Morocco

March 13 - April 8, 2000

The Plan...

...was simple: Buy an old Land Rover and drive with it through the Sahara desert. It sounded like one of the last adventures - driving through untouched stretches of land, for hundreds of miles alone with endless sand dunes, which sunrise or sunset could paint into a rolling sea of imagination.

However, the realization proved more complicated than foreseen. First, the Sahara is not too accessible: Algeria, which hosts the largest portion of it, is a dedicated civil war zone; militant separatist forces in the south have publicly stated that "when remaining in the country, every tourist is responsible for his own death." We definitely did not want to mess with those guys. Libya, the other nation holding a significant Sahara stake, is less dangerous, but requires a complicated visa process: the passport has to be translated into Arabic by a certified translator beforehand, and the visa is only issued by the passport holder's national embassy on several weeks notice. As I was traveling most of the time before we left (and thus had to take my passport along), this procedure was impossible. So the only Sahara access remaining was via Morocco, a country having embraced tourism similarly to Egypt, realizing the welcomed loads of money travelers pour into the country every year. However, the Sahara only reaches into Morocco at the country's inward boundaries; and as nearly everywhere in North Africa, nations tend to be dissatisfied with their status quo, claiming additional regions to be their genuine territory, thus living in constant (militarily emphasized) disputes about their frontiers. As an example, the Moroccan police will immediately confiscate maps marking a well-defined border between Morocco and Algeria, or material that does not explicitly state West Sahara belongs to Morocco (West Sahara is a vast stretch of deserted land in the south Morocco occupied in 1975). Morocco's southeastern border to Mauritania is interspersed with mine fields where only private guides or army convoys can lead through. This was not our idea of a secluded experience either, so we had to stay a while away from the borders, and could only visit the outer Sahara, not really enter its core, let alone cross it.

The second problem was finding the right car. It should definitely be a Land Rover Defender, the classic 4x4 with a long glorious history, with a design almost unchanged over the course of decades. A reliable Diesel engine was mandatory for demanding desert detours, and the 110 model is better suited than the 90 (not long enough to sleep in) or the 130 (too long and unmaneuverable). I was thinking about an "oldie but goodie", well maintained and reliable, still not sparkling new to attract thieves and robbers at first glance; a dustier specimen would at the same time blend better into the automobile situation of the destination environs. In my imagination there had to be numerous car-lovers for this model (as there are for any other vintage type). People who took their vehicle to long tours regularly, but care for it meticulously while at home. Unfortunately such cars apparently do not exist. All the old ones we found were heavily used, painted over many times, showing quite some corrosion and oxidation. And the newer ones were brand new, just 1-3 years old. Nothing in between. Moreover, the mostly private vendors were spread all over Germany, and visiting all offers in question was not feasible in one single day. So Guido took the first one that seemed acceptable, not knowing that its registration would cause us prolonged headaches. This particular one was imported from the UK, not registered in Germany before, thus had right-hand steering, left-hand traffic front lights, etc. It took over two weeks to get all this approved and documented, and as the purchase was very close to our departure date already, we had to postpone again and again, finally leaving on March 13, two weeks behind schedule, rushingly right after the glorious moment of obtaining our registration plates. Which is why it did not work out to pass by serious adventure outfitters in Munich - we had to leave for the unknown with no extra tanks, hi-lift jack, and GPS system. We were however certain to find those missing pieces underway.

Although we could also move the return date out to give us four weeks altogether, we decided to drive down to the destination quickly, and rather spend some extra days in southern Spain upon return. So we drove well into the night through Zurich and Geneva, stopped briefly at a highway rest area for a few hours of sleep, and then tested our luck in Lyon (the third largest city in France) the next morning. Locating adventure shops is however difficult; Accidentally running into such a specialized shop is very unlikely, a tourist information was not to be found, and the passers-by did not even know what I was talking about (although they were more eager to help down here than tourist-stressed Parisians). However, it gave us a chance to stroll around the center of town for a while, and revised my picture of Lyon as only a major French traffic hub (I had only used it to switch planes or TGVs so far). The center around the "Presqu'ile" peninsula is genuinely picturesque, with Paris-style turn-of-the-century houses but less touristy crowd, sitting in the middle of the bypassing stream like a large Ile-de-St-Louis. Unfortunately, also the cafe service is Paris-style, and when after 20 minutes we still were not able to pass our order for an espresso on the central plaza, we left for the road again without.

Long hours on endless stretches of highway took us further to northern Spain, where we were disappointed to find the bustling tourist hotspots of summer (Calella, Blanes, Lloret) entirely deserted around this time of year. Much further south, in Alicante and Malaga, due to the time restriction the only sights for us were local shopping centers, where at least we could get extra tanks and mats, plus fill up our food chest (the "Continente" supermarket chain has an amazing selection of everything!).

