Morocco—April 2011

This is a tale of failing to get up 5.4 climbs, succeeding in buying fake saffron, eating camel steaks. Morocco is not for the faint hearted.

It was April, 2011. We had found a climbing guidebook claiming that there were routes up to 2,000 feet long on impeccable quartzite. We flew from Colorado via London, for what threatened to be our last chance to drink alcohol for some time.

In Marrakech, we had arranged for the rental car company to meet us—with a sign—at the airport. But no one was there. We waited, waited, wandered around (of course this local company had no desk at the airport), finally, in the dark, took a taxi to the hotel. The taxi driver, smelling fresh tourist meat, quoted an outrageous price. We got our own back when, after several miles of near misses with assorted hazards both human and animal on unlighted streets, the hotel turned out not to exist; or did it? Our driver, undeterred, began knocking on doors and driving around in circles on vague dirt roads for maybe 45 minutes before finally finding something that might be our hotel.

And it was! Which was fantastic, except that we seemed to be sharing the room with a family of cockroach-like creatures "the size of mice." Yikes. They were polite, and kept their distance. They never tried to beg, or sell us any jewelry. We had to wonder how they located the hotel. Next day we discovered that the rental car folks had the days mixed up; they apologized and they promised to drove our car out to us. Except they couldn't find the damn hotel either....

Eventually we headed into Marrakech, me at the wheel. Traffic was anarchic but polite, somewhat like my experiences of Mexico driving, and I congratulated myself on quickly mastering the local rules—until we entered the city walls, where all hell broke loose and we were ambushed by a crazy deluge of donkeys, scooters, pedestrians, taxis, hand carts, all flowing around us as if we were a mere rock in a river, the traffic a couple of nonchalant inches from imminent disaster. I stalled, retreated, and parked outside.

We walked back in and headed for the famous "souks" (markets).

The souks are a bustling world unto themselves. Endless, winding, everyone trying to grab your attention, noises of yelling, dogs, bartering; smells of saffron, harissa, argan oil, used motor-oil, exotic soaps, fresh-tanned leather, vaguely-sewer-related odors, fried chicken, all gloriously mingled, fighting for your nostrils' attention.

There’s not much you can’t buy in Morocco....

Southward, the souks dump one out into the big square, Djemma el Fna.

Djemma el Fna is a writhing mass of humanity, people watching people, people pulling teeth, people playing with snakes, telling fortunes, selling spices and fresh-squeezed orange juice. French tourists march around as if they still own the place.

With gathering darkness the air cools and the mood shifts. Musicians come out, desert dwellers from far away, south and east, Mali and Mauritania, darker skinned than the locals, wary but relaxed; chanting their ancient blues songs, accompanied by ouds, drums and curious crowds. Surreal, sublime, a ritual centuries old.

The funny thing is there's no alcohol, both a drawback (because a drink or two can be nice) and an advantage (the huge nightly crowds are volatile enough already).

To make up for the lack of alcohol, in the morning there's damn good coffee!

From Marrakech we drove south over the Atlas Mountains via the main highway. “Highway” being a figure of speech. Much of the road looked like this:

Roadsigns were few. Most looked like this:

It was a slow drive... with uncertain navigation. The "7 hour" estimate from Marrakech to Tafraoute took us two days. We stayed overnight in Agadir at the enticingly-named Hotel Rehab, where the creature the size of a mouse in our room was, in fact, a mouse....

It's amazing how, on the main roads, if one stops for more than, say, thirty-five seconds, anywhere on the roadside, a very, very friendly person will emerge from nowhere, brandishing necklaces or jewelry and a big smile—he wants to be your friend. There is a commendable entrepreneurial spirit—a single glance at an item counts as the official start to the bargaining. Away from the main tourist areas the people are more laid back and genuine. At one stop a couple young children appeared. They had nothing to offer but a slightly urgent look and plaintive smile and a motion of rubbing their stomachs. We gave them some coins. Finally we arrived at Tafraoute.

