Birthday bumps (and humps)..... It's a long one!

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Geo: 31.7917, -7.09262

Refreshingly, there was no audible call to prayer this morning and so we slept through sunrise and instead woke up at the more sociable hour of 7.15 ready for a birthday breakfast. Yes, today was my 34th birthday and was set to be a pretty incredible one! Breakfast was served in the opulent dining room with attentive service. I opened my cards while guzzling fresh orange juice and light, fluffy pancakes - so far, so good.

Then it was a fond farewell to civilisation as we packed our things into a small overnight bag ready for what we anticipated would be the highlight of the trip - our sojourn into the heart of the Sahara desert. Our journey would take us through new landscapes and small villages, bringing us into contact with with locals and their ways of life.

Our first stop was in the traditional town of Tamegroute, which, in Berber, translates as 'the last.' Although many smaller towns have sprung up closer to the desert with the advent of 4wd tourism, this was originally the last stop before the Sahara. Here we stopped off in a pretty square - its four sides hemmed in by red walls. In the centre was a sunken star shaped pool, its base and sides inlaid with stunning Islamic tessellating tiles in blue and green. Here we were introduced to our local guide, a member of the village who would show us around this fascinating area. Our own guide had only given us a very cryptic clue as to what we might be seeing on this section of the tour - how the locals keep cool - and so we had very little idea of what to expect.

One guide took us beyond the walls of the square, towards an intricately decorated terracotta gateway. Here a man was perspiring with exertion in the early morning heat, as he dug chunks of mud out of the ground, the fruits of his labours clear to see. Mud bricks lined the floor, drying in the shade of a tall palm tree. Uniform in shape and size, they made an arresting sight - their simplicity a clue to the cryptic message given to us by the guide this morning. Soon, we were led to a shady courtyard, where bundles of cloth concealed sleeping bodies lined along the base of the walls. This was a significant site for pilgrims who believed that the mausoleum in front of us had healing properties. Our guide told us that this was the final resting place of Ahmed ban Naser - the founder of the Muslim brotherhood established in the area in the seventeenth century. We stepped through the swarms of flies in the courtyard and stopped outside a huge wooden door. The door to the mausoleum was over three metres high and made from cedar wood that had been painted in beautiful intricate designs in bright, gaudy colours. Our local guide informed us that these colours were all created by natural plants and stones found in the local area - green came from mint, blue from indigo, red from henna and ochre from a local stone. Due to their natural origins, these dyes lasted much longer than synthetic paints.
Four thick metal knockers hung from the door, and beside it was a large window with a twisted wrought iron guard in front of it. If we knocked on the correct knocker (one for men, women, boys and girls) three times, and then pressed our forehead to the grille, we could make a wish. Since I'd had no candles to blow out this year, I took the opportunity to do just that. By this point, it was 9.30am and already stifling - the mercury was beginning to nudge the 30s - and we were getting a real sense of being close to the desert. Our guide then led us from the heat of the day, through a half height doorway, its frame constructed from thick brown mud, into a cool, dark narrow passageway. This was the entrance to the old part of village - all of which was enclosed within walls made of thick mud bricks. The ceiling was a combination of mud bricks and woven palm leaves, creating a cool canopy above our heads. Of course, the very nature of the village, being hewn from thick lumps of mud, was a haven for flies, but nothing could detract from how refreshingly cool it was inside. It was like stepping out of the heat of the day into an air conditioned room, so clever was the engineering.

A young boy, dressed in a Manchester United shirt was listlessly kicking a football around in one of the alleyways, he passed it to Stacey and she nudged it back, eliciting a smile. Our guide informed us that the entire community lives within the walls of the village - whole families of up to 20 people behind each door. As we weaved through the narrow lanes, we could hear the cluck of chickens and bleating of goats drifting out from behind the painted metals doors. A new addition to the village, electricity cables, ran along the walls above our heads - some families now had power piped into their homes. On the walls of some of the dwellings were small wooden doorways - these were the water wells shared by some of the houses. It was simple living at its absolute finest.

We emerged blinking into the bright sunlight, finding ourselves in a courtyard carpeted in huge, slowly creeping puddles of thick clay. A man to our right was churning a pile with his feet, standing on it until it flattened, then piling it up with his feet again before squashing it flat once again. The parts of the courtyard not covered by clay were pocked with deep holes. This was where the clay was dug from before being spread, worked and prepared in the traditional way. Fascinated, we followed our guide into another mud-brick building, where we were met by the sight of a man, only his torso and head visible above ground level, spinning pottery onto a crude wheel. The lower half of his body was folded into a narrow space under the floor, to keep both himself and the clay at a workable temperature. The working mechanisms for the wheel were below the ground - a wide circle that he kicked continuously with his left foot kept the wheel spinning. He took no measurements, yet within 2 minutes had produced a beautiful tagine with a lid which of course fitted perfectly.

