I took off a few minutes ago from Dakhla airport, in the Oued Eddahab-Lagouira region, to Paris and then home. The only plane leaving was mine and crossing the runway I had the feeling of being in a "desert in the desert". Now I am here in-flight writing these words and every now and then I turn and look out of the window I observe that small line, very thin, now almost imperceptible, which divides two worlds, the Sahara and the Atlantic in the place called the Bay of Dakhla. A few thousand kilometers down they touch each other, almost caressing each other. It's noon and the sun, even though spring has not yet begun, begins to overheat the air and makes the sky white, which in the morning instead is a glittering blue.
Dakhla Bay, where the Sahara meets the Atlantic
Yesterday morning I was lucky enough to walk barefoot over this border. Onboard a 4×4 my driver left the asphalted main road, a straight that seemed never to end, to enter an area called the Dune Blanche, the point where the sandy desert literally slips into the ocean.
Like every time I arrived on a geographical border, the mind began to fantasize about what was behind me, in this case, thousands of kilometers of the most famous of the deserts on the planet, and what was before my eyes, the ocean. My footsteps crossed those of tires and dromedaries and birds, creating a strange map of man-machine-animals.
The mind, step by step, began to empty its thoughts, quite independently, a sort of natural autogenous training effect. Low eyes ran along with the geometric shapes that the slow retreat of the tide had created on the ground until they were distracted by a group of white seagulls who decided to fly up as I approached.
Further on, standing out on the horizon was what gave its name to that area, the white Duna, and beyond a sort of plateau, to complete the panorama. Distances in the desert become a rather relative concept. In my aimless wandering I have lost, in addition to that of space, the sense of time, but the sun has kindly reminded me of it with its increasing heat. Bandana in the head, I decided to immortalize this moment and this place with something that I hope to repeat one day, a drawing in the desert.
I had read that the bay of Dakhla was an area of migration of birds, and in fact, at some point, I felt a fluttering of wings away. Above my head in perfect V-shape white birds, of which I ignore the species, were heading towards who knows where.
Such was the magic of the place that even the signs of incivility (waste) left by the passage of man have assumed almost a certain charm as if they were post-modern rock paintings. Or maybe it was my optimism mixed with the innate imagination that made me believe it. A couple of shattered dishes made me smile thinking of a scene of marital quarrel in the middle of the desert.
Now you can't see anything from the window. There are still more than three hours left before arriving in Paris. To deceive the wait, I will read again the book that is accompanying me in these weeks (also here despite the impressive size of the volume, 669 pages, not really a pocket!), the beautiful Congo by David Van Reybrouck, a real masterpiece of travel literature.
Hello Africa, I'm already looking forward to coming back to you.
About the bay of Dakhla:
The bay of Dakhla is far from Casablanca 1620 Km and from Marrakech 1400. There are no direct flights from Italy (mine was a charter organized specifically for this tour), but only stopovers from Casablanca and Marrakech.