Day 4 - Fes - Marrakech, Morocco

Tuesday, 20 October 2009 - Fes, Morocco - Marrakech, Morocco - Day 4

Distance: 546km | Time: 10.5 hours | Roads: Good

The Gateway to the Sahara

Marrakech, aptly named the "capital of the desert," was our present destination. Sitting on the perimeter of the Sahara, Marrakech historically served as an important trading hub for intrepid camel caravans braving the desolate expanse of the world's greatest desert. The exchange of goods, culture, and art is said to have left a spectacular legacy and impression on the city. We had also heard great things about the city's nightlife and were eager to see it for ourselves. To get there we had the option of taking the expedient or the scenic route, with the former taking us on the highway through Rabat, the latter running along the Atlas mountains on a lesser traveled road of diminished quality. Hearing word that the Atlas path coursed through a dazzling countryside and villages of the indigenous Berber, we all voted in its favor. Turns out it is also home to many of the over 300 vacation mansions that belong to good ol' Mohammed VI, the reigning king of Morocco.

As it happened, we were a little too eager to get to Marrakech. No sooner had we got underway than we were pulled over by the Moroccan fuzz, or police, for exceeding the speed limit by 20km/hr. Despite our protestations and best attempts at negotiation, we were sadly obliged to fork over 40 Euros. In reality, it was only a matter of time before we got a ticket. Morocco is a ticket-happy country - something those of you contemplating this trip should keep in mind. Its roads, even in the most remote of areas, is laden with speed traps. I've never heard of or visited a developing country that pays so much attention to its errant drivers. Seems to me like there might be more important areas to invest their money and law enforcement personnel, like say, social development, infrastructure, education, or even towards curbing the lucrative drug trade that breeds violent crime. John speculates that the French may have just sold all their outdated radar guns to the Moroccan authorities, who have discerned its usefulness as an instrument for revenue generation. Sounds credible to me. Anyhow, this misfortunate incident so early in the day put a crimp in our ETA since it persuaded us to keep to a slower pace. Yet, wary as we were about speeding, we still managed to get pulled over twice more, albeit without pecuniary repercussions.

Outside of the policia, we also had a bizarre encounter with a camel herder. Excited about seeing our first camels on the trip, we pulled over to shoot some film and take pictures. The owner of the camels seemed nice enough, smiling and unbothered by our equipment. Once we were ready to get back into our cars, however, he demanded payment. That's only fair, considering Nico and Kim might make a small profit selling the pictures. We willingly gave him some money and started for the cars. Our friend wasn't wholly satisfied though. He followed us to our vehicles and began snooping through the windows. pointing at anything and everything that he wanted us to give him for his "troubles."Â Nothing was spared. A crummy pair of shoes, dirty shirts, soiled underwear, used toothbrushes, pens, notebooks, you name it. Everything was fair game. Normally, we at least try to appease discontented locals that we come across. As Kim would later say, "We don't want to leave behind a trail of unhappy people or give them a poor impression of Westerners." But the extent of his greediness really turned us off. So we gestured for him to piss off and left.

We never did see any Berber villages but the Atlas choice was well worth it for the scenic landscape. Up and over windy mountain passes that overlook rolling valleys and dense forests we drove. The greenery abruptly gives way to a couple hundred kilometers of desert plains before becoming a mixture of desert and pasture. It was a memorable drive that I'm sure outweighed anything the Rabat highway route had to offer.

The Magical Forest

Yesterday, when Nico and I were going over the map with Larhbi, he had insisted that we stop off in Azrou, about 100km into the day's drive. There, he said, we would find the tallest trees we had ever set eyes upon, populated with amiable monkeys who will come and banter with you. It was supposed to be a tourist hotspot, a must-see. We dutifully incorporated it into our daily itinerary and, once on the road, kept a watchful eye for our turn off.

Maybe it was the static over the the CB radio or Nico's heavy french accent, but, like the game telephone, the forest of redwoods and monkeys had become quite distorted in the early part of the drive. By the time we reached Azrou, people on our team were raving about some legendary forest filled with magical creatures of one sort or another and mysterious forces hard at work. I was a little confused how we had arrived at this point, but the inflated tale did make the place sound a lot more appealing.