After 3 days and 2,700 kilometers of European interstates we arrived in Algeciras just in time to have our new number plates mounted (we had driven all the way with just one behind the windshield) and hop onto the 30-minute ferry ride to Ceuta, on the other side of the Gibraltar strait. Ceuta is Spanish territory in Morocco, so the ferry can be entered without passing customs before, which is then due just outside of the city. The customs maneuver was less trouble than anticipated: All travel books had warned us to expect several hours for various procedures with car papers and passports, but due to the few people in line (it pays to come in off-season), we were able to pass all officials in about half an hour. Still, night had fallen in the meantime. And driving at night in Morocco is no fun. Hundreds of people use the dark streets as their boardwalk, often crossing from one side to the other, just appearing as flashing dim shadows in the dark, not discernible until the very last moment; unlit cyclers or carriages appear frequently out of the black nothing, scaring the living daylights out of the inadverted European driver; and still Moroccans do not care about speed limits or no-passing zones. It is incomprehensible that there is not an accident every other mile. It seems they drive with enough faith into God's regulatory power: Inch-Allah nothing will happen.

This night driving requires so much concentration that we were straight heading for the next camp site in Martil, near Tetuan. We were the only guests, and the manager was obviously glad somebody had followed the stony gravel road to the end. He did BTW camp himself, Morocco-style, sleeping on the backseat of a Diesel Mercedes car body, next to a caravan wreck that had become unusuable even for the least of demands. I was surprised he spoke perfect French, like anyone here. Quite unusual that one can communicate perfectly without speaking the official language (Arabic), much better than in Egypt, where English is supposed to have a similar status as French here, but only tourist-oriented vendors use it in broken pieces. We also saw ourselves confronted with Moroccan bathrooms for the first time: The toilet is replaced by a hole in the ground, and toilet paper by a bucket of water. You are supposed to wash any dirt off with the left hand; the left hand is therefore regarded as unclean and not used for eating or greeting. Luckily we had brought our own toilet paper (which in case needs to be dropped into a separate paper can not to block the small hole).

The next morning, the first on Moroccan grounds, we headed out south, along the western end of the Rif mountains. Undulating green patchwork saw us passing before a background of rugged subalpine peaks; sometimes decayed houses or rotten cars (even a set of corroding bus wrecks) would intersperse. Everywhere the inhabitants along the way waved greetings in excitement. There was no sign of hatred against intrusion of tourism, quite the contrary to what I had read before. We drove on to lovely Chechaouen, a village built into the side of a steep mountain, where a labyrinth of narrow streets leads through Greek-island looking houses, painted thickly in light blue or white, with intensely blue doors and gates. Often the paint would even continue at the bottom to cover the edge of the street, but it still looked very clean, as if the owners painted houses and streets every other week.

After a stroll through those fabulous colors we enjoyed the typical Moroccan tea with fresh mint on the central square outside of the old kasbah (= the former fortress of the city's nobles), before heading further on southwest through the Rharb plain, where the rocky sub-alpine looks ceded to the juicy fertile green intensity of richer soil. The night was supposed to be spent just outside of Banasa, an (especially at night) hard-to-find excavation spot with ruins of an ancient Roman village, proving the region's long heritage. As soon as we had determined a decent parking spot in the fields, someone came by and invited us to stay at his house; and although reluctant at first, we finally accepted. He turned out to be the son of the site warden, and as not too many tourists take the unpaved remote path to the ruins, they were obviously glad to have us with them. He even invited us for dinner. We learned that today was "eid-khebir", the feast of the goat, so we had delicious freshly slaughtered meat in genuine Moroccan atmosphere: There is just one plate in the center of the table, and everyone uses his right (!) hand to eat from it. We spend the evening discussing politics and countries, languages and technology; and were sorry not to have taken small presents from home along in exchange for this hearty welcome (the guidebook had strongly recommended so for such occasions). The best idea would have been postcards or pictures from hometown or family. We had been sure we would never get such an invitation, but here was the living proof of the open-heartedness of the Moroccan people.

The Roman ruins we had originally come to see were not much more than a couple of old stones shattered around. Notable only that within this tiny camp the old Romans had already installed two public baths. Obviously they did bath a lot back then. Seemed to be much cleaner folks than the people inhabiting the same regions a few milleniums later.

The roads towards the Atlantic-facing cities of Rabat and Casablanca are less impressive than most coastal highways. The land is very flat here, and the ocean does not feature cliffs or other impressive formations, and also the beaches are not comparable to other Mediterranean resorts. We arrived quickly in the country's capital, Rabat, where we took a few pictures of its old minaret and the adjacent new mosque, passed by the King's Palace (a quite impressive residence, king is obviously a position to strive for), and Cheetah, a fortress homing the old sovereigns' sepulcra.

In the late afternoon we had reached Casablanca, the famous metropolis everyone knows since the movie had become overwhelmingly popular. The old city (= medina) is rather disappointing: very dirty and no special atmosphere, which was surely also attributable to the eid-khebir weekend (most shops and businesses close for three or four days). Very impressive on the other hand is the recently constructed (1986-1993) Mosque Hassan II, the third largest one in the world (after Mecca and Medina). The entire complex with its outer plaza can accomodate over 100,000 people, and the gigantic dimesions are similar only to St Peter in Rome. The huge building is one third built into the sea (so land had to be gained from the water), features a retractable roof (weighing 1,100 tons), and has subterranean Moroccon and Turkish baths. The minarett is over 200 meters high, making it the highest religious tower in the world. No wonder construction costs ate up in excess of $600 million. And although it was mainly financed by the goverment (i.e. with poor peoples' taxes), everyone is very proud of this unique architectural masterpiece, not worrying about its cost or whether such sums can better be spent elsewhere.

