For adventurous overlanders, North Africa is a fantastic destination. Desert, mountains, and exotic cities await you. Morocco is easy to get to and is the most diverse country in North Africa. You can explore the desert, high mountains, and exotic cities. If you travel in early spring or autumn, the temperature is perfect.
I drive a Land Cruiser 80, and this is a description of a 3-week trip in April 2014, during which I traveled with a German tour operator:http://www.adventure-offroad.de.
See the article North Africa by Car: Practical Tips for practical details, and on how to get to Morocco.
Tangier
After a boring 2-day ferry trip from Genoa, we arrive in Tangier at 18:30. It is recommended to bring plenty of films and at least one good book.
The six of us are travelling in six cars, and we get off the ferry surprisingly smoothly before joining the queue for passport control and customs. The queue moves in fits and starts towards the checkpoint ahead. And watch your place in line. If you are a little slow to react when the queue starts moving, one or two cars from the neighbouring lane can easily slip in front of you.
After quite a while, I finally reached the customs booths. There are four or five of them and plenty of customs officers, so I thought it should go fairly quickly. The officers run back and forth between the booths; evidently, they have a lot to discuss among themselves. Eventually, they take the papers you painstakingly filled out aboard the ferry and disappear. The whole thing is rather chaotic, but you have to see it all as part of the cultural experience. After quite some time, our customs officer returns, without the papers but with a clear message: I have to go and have my passport checked by the police. The passport had already been checked and entered into the necessary records on the boat, so it ought to be a quick fix. Not so.
For some unknown reason, passport control is located 100 metres back in the direction we came from, and when I finally find the inconspicuous booth, I am met by a group of slightly depressed foreigners. Yep, this is where the only passport control is, staffed by just one man, who drove off in a car half an hour ago. Maybe he got hungry and went home to eat? It was now 11 p.m., but no one seemed visibly annoyed. You have to get used to it. After an hour, the policeman returns by car and passport control is over in no time. Then the customs officer performs a token check of the luggage, and we are through. After four hours.
Accommodation in the cedar forest
It starts with a transport leg, 500 km south on the motorway. The road is in good condition, and by evening we arrive at the cedar forest where we will spend the night. Our campsite is a green clearing between limestone crags and old, tall cedar trees. It does not look like there has been any logging there for a long time. Beautiful nature, a campfire, and grilled food.
Circue du Jaffar
Still a bit more driving, then on towards the Cirque du Jaffar gorge near Midelt. An exposed mountain pass takes us to the upper part of the gorge, which we will drive through. The road is practically carved into the mountainside, extremely narrow, and worst of all, in some places it slopes steeply out towards the valley. I keep both hands on the wheel. Driving through the gorge is technically demanding, with lots of large rocks and narrow passages. The vehicles make it through just fine, but the Mercedes G-Wagen struggles a little and gets stuck with two wheels spinning in the air where the Cruisers and Rovers pull themselves through. The driver, Julius, is only 16, but drives well. His father stands there directing him.
Everyone makes it through unscathed, and we spend the night at the end of the gorge. We are visited by five or six shepherds with their wives and children, who stand a couple of metres from where we are sitting and eating. There is obviously not much to do around here. They stay for about an hour, until it gets dark. They speak a tiny bit of French and ask for sweets and whisky. When I go to the car to fetch some tools, a couple of them follow me, practically into the car. They have also brought along a flock of sheep, which they herd using slingshots. If a sheep tries anything, the shepherd promptly sends a small stone after it, with impressive accuracy. Best to treat them nicely…
Dangerous Roads describes Cirque du Jaffar as one of the most dangerous roads in the world. That is a gross exaggeration. It is perfectly fine to drive, but as mentioned, quite exposed.http://www.dangerousroads.org/africa/morocco/4301-cirque-de-jaffar.html
Imichil
We drive to Imichil across the Atlas Mountains, reaching 2,400 metres at the highest point, with snow along the roadside. Fantastic scenery: wild mountains, ravines and small green fields. Spring is on its way, and there are lots of apple and cherry trees in bloom. There are many people along the roads. The children are quite persistent. They wave and want something. Bonbons—sweets—are popular. I reckon I’ll get tendinitis from waving back. We drive fast and take too few breaks for my liking. I could easily have spent a couple of days travelling through this landscape, with some hikes along the way. In Imichil, we stay at the local campsite, which is an enclosed, stone-paved courtyard. It gets rather cramped with six cars and a few motorbikes that turn up. But they have hot water in the shower!
