Sahara Desert, Morocco Africa.
After one and a half days of travelling in a crowded mini-bus, and a 24-hour food poisoning bug (they always seem to hit on the travel days, don’t they?!) we finally arrived at the gateway to the Sahara Desert. As the bus slowed and pulled into the camp base, I found my nose pressed eagerly against the window, and my eyes locked on the rolling, burnt-red dunes that loomed in the distance.
We scrambled thankfully out of the bus, and into the sticky, afternoon heat. We made our way through several groups of tourists to wait for our camels under the shade of some palm trees. The camels stood quietly in their pens, clad in patterned saddles, and incessantly chewing sideways. Occasionally, their tails swatted lazily at bugs.
But as each group slowly departed, it became clear there wasn’t going to be enough camels for everyone.
Arms crossed, we stood in a colourful arc of haram pants and carefully-wound headscarves, watching unimpressed, as the final three camels were herded off towards the dunes. The tourists perched upon their backs squealed delightedly, and I couldn’t help but watch as a selfie stick wobbled precariously around a camel’s head. Our bus driver, Salim, had shuffled further away from us, and had suddenly become absorbed in digging a hole in the sand with the heel of his boot.
As the camel train slowly disappeared over the dunes, one of the men from the base approached us. He was round-bellied, and wearing a yellow football jersey.
‘Come – we take you in jeep,’ he said, gesturing towards a silver Land Cruiser that was parked nearby. I glanced around at the group; there were eight of us, and three other guides – surely not everyone was going to fit.
‘You ride camels tomorrow. Jeep is more comfy, and faster!’ he chuckled. As he laughed, his stomach quivered. We followed him silently, exchanging puzzled glances. There was going to be nothing comfortable about cramming eleven people into a four-wheel-drive.
When we reached the Land Cruiser, two of the younger guides held their hands out.
‘Your shoes,’ one of them said, pointing to our feet. Confused, we removed our sandals and reluctantly handed them over. They tossed them into the boot of the car, before kneeling in front of us and lacing their hands together.
‘Up you go,’ said the man in charge. He motioned to the roof-racks with a wide grin. ‘Best seat in the house!’
One by one, we clambered up onto the top of the Cruiser. The view was unreal. With our legs dangling over the side, and our hands gripping the roof-racks tightly, we thundered off into the Sahara Desert, shrieking with laughter.
Flying over the dunes, white-knuckled, with my hair flailing out behind me, I was electric. As we plunged deeper into the desert, the sand grew richer in colour, and all of a sudden, we had been completely swallowed up in its immense beauty. Here, all but the rumble of Cruiser was silent. The sand was completely untouched, smoothed flawlessly by the caress of the wind.
We shot up over another hill caught sight of the camel trains. We flew past them, waving and shouting, headed for camp.
Written by Elle Conway, photo by Joris Van Duin.