In the evening, we zipped a mint tea in the Hyatt hotel's "Casablanca Bar", which is designed after Rick's bar in the famous movie. The piano player plays "As time goes by" several times an evening (again, Sam!), the atmosphere is relaxed, but the audience are obviously prevalently hotel guests. Many other places call themselves "Rick's Bar" in Casa, but they have even less in common with the enticing original atmosphere. The real one does unfortunately not exist.

We spent the night in the Excelsior hotel, just across the square from modern but ugly Hyatt. The Excelsior used to be the grand hotel of the 30s and 40s, and the overall architecture still recall its old glory; unfortunately the room furnishings, bathrooms and fixtures did not seem to have been touched since then, so that it is now a little "dusty", as our guidebook put it, or "in very bad shape", as I would call it. As a result, prices have become rather cheap. Still, it is a shame such a great base work has not been maintained well enough. It could easily charge double the prices of the Hyatt with its characterless concrete block. Somebody should buy and restore it.

An uneventful ride led us via a high-traffic road to Marrakech. Marrakech is much nicer than Casablanca: not so huge, with a livelier atmosphere on the central square, especially at night when kebab and couscous booths replace magicians and traditional water carriers. Be sure to try the special brew of the oriental tea booths in the square center - ginseng and cardamom add a very special spicy flavor to their drinks (not to everyone's liking, be warned). The large souk (= bazaar) area seems to be the best in the country. And there are other sights in the city center, like the mosque and the Saadier tombs. Unfortunately, shops for GPS systems or outdoor equipment are equally hatd-to-find here (most people don't understand what you are looking for anyhow). But plenty of Internet cafes have opened up recently, so it's a city well worth a few day's time.

One plan for this Morocco trip was also to spend a day skiing - there are in fact ski areas in this southern country. The only one at alpine altitude is Oukaimden, about an hour's drive from Marrakech, at an incredible base altitude 2,650 meters. The peaks elevations are close to 4,000 meters.

The drive there alone is fascinating: The curvy street sidles along a valley with typical Moroccan landscapes: red clay soil changing with green fields, mixed with clay-colored villages integrating perfectly into their natural environs. Everywhere wives are at work in the fields, carrying harvest and water, whereas their husbands seem to spend the daytime sitting around in groups and chatting. Most women are dressed up to the nines in the bright colors of their traditional Moroccan costumes. Cute children stroll and look around everywhere, often walking large distances to and from school, always waving friendly, sometimes looking somewhat startled as if we an exotic species had entered their familiar territory. Still, everyone is extremely friendly. When we paused at the side of the road to look at the map for a few minutes, an old man came over. He looked at the map as if he had not seen such a thing for a long time, and was extremely amused about the unknown right-hand steering of our British car. Seems there are not too many Brits around down here.

There was no snow on the pass up to Okaimden, and when we finally passed the gate to pay the 10 DH access fee to this concrete building assembly, we were certain that skiing was not possible at all. There was not a single like of snow anywhere on the slopes, all lifts and hotels were closed. The village seemed like a ghost town with the exception of the gate keeper that wanted the 10 DH. We drove on through the village, the road changed into gravel, then finally into washed river banks. No problem for us, we just set across the dried river and drove further uphill until the path changed again into an even narrow one that was only accessible on foot or mule. We left the car there and hiked almost an hour further uphill to the next saddle, which rewarded us with an amazing view across a cloud-laden valley behind, with snowy mountain caps piercing out in the distance.

We drove on to Imli, the base point for hiking in the High Atlas region, especially for climbing Morocco's (and at the same time North Africa's) highest mountain, Mt Tjoubkal. To get to Imli, one has to take a winding path, which has been devastated by a 1996 flood in the region. It was good to have a 4x4 as the road was sometimes deviated through creeks and debris fields. We paid about $8 for a hotel room which was not much more than matresses on the floor and a bathroom worse than at most campgrounds, and headed on to Amroud, where the path starts. Although only marked as a 500m direct connection in our map, the narrow path winds again for 5 kilometers across a mountain ridge before ending in the tiny mountainside village.

To climb Mt Tjoubkal in 1 day is normally reserved for experienced hikers, but we still tried it. It is still a strenuous steep 12-hour hike. You can, of course, have your bags carried up by mules, but we were not hikers of that kind. Unfortunately, the higher we got up, the more snowfields cover the area, and what was missing in Oukaimeden was abounding here: The last section of the ascent lead through an entirely snow-covered area, and after trying to climb the steep frozen surface without cramps and poles, we decided to back up and descend again. It was too dangerous as the snow was so frozen that you could not even step into it, and every step was a balance between slipping and staying. The higher we came, the deeper down we would slide; and what looks fun if you have skis underneath looks daring without.

There were people that climbed to the top with proper mountaineering tools, and others who just enjoyed this particularly fine day on touring skis. An entire group had meanwhile arrived at the hut, having all their luggage brought up by mules and downing some Heinekens before setting out for a skiing afternoon.

The failed climbing attempt at least left us enough time to continue our route by car on the same day, across the Tizi'n'Test pass through the mountains to coastal Agadir. Red canyons led into wide golden valleys, lined with clay villages and kasbahs; the curvy street winds up and down to the pass through red-brown and green patchworks of barren land, offering fantastic overviews back and forth. On the other side of the pass, we witnessed a stellar performance of the evening sun at the horizon, where rays pierced through the thick rug of clouds above the higher Atlas peaks and sent streams of light into the neighboring mountains.