Ouarzazate
Via the Gorges du Dades, the road leads to Ouarzazate. Fantastic scenery, with some of the most dramatic mountain formations I have ever seen. A nerve-racking drive as I was close to running out of diesel, with less than 5 litres left when I finally managed to refuel. The tour leader said there had been a chance to fill up the day before, but there had not. Make sure to carry enough reserve fuel, even if you expect the next station to be close.
Marrakech
Then once again over the Atlas Mountains, heading for Marrakech. We go to bed when the sun goes down and get up at 7 o’clock, but I am still tired. The driving is exhausting, covering 200–250 km per day. Either we are on very poor roads that require intense concentration, or on fairly well-paved roads. But these are sometimes very winding and can have heavy traffic. Besides, I think we are going too fast. There should also have been more stops so we could have seen a little more and rested.
Anyway, we arrived in Marrakech late in the afternoon. Traffic in the city was fairly anarchic. It was extremely difficult to drive six cars in convoy without losing sight of the car in front. Pedestrians and mopeds swarm around the cars, and it seems to be established practice that a car can force its way in front of you, regardless of which side it comes from. Apparently, you then have to yield. The taxis were particularly bad in this respect.
It was absolutely no help having a much bigger car with a fearsome bull bar. I chose not to follow the rules from back home and insist on my rights. There was evidently no such thing as rights here. The trick was to keep as little distance as possible from the car in front. But what good does that do when you have to yield to a pedestrian who suddenly darts out in front of you? Then another car is likely to seize the opportunity to stick its nose into the gap that opens up. In the end, we all made it to the hotel together, after a few stops along the way to gather the flock.
Atlas mountains
We cross the Atlas Mountains again on our way towards the desert and the sand dunes. The road was very winding, with lots of roadworks. When we crossed the highest point, we drove into the fog—quite thick fog, at that. At the top, in the mist, there was a café where we met an English couple riding a 1940 BSA with a sidecar. 600 cc, 12 horsepower. It did not go particularly fast up the hills, with gradients of up to 10%, but they made it to the top.
At four o’clock, we set up camp in a pine forest overlooking an impressive ruin on an island in a small lake. But it’s not just cold beer that awaits.
The car also needs to be checked, and I discover a small oil leak from the front differential.
Anti-Atlas
We continue southward, this time crossing the Anti-Atlas. The mountains are more desert-like than the Atlas, and not as high. There are also far more tracks to drive on, since more people live here. The barren, desert-like mountains hide a number of oases along a riverbed. Here it is green with palm trees and several villages. One of them is dramatically situated on a mountaintop. It does not seem as though they get visitors very often, as every child in the village comes running when we drive up. They are content just to wave, rather than beg as they do elsewhere.
The descent from the mountain is a highlight, especially for adrenaline junkies. It is incredibly steep, and at the foot of the mountainside you can make out a village in a green oasis—today’s destination. But we have to get down there. The road is one of the hairiest I have ever driven. Extremely narrow, with a series of hairpin bends. I drive downhill in low-range first gear. Fortunately, the road is partly concrete-paved, so it feels fairly safe. What worries me more is the right CV joint. One of the others remarked a couple of days ago that it was clicking a little, and now it is clicking very loudly. So loudly that they could hear it in the car behind me. It was probably the combination of the very steep descent and sharp turns that did it. I would not have liked it to break right on this slope. I probably would have managed to stop the car, but how on earth would I have gotten it down if the wheel bearing and so on had been damaged? Sometimes the joint explodes and damages the CV housing and bearings.
The thought of this made the decision easy. I’m replacing it today. I knew the joint needed replacing and had a spare with me. But I was surprised that it would break so quickly. It hadn’t made a single clicking sound before I left.
We camped by the riverbed a little below the village, and apart from all the sand, changing the joint went well. I got good help from the others as assistants. They weren’t very mechanically minded, so this kind of field repair made an impression. Afterwards, they treated me to dinner. All in all, my fellow travellers are very friendly. They treat me left, right and centre. I’ve only brought spartan provisions, with a packet of crispbread as the most exotic item. A little embarrassing.
