on the way to Merzouga, the kids are noticeably more aggressive, and demands for “Bonbons,” “money,” or “stilo” (pen) are getting frequent—clearly a more touristy route.

We wanted to visit Arfoud since recent storms had caused severe flooding. Huge areas were submerged, preventing people from reaching their homes. Water-pumping systems were at work, moving water to distant fields, and people hoped to return in about three days.

Our host for the night picked us up on his motorcycle, saying he lived in Arfoud, but it turned out he lives 20 km away. We’ll have to cycle back tomorrow to Merzouga. We know him through Miloud, our friend in Rabat. Mohammad is an experienced cyclist who has done long tours around Morocco.

When we arrived at his home, he asked Sandra to wear long pants. We usually avoid discussions on such topics since they’re hard when you don’t know the other person well. I explained we understood his cultural views, but we hoped he’d understand clothing is personal, especially for women. We don’t want to provoke or make anyone uncomfortable and are always willing to leave.
We had planned to rest here, but we decided to leave early for Merzouga. Mohammad’s 15-year-old son, who wants to be an imam, couldn’t stop staring at Sandra’s legs. It’s sad what women endure, even from young boys.
I have immense respect for women who travel alone. This experience made me more aware of how challenging it is for women to travel without constantly worrying about things men take for granted.

Anyway, the desert is here. Palm trees and sunlight feel different. Drinking water remains accessible, with sources everywhere.

On the way to Merzouga from Arfoud, there’s a 45 km stretch of nothing but desert. Even though there’s more awareness about cyclists since the road is very touristy, some reckless drivers still push the limit, racing past at 140 km an hour, trying to see how close they could pass to us, and its literally 1 cm. 

In the middle of the road, we met two German motorcyclists who had passed us a few days earlier. They stopped, and we chatted for half an hour before we continued to Merzouga.
The wind was a strong headwind, making us feel helpless and confused, struggling to cover even 5 km an hour. We eventually arrived and found an empty campground. It was basic but had hot water and a back door leading straight to the massive dunes in the desert. The city felt empty of tourists after the floods ten days ago.
There were two guys at the campground who were very friendly, despite drinking both nights we stayed there. They offered us a room for 50 dirhams, so we took it and decided to stay two nights to rest our legs.
We went out to find some food and to watch the sunset over the dunes. The camp owner reassured us that we didn’t have to worry about snakes or scorpions now that the weather was cooling down (though it was still 34°C during the day).
The dunes, however, were filled with quads, racing cars, and motorcyclists, which took away from the peaceful desert experience we’d hoped for. So we decided to try climbing the tallest dune at sunrise the next day.
That night, we slept poorly because the room was filled with clouds of flies. In the end, I decided to pitch the tent inside the room to get some rest.

Being at the most eastern point of my journey, on the beautiful dunes of Merzouga, reminded me of how grateful I am for the opportunity to travel the world. Discovering and talking with people about these privileges and what they mean has been enlightening.I was born with a passport that never allowed me to leave my country, and now, here I am, realizing my childhood dream of exploring the world by bicycle. What a life!