First few days it was in the 90s. We roasted, first day, on a low crag where the climbing was good; not great but certainly good. Though, the supposed multi-star VS (Probably Chasing Rainbows) turned out to be desperate. (Hmmmmm, I thought I understood these English ratings). Arriving on top, I ripped sweaty shoes off burning feet and carefully sat amid spiky plants and abrasive limestone, poking lazily about for a belay anchor. A minute later, a vague hum turned into a roar and a cloud of bees swarmed toward me. I was still tied in to the rope, shoeless, surrounded by machete-sharp rocks and plants. I was utterly at their mercy. Were they africanized bees? After all, this was Africa.... They swirled around me, landing, walking on me. I stopped breathing, kept still, and waited. Eventually they moved on. Fran, following the climb, soon began swearing and yelling, she found that the route was as much a sandbag as I'd thought.

Next day, trying to beat the heat, we headed to a high elevation cliff, Adrar Asmit, to try a really easy (5.5/6) 6-pitch, north-facing climb. This was a distressingly steep hike in the 90-some-degree sun, but the climb was fun; somewhat shady, as promised, with perfect quartzite leading to a nice summit.

The six pitches of Wild Country were very enjoyable. Straightforward routefinding, great rock, plenty of protection where needed and a fabulous summit with a broad view across ranges of mysterious mountains and cliffs.

Next day was declared to be a rest day. Well, not exactly a restful day, as we hiked several miles in the blazing sun to visit the bizarre Painted Rocks, painted in 1984 by Belgian artist Jean Verame.

Next we tried climbing high up at a shady spot, the Dwawj slabs, and a 3-star classic Very Difficult (~5.4) called Serpent's Tale, or something similar. This climb has one of the prettiest approaches I've ever seen, through meadows of vibrant flowers:

But the climb we picked was a different story. It started out OK, but three pitches up we were stuck between either dangerously runout friction slab face of indeterminate difficulty or, just right, almost off the slab itself, a hand-crack filled with spiky plants and dry dirt that, if excavated, would cover the slab all around us with dust and sand, rendering it unclimbable. Tails between legs, we rappelled three pitches. Failing to get up a 5.4—the shame of it.

Around the corner we found a 350-foot slab with a climb called Jewel in the Crown, rated Mild-to-Middling Very Severely somesuch, with no stars and warnings about runouts. It turned out to be superb, with pitch 2 a full ropelength of intricate 5.7 with excellent (if intermittent) gear placements.

Next day, we took a 4x4 tour to explore the very edge of the Sahara. First we rose steadily out of the town. As we climbed, expansive views opened up looking back into the green valley of Tafraoute. The terraces visible here are human-made. Vast areas of steep hillsides are covered by these terraces, now abandoned, relics of a hardscrabble, agricultural past:

We entered a more desolate landscape as we traveled southeast. We drove right through this ghost town (below). Where were the people? We were told they had left for the cities.

Apparently, about five families still lived here, existing on checks from relatives in the cities. At one point our driver slammed on the brakes, and leaped out. What the hell? He found this:

As we got closer to the big desert, life seemed to vanish. Yet the mountains seemed alive, with crazily tilted strata:

A good thing, because little else was alive, this close to the Sahara.

Finally we entered a zone of gravel and silence, as if going back to a time before life existed. We lingered a while, picking up wind-polished stones, dropping them again. There seemed a deep emptiness here, an abandonment. There was nothing to see or hear. No birds, not even planes overhead, nothing. Yet people had lived here, long ago. Perhaps it had been wetter? Or perhaps it was the natural resilience of humans, able to adapt and survive in even the hardest places. Just as with the Southwest desert, the old inhabitants had left their mark with engravings and our guide took us to a panel.

We slowly returned to Tafraoute. Next day, mercifully, the weather plummeted 30 degrees, and became showery; much more pleasant for climbing. For Part 2 of this story, click on the button below.