Got diarrhea. Should have skipped the salad in Marrakech.
The aforementioned descent is between Aguelmim Iznaghn and Aguinane, 30.213864N, 7.571149W
Sahara
After spending the night in the riverbed, we continue into the desert towards the Algerian border. Here we find ourselves in the middle of a rally that was originally supposed to be held in Libya but had been relocated. Motorcycles, ATVs, specially built cars, ordinary SUVs and trucks. They race along at an insane speed. The vehicles take quite a beating; I feel like mine is getting more than enough of it.
We continue out into the stony desert, but towards the end it turns into sand, with dunes far larger than those in Tunisia. Really huge. We set up camp among the dunes. Here we are miles from civilization, and then, out of the vast nothingness, one of the locals comes walking along, dressed in trousers and a T-shirt, says “bonjour” and “comment ça va,” and sits down in the sand two metres from my car. There he sits, watching me and what I am doing for about an hour, and then he strolls off. It is something you have to get used to.
I crawl under the car and find the oil leak. It turns out that the five upper bolts on the front differential have come loose, so oil is being thrown out here when I drive. There is a lot of shaking on corrugated roads, so bolts can loosen. I tighten them and top up the oil.
After an overnight stay, we drive out of the desert again on very bumpy, rocky roads, but there is also some fun driving in the sand. We arrive at Camping Oasis in Zagora. A great campsite just outside town, with palm trees and hot water in the shower. These are the little things you gradually come to appreciate.
Towards Erg Chebbi
One of the other cars has decided to stay another day in Zagora, and I suddenly decide to do the same. I’m a little tired of endless driving along the bumpy track. The others bump their way onward towards Erg Chebbi.
We take a stroll together through the city, which does not have much to offer, being based entirely on tourism as it is. It consists of new, flashy hotels built in Kasbah style with Saudi money, and rather uncharming concrete housing. But the most important thing is to be able to relax. Tomorrow we take a different, paved road and meet the others in Erg Chebbi.
A visit with the locals
We follow a paved road and stop in a small desert town along the way, with no other tourists in sight. The town has many kasbahs—45 of them, according to a sign at the entrance. A kasbah was a fortified family home, or a complex that could house many families, often related. There are fewer and fewer of these because they require regular maintenance. They are built of clay reinforced with straw. But whenever there is the occasional heavy rain shower, the walls are washed away. New layers must then be added. If this is not done, within a few decades they will be reduced to a pile of clay.
Deep in the alleys among the kasbahs, a young girl calls out to us in French and asks if we would like to come inside. After a quick discussion, we accept, somewhat sceptical because of all the begging and “my friend” scams we have encountered. But perhaps this is simply an expression of Arab (or Berber?) hospitality, and we are shown into the living room: a narrow, long one-room house. It may also be the bedroom. The furnishings consist of rugs on the floor, half a table and a few cushions. At one end is a cupboard containing all their belongings and an old television set.
I stomped in without remembering the important thing: take off your shoes. Martina gave me a discreet hint. A well-used guitar hangs on the wall. It belongs to the family’s son, a 19-year-old whom I had guessed was 15. He speaks good English and tells us about his school days, his final year of high school, and life in general. The young girl, who turns out to be his sister-in-law, serves mint tea and bread that we dip in olive oil. An older woman, the boy’s mother, comes in and wants to give Martina a shawl. Or sell it?
Here we have a dilemma. Is it a gift, or does she want to sell it? We don’t get a clear answer when we cautiously ask the boy. If it is a gift, she would surely be offended if we gave her money. But it is probably not unlikely that she wants a gift in return. We only have the clothes on our backs, so it is difficult. In the end, Martina does not accept the shawl. Probably completely wrong..
Erg Chebbi
Erg Chebbi is a small phenomenon out in the rocky desert. It is a small sand desert, only 3 by 7 km in size, with enormous sand dunes shaped by the wind. The highest rise 150 metres above the desert floor. It is a tourist highlight in Morocco, with guided tours by car and camel. Daniel and I feel like playing around in the sand a bit and decide to drive straight across, albeit in an area where the dunes are not at their highest. But high enough. The others are sceptical and stay behind at camp. Dietmar, our guide, rides with me, which is a good thing because he has far more experience than I do. I have only driven in the small dunes in Tunisia, and this is something entirely different.
