GLA Adventure to Africa, and the Sahara

Following in the footsteps of their heroes our boys take the
GLA Adventure to Africa, and the Sahara.

How do you put this all into words?
It’s our last day in Morocco. Over two weeks, we’ve crisscrossed this fabulous country – from the coast, across the mountains, to the desert, back to the coast, back to the desert, nearly contemplated going across landmine-riddled no-man’s land, received orders to head back, got stopped a million times at police check posts, and driven, driven, and driven. Our Pune-registered Mercedes-Benz GLA has done 17,000 kiometres, on average we’ve slept four hours every night, but now it’s all over – the cars have cleared customs and will be shipped to New York. Ouseph and I have popped over to Marrakesh, to the Jemaa el-Fnaa, to spend the last night of our epic African adventure. Wandering the back lanes of the souk, Ouseph has been propositioned, offered weed and Moroccan Viagra, has somehow come to be in possession of Berber lipstick, and can’t wipe that 1,000-watt smile off his face as he poses this question.
“How do we put this epic road trip into words?”

Dakar
What’s the greatest motorsport event in the world? The Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix? Le Mans 24 hours? Indy 500? Monte Carlo rally?

They’re all incredible, but to me the greatest is, by far and away, the Dakar. The incredible two-week long rally-raid is the toughest, most hardcore motor race in the world. To borrow a phrase used by the organisers of the Indian Raid-de-Himalaya rally-raid, the Dakar separates the men from men with hair on their chest.

Five years ago, I had the fantastic opportunity to do the entire second half of the Dakar – chasing the rally in a pickup from Arica in Chile all the way down to Buenos Aires in Argentina. It remains one of the most cherished memories of my motoring career, yet there has always been that one regret. The modern-day Dakar does not go to Dakar. It runs in South America, where drivers (and the press) sleep in hotels every night, where you make camp in a big town everyday, where your mobile phone works almost everywhere, where rescuing lost competitors isn’t a big task.

The original Paris-Dakar ran from Paris (obviously) through Southern Europe and then into Africa, taking in the spectacular Sahara desert before culminating in the port city of Dakar in Senegal. The former British Prime Minister’s son once got so lost on the rally, it took a fleet of helicopters well over a week to locate him. Competitors on the Dakar were required to carry sleeping bags, extra water and food rations to last them a couple of days in the desert in case their crash could not be located immediately. On the original Dakar rally, a helicopter was not a luxury – it was a necessity. And even helicopters weren’t safe – the founder of the rally died in a helicopter crash while on his beloved rally. The Dakar rally is steeped in folklore. Quite simply, it’s the most awesome motorsport event you can imagine.

And now I am going to Dakar – at the tip of Senegal. When NDTV’s Siddharth Patankar kindly offered us dibs on what continent we’d like to drive on the GLA adventure, I grabbed Africa. And persuading the production crew to forget the usual South African roads and instead take in the Paris-Dakar route didn’t take much convincing. No convincing at all. Tomorrow we take the ferry from Spain to Morocco and then begins our drive, in the footsteps of our heroes, all the way down to Dakar.

Africa! Here we come!

Mint tea at Café Hafa
As an introduction to Morocco, the port city of Tangiers does an incredible job mumbles Ouseph, as we take in the view from the Hafa rock. Behind us is the Kasbah, the old fort, with walls that date back to the very first settlers (or invaders) from Europe – the Romans. The Hafa rock even has Roman graves dating back to the 1st century, but it’s the views that make this place extraordinary. Perched at the top of the city, the rock overlooks Tangiers with the Strait of Gibraltar shimmering up ahead. Beyond the Strait, and visible to the eye on a clear day, is Spain. On the left is Portugal, and on the right, out of eyesight, is the Rock of Gibraltar (which is techinically UK territory). And the Strait connects the Mediterranean on the right to the Atlantic on the left. Hundred meters away is the world famous melting pot, Hafa café – haunt of some hugely talented writers and artists, and setting of many a high-browed novel (none of which, obviously, I had heard of). We find a table overlooking the ocean, order the mandatory (and fantastic) mint tea, kick start the sugar high that will stay with us throughout the journey, and hope like all those artists who’ve made the Hafa café world famous, my creative juices too are kicked into high gear.

We then stroll through the Kasbah that is an intricate maze of narrow alleys and stumble upon the tomb of the revered 14th century traveller Ibn Battuta. Born in Tangiers, Battuta set off for Mecca at the age of 21 and returned 29 years later after exploring the modern-day equivalent of 44 countries (including India), crossing 50,000 to 75,000 miles (no one knows for sure) and penning the historically important tome called The World, which could probably be called the first travelogue. For one of the most celebrated travellers ever, his tomb is an inconspicuous structure in the middle of the labyrinth that is the Kasbah, though I’m sure he’d appreciate it much more than the horrifically-glitzy Battuta mall in Dubai.

