Sahara trekking – why spend so much time in the desert?

‘Damn wind, damn sand, damn freezing temperatures. Damn it all,’ says Paul, taking the glowing tobacco out of his cigarette and stashing the filter in his cigarette packet. We’ve just made it through a three-day sandstorm. And we’re fighting after an ice-cold night in our tents, waiting for the sun to rise and warm up the desert and our bodies alike. Regardless of how much we complain, this was just what we wanted: twelve days in the Moroccan desert on a hike covering almost 300 kilometres. A long-distance journey along old caravan routes in an inhospitable, unforgiving environment. A heavy backpack on your shoulders. Sun beating down on your head unrelentingly. Boots sinking into the soft sand up to (and over) your ankles, making every step a work-out. And the constant question: why are we doing this to ourselves?

There are 13 of us: seven Germans, three Moroccans, two Swiss and an Estonian. The average age is higher than I expected, at 35 or thereabouts. We met for the first time on the evening before the tour started in Morocco’s capital, Marrakesh. After getting to know each other for a little while, we divide up the tasks. We’ll all look after the camp, in rotating pairs, and assist the chefs, Hassan and Aaddi. The next day, a minivan takes us into the desert, where the camels are already waiting for us. They’ll carry our camp equipment and parts of our kit.

Our new way of living day-to-day establishes itself in the first few days. We get up with the sun and eat breakfast. If we slept in tents, we take them down while the people looking after the camp wash up plates and cookware. Then, we walk for as long as it stays cool, covering distances ranging from 15 to 22 kilometres a day. We go for four to six hours, usually taking two long breaks and multiple brief pauses in the shade provided by trees dotted around. En route, we’re deliberately overtaken by the camels, led by Hassan and Aaddi, who take fewer – and shorter – breaks. By the time we reach our destination for the day, they’re usually already there and have relieved the animals of their saddles and bags. The afternoons are kept for work in the camp and relaxation.

You suffer from blisters until your body gets used to constantly being on the move. While we’ve all broken in our shoes, nobody is spared this plight. Agnes has it the worst. A blister on her instep that developed during the first couple of days grows and grows until, by the third day, it’s the size of her palm. Torsten and Amy, two doctors in our group, cut it open and remove the flap of skin so the wound can dry before it’s bandaged up the next morning. If things go badly, Agnes could travel on one of the camels to let her foot heal – but she doesn’t want any special treatment. She walks the rest of the way on her bare flesh, which impresses the rest of the team and puts our personal niggles into perspective.

The second patch of shade marks our destination for the day

The monotony of the desert makes us more attentive to the beauty of the monoliths we pass by. To the surprisingly swift way the desert drops from 40 degrees to single digits when the sun sets. To the breadth of the night sky without light pollution.

The fourth day isn’t easy. We start by walking a handful of kilometres along the clay surface of a dried-up lake. It’s as smooth as a motorway and we make rapid progress – six to seven kilometres an hour, according to my smartwatch. However, there’s not a single tree in sight. It’s only when we leave the lake that we find our first spot of shade, which comes courtesy of an abandoned hut on the brow of a hill. Once there, we briefly take off our turbans to let our heads breathe. The second patch of shade on this day is our destination: the tree is at the end of a field of scree, known as a hamada, covering ten kilometres. Of all the kinds of desert, this is by far the worst to walk on. You need to balance every single step on the loose scree. When we arrive, we all collapse, exhausted, onto the rug that Hassan and Aaddi have already unrolled and instantly fall asleep.

The wind picks up as we’re eating dinner. It’s stronger than it was the day before and, from time to time, a gust blows sand into the food. Despite this, we all enjoy the feeling of the fresh air whipping up our now-greasy hair.

The next day, we stand under the last tree before the sea of dunes, waiting and hoping that the wind – which blew all night and is now even stronger – will die down at some point. The last portion of our section for the day takes us into the midst of a field of sand at the foot of a huge dune. There’s nothing there but sand: no shelter from the wind, no water and definitely no trees. After waiting for what seems like an eternity, we get going. Even though the wind hasn’t abated, we want to get to our destination before nightfall. The camels are laden up, we hoist on our backpacks and set off. The wind is so powerful that it’s sometimes hard to breathe. We brace ourselves with our whole bodies so we can move forwards and the fine sand whips around our ears mercilessly when we’re on top of every dune.

We’re buffeted by the sand. Our eyes are red and irritated. While we’re waiting for the camels (for once, we were faster than they were), we quickly build a wall out of backpacks and hide behind it. We don’t say much to each other, but the tired gazes we congratulate ourselves with for completing the leg speak for themselves: this is exactly the adventure we’d hoped for. It’s intoxicating, and we’re sharing it with each other. We feel invincible, like nothing is going to get us off track. We’re working as a team, even though we barely know each other.

Three days later, we’re once again cowering on an unsheltered area. The group is thin-skinned and irritable. Some people are annoyed by the constant rattling of the trekking poles. Some by the constant proximity to other group members. I can only guess who I’m annoying and why – but I’m sure I have enough annoying traits.

You could cut the air with a knife as we wait, silently, for our rice and vegetables so we can eat and then go to sleep. These days, our emotions change in a matter of minutes: from euphoria to fear, from self-confidence to weakness, from generosity to selfishness. You’d be surprised to see just how your responses are different from what you’d expect in these exceptional situations.

Bathing under the gaze of camels

Everyone’s happy that the end of the tour is on the horizon. There are just two more challenges ahead: a pass that takes us back over the flatlands and a final field of dunes. We overcome them without whinging about our wrecked feet, the heat or our heavy backpacks. In the evening, Micha and Marion serve up a bottle of aniseed schnapps. Realising that the two of them have lugged a heavy glass bottle across the desert – and are willing to share it – puts paid to the negative feelings of the previous evening. The team silently crowns them the heroes of the night. We look back over our personal highlights: at an oasis, we found a pond perfect for bathing in. The camels looked at us from a safe distance, looking at us from behind a dune like peeping Toms. A highly amusing scene.

Once again, we spend our very last night in the dunes. There are just five kilometres to go until we reach a tiny village, the end of the tour. We’re in a celebratory mood and dispatch a detachment with empty backpacks to purchase alcohol and cigarettes. A hotel bar has what we need: two 24-packs of Flag Spécial beer and three bottles of red wine.

The wind is kind to us today and is blowing very gently. So, we make a bigger fire than usual and drink, laugh and play.

The 300 kilometres that our pedometer says we’ve covered have taken it out of us – but we’ve made it. We’ve been brought together by more than the fact that we overcame this challenge. The euphoria we shared at successfully completing tricky tasks is more important. And, probably, it was precisely this euphoria that we were all hoping for when we met to start this journey. No matter how different our personalities are, our desire to experience new things is something we share.

Underslept, we pack up our things for the last time the next morning, lace up our boots, fold up the rug, hoist our backpacks onto our shoulders and take the first few steps of the final kilometres.