The street passed Tarroudant, where one of the reportedly nicest hotels in Morocco can be found, located in an old restored palace - I would like to test it next time. This time we had to make it to Agadir, tourist capital of the country. Large multi-lane highways lead the stream of vacationers directly into the tourist district. However, it seemed more like a pensioner's port than the hip windsurfing center I expected, and thus night- and beachlife were lame around this time of year. There were still good winds in the afternoon, but it still did not look like a windsurfing hotspot to me - the handful of rental places along the bay have more or less beginner's equipment only, and not a single surfer was out in the water. Well - pensioners do not windsurf. It was even difficulties to find a supermarket (the large Uniprix is rather a small souk under one common roof) or an Internet cafe (although there is one in the middle of av Hassan II). So instead of spending a second night here as planned, we made better use of the day and drove on to Tarfoute, in Ammels' Valley. This valley is famous for its beautiful buildings of the local Berbers, who are known as clever negotiators and business people, and come back their home villages to construct luxury properties after having made enough money up north,

The very scenic drive from Agadir to Tarfoute passes over the Anti Atlas, a mountain range made up of reddish soil like the southwest of the United States. Spectacular views can be enjoyed along the second part of the route, when the curvy street narrows and creeps along the side of the mountains, dropping vertically right next to its typically unsecured bank. As we were there fairly late in the day, the sunset painted the horizon warmly behind the black mountain silhouettes at the horizon, after it had sent soft evening light onto buildings and mountain faces.

A highly recommended route from Tafraoute is into the valley south to Afella Ighir. At the beginning of the trip lies Napoleon hat, a rock formation distantly resembling a hat (we at least had trouble identifying it as such), with a typical Moroccan countryside village at its bottom. Unfortunately even to this remote place, coming via 150 kilometers of winding backcountry roads, plenty of bus tourists arrive daily from Agadir, stopping in front of the village for a 2-minute camera clicking. We hurried to drive further down, this time a few kilometers off-road, to bizarre rock formations which a Belgian artist has recently painted into unnatural colors of blue and red with tons of paint. The sight formation itself is not really too exciting (rather a little awkward), but the bad path to get there let us severely test the off-road capabilities of the Land Rover: The sign "Les peintures" at the next intersection leads through a steep incline amidst a giant stone breaking site, which I would not dare to take with a normal car. And the end of the road on the other side (in Afra Ougha) is impossible to trace entering from the village (we arrived the other way, so we just had to find the main road). Strange how people still get there with non-4x4s. But they do, we saw some tourists passing with their Volkswagens.

The round-trip further south led over a curvy pass with wonderful views across the Anti Atlas and little ksars (= villages) on its slopes, then descended into a red-brown canyon to a tiny river, almost dry, not occupying more than a small fraction of its rocky oued (= river bed). The road changed into an uneven stony path, and tall palm trees lined the sides of it; driving through them in this narrow canyon gave the feeling to be in the remotest parts of the country. We continued to the southernmost part of the route in Afella Ighir, then took a different way back, changing from canyon to a wider plain lined by tall red mountains. The route our guidebook described as "a nice alternative" turned out to be a dead end, so we had to go all the way back to hit the main path again. However, the little detour led into untouched original Berber villages, with its friendly children and curiously watching old men, and let us drive passed sheer cliffs whose grandeur gave the impression of driving right through the Grand Canyon, just with palm trees at the bottom instead of the Colorado River.

The path then changed into what was once a paved road, i.e. rests of asphalt between well-connected dirt holes, making it even more difficult to advance at a pace in excess of walking speed. So it was not before the end of the day that we hit Tafraoute again, after having passed across the mountains a second time in the afternoon sun, which had prepared a scenic background of blue mountain silhouettes.

We had quite some distance to cover to our next destination Zagora, so we left early for the first part from Tafraoute to Igherm. Contrary to the guidebook, it was not paved all the way through, it was partially even one of the worse types of tracks. And after having recovered the good paved road to Tata, we again got lost - the wide main road led us straight on back into the mountains, instead of further down into the desert. Here the mountains looked like a huge improperly stirred nut dough forming all kinds of grotesque elevations, and we were passing right through them. Alas, the newly built highway soon turned into a giant construction site, leaving only the old track as detour, and before we realized we were wrong, we had already spent an hour too much on this gravel (there are not too many people around to ask). So, after bumping all the way back, we only made it to Foum Zghid until sunset. But we had finally found the "real" desert, dusty wide plains all around, camels chewing lazily at the side of the straight lonely road. In the middle of this unwelcoming region lies the oasis Tissint, which outside of a military control post ("passeports, s'il vous plait") also features famous "cascades" - not real waterfalls, but a gurgling little stream gathering here in a large basin. Quite interesting and unnatural for the middle of the desert. We went on to Foum Zguid, where a dusty 120 km desert track to Zagora departs. We stopped for the night just outside of the first village after the turnoff, and were sure to have finally found it: The silence of no-one around, the millions of bright skies in the black sky, the fine dust everywhere. This must be it. The desert. For the first time we slept on the roof of the car, to gaze at the infinity of universe in an undisturbed clear starry sky. Unfortunately, we seemed still to be too close to the village, as now and then cars and bicycles drove by, the latter ones even at darkest hours without any lights. Those guys must know their way so well that they find it even in complete darkness.

