Merzouga, Morocco

It was snowing when we left Dades Gorge.  Regardless of that minor inconvenience (we are Canadian, so what’s a little snow), we decided we’d head up into the Todra Gorge.  That meant going directly east to Tinghir and then north into the gorge.  Todra is much narrower, rougher, rockier, and more dramatic than Dades.  The road twists and turns through  somewhat menacing, and very high vertical rock walls that defied the penetration of even the smallest shafts of light.  It was bitterly cold.  At the top of the gorge we came upon a very poor village, Tamtetoucht, where the ragged children reminded me of children I’d met in the Andes, with rough weather-reddened cheeks, chapped lips, bare feet, and beseeching eyes.  There are so many people in this world who lead such desperate lives, with no hope of anything better, no chance to improve their lot, and so little, really, to live for.  We can never be appreciative or grateful enough for what we have.

The stretch of road from Tinghir east to Errichidia and then south to Erfoud was the bleakest we have driven yet: a vast flat expanse of rocks and dirt with hardly a shrub or bush, and very few habitations of any description.  A veritable lifeless moonscape.  Erfoud was certainly not much, but sufficed as a place to get gas and the fixings for lunch.  We started south down the road to Merzouga by way of Rissani, but didn’t get far before we remembered having read that there was a more direct road to Merzouga that by-passed Rissani.  So we doubled back, and searched for the road.  Road signs were unhelpful (and as we later found out, the locals often ‘played’ with them with the deliberate intent of confusing tourists).  We started down a paved road that we thought might be the right one.  But we didn’t get far before the pave road turned into a rough ‘piste’ – a hard packed dirt track.  There, in the middle of nowhere, we came upon a hut, and a guy selling fossils and rocks.  As we now know, this rock seller was there for a reason.  But we didn’t know that then. 

After looking at his rocks and fossils, we asked the rock seller if we were on the right road to Merzouga, and whether we were going to be able to make it in our little car, which was not a 4x4.  He confirmed that the piste did go to Merzouga and that it would be okay for our little car, but that we would be unlikely to find the way on our own, and/or that we would get stuck in the sand, and/or lost in the desert.  Then he started giving us some very confusing directions.  By this time it was getting late, and a sand storm, which we’d been driving through for the past hour, was getting worse, making it difficult to distinguish signs of a road or track, especially a sandy dirt road.  Looking ahead of us, there seemed to be tracks everywhere.   We were at the point of heading back to Erfoud when the rock seller offered to take us to Merzouga for 70 Durhams, to stay with us there for the night, and to bring us back the next day.  He assured us that he knew the way, and that he had just done the same thing for some French tourists.

We decided to take him up on his offer, and set out, across a bleak, barren landscape, so marked by tracks of countless 4x4s that it was impossible to know which track we ought to be following.  Our rock seller ‘guide’ settled himself in the back seat of the car.  His head and most of his face was wrapped in a turban, and he sniffed loudly every few seconds (cocaine?), and waved his hand vaguely, pointing the direction we should take.  Predictably, it wasn’t long before we were stuck in the sand.  Equally predictably, the sun was now going down, which meant that it wouldn’t be long before we were in the total blackness of a desert night.  I had a strong sense of misgiving (had this been the plan all along?) and foreboding (what else might our ‘guide’ have in store?) and wondered how this particular (mis)adventure might unfold.

As our efforts to free ourselves from the sand proved futile, we reluctantly agreed to let our ‘guide’ take the wheel.  Through the expertise learned from experience, aided by no small amount of our brute force, our guide managed to rock the car out of the sand, and then drove us, with commendable skill, and not too much speed, over a rough track.  At one point we felt a rhythmic bumpety-bumping inconsistent with sand.  What it was was almost unbelievable: an old Roman road.  How and why this was there we still don’t know, but we drove on it for several miles.

After an hour or so we arrived at our destination.  However we were not in Merzouga.  We were at an impressive – and expensive – looking auberge right next to some equally impressive dunes.  We realized we’d been hoodwinked, and asked our guide where Merzouga was.  He said there was no town, just a string of auberges up against the dunes.  Hmm.  Well, what about the paved road that went from Erfoud to Merzouga; where was that?  He said that was about 10 km away, over a track worse than the one we’d just come over.  

Not surprisingly, our rock seller guide suggested it would be best for us – and most certainly for him – if we stayed where we were, at this nice auberge (the owners of which had come out to greet us, and our rock selling guide, with whom they were clearly familiar).  We could have a nice camel ride the next day, and then go back with him to Erfoud.  As the night was now upon us, we acquiesced, with a bit of chagrin.  But instead of chastizing ourselves for our naivety or letting it spoil a good time, we made the best of things, had a pleasant dinner, had lovely hot showers and spent a good night in comfortable beds.  Before sleep  we hatched our plans for an early escape the next day, all the while not knowing exactly where we were, or who we could trust to give us proper directions or assistance.  It’s the little challenges like this that make traveling so much fun.

The next morning the sun was shining. We could see our surroundings a little better, but still had no idea where we were.  Interestingly, there was no name on the hotel.  When we asked the hotel staff about getting to the paved road to Merzouga they gave the same response as our ‘guide:’ 10 km away and over a road far too rough for our car.  We would certainly get stuck in the sand.  Fortunately a couple who had been at the hotel with us the night before were just getting into their little car – like ours not a 4x4 – and were heading to the paved highway that lead to either Erfoud or Merzouga, depending on which way you turned when you got there.  As it happened, the woman was from Montreal, and the man was Moroccan, from Zagora, a little town not far from where we were.  They told us the paved road was 3-4 km away, over a good track, easily discernable, and straight as a die.  So we packed our things with record speed, paid our bill, and hot-footed it out of there as our rock seller guide, and the hotel staff, jaws agape, still insisting that we go for a camel ride, watched as our tail-lights disappeared from view, likely ruing their loss of just a few more durhams or dollars.

Of course as it turned out there was, and is, a reasonably good-sized town of Merzouga, which we found it without further mishap.  We also found the auberge we had been trying to get to, ‘Chez Julia,’ and got ourselves a nice little room.  It was not, like our previous auberge, right on the dunes, but it had a pleasant garden courtyard and friendly staff, and we could relax in the knowledge that at least for now we were back in control of our destinies.

After we got settled we headed out to walk the dunes on foot, and managed to climb to the top of the largest dune, Erg Chebbi, perhaps some 1000’ high.  It was quite a slog, like waking through snow, but the view was marvellous, and we enjoyed it for all of about three minutes before swirling sand forced us to descend again.  We spent the rest of the afternoon reading peacefully on the roof-top terrace and laughing about our lucky escape from the clutches of our misguided guide.

Later that afternoon we engaged a colourful ‘camel boy’ who took us for a little ride back into the dunes.  We were just in time to catch the glorious colours and shadows as the sun dropped down towards the horizon.  

Camel riding is not particularly comfortable, and in the hour or so we spent with them, at least 20 minutes of that was on the ground, walking, sitting or standing beside them.  They are fascinating creatures, reminding me of their cousins, the llamas and alpacas of South America, with their haughty demeanor.  Our ‘camel boy,’ seemed to genuinely love his camels (or the camels of the person who hired our boy…), and was happy to pose for pictures with them, and us.