NYK—mag 0225
02. Sahara Desert & Tuareg Blues
Every stage demands effort. Days burn under a fierce sun; nights are just above freezing. When the road should be easy, our stomachs decide otherwise, forcing a day of rest and yet, stopping only makes starting again feel harder. We are still finding our rhythm on the bike. Even if we already feel good with the people and the country, we are far from what we know. After a long day of pedaling, finding a place to sleep can feel like climbing another mountain, and when that is done, there is little time left to rest before the early morning departure.
Below, grey rock plains melt into a deep blue-grey sky. Sheer cliffs and jagged peaks rise like Morocco’s own Monument Valley. The raw strength of the land makes me feel both small and insignificant. The last 40 km through this inhospitable stretch give us no rest. We think about camping, but push on to Nekob, an oasis that erases the pain of the ride and spares us a rough night on unfriendly ground.
Nekob offers us one of the most beautiful sunsets of the trip. From the roof of the kasbah where we stay, we look one way toward the Jebel Saghro, and the other toward the road we will take the next morning. That road leads deep into what feels like Morocco’s Far West. Our plan is to ride 60 km and camp near a remote village at the edge of the world.
There we meet Mimoune, who owns little but offers us tea, bread, and a warm welcome in his empty kasbah. After 60 km, we think we can push on another 50 km to reach Zagora. That is our first mistake.
Ten kilometers later, we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere with no signal, no fields, not enough water for the night, and nothing but a barren no man’s land ahead. It is our first taste of the desert: a sea of rock, no shade, and a burning sun. Recent heavy rains have destroyed parts of the path, slowing us to a crawl. Turning back feels impossible. For three hours we fight through 20 km of the worst terrain a bike can meet, big rocks mixed with deep sand until we finally reach asphalt. We kiss the road, grateful for the sight of cars and people again. Despite the land’s harshness, the sight of cliffs rising from endless flatlands, bathed in the warm colors of the descending sun, is engraved in my memory forever.
With 30 km to go and a deadline ahead, we need to reach Zagora in time for the Champions League quarter-final between Real and Arsenal. Since the beginning, we’ve made it a ritual to watch football in cafés with the locals, their passion goes beyond words, and sharing those moments is the best cure for the pain of long, punishing days. So, with heads tucked low in full aero position, we fly toward Zagora, pushing one of our highest average speeds despite the strong headwind. Even after the hardest stretch, when the mind locks onto a goal and the body slips into survival mode, anything feels possible.
Zagora gives us our first taste of the Sahara. The next day, a sandstorm pins us down. Though we don’t know it yet, this is just a preview of the desert’s true force. It’s only 100 km further south, in M’hamid El Ghizlane, that we truly understand what a storm means. We wait here before committing to a 100 km crossing through the Sahara you might picture in your mind: rolling sand dunes, camel herds, and nomads walking in empty spaces.
For three days, we stay in this small town, fortunate enough to arrive during the Festival of Nomad Music. The streets are alive with a rare harmony of tourists and locals, all gathered to hear music from across the Sahara and Moroccan folklore.
On the first night, we witness a traditional Berber performance from the Atlas, the Ahidous dance. Its presence here is rare; the festival is one of the few occasions where music from outside the desert is invited to meet the nomadic traditions. Usually reserved for village celebrations, the dance embodies the free spirit of the Amazigh people. Two lines face each other with men on one side, women on the other. The rhythm begins slow, percussion and voices in a steady pulse, dancers almost still. Gradually, it builds into a wave of energy, a complex weave of movements where perfect coordination is essential. It draws both dancer and spectator into a trance-like state.
Yet the beauty of the moment is partly shadowed by the setting: the first nights of the festival require a €20 ticket to enter a luxury hotel courtyard, where locals aren’t invited. Surrounded by tourists and officials, with alcohol flowing freely after ten dry days in the backcountry, it feels like a staged attraction for outsiders rather than a true celebration.
The next day brings a better spirit. Out on a dusty field at the end of the road, with the infinite desert on one side and the town on the other, locals and visitors gather together as equals. Camels and their riders arrive in bright sky-blue robes and cheich headscarves. Men form the front line of spectators, women and children sitting behind. At the center, a group of Gnawa musicians plays, their hypnotic rhythms carrying the weight of centuries. Descendants of Sub-Saharan slaves who settled across the Maghreb, the Gnawa have built a spiritual and musical tradition that bridges cultures of the desert. But this story will unfold fully later, when we reach Essaouira, where their music meets the modern world in Gnawa fusion.
