From Marrakech to Essaouira With a Side of Adventure!

An Epic Tale of Friendship, Gear Shifts, Giggles, and the Open Road. Morocco . Letter #16

Dear Ageless Wanderer,

I knew this day would come, and here it is.

With our suitcases packed and the solid wood door to our dar, which holds so much mystery, closed, we turned to wave goodbye to the young man crouched in the corner smoking his pipe. As we walked through the Medina to our ride waiting in Jemaa el-Fnaa square, we said goodbye to the shopkeepers who had become Moroccan family. 

Moving on is always bittersweet.

But where one story ends, another begins.

So begins the tale of Lucille and me, as well as the micro machine we dared to call a car, on a quest from the buzzing labyrinth of Marrakech to the serene embrace of Essaouira.

Our tale starts at the Marrakech Airport, under the blazing Moroccan sun. Where my confidence outshines the sun itself, convinced that renting a car no bigger than a well-loved roller skate was the way to go. "It'll be an adventure," I said, a statement that could either be a promise or a warning, depending on how you look at it.

Enter Lucille, the ace co-pilot and master navigator, equipped solely with a map of the countryside and a sporadically functional GPS. Together, we are an unstoppable duo, ready to tackle the open road with… well, let's just say 'enthusiasm,' because 'expertise' might be stretching the truth just a tad.

I'm not going to sugarcoat this one. I was nervous about driving in Marrakech traffic and my confidence booster was renting a car with an automatic transmission.

You know that clause in rental agreements about "this exact car may not be available?" Well, we drew the short stick and ended up with the smallest stick-shift car in the economy class.

My experience with manual transmissions is about as extensive as my experience with quantum physics—mainly based on theoretical knowledge. I was introduced to sticks and clutches over fifty-plus years ago and practiced once in my boyfriend's 1968 VW immediately after being issued a driver's license. I stopped short of putting us in a canal and lived to tell the tale.

So, there we were, in a car that takes up less than one-half of a parking space, embarking on a journey that required relearning how to tame a manual transmission on the fly.

My practice stretch of asphalt was all of 200 feet. As I wrestled with the gearstick and clutch, the lurches and jerks made each attempt more determined than the last and tested our bladders and resolve.

Ever the beacon of patience, Lucille offered guidance and encouragement, her words a soothing balm against the chaos of the impending Marrakech streets. "You've got this," she would say, even as the car hiccupped its disagreement.

But here's the thing about adventures and, well, about life in general: it's all about the journey, not just the smooth rides, but also the bumps and detours that test your mettle. With every stall and unintended jolt, my resolve grew stronger, fueled by laughter (because if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?), a few swear words (yes, many), and Lucille's unwavering belief in me.

As the airport car rental office's short runway faded into the rearview mirror and the exit gate beckoned, something magical happened. Once a bucking bronco of gears and clutches, the car settled into a steady rhythm.

I'd found the sweet spot.

When we arrived at the gate, an attendant in a starched white shirt with an emblem and dark pants stood to the left. Lucille's GPS faltered, and while she was working her GPS magic, I rolled my window down and stuck my hand out, holding my paperwork and driver’s license to hand to the attendant.

In excellent English (but with a thick accent), he said, "No need. Madam. Where are you going?"

"Essaouira."

"Have you driven in Morocco before?"

"Nope, it's my first time."

"Which route are you taking?"

"We're taking XYZ."

"No, no. That will take you much longer, as it takes you directly into city traffic. You should bypass the traffic and take ABC instead; it's a shortcut."

He then gave us lengthy verbal directions, reassuring us ABC was the best route, especially for new Marrakesh drivers.

We thanked him and proceeded through the gate. Lucille was still struggling with the GPS, and I remembered seeing signs on the main road for Essaouria. If the GPS didn't straighten itself out, I would follow the signs toward Essaouira instead of trying to navigate traffic while following his directions from memory.

"Oops...we missed the street for the shortcut” said master navigator, Lucille.

"That's OK. I'm going to follow the signs towards Essaouira," I said, entering the second double roundabout amid two donkey carts, a horse-drawn carriage, sixty motor scoters, four cars, and a tour bus taking up two lanes.

We drove about five miles, weaving in and out of traffic, riding the middle line when convenient, nailing the double roundabouts, and using the car horn like a native.

This was so cool.

Our now-working GPS indicated we needed to "take the first exit at the roundabout." So I got in the far right lane behind a city bus.

Just as the bus went through a cross street, the light turned red, and I had to stop.

In the lane next to us was a man on a scooter waving, honking, and shouting.

"OMG, Lucille, that's the gate attendant from the airport! He must have gotten off work." I say as I roll down my window and wave hi.

What a coincidence!

"Madam, Madam, you are going the wrong way! Follow me; I'm going to show you the shortcut!"

"OK", Lucille and I say in unison.

The light turns green, and the gate attendant on his little scooter pulls ahead of us and leads the way behind the bus. All the while, thick black smoke is pouring out of his exhaust.

"This is unreal!"

"How did he find us?"

We follow him for about a mile.

Then silence.

Lucille and I both knew we'd been had. He wasn't a gate attendant; this guy was trying to sell us a carpet, take us to a tannery, or something like that. His spiel was a "shortcut." Brilliant!

The bus stopped to let off passengers, and the man on the scooter stopped behind it.

I don't know what happened, but the song "Jesus Take The Wheel," by Carrie Underwood came to mind. Our car whipped into the left lane at just the right time to blend in with adjacent traffic, leaving the man on the smoky, slow motorbike at a complete standstill.

Lucille and I, looking in our side mirrors, caught sight of that guy craning his neck, scanning around to see if we were still tagging along behind him. I swear, the look on his face—the pure, unadulterated puzzlement as his eyes darted forward and back, trying to piece together our magical disappearing act—was something else!

And us? We were in stitches, laughing so hard there were tears streaming down our cheeks. It was one of those moments, you know? The kind that's just so beautifully ridiculous, it's etched in your memory forever. Gosh, life throws these funny little episodes at us, and honestly, sharing that belly-aching, tear-jerking laughter with each other?

Pure gold. Pure, hilarious gold.

City traffic gave way to smaller villages and rolling hills, which gave way to the coastline. The air was tinged with the scent of salt and freedom amid a torrential downpour. Essaouira emerged like a mirage, where time seemed to stand still, and the world's worries washed away with the tide.

Looking back, the journey from Marrakech to Essaouira was more than just a road trip. It was a reminder that the best stories often begin with a "What if?" muttered under your breath, a testament to the beauty of diving headfirst into the unknown with someone you trust by your side. It was laughter and struggles, but above all, it was a shared adventure that would bind Lucille and me together, a story we will recount with twinkling eyes and broad smiles for years to come.

So, my dear friend, remember that as you navigate your winding roads, it's not about avoiding the stalls or the detours. It's about who's in the passenger seat, the songs you sing along to, and the memories you create when you dare to say, "It'll be an adventure." After all, isn't that what life's all about?

PS: The photo of the car above is NOT the car we rented, but it presents a pretty good picture.