My first trip over the Atlas to Ouarzazat proved to be quite eventful. The road from Marrakech to Oz (as we affectionately refer to Ouarzazat) is famous. During L-Eide I saw report after report on the news about people being stuck on the road overnight in the snow. Everybody talked about what a horrible road it is. So I wasn’t too surprised when the bus stopped on the side of the road not far out of Marrakech in a jam of full busses, trucks and cars. The pass was closed and nobody seemed to know when it might open. I settled down to nap, thinking that if it didn’t open by 2 or 3 in the afternoon I had no way of making it over the pass by nightfall and I would have to go back home to avoid breaking the no-night-travel-policy. Luckily after only an hour or so the engines started back up and people raced back to their vehicles. The police lifted the “barriere de neige” and we set off. 
The scenery really was beautiful. As many stories as I have heard about how terrible the road is, I have heard only about half as many about the gorgeous mountains the road winds through. Spring is fast approaching here and the fields were bursting with green through the patches of snow. Here and there the almond trees showed the first light pink blossoms. The terrain is quite diverse, from sprouting terraced fields to bare scree slopes dotted with sheep (what could they possibly be eating?) to fields of olive trees surrounded by giant prickly pear cactus poking up out of the snow. The vegetation contrasts bizarrely with cactus and date palms dusted with snow next to budding almond trees. 
The buildings too changed as we climbed higher, the cinderblock construction of the flat lands gave way to poorer adobe, mud and brick buildings with dirt roofs. Higher up some of the more well-to-do stone houses even had pitched roofs with tiles to shed the snow. Flat roofs are the norm here, and are used as porches or decks. Having a pitched roof does help with the snow, but it takes away a lot of useful space that is generally women’s territory. 
On the bus I had managed to get a window seat and was more than a bit squished by the woman who had sat next to me (a man had tried to sit down and I made him go find a woman to sit by me. I was not about to risk having to listen to some guy talk to me and try to get my phone number or even “accidentally” touch me when the bus lurched around sharp switchbacks). She had a kid who was probably three years old on her lap and after a couple hours she tried to wake the kid up, and panicked when he was unresponsive. I am no health volunteer, but I could tell he was overheated from sitting in the sun in a hot bus (I am not looking forward to traveling in August) and was probably dehydrated too. We splashed some water on his face and made him eat an orange and drink some water, but she didn’t take off any of his four sweaters. Shortly afterwards she handed the kid off to a guy across the isle and leaned forward over a plastic bag. I thought she was going to throw up and turned back to the window to give her some privacy. She fainted. 
The bus exploded in a mass of men trying to revive her, all telling me what to do. She was sweating profusely and as I helped splash water on her face and put orange peels under nose, pushing away the men who tried to spray perfume in her face, I noticed that she had sweated through several sweaters and her jellaba. Her face was dripping. 
I wanted to take her head scarf off, or at least put her feet up, but knew that was far too taboo. All I could do was talk to her and try to reassure her. She looked like she was going into shock. Eventually we got her back and made the bus driver stop so she could get some fresh air and walk a bit. A crowd formed around her, helping her walk,so I figured she was taken care of. I ran into a little café to go to the bathroom. When I came back out the bus was gone. 
I laughed at myself for being so stupid and wondered what kind of vehicle would pick me up to take me the rest of the way to Oz. In the next second or two I also thought about my backpack and doubted I would find it at the bus station when (if) I got to Oz that day and wondered who would take it. I hoped they needed the clothes that were in it. I had all my important essentials on me -passport, money, camera, phone, et cetera. I turned to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and asked him when the bus had left. He pointed down the road and, looking around the corner, I saw the bus still there. I felt even more stupid running after it, but as I collapsed into my seat, breathing hard after the run, another passenger raced up after me. At least I wasn’t the only one. 
At last we made it to Oz. The first hundred kilometers up the western side of the Atlas to the Tishka Pass had taken four hours. The next hundred down the eastern slope took two. It isn’t that the road is particularly bad, it’s no worse than the road from Boise up to Bogus Basin Ski Resort, the problem is the vehicles that try to go on it. There are a few parts that are extremely narrow and traffic backs up as the bus going downhill stops to let the uphill trucks creep past. Passengers get out to yell at drivers as the giant tourist busses miss other oversized busses by millimeters. The actual snow was melted and most of the road was dry by the time we made it up to the snow line. Then again, considering the state of the tires on most vehicles here, I wouldn’t want to drive in even an inch of snow. 
This is definitely part of the tourist trail though and I was surprised by how many westerners I saw on the road. Not only were they in tourist busses, but also in rented SUVs and sitting in the sun at cafes on the side of the road. What shocked me the most was the amount of actual motor homes with Netherlands and French license plates. I can’t imagine how nervous they must have been trying to get past the giant trucks loaded with timber and hay that blocked most of the road. 
Arriving in Oz I thankfully jumped ship, though it was continuing in the direction I needed to go. There was no way I could sit even another hour in that bus. The fainting woman had moved up front and I was stuck sitting next to a guy who did not smell good, though at least he didn’t talk to me. This was my first time in Oz and my to-do list consisted of a stop at a grocery store to pick up some items that are not available in small towns. Then back to the bus station to wait for another bus. I made it on this one easily and enjoyed a calm ride up to Kelaat M’Gouna where Cara lives. 
The sun was just setting as we drove into town and I watched my first real desert sunset in months. The other side of the Atlas is vastly different from where I live, and very beautiful, in an almost-Sahara sort of way. The red hills and cliffs were on fire as I hopped off the last (third) bus of the day and Cara gave me a big hug. By the time we got to her house it was dark.