Sahara Quest

What would you do with a billion dollars?  Retire to a tropical island? Build a museum? Upgrade your 4x4? If you were Sheikh Hamad Bin Hamdan of the ruling family of Abu Dhabi you would construct a pyramid-shaped museum in Abu Dhabi to showcase your primary car collection, build a replica 1950 Dodge Power Wagon that is sixty-four times bigger than the original, and carve your name in an island so large that it would be visible from space.  If you were him, you would also go off-roading in Morocco and leave a 4x4 museum there as a memento.  

Sheikh Hamad Bin Hamdan’s Abu Dhabi Museum

Unfortunately, very few of us have that kind of money. But we can go in search of the things built by the Sheikh (except the island with his name, which has since been filled in). The Sheikh’s smaller 4x4 Museum in Morocco can be found in a dusty town on the edge of the Sahara Desert.  About four years ago, a small building sprouted up in Merzouga, Morocco.  The men who built it called it the Morocco National Automobile Museum (MNAM), though it is sometimes called the Morocco National 4x4 Museum.  It is not well advertised and is virtually unknown.  There is a reference to it on an online map, and two or three scattered pictures on German social media, but any definitive information about this phantom museum is hard to find.  In fact, it is difficult to ascertain whether the museum is a real place— it has no working website or phone number.  The very fact that it is unknown, and the fact that it lies next to one of the most exotic off-road locations in the world, made it the perfect destination for a road trip in my 2013 Jeep Wrangler.  Normally, a trip like this would be well beyond my means, but since the U.S. Navy has assigned me to southern Spain, the trip lies within my grasp.

The town of Merzouga is unfamiliar to North Americans, but it is a common destination for European off-road enthusiasts who travel across the Strait of Gibraltar to drive their well-equipped Land Rover Defenders and Toyota Forerunners in the sand dunes of Erg Chebbi.  Still, the place is on the edge of the map.  Literally.  The highways of Morocco end in Merzouga.  Beyond it lies the vast Sahara Desert, a place so formidable that its name is recognizable across the planet.  It is a lifeless, parched expanse of dark gravelly rocks called Reg and shifting sand dunes called Erg.  The Desert is the size of the United States.  Nothing gets across.  The narrow ribbon of habitable land north of the Desert was conquered by peoples from Arabia.  North Africa is, for all intents and purposes, an extension of the Middle East.

Merzouga, Morocco with Erg Chebbi in the background.

I asked my friend, Chris, to fly from Chicago to Spain to join me on a quest to find the little-known Morocco National Automobile Museum and to drive through the dunes of Erg Chebbi.  Chris is a great conversationalist and has an anything-goes attitude—essential attributes for a road trip that will require more than one thousand miles of driving.

We cross the Strait of Gibraltar on a high-speed ferry.  At its narrowest point, the Strait is only eight miles across.  On a clear day, one can see Africa from Spain, and the journey takes about an hour.  The Jeep is in the cargo hold below, loaded up with water, beef jerky and trail mix, and a few sets of clothing.  There are other off-road vehicles with it, as well as a troupe of European-style touring motorcycles.  Apparently, we aren’t the only ones planning a road-trip through Morocco, a nation that the U.S. naval attaché in Rabat calls “the last sane country in North Africa.”  The other North African countries—places like Algeria, Libya and Tunisia—have experienced enough political unrest that the U.S. State Department warns against travel to those locations.  We wonder if we will have enough gas for the longer stretches and worry about what to do if the Jeep breaks down.  I have packed the essentials—engine coolant, a set of tools, a fire extinguisher, a robust first aid kit, and thick boards to serve as a jackstand on the sand, but there will be very few spare parts available on the far side of Morocco.

We arrive in Tangier and check in with various policemen and customs officials.  After a wild goose chase through town in which three lanes of traffic grind to a halt in the city’s numerous roundabouts, a policeman directs me to a small trailer at the port where I can buy a week of car insurance (after I pay him for blowing through a stoplight).  Neither of us speaks French or Arabic, so language will continue to be a barrier.

Having secured the car insurance, we plug our first destination into the GPS, the fabled blue city of Chefchaouen, nestled high within the Atlas Mountains.  The terrain is almost verdant for the first one hundred and fifty miles. The reason why is right in front of us.  The Atlas Mountains that separate the somewhat rainy coastal region from the desert interior are so massive that they capture all moisture coming from the sea.  The High Atlas Range boasts eight peaks over 13,000 feet tall, which is saying a lot considering they rise from a base not far above sea level.  Before we know it, we are driving through green mountain valleys filled with donkeys and sheep—a scene one would picture in Switzerland more than in Africa.  But the cities are decidedly Middle-Eastern in appearance with small clusters of clay homes huddled around the minarets of mosques.  Amidst the completely unexpected, beautiful scenery we are happy to discover that modern gas stations are quite frequent and that I can fill the Jeep with the equivalent of about sixty dollars.  The people we come across are warm and friendly.

Chris wonders if there are more donkeys than people in Morocco.