After learning about the two first stages of the pottery process, we were led to the kilns - banks of earth and stone with stones rolled in front. Wobbly lines of heat smouldered from the top, and we could feel the oppressive heat baking the dust onto our skin - the temperature inside reaching 1000 degrees. Before the pottery was placed inside the kilns, it was dipped in a solution made from natural minerals - the same as the ones to create the paint on the mausoleum door, but also magnesium, which when baked turns a deep emerald green. From here, the natural progression was to enter the cooperative. This was a feast for the eyes with vibrantly painted and patterned bowls, plates, tagines, tiles and cups of every shape and size covering every available surface, filling overflowing baskets and dripping from the walls. This was the only time we felt hassled on our trip so far - children swarmed round us as we re boarded the minibus asking for coins and pens. However, we were under strict instructions to not oblige, as this perpetuated the begging culture. So it was a firm head shake and we clambered back.

We then visited the library of the new part of the town, where we were shown ornate texts written onto crumbling leather and bound in thick tomes. There were texts on maths, astrology, science and religion, some dating back from the 10th century, the curling lettering bordered by thick lines of gold and greens. By this point, I really had begun to feel like a I needed a toilet stop. And here, dear reader, I urge you to cease reading if you are repulsed by references to the call of nature. Mohammed informed us that the village toilet was the worst in the world. I decided I would wait for the promised western-style toilet 30km away in the next town.
Thirty kilometres is a very long way on bumpy roads, when every two seconds a pot hole or truck means you have to swerve or are jolted out if your seat and by the time we reached the village, I was at breaking point. I raced into the cafe and was escorted to the toilet. I knew from the moment he went in ahead of me and turned on the tap low down on the wall that this was not the promised western-style. Now, I count myself as pretty seasoned in the art of travel, and of course, I have come across the squat toilet on my travels. On this trip, we had been exposed to them on several occasions and I have become quite the master. However, for anything more drastic than a quick tinkle, I have always been able to hold out for the western. The next break would be in three hours. There was no way I could hold on.... I stepped into the cubicle and sure enough, there it was - the sunken pan with its benign-looking foot pads on either side. I stared at it. It stared back at me, its solitary eye unblinking, challenging. There was no going back.

There is no need for details. Let me just say that it was one of the most unnerving and unnatural experiences of my life, yet liberating at the same time. I had done it. I had conquered the squat. As I emerged from the cubicle, I heard a flushing noise and one of the Austrians from the tour stepped out of the middle stall. Behind her, to my horror, I glimpsed it - the white, swollen porcelain belly of the western toilet. Happy birthday to me.

Our drive took us further away from civilisation, deeper into the country, our route now running parallel with the Algerian border, 20km away. The view to either side of the road became sparser, rockier and redder - green shrubs clinging on, their roots thrusting deeper into the stubborn soil as the temperature soared. We passed tiny villages of two or three houses, as well as larger towns each looking like it had been picked up and transposed to a new location - all with the same terracotta walls and high minarets touching the cornflower sky above it. After 3 hours, we reached our next destination, and the site of the first part of the birthday adventure. M'hamid is a sleepy little hamlet on the very edge of the Sahara. Here, we dressed for our excursion, our headscarves artfully tied by Mohammed, and pushed onwards against the mid-afternoon sun, weaving through the mud walls of the village. Children happily playing on piles of mud called out to us, not an iPad or Xbox in sight. We traipsed on, hearing and smelling our next destination before we saw it. A sweet, musty, earthy smell met us, and a rumbling bray echoed in the air. As we rounded the corner, we saw our mode of transport - the ship of the desert. 10 camels were stretched out on the sand in front of us, munching on the dry desert grasses. Another group - the source of the bellowing sounds - were being reluctantly lead over to us. Their leader, an errant white camel, was pulling hard at the rope in his owner's hand. "He's a sprightly one," we joked.