The track was described as suitable for desert-equipped off-road vehicles only, and as we did not have sand rails or hi-lift jack, let alone GPS or compass with us, we were a little uneasy about taking it. But there was no reason for it. Nomads here and there lined the entire route, so there was always someone to ask in case one got lost or had a technical problem, and navigating with the sun was fairly easy, as the track followed a straight northeastern heading. Additionally, the desert here was mostly not sand but rocks, so there was very limited exposure to getting stuck in sand dunes. We arrived in Zagora shortly after midday (for the first time we had reached our destination of the day before sunset!), so there was time for taking a shower and washing clothes (which we were in desperate need for) and relaxing in the pleasant (and surprisingly cheap - 270 DH) hotel Kasbah Asmaa, with a warm shower in our room.

Zagora is a heavily expanding village at the end of the world. From here, the camel caravans across the Sahara started in earlier times - the sign "52 jours a Timbouctou" still tells their story.

Today, tourists have discovered this entry gate to the desert - and even charter tourists come here directly to take camel or 4x4 trips into the sandy hinterland - where the Sahara really starts. The "Sea of Sands", the largest sand desert region in Morocco, is about 50 kilometers or 3 days by camel trekking from M'hamid, a small village at the southernmost point of the road (about 90 km down from Zagora). We were into the camel adventure, so we booked a three-day hike into the dunes and left our Land Rover with Ibrahim, our tour organizer, to pick us up and drive back on the third day.

When we left in the morning for the base camp outside of M'hamid, heavy winds were blowing streams of sand across the plains, and we experienced the Sahara from its fiercer side. Wind like this, they told us, would usually blow only about 10 days a year. The fine dust quickly enters even through the thick carpets nomads use for building their tents, and very shortly everything is covered with a thin layer of fine sand - which includes cameras, clothing, glasses. Outside, it is even worse: You constantly fight with the sand in your eyes, which even the traditional head-wrapper, the Shech, cannot repel. Although it still facilitates breathing and covers the skin against sunburn, so I was still glad to have bought one before. Despite the adverse conditions, we left shortly. Ahmed, our guide, led the 2 camels who carried our packs: The first one had the guidance rope directly through pierced through its nose - which made is obviously very annoying to go any other direction than into which the man at the rope would lead it. The second one had the rope wound around its lower jaw, which obviously it did not like either: From time to time it would moan unhappily, and try to get rid of this annoying piece by drenching it into massive amounts of saliva. Unsuccessfully, of course. Camels are quite stupid anyway. From time to time they seem to complain with subsequent grunts, but still they tread humbly the path of the guide all day long (although I have to admit that there is not much choice with that mean nose trick).

Outside of the camp, we passed through plains where the wind blew intriguing low-level patterns of sand across the stony brown soil. The streaming sand parted like a knee-deep loosely woven carpet around our legs, which our steps divided on our infinite straight path towards nowhere. Thankfully the wind blew into the right direction (right from behind us), so that walking, watching, and breathing was at least possible.

Then we reached the sand dunes. This was what I had waited for. An undulating yellow sea, rolling out as far as the eye can see, dry and deadly, swallowing all water and cries of every tiny human being in between with unquestionable might. The yellowish mass was only dotted with rare trees, but there were pieces of evidence for the lethal character of the atmosphere: White bony skeletons of animals (most likely camels, the only visible larger creatures), and wooden skeletons of dead trees, of which the relentless burn had barely left more than the trunk.

Our guide, Ahmed, was a true nomad. He apparently knew every single dune in the region (how else can you navigate where everything looks the same?), and walked barefoot all day. In the dunes, this was a nice experience even for me, as running down the dunes would not automatically fill your boots up with sand; but whereas Ahmed stepped barefoot even across stinging stony soil, my soles were not quite used to this exercise, so that at the end of the day they looked like a piece of that soil we had crossed, a dried clay surface burst open because of excess of dry heat.

It was time to find set up the tent and light a campfire under the wonderful starry desert sky. Even the wind adapted to this changing atmosphere and softened significantly, a situation that held overnight and welcomed a calm and smooth morning.

The next morning, Guido and me had both a funny feeling in the stomach region. Guido's situation was obviously worse: After about an hour on camelback, he all of a sudden vomited right from his saddle, in an arch thankfully large enough to bypass the saddle bags before splashing onto sandy dryland. He paused for a while, but then said it was too bad to continue; so we marched across the plain to the nearest car track and waited for someone to show up.

All of a sudden I had a very uncomfortable feeling as well, and had to empty my stomach right into the desert, followed by such a pressure in the lower colon areas that made immediate release of its prevalently liquid contents into the same soil necessary. Strangely enough, I felt perfectly fine again right after this double action, and this was also the only problem I should have from the obviously rebellish dinner the night before.

Soon after, some French guy with his Toyota came by, and after a short discussion he finally agreed to take us to M'hamid. He still he never stopped complaining that his car was now overloaded and did not handle well enough in the sand. Obviously he was a desert lover, been to Morocco five times and Lybia two times; he also had a GPS and a local guide with him.