The famed blue city of Chefchaouen. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to explore it.

Walking the ancient Medina in the city of Fez— the largest urban area in the world that has no cars.

We pass quickly through the blue city of Chefchaouen and continue south.  On day two, we cross the spine of the Atlas Mountains.  Clouds drape the northern face of the range and snow caps the peaks.  We spot waterfalls in some of the valleys.  Fortunately, the pass over the mountains at this eastern point is not too high nor precarious, but once we cross it everything begins to change.

Across the Atlas Mountains, the Sahara Desert takes over.  The farmland gives way to barren ground.  The pine trees disappear and are replaced by sparse vegetation.  Shepherds dressed in traditional Middle-Eastern garb range far and wide with their flocks.  It seems the sheep can survive in this arid environment.  We stop occasionally to drive the Jeep across unmarked roads (sometimes little more than paths) before returning to the highway.  Even on the pavement, cars and trucks are becoming decidedly less frequent.  We pass a turbaned shepherd standing near the highway who waves an empty water bottle at us.  Feeling sorry for anyone short on water here, we turn around and give him a bottle from our stash.  He seems thankful then makes eating gestures toward his mouth.  I give him what’s left of our trail mix before we press on.

I have arranged for a Berber guide named Hassan to meet us in Merzouga to show us where to drive in the sand dunes.  It has been arranged by a man named Youssef who runs Youssef’s Sand Seas Adventures.  Youssef has texted me to say that he will be traveling on the same highway in the opposite direction.  He asks to see a picture of the Jeep so we can meet on the highway.  After sending him a shot, he replies that my Jeep (which, ironically, is not a Sahara edition) is a “nice camel” and immediately replies with a picture of his Toyota Prado.  I compliment his “camel,” thinking that’s how people refer to off-road vehicles in this part of the world.  He spots us on the road, as Jeep Wranglers are very uncommon in Morocco, and waves us to the side of the highway.  He informs us that Hassan will be waiting for us at the hotel, that it lies not far beyond the end of the pavement, and that we still have a long way to go.

We drive for hours.  The terrain grows more arid and desolate.  Soon, there is no vegetation to speak of.  There are no more sheep.  There is no soil, and it looks like there never has been.  We are now truly in the desert.  We see the strata of geologic time everywhere we look.  The crust of the earth is exposed, and much of it lies at angles where plate tectonics have bent and crumpled the world.  Due to the lack of soil, the ancient strata are easily accessible and the roadside is dotted with small stands that sell fossils—most often shark’s teeth and trilobites, but sometimes whole jaws of unknown creatures.  We stop, and Chris buys a few small fossils for his collection.

Still, we know that we are not deep into the Sahara because we routinely arrive at oases.  At the bottom of some of the deep gorges, there is enough water to harbor life.  Verdant forests of palm trees thrive in these canyons, and a rudimentary town often clings nearby.  The dazzling green of the oases contrasts starkly with the surrounding lifeless land and conjures images of the past when camel caravans travelled from oasis to oasis to trade their goods. 

Finally, the parched desert gives way to the reg—the dark gray volcanic rubble that comprises most of the Sahara Desert.  The scenery is almost moonlike.  In the late afternoon, we approach Merzouga.  The setting sun lights up a sight that nearly makes my hair stand on end—the triangular sand dunes of Erg Chebbi!  This is the Sahara Desert!  This is the place one has seen in countless movies and read about in books.  The sand here moves like a living thing.  It travels with the wind and grows out of the heart of the desert.  Fingers of it reach across the highway, which remind me of the strands of lava that have hardened over the highways in Hawaii.

We arrive in the small town of Merzouga, where the color of the clay buildings matches the desert around us.  No more than fifteen miles from the Algerian border, we see a sign pointing to our hotel and pass through a gate.  There, the asphalt ends.  But that is exactly what the tires of my “camel” have been yearning for—the freedom to roam, to touch the soft earth, to bite the rocks and roll over the mounds.  We pass down a dusty track and find our hotel.  It nearly touches the dunes behind it.  We drive through a narrow gate in the walls and park inside.  There are no more than twenty rooms in the single-story building.  They cluster around a pool that is covered up because the “there is too much sand now.” 

Inside, we meet Hassan.  He is a middle-aged Berber man dressed in traditional clothing who speaks a smattering of many languages.  He has lived in Merzouga all his life.  He explains that the town is much bigger than when he was a boy, and that it now has electricity and running water.  It is hard to picture what the town was like when he was a boy because it is still quite rustic.  We tell him we want to drive into the dunes while the light is still good.  “Vamos!” he says, forgetting that we are not actually Spanish, despite what my Jeep’s license plate says.  

Hassan, dressed in his turban and full-length robe, climbs into the passenger seat and the three of us head into the desert.  Hassan tells me to go into four-wheel-drive, so I slide the lever into 4Hi.  We immediately start rolling over small dunes, which feel like the roller coaster at a county fair.  I learn quickly that the dark sand in the troughs is compact and hard, but the orange-red sand is soft and saps energy out of the Jeep.  Hassan points and tells me to avoid other tracks because it is easy to get bogged down in them.  He gives me directions in Spanish, but they are frustratingly backwards.  He says, “A la derecha!  A la derecha!” while pointing to the left.  I decide to follow his hands, not his words.  

