In the heart of Covid-19 lockdown, everyone was looking for a way to shatter the crippling isolation and return to something resembling normal, real life. It was a time when one was forced to reevaluate things and find pleasure in small, humble, everyday activities such as driving 1,400km (870 miles) through the empty wastelands of the Sahara desert. When the streets were empty anyway, it seemed like the logical place to go.
It is always with a sense of excitement and apprehension that one takes the road south from Marrakech – the majority of Morocco’s urban centers lie to the north, with the vibrant, modern cities of Casablanca, Rabat, and Tangier, lining the coast of Africa’s top-left corner. South means the Atlas Mountains and the desert. It means slipping back, mile by mile, into the past. If Marrakech itself has a dreamlike quality, to travel south from the city is to voyage into the unreal.
Part IV: Marabouts and Roundabouts
The northern section of the drive stood out for its striking, desolate landscape, an eerie sense of danger and exposure, magnificent, untouched beaches, flamingos, camel trains, dolphins, and white desert sand dunes sweeping majestically down to pristine, green lagoons beside a sparkling, clear Atlantic ocean. And there was the museum at the site where Antoine de Saint-Exupèry wrote The Little Prince that turned out not to be.
The southern stretch of the trip, after crossing the invisible border that marks the divide between Morocco and the so-called Western Sahara, was remarkable for its lack of remarkableness. This really is empty desert. The only exception, besides a few small towns dotted around, is Laayoune, the eyesore that the Saharawis call their capital.
Despite boasting a population of over 200,000, Laayoune exudes a certain hollow apathy. The majority of the population are Moroccan nationals, many of whom were given financial incentives by the Rabat government to settle here (in part to influence the vote in any future independence referendum). This is occupied territory and you can feel it in the air.
This sense of soullessness was underlined when we had dinner in an establishment claiming to be “Layoune’s oldest restaurant.” It dated all the way back to…1996. That is, if the sign is to be believed, but nothing much seems real in these parts. I will not comment on the meal, but perhaps the fact that we reflected afterwards that we should have gone to Macdonald’s speaks for itself. There is something horribly fitting and fittingly horrible about the fact that, even way out here in the desert, there is a Macdonald’s, as if the city’s planners set out to create a cultural vacuum to reflect the howling void of the desert. There is also an HFC – Halal Fried Chicken – which uses the same colors and typeface as KFC. It was with relief that we took the road south.
No article about the road to Dakhla is complete without mention of the bizarre and increasingly extravagant roundabouts one encounters on the way south. The two enormous, stone camels that flank the entrance to Guenlim seem like small fry in comparison with the leaping dolphins that greet one’s arrival in Tarfaya or the Ostriches and swordfishes that adorn the city gates of Laayoune. The prize for sheer originality however goes to the roundabout in Boujdour, which is the last town before Dakhla despite being around 4 hours to the north. This masterpiece consists of a fish, its face riven with fear, vaulting in vain desperation to escape the writhing tentacles of a rearing octopus. In a strange and beautiful way, this final sight epitomized the experience of driving through this part of the world – dramatic, intimidating, darkly amusing, and downright odd.