As usual, upon our arrival in M'hamid we found ourselves surrounded by locals with the intention to sell us all kinds of goods and services; but all of them were also very helpful when it became clear that we only wanted a hotel. Especially two brothers with a little shop next to the hotel were very amiable and tried their best to get hold of Ibrahim, our tour organizer, to tell him what happened so that he would pick us up sooner. Too bad the telephone lines only worked rarely, and although we tried all afternoon, we were not successful to get through to anyone. As the cellphone network works surprisingly well all over the country, I also tried to get hold of one of the three inhabitants with a cellphone, but the local cheap tariff (the only one affordable for the normal Moroccan) only allows for 30 minutes of talking time every 3 months, and all of the cellphone holders available had maxxed out their limits already (no wonder, Moroccans are Arabs and thus big talkers). The only option left was use of the "Arabic telephone", which means word-of-mouth, and somehow it also had gotten through to Ibrahim, but not before later next day. Which gave Guido some time to recover in the 80 DH ($8) hotel, and left time for extensive showering and people-watching. For instance the three guys passing on the loaded carriage pulled by an old weak donkey, which they did not stop to beat up in order to make him run faster, and who then looked startled when the poor creature collapsed. They helped him back onto his feet, just to beat him again as hard as before. It's not easy to be an animal in Morocco.

As we did not know whether Ibrahim had heard about our situation, we decided to meet Ibrahim's brother out in the nomad tents at the brink of the desert. The only way to get there was to take a local taxi (for about 25c) to the start of the desert track leading there, and then walk for an hour. The taxi ride was a nice experience, it make us witness from the inside what we saw passing by so many times: It definitely is possible to fit 11 people into a normal car.

Arriving at the tents, we could witness a typical Nomad day at its most exciting: Sit around, drink tea, sit around, cook lunch, lie around, drink tea, take a nap. No wonder none of them understood why we were looking for ways to get hold of Ibrahim. He had promised to come for dinner anyway. So the only answer we heard was "He will come today. Inch Al-lah. At what time? Sometime. Don't worry. He'll come."

At about 3 pm he showed up, when the strong desert winds had again covered everything firmly with fine dust, and at 3:30 also Ahmed arrived with the rest of our luggage, so we could finally leave. Our tank was almost empty, and of course Ibrahim had no money with him, so he could not pay back the one day we had not taken. He invited us instead for another mint tea at his brother's shop, and applied an additional 500 DH discount for some merchandise Guido bought. At least everyone was happy in the end. Still everything had been much more difficult than if we had taken a guide directly from M'hamid, where they are also cheaper (250 DH per day with camels).

We spent the night in Agdz, a village where local businessmen are especially avid to direct you into their shops (with the usual "could you translate a letter for me?" pickup line). This is obviously because the main tourist stream unfortunately bypassed Agdz - all organized tours spend the night either in Ouarzazate or in Zagora. We stayed at the only hotel with bath in the room to be able to wash our sandy clothes, for a negotiated 200 DH. This left us the beautiful Vallee du Draa for the morning, where the road follows a sheer brown-black canyon winding through barren regions.

The road from Ouarzazate east to Tinerhir is less exciting, but the turn-off to the Vallee du Dades made all other views in Morocco pale in comparison. This was the most wonderful route in the entire country for me, a fantastic play of colors between the tall mountain hulks in gray, yellow, and red, and the intense green of the oasis-like wadi down at the bottom. Women washed their clothes in the rivers or carried harvest, unimpressed by the stream of tourists passing by on the road above. The road has been asphalted recently and is now open for even large coaches until M. On the way there, spectacular postcard views appear back-to back: first the glorious color contrasts of mountains and greens, later the steep faces of cliffs lining a narrow canyon, followed by a scenery similar to the grand rocky monuments of southeastern US.

In M., the ashpalt ends, and the track crossing the ridge into the adjacent vallee du Todrha is in such bad shape that it takes hours and hours to cover the only 40 kilometers. One has to drive in dry wadis, climb to 2,800 meter passes, descend steeply. No fun. And actually not worth the strain for only one nice outlook from the top of the pass. I would recommend driving back on the paved road and enter the Todrha valley from the other side - unless you are very much into shaky off-road driving.

Right before Tamtahoute children stop everyone that looks like a tourist who could bring some money, and ask for a ride in order to direct you to their hotel or campground. It is actually not a bad idea to take them along, as it is a shield against all the other kids begging later (we took him on the roof, so he couldn't do any harm, and it was widely visible that we had already hired someone). Normally kids charge to lead you through the unmarked intersections of the village, but our guy did not as he lead us to his brother's campsite. Which was a joke: Just a dirt square with a little box without light that should serve as toilet. His generator (there is no electricity out here) is loud enough to keep everyone around awake. I wonder how he wants to gain any money - directly across the street is the finest campsite I have seen in all of Morocco. It even has clean towels and soap in the washrooms, and the everything is as clean and properly installed as you would only know it from Germany. The owner cooks wonderful dishes (and not only Tajines!), and has the right approach for running a business. We had an excellent "poulet au safran" with him, and paid just 30 DH for the place and 40 DH for each dinner, including salad and dessert. The bathrooms are actually in such meticulous condition that my guess is the two Germans who reportedly had stayed last year for 6 months did most of the tiling and fixture installations.

