A tale of failing to get up 5.5s, succeeding in buying bizarre, fake saffron, eating camel steaks. Morocco is not for the faint hearted. We found a climbing guidebook, claiming that there were routes up to 2000 feet long on impeccable quartzite. We flew 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.


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 sell us an jewelry. We had to wonder how they located the hotel. Next day we discovered the rental car folks had the days mixed up; they apologized and they drove our car out to us at the hotel. Except they didn't because they couldn't find the damn hotel either....

Eventually we head into Marrakech, me at the wheel. Traffic was fine, somewhat like Mexico driving, and I congratulated myself on mastering the traffic--until we rashly entered the city walls, and 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 turned around, fled back out and found parking outside.


The souks (markets) 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.


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 more spices and fresh-squeezed orange juice. French tourists march around as if they still own the place.
As it gets dark, the musicians come out, desert dwellers from 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.
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 alcohol lack there's damn good coffee:


From Marrakech we drove south over the Atlas Mountains via the main road:


Some roadsigns look like this:


but most look like this:

Two days later we arrive after our "7 hour" drive, in Tafraoute (we stayed at the excitingly-named Hotel Rehab, in Agadir, where the creature the size of a mouse in our room was, in fact, a mouse....

It's amazing how, 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.



First few days it was in the 90s. We roasted, first day, on a low crag where the climbing was good; not exactly great, and the supposed multi-star VS turned out to be desperate. (Hmmmmm, I thought I understood these English ratings). So next day we headed to a higher elevation cliff, Adrar Asmit, to try a really easy (5.5/6) 6-pitch climb. Stimulatingly warm hike in the 90-some-degree sun, but a fun climb on perfect quartzite to a nice summit.

Next day, a "rest day" activity was hiking miles in the sun all day to the bizarre Painted Rocks, painted in 1984 by Belgian artist Jean Verame.



Next we tried a shady spot, the Dwawj slabs, and a 3-star classic Very Difficult (5.4?) called Serepent's Tale, or something. This climb has one of the nicest approaches I've ever seen:

But the climb was a different story. It started out okay, 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-feature filled with spiky plants and dry dirt that, if excavated, would instantly render the quartite 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, rated Severe or Mild-to-Middling Very Severe or something, with no stars and warnings about runouts but which turned out to be superb, with pitch 2 a full-ropelength pitch of intricate 5.7 with occasional excellent gear placements.

Next day, we took a 4x4 tour to some petroglyphs, via this spectacular ghost town:

Apparently, about five families still live here, existing on checks from relatives in the cities.

At one point the drive slammed on the brakes, and leaped out. What the hell? He found this:

The mountains seem alive, with crazily tilted strata:

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


After this, the weather, mercifully plummeted 30 degrees and became showery, much more pleasant for climbing.

What was next?

Wait for part 2.