To our dismay, though, this fabled forest was nowhere to be found. We reckoned that towering trees and hordes of people would simply invite our attention and guide us to it. Instead, we were obliged to pull over and ask some locals hawking kitsch where we might find these peculiar woods. They pointed right behind us. Hmmm. That's strange. They didn't look anything special. We gave it a go regardless, figuring that in an arid country where treeless mountains, rocky plains, and desert valleys characterize the landscape it made sense that our conception of "tall" was different than Larbhi's. At least there would be monkeys, or so we thought.

It was quickly revealed that we had been led astray. "What the hell," we all thought, "why would Larhbi purposely mislead us?!" Then it struck me. Our friend was high as a kite when he related this tale to us. He had begun smoking at 9am and continued, with one joint an hour, to do so for the remainder of the day. We were not victims so much of misinformation as the creative imagination and fantasies of a delirious pothead. Everyone playfully chided me and Nico for our naivete. Lesson learned.

Human Traffic

There's no place like the developing world to refine your manual driving abilities. To those of us in the developed, or industrialized, world, traffic is an inescapable part of life. Traffic here, though, is of a different nature to that experienced in the West. The chaotic mixture of cars, motorbikes, bicycyles, and the random Segway is overwhelming in and of itself. Most of us can claim some familiarity with this aspect of vehicular traffic, although even here its taken to a whole new level. The distinguishing feature between the two, though, concerns the human dimension. Its complete anarchy here. There are no rules of the road to my knowledge. If there are, then they are blatantly ignored, so its all the same. Pedestrians walk senselessly across the road, immune to honking or near accidents, shouting or cursing. Even the cows and donkeys we passed on the remote country roads knew better than to walk out in oncoming traffic (Honestly, I saw a donkey look both ways before crossing the road). In sum, the combination of vehicles and pedestrian lawlessness makes for sheer bedlam that test your maneuvering skills to the utmost.

It was into this mayhem that Kim and I entered upon reaching Marrakech. It didn't help that Kim, coming from England, had never driven on the right side of the road, or car for that matter, prior to this trip. I, on the other hand, barely knew the basics of driving stick. After a few harrowing experiences, we passed the reins to John and Nico who navigated our way to the city center, only being pulled over once for an "illegal" left turn. We had been following a bus in front of us, but were nonetheless waved over by the traffic cop. We played the stupid tourist until his frustration reached a point of carelessness and he let us off. Thinking that our best chances of hunting for accommodations would be by foot, given the chaos on the roads, we parked the cars in an overnight lot. From there we walked to the main square, Djemaa el-Fna, the epicentre of the city's widespread appeal. The wondrously lively market before us eyes led us to believe that Marrakech indeed matched the hype. The place abounded with snake charmers, monkey trainers, story-tellers, and musicians, among a variety of other entertainers.

John and Nico soon ran off to find lodging for the evening. They were able to negotiate a reasonable price at a mid-range hostel not far from the square with a quaint terrace on the rooftop. Our reasonable price was not to last long. No sooner did we check in and unload our bags in the room than the hostel clerk reneged on our agreed upon rate. It was a good ploy, for which I applaud him. Most travellers cannot be hassled with relocating, especially once they've unpacked their bags and are heading out to dinner. We once again betrayed our principles and gave into his deception, then headed for the bright lights of the city market.

Like Asilah, all the food stalls offered the exact same array of dishes. This time we were lured to one which promised us free mint tea, which we had grown particularly fond of and ordered at nearly every meal. It wasn't long before we realized we had been duped. Our tea ended up being the size of a shot glass. Worse yet, the food was horrendous. Kim ordered the vegetarian tagine while the rest of us had some sort of sausage dish. The vegetables were extremely overcooked, resembling more a platter of multicolored mash potatoes than the carrots, cabbage, and...it was supposed to be. As for the sausage, I don't know what to tell you. It was mystery meat at its best and tasted a little like paper.

Customer service, and satisfaction, isn't valued as much here as in the West. So asking for a refund was out of the question. Besides, we needed a sufficient meal to accompany our anti-malaria medicine; the consequences can be brutal otherwise. Therefore, we force-fed ourselves the garbage and left without much of a thank you. A quick stroll around the area, a short stop at the internet cafe, and off to bed it was.