Morocco Travel Information

By:Robert Brodey

A trek into the Sahara reveals its dramatic beauty, resounding silence and steadfast inhabitants.

Merzouga, Morocco–From a distance, it appears as a mirage across the boiling desert planes. Fire-red dunes rise in sensual curves toward a perfect blue sky.

This is no illusion, though. It's Erg Chebbi, a swath of dramatic sand dunes in the eastern corner of Morocco that is part of the largest desert in the world, the famed Sahara of northern Africa.

I arrive in the dusty streets of Merzouga, a village that in recent years has become a major point of entry for those seeking a desert experience in Morocco. There are dozens of options for excursions and accommodation.

I telephone Mohamed, the owner of `La Liberté,' an auberge on the edge of the dunes.

He offers to pick me up and, 20 minutes later, he arrives on a beat up 50cc motorbike with the traditional blue scarf of the Berbers – Morocco's original inhabitants – wrapped around his head.

He grins from behind his bushy moustache and beckons me to clamber aboard.

With his hand on the throttle, we send trails of dust across the desert, my backpack straddling his handlebars. I clutch my camera bag and the bike rack fixed to the back for dear life. He handles the shifting sand beneath his wheels with grace.

At the auberge, which he has been running with his family for eight years, the epic dunes await me quite literally in the backyard.

"I think you should go out to the desert by camel today," he says in French.

Despite the long bus trip from the bustling walled city of Fes in the north, I agree.

As the sun descends toward the horizon, I hop onto a kneeling camel and head off into the massive dunes with my 20something guide, Ahamed, leading the way.

Travelling in the off-season has its benefits. Not only are the temperatures in May more bearable, but I have these spectacular dunes largely to myself.

With my knapsack and my person weighing down the camel, the patchy-haired beast seems thoroughly unimpressed with me and my ability to pack light. It lets out unhappy belching groans.

In the shadows that grow long across the dunes, I see the surrealist painter Salvador Dali's odd imaginings with vivid clarity. Hyper-saturated landscapes, long-legged camels, and distorted figures – though no melting clocks.

The two-hour trek delivers me to a natural oasis of palm trees huddled beneath 100-metre-high dunes.

I hike the mountains of sand and watch the last light drain from the sky. More than the beauty surrounding me, what strikes me is the depth of the silence. After days of wandering the chaotic souks of Casablanca, Miknes, and Fes, the newfound quiet literally rings in my ears.

On my first night in Erg Chebbi, I sleep in a traditional Berber tent with one side open to the dunes and sky. I wake up often to marvel at the dome of stars.

After an early morning breakfast, I cut the camel some slack and decide to make the four-hour trek on foot to our next encampment.

We leave behind the 28-by-7 kilometre patch of dunes and move across less picturesque but equally dramatic desert-scapes that offer little shelter from the blazing heat. A profound silence remains with me, though the ringing in my ears has begun to subside.

In view of a high ridge to the east that marks the border with Algeria, I spend the day with a semi-nomadic Berber family, who eke out their livelihood herding goats and camels. There are definitely more tourist-friendly options to experience the desert than a mud-brick abode, but watching the family haul water from the well, battle the elements, and round up belligerent camels leaves a lasting impression on me. I see firsthand just how difficult it is to sustain life in the desert.

The father, Abdellah, takes a moment to play a handmade flute for me. I take his photograph and offer to send him a copy.

"Nomads don't have addresses," he says.

Good point.

Later, we eat couscous under the stars. After some deliberation, I decide to sleep outside with the rest of the family. That's when I'm told I'll be sleeping indoors. Was it something I said?

"A sandstorm is coming," Ahamed tells me, as he surveys the desert beyond the darkness.

As predicted, the wind picks up minutes later.

Then a whirl of sand obliterates everything from view. After a moment of panic, I gather my wits and help the family bundle the last of their untethered possessions indoors.

The night provides little sleep, as wind batters the mud walls, and clouds of dust cover every conceivable surface – myself included – with a thick layer of fine sand.

It's early morning, and a cold wind continues to howl across the desert. We decide not to wait for a change in the weather and begin the march across the dunes back to the auberge. I discover that in the desert a long scarf is almost as invaluable as a camel, protecting us against the fierce sun and blowing sand that lashing us the whole way.

After three hours on foot, the eerie ruins of an abandoned village come into view.

We continue up and down the dunes like landlocked mariners, arriving back at La Liberté just as a few drops of rain fall.

Mohamed looks satisfied, as he greets me.

"Sun, windstorms, and rain. You got to experience it all."

The next day, after a blissful night sleeping in dead silence, Mohamed takes me by motorcycle into Merzouga in search of transport out of the desert.

We find a local micro-bus that fits 11 comfortably but has 18 humans plus a donkey crammed inside.

As the bus pulls out of the village, I leave behind the dunes but take with me both the adventure and the stillness of the desert, which I have discovered is no mirage.

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