Minutes later, I was face to face with the "sprightly" one. "Right camel," I bargained. "I'll be good to you, you be gentle with me, ok?" He flicked his right ear which was confirmation enough for me. With all the grace I could muster, my vibrant pink headscarf tied around my head, draped artfully around my neck, I climbed aboard my valiant, pearly white steed. I was Sahara Barbie, complete with a loping, spitting accessory. "Lean back," Mohammed told me. I obliged and my camel plunged forwards, its back legs straightening to stand. Suddenly I was pitched backwards as the front legs came up to meet the back, and then I was perched atop the hump of the camel, gazing around at the desert landscape from my new vantage point,
It was a fairly easy 45 minute journey, the rhythmic sway of the camels rocking us gently as we plodded around the palmerie over low dunes and past swaying branches. I am always struck by how wonderfully camels are adapted to their environment with their long eyelashes framing their pretty eyes designed to keep out the dust of the desert. Today I was fascinated by their feet - like huge sponge pads, they spread out with each step, flattening the sand underneath them and making light work of the journey. 45 minutes was enough time however, by the end of the ride, my thighs were beginning to feel sore and my hips felt as though they'd been dislocated! It was also unbearably hot. I like heat, I seek it, I worship it, I crave it. However, atop a camel, in the desert at 2 in the afternoon, I was thankful this was a short pleasure trip, rather than my part in a trading caravan spending weeks traversing dunes and miles and miles of shifting sands.
Lunch was divine. The light salad of diced tomatoes, cucumber, onion and green peppers was thirst quenching and delicious, the dressing flavoursome. This was followed by a tagine, so slowly cooked that the onions and potatoes had caramelised and crisped and the peas had taken all of the flavour of the cumin and turmeric. It was up there in the top 5 birthday meals I have ever had, and not a cake in sight!

After lunch, we loaded our gear into 4wd vehicles and hit the desert. 4 miles out of town. The road disappeared and we were off on the adventure of a lifetime. We careered over and around rocky pathways, charging through the tracks made by the vehicles that had gone before us. The landscape had become otherworldly by now, a Martian environment, the dry red rocks scattered over the cracked earth. Dust flew up in clouds around us, swirling in tornadoes where the wind pounded the hot sand. We were thankful for the speed of our driver, Musfafa "Schumaker," who navigated the barren landscape with the ease of someone undertaking the morning commute. The wind streamed in through the open windows as we bounced over dunes, swerving now and again to avoid a rocky patch, the wheels sliding from underneath us. It was a rollercoaster ride that made yesterday's journey seem like a Sunday drive. We stopped to collect firewood, the rest of the group catching us up and one of the Austrians felling an entire parched tree single handedly. The sand beneath our feet had baked into a hard crust, which cracked and crumbed with each step. It was like walking in an oven, with the occasional sand blast from a passing wind or vehicle.

We passed herds of camels and goats grazing and resting under the trees from the midday sun, the wide branches looking like upside down root systems. The landscape became even more lunar, although the occasional mirage lay across out route, shimmering deceptively in the heat. Eventually, after two hours, we were greeted by the sight we had come to see. Imposing sand dunes towered above us, their peaks moulded and swept into giant orange ridges snaking for as far as the eye could see. This was Erg Chigaga, and our home for the night.

Our camp was a simple Berber affair, with 5 tents arranged in a neat semi-circle around a fireplace. At 5pm, the temperature was still stifling and our tents were like saunas. We all congregated in the relative cool of the communal tent, where a gentle breeze occasionally swept through the open sides and gave as a brief respite from the oppressive heat. From our resting place, we could see the dunes rising majestically all around us, the shadows playing on their rippled surface as the sun streaked across the sky. It was a breathtakingly beautiful and tranquil place to take time to relax. At seven o clock, we all tramped out into the relative cool of the early evening and began the ascent of the largest dune. With each footstep sliding back half the distance it had originally gone, it was slow, cumbersome work. However ten minutes later, breathing heavily, we reached the summit. From here, we looked out over russet peaks and valleys of sand, carved by the shifting wind. The sun was already hanging low in the sky as we sat back to watch the pallette of colours change as the sun dipped towards the horizon. The sky changed from blue to red, to pink and finally a deep lavender as the moon rose in the sky to take the sun's place, pitching the dunes into deep amber shadows. All too soon, it was time to begin the sliding descent back to camp and our delicious Berber feast of tagine and soup - the soup was incredible - flavoured with coriander and tomatoes.

After dinner, we stepped out of the tent and into the open air. Gazing upwards, the sky was filled with thousands of stars, their brightness only marginally dulled by the full moon gleaming down upon us. Lounging around the campfire, digesting our delicious dinner and gazing skywards, we were amazed by the tapestry of constellations carpeting the night above us. It had been a long, but wonderful day, and, taking one last look at the stunning night-sky, we retreated into our tents, where we settled down to sleep among the sands.

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Photos

Sahara Dunes
Stunning!