Incidentally, Battuta finished his book in Fez – one of the oldest cities of Morocco, and that’s where we plan to head for the night. It’s a 450-kilometre drive, the motorways have a very strict 120 km/h speed limit, and it’s already dark. We have a long night in store.

T.I.A
What a day! We drove in to Fez late last night, missed out on dinner, slept for about three hours and are on the road by 7am. That’s what I’m learning about Africa. You can plan your day down to the last minute and then Africa will work its magic on all your plans and turn them turtle.

About an hour outside of Fez, the road winds its way up the Atlas Mountains. It climbs to approximately 6,000 feet and blows your mind along the way. The sky here is huge and the clouds, they’re like giant marshmallows. Over every crest, round every corner is a land so broad, a landscape so vast and a sky so blue, it takes your breath away.

To give you an idea of the general direction you take when you drive this road (put it on your bucket list now), it passes through the towns of Ifran, Midelt, Errachidia and vast open spaces. It’s a beautifully surfaced road, and I’m convinced someone who loves driving designed it when he was driving an AMG.

This part of Morocco is pretty desolate, even more so today because it’s the day of the Eid festival. The police are home, so we do stretch the speed limit wherever possible. Sirish and I want to make it to the edge of the Sahara to watch the sunset. Apparently the Saharan sunset is awe-inspiring.

So, we wound our way down this part of Morocco, looking for a place called Merzouga. Apple maps, Google Maps and the Tom Tom satellite navigation system don’t know where it is except that it’s in the Sahara.

We drive past an oasis, fly through vast open land that’s flat as far as the eye can see, and all under a sky that’s painting clouds of different shapes and sizes every few minutes.

Past the town of Erfoud, the brilliant road we’ve been driving on everyday turns into a gravel washboard. The cars are taking it well, the sky puts on a spectacular light show, we spot a rainbow (it is raining the one day we visit the Sahara), and Sirish even manages to get the GLA stuck in deep sand.

Earlier in the day, we helped a French couple extricate their Peugeot from sand and now karma was paying us back. Stuck in almost the middle of nowhere, a man passing by in a four-wheel drive SUV towed us out and pointed us lost, hungry travellers in the right direction.

L’oasis (our night halt and a charming guesthouse on the edge of the Sahara) has invited a few members of the Tuareg tribe to sing songs about the Sahara for us while a goat slow roasts under a moonlit night. I tell you, I am knackered now but Africa’s irresistible magic is working its way in deep. And it’s just the second day of our trip. Oh, and if you didn’t know, they have a saying for Africa’s magic. T.I.A. This is Africaaaaa!

The sands of time
It gets bitter cold, it gets cooking hot, and it’s all of 94-lakh square kilometres. The Sahara Desert. It’s the third largest desert in the world after the Antarctic and the Arctic. All kinds of people go there... it’s like a pilgrimage for overlanders to go to the edge and get a feel of the sands of eternity. It’s these people that make the journey interesting. Like the four fellows who rode all the way from Albania on their ancient Czech made Jawa motorcycles. Or Oliver, a German, who was there on a paragliding trip through Morocco. Or Julia, a Spanish lady, who had just returned from the Amritanandamayi ashram in Kerala.

I don’t know these people, but I find that when you’re far away from home, you’re always more receptive to people, and you’re less judgmental – you accept them for what they are and vice versa. You learn from them, and I find their stories fascinating. I hope they liked mine.
We woke up at 4 in the morning to star gaze and then catch the sunrise over the Saharan dunes. Of course, on the one day we were in the Sahara, the sky was pregnant with rain clouds so we didn’t get a spectacular sunrise but those two hours spent perched on top of a dune, pondering over the meaning of life, the universe and everything in between, will be etched in my mind forever.

As for the locals, they are very hospitable and helpful. I took the GL in to the Sahara and through my own idiocy, got it stuck. A few locals saw our predicament, brought in sand ladders and hydraulic jacks and taught me a whole new way of recovery. It was touching because it was midday under the hot Saharan sun and they came out willingly to help strangers.

Memories of an insane night
From the Sahara we drove through the night to cover the 1,100 kilometres to Marrakesh, slept through the day, and as dusk set we headed to one of the craziest places in the world – the Jemaa el-Fnaa square – to listen to the storytellers, watch the singers and dancers, side-step snake charmers, gorge on fantastic meat barbeques and get accosted for money. The performers are here for tips and the minute they see so much as a mobile phone camera – forget our filming equipment – they pounce like vultures to relieve you of Dirhams. Our sound recordist, Rohan, was following Ouseph and I through the square, recording our conversation and the background music, and even he got accosted despite not having a camera on him! It took 100 Dirhams to get him out of the jam, but even that experience couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces – Jemaa el-Fnaa is out of an Arabian Nights storybook and is a place you must visit. The old bazaar inside it is a place for finding hidden gems – silk rugs with gold and silver embroidery, lamp shades straight out of the Prince of Persia, the Hand of Fathima in all shapes and sizes – just keep the camera in your pocket (or ask before shooting).

