A three-hour lesson in Moroccan traffic

I still remember the first time we drove to Beni Mellal to visit Said’s mother and his two younger brothers. We packed some small gifts, and a box of cookies still warm from a bakery in Marrakech. The kind of cookies that smell so good you consider not sharing them.

In Marrakech itself, we usually got around on foot or by taxi. But for this trip – over three hours one way – we decided to rent a car. And after Beni Mellal, we planned to continue to Said’s grandmother in Azilal.

What kind of car did we rent? No idea. It was black. That’s all I’ve got. It was years ago.

We met the car owner in a supermarket parking lot – Marjane, of course. In Morocco, things work a little differently than in Europe. You don’t go to Hertz or Budget; you call someone who knows someone who knows a guy with a car. Said handled it all.

Naturally, I had to sign the paperwork and show my driver’s license – because as a European, it’s usually easier with the police. A familiar dance.

Surviving Marrakech

I drove the first stretch. Said sat beside me, giving directions like a supportive rally co-driver – only slightly more nervous. Trust me: if you can drive in Marrakech, you can drive anywhere. And I say that as a Dutch woman who has survived the madness of rush hour cyclists in Groningen.

Marrakech traffic in 2017 was next-level.

You’re dodging scooters, kids, bikes, donkey carts, and pedestrians who will willingly throw themselves in front of your car – just to wash your windshield. If they’re polite, they’ll ask first. Most won’t. They’ll just start scrubbing while you’re stuck in traffic.

Meanwhile, people are selling everything on the street – I mean everything. Tissues, cold drinks from a foam cooler, cookies, umbrellas (in summer!), and once I swear someone tried to sell me a frying pan.

Then we switched seats

Once we left the chaos of Marrakech behind, Said and I switched seats so he could drive.

Let’s just say… I should’ve stayed behind the wheel.

At one point I asked him where he got his driver’s license. “Gas station loyalty points?”
Because in Morocco, the driving test – if you even call it that – is basically driving around the block. That’s it. No parking test, no parallel drama, just one lap and voilà, certified.

Which explains why most Moroccans can’t park. But that’s okay – they don’t have to. Marrakech has an entire workforce of roadside assistants (mainly older men) who’ll park your car for a few dirhams.
And then there are the women. One time, a female parking attendant misjudged a turn and we ended up with a lovely dent in our rental car. Fun times.

A Dutch driving lesson

That trip to Beni Mellal was a turning point. After that day, I made it my mission to teach Said how to really drive. Not just how to go forward – but how to park, reverse, anticipate, and maybe not hit things.

Years later, we both benefitted from it. Said became a confident driver, and I got to ride without gripping the door handle the entire time.

Small wins, big memories. And as the saying goes: “If you can survive Moroccan traffic, you can survive any relationship.”
I’m still deciding whether I agree – but it definitely prepared me for a lot.