MAROC

THE GREAT SOUTHERN MOROCCO

Day of exposure but I can not bring myself to be paying attention. 

"Draw me a sheep" I feel the soul of Little Prince but I dare to ask the painters of the fortress ... 

On the window sill five small squares of wood, simple as ... three strokes of blue paint and the Touareg seems to come to life. The painter scrutinizes me, the eye amused: "you, you come just desert! Inshallah, you will return there. "

Desert ... the desert! One dream: Do not leave him. 

Leave even surprised by this Touareg wrapped in blue and his trailer, sprung from nowhere to me. 

Give up my body to the sand dune and gaze at the stars ... but how does he draw his way there? 

Watch the morning light invade the bivouac, cover me feel his intense heat, contemplate the infinite sun and shivering in the cold moonlight. Draw again my footprints in the sand, quickly erased by the wind. 

Just find my inner child and go in search of a treasure that does not exist ... Really? Yet there ... so well hidden in the heart of a green sand: Desert Camp. Black and white tents scattered in the dunes, surreal setting. Magical moment when the setting sun the men in the camp are busy lighting the oil lamps in front of each tent. 

So difficult to remember the scene in the morning, deafening noise of the terminal, frantic race countertops, forced the shops move ... And the plane itself seems reluctant. Landing at the end of the world is perhaps inappropriate? Glued to the window as children we contemplate with fascination the strange landscape. 

Mineral, but certainly not austere. Canyons endless suddenly a huge lake, off the track ... The friendly smile Mohammed, visiting a ksar, villages in adobe. And then at the crossroads that we could not see the track and found the sudden silence: The encounter with the desert. 

After the end of the runway, our guide tells us a point on the horizon, at the crossroads of dunes and wadis dry. On the horizon a mountain fragile border between Morocco and Algeria ... Tonight we sleep in the desert ... a childhood dream come true. The nomad tent is magical, its heavy fabric seems to watch over us. Stranger still we are tonight invited to a feast, the tagine and stuffed dates are sublime, dinner by candlelight in the celestial sphere ... to the absolute happiness. 

My surprise is that more a few days later when the chef offers us a tremendous cooking classes in his tent: the bread is cooked over a wood fire there and cry as the last piano a simple gas stove ... 

It is true that the desert does not support artifice, it is sufficient unto itself ... they know well these Touaregs that take our camels, we are even starting to become humble. 

Trek after trek around Camp Desert guides share their knowledge ... to us to listen and put our bodies to the rhythm of nature. For us to enjoy each step in the sand that sinks in us not to try to understand but just ... live the desert. 

The Wind That Shakes the camp, but the swirling sand slowly invade the track, the storm we wrapper unit: under the big tent, with our guides ... 

To pass the time, Djamilah recounts his life and Morocco. Suspended his account, all united in a single dream: a storm that never stop. And yet the wind is silent, suddenly ... the dunes have changed, our world has changed, other magic. We descend take one last tea oasis so close ... a few hours of walking, perhaps, but nobody thinks of complaining, maybe we have all achieved the impossible: take the pace of the desert? 

A dream, one I can not detach myself: leave, go back to Camp Desert ... Meanwhile, a few thousand miles away, I gaze at the morning light my little Tuareg painted on scraps of wood .... some desert me.