“Shhh,” Bachir whispered.
A sly smile cracked across his lips. He looked out beyond our camp, seeing something I couldn’t decipher in the low light of dusk. Or hear for that matter. This man had hearing and eyesight as sharp as a wolf. With a short nod, Fahud started moving across the dune, and Bachir walked quickly in the other direction. “Here comes a small camel,” he says to us. I still couldn’t see it.
After a few moments, the creature stumbled into view, confused by the presence of humans. Bachir and Fahud jogged after it playfully, then the camel galloped away. A rare sighting of a wild animal in the depths of the Sahara Desert. “In another scenario, the camel might become part of our herd, inshallah,” said Bachir as he gathered himself. It would become useful as a source of milk or for transport. This was one of many lessons in the ways of the desert.
Bachir, our guide on a week-long expedition through the eastern Sahara, is Amazigh, or Berber: an indigenous inhabitant of northwest Africa. Amazighs predate the Arabic arrival to Africa. He was born on this land within a nomadic community, where camels have long been a trusted part of life.
The trek started at the easternmost village of Morocco, M’hamid. We came by a 10 hour bus ride from Marrakech that bumped through the rocky valleys of the Atlas mountains. On arrival at a pise-mud lodge surrounded by date palms, the owners shook our right hands firmly and smiled, “Salam”. We shared a goat tagine, taking turns swiping the stew until the clay pot was clean. After, they gathered guitars, drums and sang, filling the room with entrancing, rhythmic music. A nourishing welcome that set the tone for the week to come.
For six days we walked, striding across the dry shapes of the desert. We traveled with Bachir as guide, Fahud as cook and three one-humped dromedaries loaded with food, water, tents and rugs. Far from the dizzying city of Marrakech, and even further from our urban home in Eora/Sydney, this was a total switch off from civilization.
Time’s meaning quickly faded, the cadence of days set instead by the sun. We walked up to 30 kilometres daily, resting under the shade of an occasional tamarisk tree during the intense midday heat. The four of us were often quiet, letting the mind float with the rhythm of our footsteps. I started focusing on the subtle changes in the landscape. While mirages in the desert are definitely a real phenomenon, there were more resources than I expected.
On day three we crossed the dried bed of the Draa river, where water once flowed abundantly but can still be found deep under the earth. We refilled our supplies via a standing well while the dromedaries guzzled. The area was once a settlement for 35 families living and farming the land; and you could still see evidence of homes and agriculture.
In the middle of another day in a place unmarked by anything significant in my eyes, Bachir said calmly, “This is where I was born, inshallah.” The meaning of that sentence took a moment to sink in. There was little trace of their presence now, and his family resided in the village. But his eyes twinkled with memories and knowing. Inshallah: if Allah wills it. How lucky we are to be on and of this earth. What will be, will be.
Fahud prepared exceptional dinners over the campfire – we ate fragrant tagines, fire-baked bread, succulent dates. And so many pomegranates! Our languages differed, but he gradually let me help and share in the language of food, cutting vegetables and learning the right ratio of spices to flavour the tagine. “Berber Whiskey” aka sweet mint tea was served ritually, as is custom. We’d spread out on the rug and share stories as darkness came. The density and clarity of the stars out in the desert was beyond comprehension. And it was under their shimmer in the open air that I fell asleep tucked in a sleeping bag, only to wake as the sun cracked anew over the dunes.
One afternoon toward the end of our journey, we arrived at an erg, an epic set of windswept dunes. We’d made it there without any map, only the intuitive knowledge of our guide. Climbing the dune’s smooth ridge, feeling the sand rippling through my toes, my heart pulled in my chest. I’d already developed a tender feeling toward Morocco and its people, but out there in that endless layered territory, watching the sun turn crimson ahead, an unforgettable adoration was set in place.
“Inshallah,” these words frequented by Bachir still echo in my head. I have never felt more at peace.
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