Here, the dunes are high, with steep climbs and equally steep descents on the other side. If you end up stopped at the bottom between two dunes, you have a problem because you will not have enough momentum to get out of the dip again. The key to success is enough speed on the way up, then easing off just before reaching the crest; otherwise, you will end up airborne as you cross the top. That can be tough on the suspension. To get enough speed, you need a powerful engine and low tyre pressure; around 1.2 bar is a good starting point. This gives the tyres a much larger contact patch, and the car floats higher through the sand. The sand really drains the car’s power. An automatic transmission is a major advantage; otherwise, you have to change gears very quickly to avoid losing momentum and sinking in.
At the first steep climb, I struggle and can’t make it up. The G-Wagen leading the way bounced straight up without any trouble, but it has 225 hp in a lighter vehicle, with both differential locks engaged. My problem isn’t wheelspin; my 160 hp simply can’t pull the nearly 3-ton Land Cruiser up. I do have 1.8 bar of air in the tires, just to test it. I lower it to 1.2 bar, and on the third attempt I make it up after getting a long run-up in some new tracks. The old tracks are difficult because the sand is looser there.
A couple of hills later, I have to winch the GW out when it gets stuck perched on top of an especially sharp hillcrest, with wheels in the air on both sides. My 4.5-ton winch can’t budge the vehicle, so we also have to dig it out from underneath.
While we are busy trying to free the car, a guy on a moped suddenly shows up. He has silver jewelry for sale and insists that it is exactly what we need right now.
After the first practice slopes, I’ve found the technique and can manage the rest of the course without any problems. Really fun. There is only one scary spot. Here, the dune takes an unexpected direction when I reach the top. This is also a good reason to keep a moderate speed at the top. If you can’t turn the car so that you drive down in the direction of the dune’s slope, but come in at an angle, there is a risk of rolling sideways. Then all that’s left is to send the remains of the car home.
Fes
We head north towards Fes. A travel leg with an overnight stop along the way. The campsite has a large pool that is packed with local youngsters (boys). It is Sunday, and the camp is popular. Things quiet down towards evening. Only a few beer-drinking Czechs keep going into the night. A curious bunch. Big, tattooed types and a few faded blondes. Besides beer, their interest is insects. They set up a mesh cage with a light inside, and photograph and catch insects attracted to the light in between beers.
Once in Fez, we visit the old town, and naturally I buy a fez. The old town is large, a real labyrinth with very narrow alleyways. If someone shouts “ballag-ballag,” jump out of the way. A goods delivery on a donkey or cart will come rumbling down the cobblestones.
Don’t go here without a guide. If you do go alone, at least bring a compass. GPS doesn’t work, and you can barely see the sun, so it’s difficult to navigate. It’s packed with shops and small businesses. Our guide takes us to carpet and perfume makers so we can see how they work. Naturally, there’s also some gentle pressure to buy.
The famous dye works are viewed from a balcony on the 4th floor, where a leather merchant is based. They have lots of lovely leather goods, and I buy a shoulder bag. Starting price: €130. I get it for €55. The seller looked so sad and upset that I felt a twinge of guilt, but it is probably a well-rehearsed trick.
Tanger Med.
It is time to head home. Passport control, customs and boarding are just as chaotic as on arrival. Cars weave back and forth between the queues depending on where it apparently moves fastest. Every now and then, a car that has spotted an opportunity drives past the entire queue and squeezes in near the front. This seems to be accepted; no one honks or gestures because of it. Presumably, the word queue-jumping does not exist in Arabic. It is not rudeness, but an opportunity that has arisen.
It took about four hours from the first checkpoint until I was on board, having used such an “opportunity” myself. The cars were lined up in queues in two physically separate areas. For unknown reasons, only cars in the higher area were allowed to drive on board. I was standing completely still at the back of the left-hand area; it was past midnight and I really wanted to get on board and go to bed. But the higher area was inexhaustible, because newly arriving cars naturally went there. Eventually, the cars at the back of the left-hand area started driving over to the higher one through a gap in the barrier. I followed and was quickly on board.
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