minutes of negotiating with the salespeople, there was some good news and some bad news. Bad news was that I couldn’t get an authentic Moroccan license plate. In the apparently heavily-regulated system, drivers are required to return their obsolete license plates to the government for destruction. The good news was that they could make me a license plate with whatever I wanted on it, it just couldn’t have numbers. So after five minutes, I had my very own Moroccan license plate with “Morocco” written in Arabic on it, for just 20 dirhams (after some negotiations, of course). NORTH OR SOUTH? Just then, Witek and Andrzej emerged. The verdict? “We’re gonna have to say ‘no’ to Mauritania,” Witek said to me. “People in the café said that there’s a fifteen hour bus ride to Nouadhibou, the town at the border, and it’s really cheap. They said we could probably get a visa at the border for a few hundred dirhams. And they also reassured us that Mauritania is safe. But it just doesn’t feel right. Andrzej and I came here to hike, to see the mountains, to find waterfalls. I don’t think we’ll find that in Mauritania. Let’s head north with you and Anton and return to the Altas.” So the fellowship of the Hyundai would remain unbroken. Anton and I were pleased with their decision and were looking forward to a few more days of their companionship. “Well then what are we waiting for?” Anton said. “It’s a long drive, let’s head north!” We high-tailed it out of Laâyoune, looking forward to our return to the pleasantness of northern Morocco. “Well this opens up the possibilities, doesn’t it guys?” Andrzej said, now at the wheel. “We can find a nice place to camp tonight, check out the beach at Agadir and, most importantly, we’ll have time to stop by that seafood place once more!” We stopped by the seafood restaurant in Sidi Akhfennir a few hours later, much to the delight of the restaurant owner. “Welcome back gentleman!” he said with a big smile. The second round of Moroccan seafood did not disappoint. While we dined on Moroccan bluefish, we watched the TV as the Moroccan national soccer team took on Mozambique. When Morocco scored, the entire restaurant, town, and probably the whole country erupted in cheers and applause. The entire population of the tiny, dusty little desert outpost was probably watching, because as we left town we were the only car on the road, and could see the TVs glowing in almost every window. Next it became time to activate campsite-finding mode. Luckily we were all liked-minded with respect to sleeping indoors; why stay in a one-star hotel, we figured, if you can stay in the infinity-star outdoors? How could you pass up the opportunity to camp in the Sahara? So we resolved to find the vast sea of sand dunes that we had passed in the morning, which probably had some vacancy for two tents. After some tricky detective work involving referencing our camera photo timestamps with the GPS and highway map, we finally located the spot. Anton carefully eased our little Hyundai down a seemingly 4WD drive-only side road and parked at the base of some giant sand dunes we could just make out under the starlight. With the crashing sound of the Atlantic in the distance and the soft Sahara sand beneath us we slept peacefully in our tents. THE PLUNGE In the morning we awoke to an awesome sunrise over the sand dunes. We all knew what was next: a swim in the Atlantic. The water wasn’t super-appealing: first of all, it wasn’t particularly warm that day, in fact it was a little brisk for the swim. Also, we had already swum in the Atlantic just a few days ago, farther north – there was no additional honor to be gained by swimming on this particular beach. But I think we all knew, deep down, that we had to do it anyway. I mean, here we were, camping on some giant sand dunes on the beach in Morocco, at the western edge of the Sahara, at sunrise. We owed our future selves the gratification of being able to say that we had taken this swim. So we dutifully marched toward the beach, hopping over the dunes like little kids, bursting with anticipation. Along the way I found a sea turtle skeleton and some awesome rocks. A local Moroccan dude out for a morning stroll met up with us and told us, in French, that he was a policeman on his day off. We told him to join us for a swim and announced that we would have a race to the water. We drew a line in the sand, and took off sprinting on the count of three. We all knew that a rapid immersion was the only proper way to enter this cold water. I hit the waves first and took the plunge, followed by Witek, Anton, Andrzej, and then our scantily-clad Moroccan policeman friend. Just a minute in the frigid waters and we were content; a strong current was trying to pull us out to sea and we didn’t want to push our luck any further. Fulfilled with our five minutes of adrenaline and glory, we