As the kilometres fly by, the landscape shifts. I leave my seat at the back of the bus for the jump seat at the front, near driver Hicham. This scenery calls for unobstructed views. Along the N13 section around Tunnel Zaabal, cut through the mountain by the French Foreign Legion in the late 1920s, rocky arid plains hemmed by the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains give way to steep rusty-red canyon walls. The Ziz River has been a lifeline for centuries. Beginning in the eastern High Atlas where rainfall and snowmelt provide water, it has carved deeply into the limestone, creating the narrow Ziz Gorge.
At just over the halfway point, Hicham stops the coach for a leg stretch at Ouled Chaker Lookout, a small village tucked into the Ziz Valley. As he takes a cigarette break, I am awestruck by the landscape. Below the barren, earth-coloured cliffs, mud-brick buildings are surrounded by a narrow oasis of green: date palms sustained by the Ziz River.
The gateway to the desert
As the road edges towards the Sahara, the landscape becomes more austere – and bland, reminding me of Dijon mustard. Sara tells us the rocky desert is called hamada – a wind-swept surface of large boulders and coarse gravel. The blandness is momentarily interrupted as we pass a group of local herders, their camels tethered to small black tractor tyres partially buried in the ground. Erg Chebbi must be close.
Hicham expertly turns the long coach onto an unsealed track. Beyond the flat, featureless hamada wind-shaped sepia-coloured dunes rise before us. We have arrived. Erg Chebbi lies on the far western edge of the Sahara. Stretching around 28km from north to south and 5-7km from east to west, Erg Chebbi’s vast sand dunes can rise up to 150m.
Merzouga is the stepping stone to the desert sands. Once the territory of nomadic Amazigh groups, particularly the Aït Khebbach, it caters to travellers with everything from luxury hotels and glamping camps to traditional guesthouses. It is impossible to miss the enormous building on the dusty plains: the Xaluca Dunes Hotel, still under construction. My mind boggles at the number of guests this monstrous building will hold. Our group is staying in tents, a canvas structure with a bed and ensuite bathroom.
Sahara sunset
Our itinerary includes a sunset camel trek into the heart of Erg Chebbi. Undoubtedly one of the most popular and touristy activities here. Putting that thought aside, I am excited to ride across the sweeping burnt-orange sands and live my Lawrence of Arabia dream.
Meeting a camel – technically a single-humped dromedary – for the first time is interesting. I have no idea if our camel handlers are indigenous Amazigh (Berbers), but they look the part, wearing colourful turbans and long, loose cotton robes. Between the handlers and Sara translating, we receive a quick crash course in how to “mount”. Sharon, the tallest and with the longest legs in our group, makes it look easy. The trick is to hold on tight as the camel unfolds its legs to stand. Each handler leads a train of five. We sway and roll across the dusty plains towards the dunes. Despite the absence of Peter O’Toole’s flowing robes, I feel in the moment.
As the sun dips, the sand shifts in colour from bronze to copper. Apart from laughter and the occasional calls from the group, there is a stillness. We indelicately dismount and wander to the crest of a dune. And wait. Under the low sunset light, the sand glows a burnt orange, and subtly shifts to rose, then a luscious honey. I sit for a while in silence, absorbing the undulating scene: the sharp ridges, the smooth sandy surface interrupted only by footprint trails.
Reluctantly, we return to camp. As each camel bends and folds those impossibly long legs, and we slip safely to the ground, Sara and one of the handlers are conversing. We are invited to look at their handmade trinkets. A rug is quickly laid out on the ground and adorned with bracelets, small bowls and animals carved from stone. Cash only. A special interaction reminding me of that afternoon whenever I wear my delicately beaded bracelet.
An evening under the stars
Following dinner, I sit outside my canvas tent staring at the night sky awash with stars. There is nothing around me. No traffic. No city noise. No light pollution. Just open sky and the hissing wind moving sand across the distant dunes.
The serenity, however, is about to be shattered. The same dunes tourists cross slowly on camelback are a high-speed playground for international rally drivers and dirt bike riders seeking their desert experience. A large gathering of 4WD enthusiasts from Say Yes Team Rally Marruecos, a charitable off-road adventure group is staying at our accommodation. Their Easter desert adventure happens to coincide with our Sunday night. They have brought their own DJ. The loud doof-doof music continues until midnight, taking some of the shine off my dream of desert serenity.
Sunrise over the Sahara
Despite the late night, I wake early. Leaving the warmth of my tent is a challenge. It is dark and cold, with strong wind gusts shaking the canvas walls. Where are my buddies who said they would join me? No sign of life. I consider returning to my tent, but I made a promise to myself when I booked this Morocco tour. I was going to catch the sunrise in one of the world’s greatest wildernesses, no matter what. Something to tell the grandchildren.
My lightweight jacket is zipped, one of the colourful Moroccan silk scarves I’d purchased in the Marrakesh Medina draped around my neck for warmth. Each wind gust cuts through the thin material. I pull up my jacket hood and secure it tightly around my face. I stride solo across the plains, following muddy 4WD tracks towards the dunes determined to reach a crest before the 7.10am sunrise.
The first light casts a yellow glow over a distant ridge, transforming the sand from sepia to copper and finally gold. This is why you sleep over in the Sahara. For my Lawrence of Arabia moment – finding solitude in the desert.
The writer travelled at their own expense.
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