Sand Blasted

The next morning, Andy and I parted ways with Brittany and Jonathan, who were staying to try the classic West Face of the Taoujdad tower. Good-old Mohammed met us at the Taghia gîte and complained of our tardiness. The walk out was uncomfortable — we feared further shenanigans.

Sure enough, back in Zaouiat, the price for the 4x4 ride nearly doubled, to about $100; we had only $85. In protest, Andy loaded his gear onto his back and started up the road. After almost an hour of negotiations with the driver and Mohammed, I whittled the price to $70 to Ait, a tiny outpost that was the nearest town with a bus station (yet still 30 miles from Azilal).

Before we left, Mohammed threatened to call the police, saying we’d shorted him for his mules and deal-brokering. He jumped into the car, insisting he must accompany us for translation purposes. I told him he could go wherever he pleased, but he wouldn’t see another dime from us. We picked Andy up a few kilometers down the road. With all his gear, there was no danger of Andy getting too far, too quickly.

Three hours later, we reached Ait, where the bus had already left . . . two hours earlier. Mohammed insisted on searching for a taxi, but I firmly told him to leave us alone. Andy and I, choosing to hitchhike instead, left Mo standing in the dusty street. That night in Marrakech, we celebrated our little victory with sausages, beer, and belly dancers.

Three days later, I sat in the Marrakech Square, awaiting Brittany and Jonathan. They arrived, exasperated and reeling from another encounter with Mohammed, in Zaouiat. After arranging an impromptu ride to Marrakech with some French climbers a day earlier than planned, they’d broken the news to Mohammed that his ride-arranging services were no longer needed. Mo took to the street, staging a grève of his own. After blocking the way with rocks didn’t work, he resorted to jumping on the hood of the French climbers’ car. One hour later, after nonstop arguing, Mohammed leapt down. The climbers drove away, leaving the little man standing speechless in the road.

Cody Roth lives in Austria, where transportation hassles, he says, are nearly nonexistent.