packed up and continued north. Fortunately, and mysteriously, many of the annoying and time-consuming police checkpoints of the previous day had vanished, expediting our journey. With some time to spare, we opted for a few backroads, hungry to sample some more off-highway scenery. We decided to swing over to Agadir and check out some of the cultural attractions of Morocco. My National Geographic map suggested there were some historical sites to be seen in Agadir, and we figured that they’d round out our Moroccan experience. TEMPLE OF THE SACRED SOCCER BALL On the way into town Anton noticed, perched majestically upon a hill, a gigantic soccer stadium that was under construction. “You think they’ll let us in?” he asked. “One way to find out,” Witek said. Somehow Anton managed to snake his way through the piles of gravel, dump trucks, and rebar protruding dangerously from the ground to the entrance to the stadium. We went for a walk and noticed a security guard protecting an entrance. “Well I guess we’ll have to turn around, he won’t let us in” I said. “Hey, can we take a peek?” Anton yelled to the guard. The guard nodded his head and we were in. The enormous stadium was nearly finished, and we felt like all stars standing on the meticulously manicured real grass. Cultural experiences in Morocco? Check. We had just entered one of the country’s most magnificent shrines to the holy soccer ball. Next we headed down to the Agadir waterfront, one of Morocco’s premier tourist destinations. The beach was long, sandy, and crowded. It was an awesome beach, but it was lacking something. I stood there, on the shore, gazing into the surf and, inexplicably, the water was not attractive. What was it? Was it too cold? No. Was it illegal? No. Was it dirty? No. “There’s just too many people,” Witek said. That was it, I thought to myself, for the first time on this trip I was just another tourist, doing what all the other tourists do. On this beach, surrounded by other Westerners who had also read about this in travel guides, we were no longer doing something unique. We touched our toes in the water and went in search of dinner. Half of me wanted some traditional Moroccan food, but the other half was just hungry for pizza, after almost two weeks of abstinence. Needless to say, the pizza half won out. MOROCCAN HOSPITALITY We kept driving east towards Marrakech, and soon it was time to activate stealth-campsite-finding mode. It was a tricky tradeoff: we wanted to camp close enough to Marrakech for Anton’s early-morning flight the next day, but we didn’t want to get so close to the urban center of the city that we couldn’t find any stealth campgrounds. See, stealth camping is tricky with a car, especially at night. You need to find two things: 1) a safe place to park your car off the main road, and 2) a stealthy, flat spot for your tent, close to your car, where nobody will find you. It’s even trickier at night, because what seems stealthy in the dark might not be so stealthy when the sun comes up. We searched for about twenty minutes and finally spotted a side road that could work. It was a small gravel road with no houses or signs explicitly prohibiting camping. We drove for about 500 ft, parked the car, and started setting up the tents. Whew, we had made it! But just then, the lights illuminated in a nearby house. We discovered that we had actually set up our tents in their backyard – well, it wasn’t exactly a backyard, more of a dusty field next to their house. But still, we felt like jerks. I mean, in certain parts of the US, if you were to set up two tents at night in someone’s backyard without asking and got caught, you just might find yourself face-to-face with a shotgun. We heard voices coming from the house and knew that we had been spotted. I expected an angry machete-wielding man to come running out at any time, ordering us off his property. That or the police. The worst thing about stealth camping is not being sure if you’ll be allowed to sleep in peace. Will someone discover me in the middle of the night and call the cops? Only twice have Eric and I ever been kicked off a campsite, but it’s experiences like those that keep you awake at night when you’ve got a potentially compromised stealth site. Rather than risk a sleepless, worry-filled night, Witek and Andrzej bravely volunteered to talk to the family and attempt make amends. Anton and I waited in the tents, while they marched toward the house, as if going to battle. After just a few minutes they returned and announced that everything was OK. They had spoken with the family, who had said it was fine for us to camp here. But just as I breathed a big sigh of relief I noticed two people approaching us in the darkness. Uh-oh, now we’re in real trouble, I thought. As they approached we could tell that they were two young boys holding hands, one about twelve and