Author’s note: I apologize for the rather long, surprise sabbatical I’ve been taking the last month. My alter ego will now continue his story.
When all things are finally considered, the Range Rover Sport saved my life.
An example: I’m lost in the Atlas mountains having somehow strayed from the pre-determined ‘path’ created by a 4×4 tour guide agency that really didn’t exist. It seemed that a couple of Marrakech cab drivers decided to set up shop and call themselves “Moroccan Mountain Adventure Guides.” The Publication, using their myriad of local contacts that are somewhat like MI-6 station heads from old Bond films, had arranged to have these two chaps guide me through the mountains on some of the best off-roading in the world. It would not be a full-fledged adventure, just an afternoon jaunt in the abandoned, rocky, dusty hills behind Marrakech.
Every single part of the plan went to hell in a little hand-woven, fair-trade souvenir basket. I was practically abandoned by my guides. The air conditioner on the Range Rover started to fritz. The sat nav became practically useless. The sun was lower in the sky than it was 20 minutes ago. Things were not keen.
I decided to retrace my steps by doing a U-turn and head back to Marrakech and to the safe haven of my hotel’s swimming pool terrace. I could see the Marrakech marker on my sat nav; it was only a matter of getting there. Yet as soon as I started heading in the direction of urban sanctuary, a massive, impassable wall of rock and boulder stood before me, like some big Tatooine space monster slowly engulfing me into a more intense feeling of disorientation. My only option was to head in the wrong direction and traverse the base of the wall until I found somewhere for my Range Rover to climb over, so I could finally head towards the city.
If only the rocks in the Atlas mountains were color-coded based on geographic location…. I swear that every single inch of terrain looks the same up here. There’s no such thing as a landmark in this wilderness. Instead, eastern Morocco follows the painfully tedious, seemingly computer-arranged pattern of rock, boulder, hill, rock, boulder, hill. Therefore, getting lost is about as easy as blinking.
Thankfully, I found a very coarse road that went somewhere; where it went I didn’t know. All I knew is that someone built it to some place worth going to, so it must be worth my time following it. The other option was to keep heading towards the horizon and run the risk of getting T-boned by Luke Skywalker in his landspeeder. Health and safety ruled, and I took the road.
The road led me away from Marrakesh and deeper into the generic rocky hills. But suddenly, the generic hills opened up into a massive city-like structure that seemed to have been carved right out of solid rock. It was a Berber village, and much to my dismay, it was not Marrakesh. As I drove into the village in my dusty, greenish-tan Range Rover, I felt like a hippie naturist at a Mennonite picnic. A big, lumbering British SUV in that village was as commonplace as a Dillard’s. Nobody did not look at it.
Needless to say, I caught a little bit more attention then I had hoped for, and I saw a couple young Berbers reach for their AK-47s. No, please. I gingerly pulled into a rudimentary general store (which, I’ll admit, looked violently out of place in this ancient wonder of residential zoning), and got gesticulated directions on how to get back to Marrakesh. As soon as the route was made clear, I dashed into the Rover, and gave the mighty turbodiesel the beans. Time to see how this thing handles itself on the craggy, axle-shredding mountain roads of Morocco.
My conclusion: Tis’ a grand way to travel Morocco’s dirt paths, in a Range Rover Sport. There I was with the air con struggling but succeeding at 20 degrees, with some Thievery Corporation piping from the sound system, and a bottle of chilled Fiji in the console fridge. The suspension was set to soft, and I just sort of settled into the rhythm of buttery undulations that was like floating in a vat of agitating pig fat. It was an incredibly luxurious experience, made better by the fact that I was no longer lost.
Later that evening, I suddenly realized what a brilliant car the Ranger Rover Sport was. I was sitting at an outdoor restaurant, and the RR was parked on the street about 6 feet away. My, it’s a handsome off-roader; full of dignity and power. Forget about Land Cruisers and Isuzu Troopers; you’ll look like a UN Peacekeeper. How uncool is that? Don’t emasculate yourself. Get a Range Rover.
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