By the time we were done at the iconic square (filming takes loads of time!) it was two in the morning and the city was only just coming alive. We stumbled upon a neighbourhood packed with high-end boutiques, inched past a massive Louis Vuitton store, wondered if we should pop in at one of the posh night clubs (we were all wearing sneakers so decided against it) and had to pick our jaws off the floor at both the cars and the women tumbling out of the them. Morocco, thus far, gave off this vibe of being a conservative Muslim country. Not a hard-core conservative country, but one with everything in moderation. But Marrakesh… whoa! The city is over the top. I’m fortunate enough to have travelled a fair bit, but I haven’t see so many impossibly gorgeous women in one place – all dressed rather outrageously for what we assumed to be a conservative country.

Later, over Twitter, I learnt that Marrakesh is the party capital of the region. It’s where people from the Middle East come to let their hair down, to shake off the rigid customs they are bound by at home and generally let loose. It explains why every hotel has an insane nightclub, and why everybody looked at our sand covered sneakers with disdain. You better pack properly and dress well if you want to experience the mega nightlife in Marrakesh. My word. What a city!

Moroccan Sahara
Not Western Sahara, though the map might say so. Here’s the deal – most of Morocco used to be under French occupation while a few parts of the north and the southern provinces were under the Spaniards. The French were the first to leave Morocco in the late fifties, and in the seventies the then king of Morocco pulled off a diplomatic masterstroke. Instead of sending troops in to Spanish controlled Western Sahara, he sent 350,000 Moroccan civilians in what is now called the green march – civilians armed with food and clothes who welcomed what was historically a part of Morocco back into the fold. And since then Western Sahara has been under Moroccan administration, India also recognises it as part of Morocco.

However, there are dissident groups allegedly sponsored by Algeria who have an interest in the region as that’s the only way their land-locked country can access the Atlantic and send out their oil. It’s sort of like the same issues we’re facing with Pakistan (though on a much, much milder level) and there is a United Nations monitoring force, stationed in Laayoune and the Moroccan Sahara for the past fifteen years (headed, right now, by a Pakistani).

There’s nothing really in Laayoune, but you must come here – and that’s because of the road. For 300 kilometres, to Laayoune and further south, the road skirts the Atlantic, offering up some of the most spectacular views I’ve seen. The waters are never more than a few metres away – you either drive to the cliff edge and watch the waves crashing into the sheer rock-face or you drive right up to the water and dip your toes into the icy Atlantic. There are even backwaters on the outskirts of the small settlements, the road separating it from the ocean. I haven’t driven the Great Ocean Road in Australia, but I can’t imagine anything, anywhere in the world, being more spectacular. One day I will return, either on a bike or in an AMG.

Disappointment
A mere five kilometres derails our glorious Dakar plans. The UN guys in Laayoune inform us of a small stretch of no man’s land between the Moroccan Sahara and Mauritania. Apparently there is no law there, there are land mines and it’s the place bandits go to abandon the stolen cars they can’t sell. This route is the easiest link to get from where we are, to Dakar in Senegal and we think about hiring armed guards to take us through, but decide against it.

Our brightly liveried cars attract a lot of attention, and we have the rest of the world to drive through. We simply can’t afford to take unnecessary risks at this point of the journey.

I’m gutted and so is Sirish. Dakar is our Mecca and coming so close and not being able to drive there is a horrible feeling.

Baazigar
Bollywood is by far and away the best ambassador that we have for our country. Morocco doesn’t have much of a film industry and the locals are huge fans of Hindi movies that run to packed houses. In Marrakesh, the taxi driver sang Yeh Dosti to us, and not just the first verse, but the entire song. In Tangiers, kids sang a medley of Bollywood’s more popular hits. Walking through the Jemaa el-Fnaa in Marrakesh people asked us if we were from India and then shouted out Amitabh Bachchan’s name. Bollywood is so popular that it generates a huge amount of love and goodwill for India – and us Indians travelling through Morocco. Who would have thought!
And it’s not just the cities. Driving south to Laayoune and the Moroccan Sahara we were stopped countless times at security check posts, and every time our papers were cleared the guards had a long chat with us about Bollywood. And here’s the deal – Shahrukh Khan is way, way more popular than Amitabh Bachchan. Baazigar is the most popular movie, and even the guards pointed out to the similarity of photographer Gaurav’s ponytail and SRK’s. All our embassies should have an IMAX attached to it and screen Bollywood movies – it will be the best possible foreign policy.

(Note to the Indian government – you can adjust the fees for my idea against my taxes).

