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Memories of Morocco.

Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 10:50:14 AM
Well, there I was, with my wife, driving a silly rented Fiat Uno, in the Rif Mountains, in northern Morocco. She was poring over the Lonely Planet Guidebook, which I have a hard time not scoffing at.

"Do not take this road!" She intoned. "Under no account take this road, lest you be accosted by drug-dealers who will be most unpleasant!"
I laughed. Since when did Lonely Planet get anything right? And took the road.

By and by, a Mercedes sedan appeared behind us, following.
Soon there were two.
Then three.
The first then closed up and made as if to overtake. I let it. It sped past, with swarthy, bearded men glowering from its open windows. It raced off, ahead, and disappeared, while the remaining two trailed behind.
Soon, the road became a raised earthwork, spanning a deep valley. There, ahead, was the first Mercedes, stopped, its doors swung wide open, in the middle of the rather narrow road, with its occupants milling about, facing me.
"Tighten your seat-beat, sweetheart," I said to my wife. "This might get a bit hairy".
On either side was a fatal drop, but I aimed at the slightly-more-wide gap, on the left, and accelerated.
The men scattered, and with utter disbelief at what I was doing, raced through with inches to spare.
Even this did not deter the bad guys. They trailed me, at speed, to the next village, where there was a disused gas-station, on a gravel and dirt forecourt. I braked to enter it, allowing the following cars to bunch up close behind, before flooring-it, and raising huge billowing clouds of impenetrable dust.
In the confusion, I escaped, and the last glimpse I had of the three cars, behind, amid the dense cloud of dust, was a heap of smashed rubble, concertinaed into each other.

Later, we reached a checkpoint, manned by the local Gendarmerie, where I stopped and made a report of this whole crazy event. In French.

From what I could gather from the copper, he was disinterestedly saying the local equivalent of: "So? What's your point? Don't you read guidebooks?"

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 01:23:35 PM
How do you know that a guidebook is a good one and not one writen by an ignorant?

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 02:05:43 PM
You don't. The problem with guidebooks is that they are guidebooks.
Sorta takes the adventure out of adventuring, if you read one.
Of course, you can always do what I did: have one, but ignore anything it has to say.
The well-equipped modern always carries things he doesn't need.

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 02:46:53 PM
How do you know that a guidebook is a good one and not one writen by an ignorant?

Well, know he knows it was correct about that road.

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 05:06:07 PM
Lately, I've had this overwhelming feeling that travel is unsafe, no matter where you go. If this isn't true then I'm probably just subconsciously predicting how things might be next week (I'm good at that). It's a shame as I've always wanted to go to Nepal and a few other places. Perhaps I am to die and be reborn there some day.

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 30, 2014, 05:22:04 PM
This story was shortly pre 9/11. Everything changed that day.
My wife and I were hoping to go to Yemen, but there's no chance of that, now.

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 31, 2014, 09:35:18 AM
It's good to some degrees that parts of the world are unsafe. If the entire planet becomes a club med, something will be lost. No mystery left. It's kind of stupid of me to talk like that because in everyday life, I'm pretty much afraid of a lot of things.

Re: Memories of Morocco.
March 31, 2014, 10:02:30 AM
Club Med. Wow. I just had a revelation. I worked, for two seasons at Club Med, and it was such a contrast to real life, and so generally insane, that it must have set me up for the enlightenment experience, that followed close on its heels.
Thanks, Lost. I had never connected the two, before you mentioned it.