We climb high onto the dunes.  There are a few camels around.  Tourists ride them into Erg Chebbi where tents have been set up for luxury overnight stays.  We stop on top of the dune and Chris gets out to take pictures.  It is about seven at night, and the term “golden light” has never carried so much meaning.  The lowering sun bathes the dunes in a warm glow.  The sky is so blue it should be on a screensaver.  The summer has not yet arrived and the temperature is only in the mid-seventies.  The evening is perfect.

Hassan and I let air out of the Goodyear Wrangler Duratecs to keep them from sinking into the sand.  Then we drive.  Up and down we climb over the dunes.  I learn that it takes a lot of gas to maintain forward momentum.  When we slowly nose down over a steep dune, Hassan says: “Tranquillo.  Tranquillo.”  Calm.  Calm.  At the bottom, the approach angle is so steep that I’m thankful I no longer have the stock bumper. 

At some point we bog down in the sand.  I rock the Jeep back and forth only to sink deeper.  Finally, I have to stop.  I’ve been riding the clutch so hard that the acrid smell of my burning clutch plate fills the cabin.  I give the Jeep a break while we walk around the amazing dunes.  Hassan says something like: “Your car is very good, but we are alone.”  I remember seeing a team of Portuguese off-roaders passing by earlier.  They traveled in a caravan in order to winch each other out.  “Perhaps we go back to the smaller dunes,” he says, half in Spanish and half in English, “in case we get stuck.”  It is at this moment that a hint of fear creeps into my mind.  We are five hundred miles deep into Morocco where donkeys are far more common than Jeeps.  A blown clutch in the Sahara Desert does not sound like a story I want to write.  

Chris takes a walk.

I get the Jeep unstuck without much difficulty, learning to use far more gas and riding the clutch as little as possible.  As the smoke clears, I realize the clutch is fine and we stay in the high dunes till the light begins to fade.  Just when I’m getting good at maintaining my momentum over the energy-sapping sand, it is time to head back.  The sun has given us its best light and the pictures we have look like something out of a storybook.

In the morning, Hassan takes us to the Sheik’s Morocco National Automobile Museum (MNAM).  It really does exist!  It is a small concrete building on a dusty road facing the desert.  The museum doors are locked.  Hassan bangs on the side gate until a man arrives.  The man asks us to wait a few minutes, then unbolts the museum doors.  There is no entrance fee or tickets; we just walk inside.

Inside, there are about twenty vehicles behind bars.  It is an eclectic mix of off-road vehicles from around the world.  Curiously, there is a customized, and obviously undrivable, double-wide Jeep Wrangler welded from two Jeeps, and another Wrangler cut in half and re-assembled as a half-width model.  On a more serious note, there is a 2012 Beijing Automobile Works BJ103, which appears to be a civilian version of the Chinese military’s BAIC BJ2022.  Also noteworthy is a 1962 AMC M422 “Mighty Mite.”  These Jeep-like vehicles were all-aluminum and even had an aluminum block V-4 engine.  Designed to be light enough to be carried by the U.S. Marine Corps’ Sikorksy H-19 Helicopters, that helicopter was soon superseded by much more powerful choppers and the Mighty Mite was made obsolete. 

Perhaps the most enigmatic feature of the MNAM is a poster outside which rates the “Best Cars 4x4 from experience and opinion of Hamad bin Hamdan.”  Four brands are listed— Suzuki, Chrysler, Nissan and Ford— but deciphering the poster is an exercise in riddles.  Each brand has an associated animal picture.  It appears that Suzuki rates a donkey, Chrysler is compared to a mule, Nissan garners a stallion, and Ford earns a camel.  The camel may sound disparaging, but in the Arabian Desert, where the Sheik is from, and in the Sahara Desert where our quest has led us, the camel is perhaps the most revered animal of all.

I forgot to remove the license plate bracket, so the desert removed it for me, prompting repairs the next morning.

We take some pictures and thank the guard for letting us in.  At the only gas station in town, we fill up our tank and replenish the air in our tires.  We take an alternate route across the south of Morocco, seeing much more of the desert, then cross over the Atlas Mountains once more.  After crossing the mountains, the land turns green again and we feel like we’ve returned to planet Earth. 

Pondering the unconventional museum which seems to have been built almost as an afterthought, I wonder what I would do with a billion dollars.  On a highway north of Casablanca, somewhat near our journey’s end, a smile creeps across my face when I realize that perhaps I just did it.

The 1,200 mile journey. Merzouga, Erg Chebbi and the 4x4 Museum at Point C.

In Tangier, at the end of a long journey.

Special thanks to Chris Wooldridge for taking the pictures and for being the perfect road-trip companion.

…and for driving.