In the heart of the desert

JILL WORRALL

It's Day Two in the Sahara for travel writer and tour leader Jill Worrall.

Along with a group of intrepid Kiwi travellers, she has along with her a policeman (who may or may not be armed), five drivers from five different African nations and an expedition leader with delusions of grandeur.

Abdul the Alpha Male is leaning decoratively over the bonnet of his Land Cruiser. I hand him a box of fresh dates as we pause atop a ridge of dunes. He nudges his sunglasses down his nose and looks at me.

"Next time you must come for more days and we sleep in the desert together," he says in a low voice. I consider whacking him on the head with the date box, but the fruit are too delicious to waste. Instead, I opt for playing dim. "I am not sure my groups are ready to spend the night in the sand," I reply. "Have another date."

Hopefully my subsequent rapid departure to chat with Majoub, our policeman, was response enough. He is reputed to be armed, although refuses to confirm or deny this, as per regulations.

Abdul languidly stands up and signals for his team to return to their cabs. He'd told me earlier he was Tuareg (the Sahara's original semi-nomadic animal herders and pastoralists), although he looked more West African to me.

I wondered if Abdul had decided that being a Tuareg had more pulling power. He certainly was in charge out here – the drivers leapt to do his bidding and woe betide them if they let their vehicles get ahead of his.

We set back off across the Libyan Sand Sea, after I check no-one has been left communing with nature. One Kiwi was so entranced with the sand he had been sitting buried up to his knees and building a castle – he's back safely in his vehicle, beaming broadly.

We career over the dunes like small dinghies riding a heavy swell. Abdul, in the lead, of course, stops again, but this time the view ahead is very different. The hill we are on sweeps down gently towards a remarkable sight – a deep-blue lake encircled by date palms and flowering grasses. On our left a steep dune slopes down to one shore and on the opposite bank is a small palm-frond encampment. The contrast with the earthy, desert tones of the surrounding sands is breathtaking.

This is Gebraoun, one of the Ubari Lakes and one of the most beautiful oases in the entire Sahara. Once there was a thriving village here. Villagers traded dates with the passing Tuareg caravans that once wound their way across the Sahara on a network of trails. The villagers would buy olive oil and other goods carried by the Tuaregs' camels. Because the Gebraouns ate tiny shrimp from the lake, they became known as the Worm Eaters.

We make our way down to the camp. Tuareg men, who had been slumbering in the shade, rise elegantly to their feet in their blue galabiyya (full-length gowns) and turbans, and stroll across to their tiny shops, shaded by palm-frond thatched roofs. Traditionally it is the Tuareg men, not their women, who cover their heads and faces other than their eyes.

They are selling traditional Tuareg jewellery, which includes silver Tuareg crosses; each tribe has its own distinctive design. There are small, handmade, tear-shaped stone boxes, painted with geometrical designs, and a range of silver daggers.

While the shopping is irresistible to some of the visitors, it's the lake waters that are tempting me. Swathed in a sarong I make my way down the steep bank to the water's edge (wandering about in bathing suits is not the done thing in conservative Muslim Libya; here local women would rarely, if ever, swim in public and if they did it would be while clothed).

There's a faint whiff of sulphur here, but I ignore it. How often does one get to swim in an oasis in the Sahara? The water near the edge is surprisingly cold but there's an extraordinary temperature shift as I launch myself in deeper. Underneath the cool top layer the water is increasingly warmer the deeper one goes. It's the complete reverse of swimming in South Canterbury with that pleasant tepid top few centimetres or so then the more bracing waters underneath.

The lake is also very salty – not quite as saline as the Dead Sea in Jordan, but it isstill extremely buoyant. It's easy to bob like a cork and drink in the scenery (but definitely not the water) with no effort at all.

The grasses around the lake ripple gently in the desert breeze and above them the massive sandhill is silhouetted against the midday sun. Sounds of Arab music, accompanied by bursts of song and clapping, float across the water from another camp site. With occasional whoops and yells, bare-chested men come bursting through the grasses and leap into the lake. It's a group of Syrian men on holiday.

But, apart from the odd partying Syrian, it's tranquil out here in mid-lake. When my skin is slippery with the strangely viscous water and my mouth starts stinging from being splashed with salt I get out and make a discreet dash for the changing shelter. When I return later to collect my sarong, left drying in the sun, it is so stiff I can stand it up on the sand.

In charge of the camp, including the rental of skis and snowboards for anyone wanting to slide down the dune behind the lake, is Gerald the Tuareg. A fluent French-speaker, he is also responsible for the hand-painted signs of homespun wisdom that are hung all around the cafe area. Beside the hatch through which Gerald sells drinks, a poster in French exhorts customers that: "Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, love truly and never regret anything that made you smile." After lunch, we gather up the salty, sandy and somewhat sleepy passengers and set off for the second lake. This is smaller and its waters are a deep blue-green. More Tuareg are gathered here, their shops spread out on hand-woven rugs in the shade of a grove of palms. Abdul stops me as I walk past his four-wheel-drive. "Very beautiful," he says. It is, I agree, one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. It takes me a few more minutes to realise that only I am talking about the Sahara. He's certainly persistent.

As we drive towards our camp for the night, Sa'id, our driver, points out swirling tracks made by snakes and, as we round a small rubbly hill, a desert fox trots out of our way. There are camel prints, too.

The late afternoon sun is now throwing deep shadows across the dunes, throwing their curves and hollows into sharp, dramatic relief. While we are stopped once more, a local man materialises in the distance as if out of nowhere and walks barefoot towards us along a ridge line. Even the drivers have no idea where he has come from.

Our camp turns out to be extremely civilised – we have individual rooms with ensuite bathrooms, although the plumbing is not functional in all rooms and it's a bit of a lottery as to which lights work. But we are right at the foot of an immense undulating Saharan dune and far from any other settlement. This is luxury indeed.

It's a bit too civilised for me. I'm so captivated by the desert I'd happily give up my shower and bed in favour of a night under the stars in the dunes. But there is a snag in the form of the Alpha Male.

As I'd been sorting the luggage Abdul had glided up beside me and offered me a range of night-time activities that are not normally listed in the travel brochures.

Both my potential bodyguards, Mahmoud, our national guide, and Majoub, our tourist policeman, ungallantly refuse point-blank to sleep out in the open, both admitting to disliking sand other than from a distance and to being nervous of snakes. They point out that far from sleeping al fresco I was getting an escort to my room. After all but checking under the bed they left, waiting until they'd made sure I'd locked my door securely.

Early next morning, after an untroubled night, we take a small group to climb the immense dune nearby. The sand is cool and velvety and the slopes so steep we are reduced to struggling up on all fours. Sitting alone on a dune I am enveloped in profound silence.

I was back there in my imagination about 2am on Christmas morning when my cellphone rang. "Hello Jeel," said a deep voice. "Um, who is this?" I mumbled.

"It is I, Abdul. I am in the dunes with Turkish group. When you come back?"

- © Fairfax NZ News