With the sun beating down overhead and no clouds to encumber it, I found myself motoring along outside Tinejdad when the figure stepped into the middle of the dusty road, forcing me to violently apply my car’s brakes.
Fortunately, the little silver Suzuki Alto was extremely responsive and after the vehicle came to a rest I scanned the man before me, a beaming smile on his face and a golden cape flowing in the warm breeze. I’d been given a warning about the potential dangers of picking up hitchhikers in Morocco and, although I had no reason to panic, my foot hovered over the accelerator.
Brow slightly furrowed, I waited as he approached the car. He seemed unaware of his near death experience as he stuck his head through the driver’s window.
The man spoke, his grin growing even wider. He radiated such warmth any apprehensions I may have had simply evaporated. “Hello, sir, how are you? Are you going to Merzouga?”
Luckily, I was. Having journeyed to Morocco to celebrate my 30th birthday I had sampled the delights of Marrakech and seen Jimi Hendrix’s bachelor pad in Essaouria before soaking in the Atlantic coast off Mirleft, and was now driving across the country’s south in search of the Sahara and, more precisely, a camel to ride.
The route seemed simple. Having rented my car in Ouarzazate, the red-earthed ‘door to the desert’, I was told to head along the N10 toward Errachidia and follow the N13 south to Merzouga via Erfoud.
Read more: Panoramic View: Atauro Island, Timor-Leste.
However, not being blessed with a natural sense of direction nor the strongest Arabic skills, more often than not I relied on sheer guesswork and many times ended up almost driving the wrong way down busy one-way streets, a blaring horn or indignant shout alerting me to my mistakes.
It took a while to get going, but when I finally did, Morocco’s breath-taking beauty revealed itself once more. There was very little traffic to contend with – save for the occasional train of camels – once I’d left civilization meaning I was free to revel in the pleasingly mesmeric backdrop as the dusty browns of the hills bled into the white peaks of the distant Atlas Mountains before exploding into a deep and cloudless blue sky above.
With the tapes I’d picked up in Ouarzazate providing an authentic Berber soundtrack I took my time enjoying the surroundings. A welcome overnight stop at Tinerhir saw me exploring the canyons of the spectacular Gorges du Todgha before my hosts introduced me to some fine Moroccan hospitality: a warm welcome, mint tea, fresh dates, delicious tagine and enlightening tales of life near the Sahara.
Fast forward a day or so, and my hitchhiking friend made an appearance.
“Yes,” I said as he hopped in the passenger’s seat, introducing himself as Jakani. “Well, I think I am.” I told him what I was up to.
As luck would have it, Jakani was a trained camel handler and knew just the place. Within a few minutes I had a plan – I was now on my way to ride a camel towards Erg Chebbi, the dune sea on the edge of the Sahara.
“Will you be ok driving in the desert? I can drive if you want,” he offered as we took a break in the oasis town of Erfoud, stretching our legs amongst its verdant greenery and sand-coloured buildings.
We’d already passed many carcasses of abandoned 4x4s and the thought of passing more as we headed closer to the desert didn’t fill me with confidence. If these beasts couldn’t handle the Sahara, how would my little hatchback? We’d find out. I declined Jakani’s kind offer and ploughed on, the road, as expected, stopping after Merzouga.
Before long, after traversing sand dunes and seemingly unending rocky routes, we had reached the Sahara’s edge, a mirage adding a delightful shimmer as the shifting sands stretched into the horizon. The Alto, it turned out, was surprisingly adept at desert driving and I felt a twinge of excitement as I spied a train of camels waiting for us at our destination. It turned out that driving into a desert wouldn’t be my only adventure of the day…
Read part 2, 3 and 4 of the writer’s Moroccan adventure.
(SJ say: We at Safe Journey [we’re no longer called that; how old is this?!] are great fans of overkill – the song, the band and the concept – so we make no apologies for publishing this story for the third time. On this occasion, though, the story made it into October 2017’s Wanderlust magazine, which is a cause for bittersweet celebration: it’s good to see the writer’s name in print but soon their debt will be repaid and we’ll have to find another writer.)