As time goes by
In my mind, Casablanca has always been about mystery, about the fog rolling in from the Atlantic, about cloak and dagger tactics, and, of course, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. The Casablanca we drive into is nothing like that. It’s cosmopolitan, it’s manicured and it’s very American. Let me explain.

The whole area near the hotel where we were staying looks like Beverly Hills. The road outside the hotel (on the Corniche) looks like Sunset Boulevard at dusk, and the streets are named after American presidents. Modern day Casablanca is a place where Range Rovers and Jeep Grand Cherokees comfortably share space with ancient Renault 4s and Peugeot 205s. It’s where mint tea and Moroccan cafes exist comfortably with Burger King and beer. Pubs and bars are a scarcity in the rest of Morocco.

Rick’s cafe. If you’ve seen the 1942 movie, you’ll know this place. The movie was shot in Hollywood, but the cafe was later recreated in Casablanca and is now a tourist attraction. Modelled on the original cafe from the movie, the sublime ambience of the place is one of the reasons you should drop in. The live jazz band and the chance to hear the proprietor play ‘as time goes by’ and imagine yourself as old Humphrey… it’s priceless. The bland food is one of the reasons you should first have a Tagine and then come here.

But, Casablanca is lovely. The people are warm, extremely friendly and hospitable. We went to the old Haboos quarter (the Medina, or market) for some spices and lamp-shade shopping and the shopkeepers, even though they knew they might not sell us anything, served mint tea on the house while Sirish and I played carpet connoisseurs. Bargain hard with them but be democratic by arriving at a price both seller and buyer are happy with. It’s the way Morocco works.

A Pagoda
Morocco is at the intersection of Europe and Africa, and, as such, is a melting pot of cultures. The French, Portuguese, Spanish, Americans, Germans – all were here, all brought in their own unique styles and influences, and all came with their own cars. Morocco used to have a lovey collection of classic cars, but far too many of them were spirited away – another similarity India shares with Morocco.

But there are enthusiasts like Rafik and Majid of RM Classics spearheading a revival. Enter their workshop in an incongruous industrial estate on the outskirts of Casablanca, and you find three Minis on the left, a Daimler, and some other British cars on the right, and a Super 7 Lotus straight ahead. Upstairs, Morocco’s best interior specialist sews patches of leather together. Turn left at a recently restored Beetle and your jaw drops at the sight of 5 classic 911s and a 356 Speedster, a line of Morgans, American muscle cars like the Mustang, a brace of Fiat Cinquecentos and three gorgeous, hugely-expensive classic Mercs.

The Labrador blue Mercedes 450SEL is a rare car that was owned by the famous French designer Yves Saint Laurent and kept at his beautiful villa in Tangiers. Only some 7,000 odd 450 SEL’s were made and in that shade of blue there are only three in the world. That car is now being restored by Laurent’s partner who plans to take it back to Tangiers and use it as YSL used to. Then there’s the 190SL that was brought to Morocco in the fifties and has had only two owners – a beautiful example that is undergoing a full restoration. And there was a treat in store for me, Rafik offered to let me drive around Casablanca in the 280SL Pagoda. It’s a car valued at between 150,000 and 250,000 euros today, an immaculately maintained piece, reeking of old leather, fuel, oil and history – and I went belting around Casablanca, down the Corniche, round the Grand Mosque and down roads that look like Sunset Boulevard with Rafik riding shotgun and extolling the virtues of Moroccan society, the tolerance towards all religions, the freedom to dress as you please, the leadership of the king (who seems to be universally loved), how the Arab Spring was kept at bay, how it’s Moroccan Sahara not Western Sahara, and giving me a sense of the general air of positivity in this fantastic little country.

Morocco. You’ve found yourself a special place in my heart.

Here’s looking at you kid
The airport is about an hour away from the Corniche, and loathe as Sirish and I are to hand over the GLA and the old warbird (the GL) for the next leg, we have to. Both cars have performed faultlessly through the dust storms of the Sahara, through the corners of the Tizi N Test pass, through the beaches of Laayoune... they didn’t so much as hiccup. All they needed was a routine service in Casablanca.

Both Sirish and I have developed soft spots for the cars. As we drop them off at the customs yard, Sirish even pens a poem for the GLA. I think the GL is too manly for poems, so I let it go with a long, wistful stare. Today is Monday, the cars will be on the other side of the planet and with Siddharth and Dhruv by Friday.

As I write this piece from the layover in Frankfurt, I can’t help but feel close to Morocco. The last two weeks have been spectacular. Every day was a new experience, a new landscape. They say you should learn something new everyday, Morocco teaches you a couple of things everyday. I love its people, I love its countryside, I love the melting pot of cultures that it is, I love that it is so diverse and the old and new co-exist so harmoniously. I will be back. Till then – Morocco – here’s looking at you, kid.

Also read:GLA Great Overland Adventure