Known by locals as Idraren Draren (meaning Mountains of Mountains), the High Atlas Mountains span Morocco for more than 600 miles and make for an unfavorable place to get stranded.
By Stuart Schlemmer, 8-time traveler from Mission, KS
On a driving trip through Morocco during Thanksgiving week a number of years ago, I experienced a near-disaster brought on by my own carelessness. Setting out from Rabat in my rental Renault with Michelin road maps in hand and gorgeous weather to facilitate the adventure, I decided to bypass Casablanca and head directly to Marrakech. After two days exploring Marrakech’s fascinating souks, where I was no match dealing for curios with merchants who were highly-experienced negotiators, I left for a long day’s drive to Ouarzazate, crossing the High Atlas Mountains.
The Renault’s gas tank was comfortably full and the weather once again perfect for the drive so I set out on roads that were surprisingly smooth and lightly traveled. However, I hadn’t considered the higher gas consumption climbing the mountain roads, the Renault’s tiny gas tank, and the twistiness of the roads making my destination much farther than it appeared on the map. After an hour or two on the road I started looking for a gas station, but I was driving through a region with virtually no evidence of human habitation and an equal absence of gas stations. With the gas gauge alarmingly near its bottom peg I began wondering what to do if the unthinkable happened, I ran out of gas. Just as I reached the highest pass through the mountains the unthinkable did happen, the Renault’s engine unceremoniously stopped, starved for fuel.
There was not a single structure in sight, and I had seen no more than a few cars on the road since leaving Marrakech. Pulling to the side of the road to gather my thoughts, I noticed a bench where a 10 or 12-year-old Berber boy was sitting. It appeared to possibly be a bus stop, but why? There was no habitation in any direction. Sensing a problem, the boy approached me and wanted to talk, but his English was just as non-existent as my Arabic and French. Nevertheless, my only useful word "benzene" seemed to be understood.
After much hand gesturing, pointing and other non-verbal communicating we had established enough of a connection for me to understand that the road was all downhill so we could coast to a place where there was a benzene pump. When he sensed I had gotten the message he immediately jumped in the Renault’s passenger seat and motioned for me to get in and drive, more accurately coast. I had no idea how far the gas station was, assuming it was just out of sight, around the next bend in the road. Had I known that we would be coasting for a half hour down a Moroccan mountain to the first available gas pump I wouldn’t have been so daring as to actually do it.
The gas station? It was a tiny run down shed with a 55-gallon barrel and hand pump. That experience left me with a great sense of thanksgiving for a Berber kid who could see my desperation and rescued me from an unknown alternative. The kid? I tried to drive him back up the mountain but he said no. I wonder if he was waiting for a bus when he first joined me and that this was his destination. He probably still tells the story of coasting down the mountain with an idiot American who let his car run out of gas!
Whether you find yourself in a misadventure like Stuart or not, you never know what kind of connections you’ll make during our Morocco Sahara Odyssey adventure.
