The Sahara
Far from an empty expanse of endless sand, there’s lots to do in the world’s largest hot desert
What goes up must come down. It’s a simple law of physics but, as my trusty Saharan steed sinks down onto his front legs, raises his sizeable rump into the air and attempts to pitch me over his ears, I concede this camel-riding caper might not be as easy as Lawrence of Arabia made it look.
Thankfully we’ve reached our destination a few kilometres into the Saharan dunes of Erg Chebbi, a vast ocean of windblown sand wedged between Morocco and Algeria in the northwestern corner of the world’s largest desert.
Soaring to heights of 350m, stretching 50km north to south and 5km wide, the undulating expanse of Erg Chebbi was once part of the 12th-century caravan trade route linking Merzouga in Morocco’s east with the West African city of Timbuktu.
While my own desert chariot, Bob Marley, has his front legs hobbled loosely together to prevent him wandering too far (camels are a prize investment and need to be kept on a short leash), I inspect tonight’s accommodation which definitely ticks the “glamping” box; a spacious tent set in a secluded compound with double bed, blankets, cushions and rugs.
Removing my shoes, I head outside to let the fine grains slip through my toes and survey the golden dunes which swell in peaks and troughs on every side, our camp a small boat adrift in the midst of a sandy sea.
Unlikely as it might seem, the Sahara wasn’t always arid terrain. Neolithic rock carvings, fossil beds and the recent discovery, 50km from Merzouga, of bones belonging to Spinosaurus, a fish-eater and largest of the dinosaurs which walked the earth over 95 million years ago, reveal that this region was once a lush jungle awash with deltas and lakes.
While the deltas and dinosaurs are long gone, this lunar landscape is still home to a surprising array of wildlife. The delicate prints of desert foxes pockmark the virgin sands while midnight-blue scarab beetles scurry up and down the sculpted slopes which provide asylum to scorpions, reptiles and an incredible variety of birds including falcons, buzzards, flamingoes and the desert sparrow, considered a harbinger of “good news” by local Berber tribes.
Desert sparrows were obviously in short supply when these giant dunes were created. Legend has it that a wealthy family refused hospitality to a poor woman travelling with her son, an act that incensed Allah so greatly he buried the uncharitable clan beneath these mounds of sand which tower over the flat black desert or “hamada”, a stone’s throw from the villages of Merzouga and Hassilabied.
In an ironic twist, many modern-day Moroccans come to Erg Chebbi primarily for the purpose of being buried in the sands. Popular in the summer months, the practice of “sand-bathing” involves immersing the body neck-deep in hot sand for several minutes at a time and is believed to cure rheumatism and arthritis.
Modern-day Berbers too have taken the legend to heart and are keen to atone for any lapses in their ancestors’ cordiality. With instructions to “relax like Max without a fax”, my purple-robed guide Mohammed plies me with endless glasses of heavily sugared mint tea as I settle in to watch the afternoon camel
trains string across the rich-hued sands bound for unseen camps tucked into the folds of this great granular expanse framed against an aquablue sky.
As the sun descends over the spine of the distant Middle Atlas, the desert sands shift through shades of pale apricot, rose gold and burnt orange while deepening shadows reset the face of the dunes like a make-up artist smoothing wrinkles and defining cheekbones, the sky ablaze in a drag queen’s palette of pinks, yellows and blues.
The temperature drops rapidly after sundown and the wind instantly cranks up a pitch in what Mohammed describes as “the desert singing”. Taking refuge in the communal dining tent, we drink more mint tea, jestingly referred to as “Moroccan whiskey”, until dinner is served, a three-course meal of soup with crusty bread followed by a steaming vegetable tajine, rounded off with slices of fresh orange sprinkled in nutmeg.
Dishes whisked away, the real desert singing begins with our Berber hosts drumming up a storm amid wailing, yahooing, twisting of turbans and laughter all around. A sheesha pipe is produced, water bubbling gently over glowing coals as the sweet smoky aroma of apple tobacco fills the tent.
Outside it’s too dark to see my feet despite the stars studded like brilliant sequins onto the velvety night sky, miles from the nearest city lights and 50km from the Algerian border.
The desert wind blows harder and I fall asleep to the desultory flapping of the camel hair tent as Berber nomads have done for centuries. Although the numbers of nomadic tribesmen are in decline, many of these “free people” unburdened by identity cards, taxes or fixed abodes continue to eke out an itinerant existence dictated by the seasons, herding their sheep and goats between the Sahara and the Atlas Mountains in constant pursuit of water and grazing land.
Scrambling from the tent at dawn, I stake out a nearby dune to await the sun’s first warming rays, the nocturnal sketching of the incessant wind unveiled across a rippled sandy canvas as the sun finally peeks over a distant ridge. The Dakar Rally, which once passed through this Moroccan desert, has nothing on my wild quad bike ride back over the hummocks to Hassilabied clinging tightly to Mohammed’s flying robes as the dunes of the Sahara blush pink in the morning sun, finally giving way to the village which looms from the hamada in a hazy mirage of mud-brick houses and date palms.
Which brings me to another simple law of physics … what goes into the desert must come back. A principle obviously lost on my camel, Bob Marley, a true nomadic soul of the Sahara who, at last confirmed sighting, was hightailing it for Algeria.