A plain sheet torn from a notebook, a few squiggles, and distances measured in hours. Over breakfast, an elderly local drew me a route through Erg Chebbi. But before I was to head into the dunes, the map led somewhere I probably would never have gone on my own.
A map over breakfast
The local’s pen must have had thousands of kilometres of travel and dozens of metres of ink behind it. The old man used it to sketch my route on a sheet from a notebook. At first glance, the drawing seemed simple. Only when I began to look more closely did I see how much information those few lines contained.
Every seemingly random squiggle stood for a particular large dune. Three bands running from north to south gave structure to a landscape that, to me, was still one vast sea of sand. Direction, landmarks, riding time. Everything mattered.
Where there were no signposts, I was to find my bearings in the height and arrangement of the dunes. Watch the sun, keep the time of day in mind. That sheet of paper demanded more of me than following a line on a screen. I had to look around and understand what I was seeing.
And first, I had to head in a completely different direction from the one my instincts suggested.
In my mirror, I could see myself moving away from the thing that drew everyone here. I wanted to be among the dunes already, too. So I fought the urge to turn around and join the others. The map told me to circle the lake. To ride out to a place where none of the people I passed were heading.
Before I go any further, a few words about how I got here. Some of you are probably wondering, while others may be planning a similar trip yourselves.
Briefly: my motorcycle was transported from my doorstep straight to a warehouse in Málaga. I flew there, collected the bike, and three hours later I was already on the ferry.
The transport was handled by transportmotocykli.pl. As you know, I’m quite demanding and particular, so if you’re looking for someone to transport your motorcycle, I can save you the search. In my opinion, they’re the best company for the job, and I’ll definitely use their services again. I’ll share more details in a separate post.
Life on the edge of the desert
Life. Suddenly, I understood that it was the most beautiful thing here.
People come to Erg Chebbi to admire its starkness, its emptiness, its unfamiliar beauty. That was what I had been looking for, too. Only by the lake did I understand why someone who lives in this wilderness might first send a visitor to see plants and animals. To the place with the greatest abundance of what is so scarce all around.
I began to read the first point on the map differently. What I had thought of as a detour before the main attraction might have been, for the old man, the most important part of the whole route.
He had said that if I was lucky, I would see flamingos.
I was more than lucky.
After circling the lake, I headed for a hill at the southern edge of the erg. From there, I could study the dunes, especially the one towering above the rest: the Great Dune of Merzouga.
The route continued around the erg to roughly level with Merzouga. There, two enormous dunes formed a gateway. I was to ride into the sand between them.
You have to read the sand
On the map, distances were measured in hours of riding. The gateway between the dunes was an hour away. But the time I arrived and which side the sun would be on mattered, too.
With low light falling from the side, I found the terrain easier to read. Shadows brought out the ridges and folds. I could see the shape of the sand, look for a way through, and react to what appeared ahead.
Riding the dunes is a little like surfing waves. There is no single right way. There is a direction I want to go in, and between me and my destination, countless decisions to make. The height, the slope, the orientation of the next ridge. What I can see, and what I cannot yet see on the other side.
You have to watch how the sand lies and try to anticipate the next stretch. Get your speed under control before the edge. Avoid flying over a crest with a steep drop waiting beyond it. Every dune demands attention, and the motorcycle has to do what I need it to.
When the sun was high, that same landscape became almost impossible for me to read. Shadows shortened and contrast faded. I could not tell whether the slope would drop away in three metres or ten. The horizon looked flat and straightforward, even though I already knew how easily it could deceive me.
An extraordinary sense of unreality. I look at the ground ahead, yet I stop trusting what I see. Even close to town, the desert feels deserted. Riding becomes dangerous because I can no longer judge distances and shapes with confidence.
I was learning all of this as I went.
Before the trip, I had deliberately avoided forums, books, and guides about riding in the desert, preparing for it, or what to expect in Morocco. I wanted to experience it spontaneously. To face the challenges when they appeared before me. Here and now.
Some might call that foolish, reckless, or careless. I understand. For me, though, the feeling of discovering the unknown is stronger than the need to study everything I might encounter beforehand. I discover the world for myself. The fact that someone has already described it does not take away my own discovery.
Opening myself to the unknown feels like an encounter with something sacred. I call it neither courage nor carelessness. It is life. So vivid and intense that I find it astonishing how effectively we manage to stifle it with everyday life, routine, and robotic repetition.
The Great Dune of Merzouga
A glance at the map. There is a reason it shows no precise track.
The handlebars weave, searching for their own way. The sand tries to push the wheels off course, and I keep my balance with constant small corrections. In these conditions, even riding in my chosen direction does not mean riding in a straight line.
The first band of small dunes is a motorcycle playground. Drifting freely across the sand, I feel a boundless freedom unlike anything I have known anywhere else on land. Ridge after ridge appears in front of the wheel, and I find my own way between them.
The second band demands more commitment. The dunes grow taller, and the carefree fun comes to an end. The real challenge begins.
I rode all the way around the Great Dune, preparing for an attempt to climb it. The map showed an approach from the east. That was where I was to look for my chance to reach the top.
Finding a way up this giant of sand proved to be a challenge of its own. I hopped over the crests of smaller dunes, looking around and weighing up possible climbs. From a distance, everything looked smaller than it really was. There were no points of reference, nothing to give me a sense of scale.
As I approach, what looks like a small climb suddenly grows until it fills my entire field of vision. Instead of shrinking, the distance seems to stretch. And I grow smaller and smaller. Almost a grain of sand myself.
After a long struggle, with intense fear mingling with excitement, I reach the last shelf before the summit. The motorcycle slows and slows. Finally, it stops. It will climb no further.
The dune has won. It has refused to let me reach the summit.
Metal ticks beneath the tank. I take off a glove, and the seams have left their pattern on my palm, as though I have spent the whole day gripping something that is now gripping me.
To humanity, this feat means nothing. To me, it is an almost sacred experience. Stopped just short of the summit, I feel as though I am reaching towards a deity forever beyond my grasp.
And that very unattainability is the most extraordinary thing. It motivates me, strengthens my resolve, and stirs my curiosity. I think then of explorers, researchers, and creators. Of the feeling that makes them keep trying, even when they do not yet know whether they will reach their goal.
That feeling connects those who shape this world. It was wonderful to experience it.
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