On went the track into the canyon du Todrha, with sheer cliffs on either side of the road, coming closer to civilization again (some hikers coming up the way), until reaching the beginning of the paved road at a large hotel complex. Here, we again took guy along on the roof to Tinerhir. In exchange for our service, he showed us the city, including a genuine Berber drugstore. As normal drugstores are by far too expensive for the Berber population, they turn to those stores, which besides some useful stuff like natural-colored Berber-style make-up, also sell items that are genuine witchcraft ingredients: For example, a mixture of dried chameleon, debris, and "sacred" stones is supposed to tells you whether you are ill, and consequently "withdraw" the evil from your body.

We had still some miles to cover to get back on track up north, so we left after this short visit to cross wide barren deserted lands, with some distant rock formations similar to Monument Valley in the US. North of Er-Rachidja, the roads leads through another large canyon, before hitting large plains again which the road splits straight through into the distance. Instead of rolling it all up to Fez, we took a little detour to Cirque du Jaffer, a very scenic hard-to-find pass into the Northern High Atlas, about 30 km from Mindelt. The many crossings of similar tracks require some asking along the way in order to not get lost. We tried a nearly impossible track through a oued first, but realized after some 30 minutes that this could not be it and had to go back. We still made it up the pass (2250 m) for sunset, through spectacular views along the way, with remnants of wound trees having struggled all their old lives for survival against the constant wind and the adverse conditions. This was the right setting for the last night out in the untouched nature, with a campfire right at the pass, and a following cold starry night without a soul in sight.

Driving further north, it is interesting how the scenery changes suddenly from the desolated barren desert lands to hilly green forests. What a sight to have green stretches of hills after days and days of clayish reds and sandy inhospitality! Every aspects tells the tale of the nomad coming back to civilized life, culpitrating in the arrival in Fez, where it is nearly impossible to bypass the many annoying self-appointed tourist guides. We still managed to get rid of them, although here they were even outrageous when we made clear we would not pay anything. It obviously is not recommended to try finding your way through the tiny streets on your own, and find the back-door entry to the viewpoint terraces from where you can watch the city life. The tanners area is especially hard to find. Just a tiny door leads through many steps and shops with hefty tourist prices to a balcony from where you can experience the smell and working conditions of the traditional tanners up close.

Fez is a great place for people-watching. Just sit back in a cafe near the blue gate and zip a tea. Old men are driving donkeys through the narrow streets without caring if anyone or anything is run over. After it almost hit me, one donkey ran straight into a booth behind me, causing it to break down, and everyone around to curse.

In the evening, we went on to Volubilis, the best remnants of Roman civilization in Morocco. The ruins were a spectacular foreground for a gorgeous sunset. The campsite at Volubilis is a little expensive (50 DH) for its quality (dirty, no hot showers), but still serves good food for 75 DH.

The other Roman ruins, north in Lixus, are in much worse shape, so that we did not stop for long, and instead hurried up to Tanger. A port with doubtable reputation, the city now boasts a nice mix of Arab world with European influence, sports less tourists than the meccas of Fez and Marrakech, but is also even more decayed. Many old houses here are in desperate need for restoration, as the formerly exclusive Grand Hotel which still waits for an investor. A nice place is the hotel El Meznah, with its bar having been the basis for Rick's Bar in "Casablanca". The almost adjacent Cafe de Paris makes a good place for a the a la menthe tranquille and reading the newspapers, although it cannot entirely deny its somehow communist atmosphere, looking like a 70s station hall. But the waiters are nice, and this is one of the good and central cafes which are not overloaded by tourists. The Terrasse des Parresseux, a few steps down, lived up to its name: Dozens of lazy locals lines the limestone floor, standing, leaning, and chatting, and obviously enjoying life and the sea view there.

The very scenic drive to Ceuta along the northern coast for me is the most beautiful trip in the northwestern corner. Changing between sea level and high lookouts, here the views blend rolling Atlantic seas into green patchwork of pastures and lovely seaside residences of rich Moroccans. We had again a spectacular play of lights of the low-hanging sun behind a shield of clouds, adding a gloomy atmosphere to the already spectacular picture.

The customs procedures were again no problem at all (took only 20 minutes), although we had been warned that exiting the country and re-entering the EU was much more difficult than the entering process, because of Spanish fear about illegal immigrants or Moroccan chocolate (= drugs). As usual, we were immediately approached by some strange unofficial locals, trying to get money from each foreign driver for their pretended role as customs facilitator. This time they claimed to need the money to bribe the government official, although it was apparent they wanted to keep it for themselves. It is a good opportunity to get rid of any Moroccan coins and insist on not having more left. 20 DH is more than enough for any kind of those unnecessary services, although they always demand more, and would of course take money in any currency.

Ceuta is a good place to fill up all tanks a last time before confronting tax-loaded fuel prices on the mainland again. Unfortunately we got lost on the short drive to the ferry terminal, which caused us to miss the boat by five minutes. We thought we would have to wait for one and a half hours, so we prepared a little pasta snack in the car, right between our seats; when it was ready to be eaten they opened the gate and made signals to drive in. Consequently, we spilled some of the pasta (with champignon cream sauce) amongst our tapes in the middle console. And again the boarding personnel let everyone open their trunk. This time with success: They in fact found a man in the trunk of the car in front of us. Unbelievable that people still try it this very stupid way of getting into Europe. At 11:30 pm we were finally on board the ferry that would set us over to Europe, and we waved goodbye to an amazing African continent.

