It’s finished – with the general abandon of our adventure in the desert today.
The desert has welcomed us: the desert has pushed out!
That’s real adventure.
The fog welcomed us at early morning while docking in Dakhla. Unexpected but not so rare in this area of Western Sahara. Tens of 4x4s are parked on the dock to bring us into the desert. As a giant expedition, we leave as a snake of cars toward the town.
Crossing the town reminds me of the controversial history of this territory. At first a Spanish colony, than abandoned for the de-colonization of 1974 and occupied by the Moroccans. Since then, it has been a Moroccan territory. But the original population is now deprived of a country of their own.
It’s a controversial situation, not easy to resolve, where we tread delicately without raising questions that can be politically incorrect for the Moroccans who are working for us now.
The long snake of cars crosses Dakhla and after a brief break at a square for an explanation about our guide, we proceed to the desert.
The desert that starts in Egypt arrives here at the Atlantic Ocean. Dakhla is a peninsula so we are going out to the north and then curve 90 degrees east, leaving the asphalted road for a sand one. The day is getting hot. No wind. We run with the 4x4s on the sand. That’s not a desert of dunes but of rocks and sand. Bumping is part of the adventure. And our backs feel that.
We arrive at the camp. The group is quite excited to be here and they spread around to discover the place...while the wind starts blowing slowly. I go straight to the lonely dune visible. It’s a mile away. When finally there, I am already walking diagonally, leaning into the strong wind. Sand flies everywhere. I protect my camera bag with the wind-stopper jacket I have. Better to protect it than me. I wait for few minutes on the top of the dunes, hearing the whistle of the wind and the pricks of the sand on my skin. Then, I turn and I go back, following my footprints already erased.
At the camp, the group is trying to eat the lunch served by the local crew. Sand is everywhere...we chew sand and couscous together. My dish is pink – the color of the sand. We decide that is better to go back soon. Just in case it gets worse.
While we are bumping on the road, I cannot stop thinking that the wind is coming from the east, from the new Dakhla, the one rebuilt after the Moroccan occupation to replace the original settlement of the Saharawis. There must be a meaning in it!