one about five. “Would you like anything?” the older boy asked us. “Would you like any food or water?” I was absolutely flabbergasted. He we were, a bunch of foreigners who show up in their backyard, at night, and set up two tents without asking, and these two innocent young brothers offer us food and water? Could that happen in the US? It was at that moment that I gained a huge level of respect for the people of Morocco. We thanked them profusely for their hospitality and wished them good night. We had an excellent sleep, comforted by the thought that we were actually allowed to camp here, and would not be disturbed in the middle of the night. THE BREAKING OF THE FELLOWSHIP The sun rose spectacularly on my last day in Africa. Thankfully Anton was still up for driving and, aided by GPS, he brought us safely through the busy rush hour streets of Marrakech to the airport. We bid farewell to Anton and then there were three of us. Witek and Andrzej very politely asked if I could drop them off at a nearby trailhead. I still had a lot of driving to do before my afternoon flight out of Casablanca, but I agreed. I wanted to do them one last favor. An hour later, we were back in the Atlas, high up in a mountain valley, surrounded by waterfalls, at the Setti-Fatima trailhead. “It’s been a great trip, Matthew,” Witek said. “I’m glad that we could do this together.” “Yeah, you must come to Poland someday,” Andrzej said. “We’ll show you all our favorite places to hike.” “Yeah I wish I could come with you,” I said, “that trail ahead of you looks a lot more enticing than the streets of Marrakech. But have a great hike, and keep in touch! And with that, the fellowship of the Moroccan Hyundai was broken. I waved goodbye to Witek and Andrzej and I was back on my own. I wasn’t looking forward to driving through Marrakech, but just had three more hours of driving and then I could relax in the airport. Without a passenger navigator, I had to rely on the GPS, which unfortunately took me on an extremely urban, congested route back the main highway. I passed one roundabout after another, clogged with cars, all of which were driven by drivers with probably decades more experience driving a manual than me. I managed to avoid stalling this time, but had two or three very close calls in which I averted disaster by mere centimeters. To this day I don’t know how my poor car made it through those four days without a scratch. I finally emerged safely on the other side of Marrakech unscathed and pulled onto the main highway, the N9, with zero traffic and a glorious 120 km/h speed limit, which I took full advantage of. I shifted into fifth gear, popped in Born to be Wild, rolled down the windows, and flew. CROSSING THE FINISH LINE Finally, I neared my finish line: the Casablanca Airport car rental return. Matthew, you’ve driven this far, I said to myself, and this car has seen a lot of action. Now all you’ve got to do is get this thing back into the parking lot that you started in. Then it will be all over. Could I really be this close? I wondered. Could this car really have survived all of that? With my hands visibly trembling, I approached the airport. I was home free. But not so fast. I made a wrong turn on my first attempt, forcing me to loop back onto the highway, adding about ten minutes. OK, second try. Just focus Matthew, I said to myself, just a few hundred feet. Take your time. OK, I’m turning in the parking lot, I’ve got it ! But wait, what about gas? Shoot, I had forgotten to fill up! One more loop around the airport, one more fill up, and one more opportunity to get hit. Finally, on my third attempt, I successfully pulled into the parking lot, eased the car into the closest spot, pulled the handbrake and turned the car off. Done. I let out a voluminous sigh of relief and slumped back into my seat. My hands, visibly shaking, slowly began to recover their circulation. It had been nice to have so much control over the trip by renting a car, but I immensely looked forward to hopping on the plane and having someone else transport me around. I made it back to Lisbon at 9 pm and had twelve hours to kill before my morning flight back to the states. I had three options: 1) spend the night in the Lisbon airport: lame. 2) Spend $50 on a hotel: against my principles. 3) Spend $20 to rent a car (a manual), then stealth camp in a park near Lisbon: now that’s my style. After a nice comfy sleep in the back of a Toyota Matrix in a nearby Lisbon city park, I was back at the airport. I boarded the flight to Newark, settled into my window seat, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I had accomplished all of my goals for the trip. I could not have asked for a more perfect success. Portugal high point? Check. Morocco high point? Check. And of course, the ultimate objective: proposing to Amanda and getting the big ‘yes’? Check. |