Back in Spain, we wanted to go a little slower pace on the way back in order to see some of the miracles of Southern Spain. For instance Gibraltar. Which is still British, despite repeated Spanish tries to put an end to British rule on their territory. The inhabitants on the contrary are typical Brits, and far from accepting anything but the British Crown as their regent. Their British correctness can already be appreciated upon arrival: The Spanish officer hangs lazily and tired across his desk, barely with enough power to wave us through, whereas British customs officer even at 1:30am still walks up to our window and asks in proper English accent: "Do you have anything to declare?"

Because of the permanent fear of Spanish takeover trials, Gibraltar tries to keep as much independence as possible. This includes having an own cellphone system ("Gibnet"), and an own airport, although the peninsula is barely large enough to hold the tiny English houses scattered all around the giant rock in the middle. The solution was to put the runway onto land gained from the ocean, crossing the 4-lane access highway right after the customs booths. Whenever larger planes have to land, they have to close the highway first.

Another striking experience was the weather: After the nice days of the other day of the strait, it was raining heavily here, with dark clouds hanging all over the sky. Strange that the British have to take their bad weather along everywhere they go, even to the south of Spain.

The next city on the agenda was Sevilla. Sevilla has been beautifully restored for the world exposition in 1992, obviously the entire old town has been repainted. A Swiss village could not look any better in shape than this. Which was especially dazzling after all the decay we had seen for the last weeks. The center has a very impressive cathedral, which houses the tomb of Christopher Columbus. The Alcazar, the castle, was closed (it was Monday), so we drove straight on to Cordoba, a very picturesque small town, with a 2000-year-old Roman bridge spanning over the river, leading into the small streets around the big mosque. The picturesque little corners are nowadays lined by tourist shops catering for the prevailing crowd here, but one finds still inexpensive nice hotels there, like the Los Omeyas for 8,500 Ptas, where we stayed for the night. The restaurant "Da Pepe's" is obviously the best value for money in town.

Whereas Cordoba rather looked like Regensburg, the Alhambra in Granada rather evoked the association of St Peter in Rome. Tourist buses everywhere, 4 giant parking lots to accommodate all the visitors. And this although it is actually not too impressive once you have seen the real stuff in Morocco (like the mosque Hassan II in Casablanca). But here is where every tourist in Southern Spain goes to, and besides, this was is in good shape for its age (from the 1300's).

The only stuff worth seeing are the palaces, and due to heavy crowds they even print an access time on the tickets, which regularly is a few hours after you have entered the premises. You should not care about this time too much - ours would have been 5 hours after entry – as hanging around in the other sections for hours is boring. Just try to slip in with an organized tour.
After the crowded Alhambra and the less-impressive city center of Granada, we were up to climbing the highest pass road in Europe, which leads up Sierra Nevada to over 3400 m. Which is also quite impressive as the roads has a steep continuous incline for over 50 kilometers, starting just outside of Granada, which is almost at sea level. This venture should not be tried outside of summer, as the weather conditions might otherwise object. Above 1500 m snow started, at 2250 (Solynieve) the road was covered with snow, and at 2,500 m (youth hostel) the road was closed. When we stepped out, we faced a terrible snowstorm with hail settling like styropor on the meanwhile ankle-deep covered street. So we could not top the 2,800 meters of altitude we had climbed by car in Morocco.

Some hours driving up north lies Toledo, one of the postcard-picture villages of Spain. As Toledo lies on the same elevated highland as Madrid, it can get rather cold here in winter. As usual, we froze quite seriously again at night, and even during the day (even at 1pm the temperature was only at 9 degrees).

Just an hour outside of Madrid, plenty of school classes from the capital seem to pass their days here. We reckoned first that today must be school excursion day for all schools of the region, but then remembered that there have been a decent amount of classes at the Alhambra as well. Maybe Spanish schools do not have enough classrooms and therefore must outsource part of their lessons.

As the town is (indeed very picturesquely) mounted against the flanks of a hill, an arrangement which does not leve much space between the tight-packed houses, parking is a very difficult venture, especially if you are traveling with a Land Rover over 2 meters high not fitting into parking garages. But parking somewhat outside and exploring the cramped corners walking is much nicer anyway. And what a relief to be able to look into stores without someone constantly bothering you or inviting you for a tea.

The route before us was now endless, and because of the adverse temperatures we did not intend to stop any more. 2500 km until Regensburg, and we finally made it, tired like sleeping pills, all the way home without a single stop. In general, the route via Madrid is much nicer than the coastal interstate, leading through the gorgeous cities of Toledo and Sevilla, crossing smaller mountains between Madrid and Zaragoza, and then the spectacular pass through the Pyrenees just before Girona, which we witnessed in the shady lights of sunset. Plus there is no toll here. This is the route the locals take, whereas the coastal highway has only been built for the tourists driving all the way south. Here is was again, the lesson of the entire trip in a nutshell: Watch out how the locals do it – and you will avoid to get ripped off.