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.
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?"