In M’Hamid El Ghizlane, the heartbeat is Touareg Blues.
This genre is the perfect expression of the desert’s voice. It was born in the immensity of the Sahara, where borders have no meaning and the same people live across Morocco, Algeria, Mali, or Libya and more. For the Touaregs, the desert belongs to all who respect it, not to one flag or another.
Today, the Touareg and nomadic lifestyle has nearly vanished. The caravan roads that once took weeks are now crossed in hours by trucks. Yet through the blues, the Touaregs keep the spirit of freedom alive, stringing together notes like a horizon with no end. As the successor to the world-renowned Tinariwen, Kader Tarhanine steps onto the stage and lets this freedom pour out in waves of sound, pulling the crowd under his spell.
In front, the Touaregs in their flowing robes, their cheich wound eight meters around their heads, spin slowly like birds preparing to take flight. Tourists join in, moving in circles with them. For a while, no one here is a stranger and the music blurs every border until we all feel like one.
The next morning, with all these images in mind, it’s time to dive into the Sahara. For three days, we got stuck by a sandstorm, followed by heavy rain, a rare blessing for the locals. They’re happy we get to see the desert in this light, as the rain changes the landscape from pale yellow sand under a blue sky to almost red earth beneath a white, heavy sky. The rain also destroyed the first 30 km of our path, so luckily we can find someone with a truck to skip that part.
We set off, Touareg blues blasting in the speakers. Once dropped off, silence surrounds us. We’re alone now, ready but anxious to face the unknown. Our first desert experience teaches us caution for this trip that should take two days, with just one night in the tent. It is loaded with enough food and water that we can finally start.
The first day on the bike is enjoyable. From dirt and rocks, we move into flatlands with green bushes popping up from the sand after the rain. The road flattens, covered in compacted sand. Under one of the few trees, we stop for our usual lunch: bread, cream cheese, tuna, and dates.
Suddenly, a man appears with a large group of camels, asking for water. We share what we have, remembering that even when resources are rare, it’s important to give. Later, we learn a few nomad families still live here, raising camels for meat and milk.
As we leave the tree, the sand dunes stretch to our left as far as we can see in a pale yellow sea, shaped by shifting winds. The Chegaga dunes are right there. We hadn’t known what to expect, but seeing them so close makes us smile like kids. For the rest of the day, we follow a path that winds around the dunes, keeping a close distance. Our goal is the flat dried lake of Iriki to avoid the deep sand and prepare for harder terrain tomorrow. Once there, we decide to enter the dunes and set up camp for the night.
It’s here I realize how far south we’ve come, powered only by our legs. It’s a moment for quiet reflection, with only the wind moving across the dunes. In M’Hamid El Ghizlane, we bought cheichs to protect ourselves from the wind. Sitting wrapped in mine, watching the sunset turn the desert deep red and the dunes’ shadows grow long, we fall silent and listen to the desert speak.
I don’t know about Grégoire, but for me, it’s a slap in the face moment. The intensity of the world's beauty is just above everything in this kind of place, almost enough to bring tears. After dinner, we lie back watching the stars and the full moon rising, Touareg blues playing softly. I get a glimpse of what true freedom means. Though the young don’t live as nomads anymore, here, under this sky and this music, you understand their longing. Listening to it in the desert feels like being truly free, everything else fades away, and all that matters is being present.
Now it’s time to leave these quiet places and return to the noise of towns. After the desert’s silence, the city of Taliouine feels overwhelming. While sitting after the ride we can only hear the shouting and the traffic in an anthill atmosphere. We almost crack. But tomorrow holds promise. We’re heading to Agadir, where friends Clémence and Julien join us for the next five days.
To avoid biking 200 km on a national road, we take a shared taxi. In Morocco, even simple tasks like finding bread, a hotel, or a ride can turn into adventures. Getting the taxi is no different. Negotiations fly fast, here everything but food can be bargained and with our tourist faces, drivers expect to scam us. But after two weeks, we know how to hold our ground. Finally, we agree on a fair price. Now comes the real challenge: fitting two bikes on the taxi roof, leaving space for luggage and passengers. These taxis are shared, you wait until six people go to the same city to leave. Everyone helps to load it. The trick is to turn the bikes upside down, saddles on the roof, wheels tied together to form a pyramid, with room in the middle for bags. After two hours of anxious waiting, our bikes hold firm. The plan works. Now we’re in Agadir, waiting for our friends with the song of the desert in our heads.