After 120+ Countries and Antarctica Glamping, Ben Mack Reveals His Most Unforgettable Destination

Travelling by camel into the remote Sahara of south-eastern Algeria alongside veiled locals offers far more than a chance to live out Lawrence of Arabia daydreams or imagine time has slipped backwards, writes New Zealand travel writer Ben Mack.

Moustapha’s so-called “desert medicine” has worked its magic.

Beside the glow of a red fire, with warm smoke curling through the chill of the desert night, one cup of his intensely sweet, sugar-and-caffeine-packed brew has revived me almost immediately after a punishing day spent crossing sun-scorched sand on camelback.

“You must be strong in the desert!” says Moustapha, who leads our small party of six men and five enormous yet unexpectedly soft-stepping camels through the vast, stony maze of Tassili n’Ajjer, far inside the Sahara.

Among our compact caravan, I am the only one who is not Imuhaɣ — pronounced “Imm-o-ha,” I’m told — the name some Tuareg people use for themselves.

Still, it is hard not to wonder whether we are truly alone. With cliffs, canyons and massifs resembling the remnants of ancient walls, and both house-sized boulders and fingernail-small stones taking on strangely similar forms, the landscape seems designed to stir the imagination.

The first thing to understand about Algeria is its sheer scale: this North African nation, lying east of Morocco, ranks among the largest countries on Earth.

It is also a place of remarkable variety.

The capital, Algiers, is a big city along the shores of the Mediterranean with a strong French influence.

But the further south you go, the deeper into the mighty Sahara you get – from the air, it seems like an endless sea of golden sand and dark rocks.

It appears at ground level that we’re stuck in an infinite maze. I’m awed my companions know where we’re going without consulting a smartphone – especially handy, though, as there’s no Wi-Fi or phone signal out here.

I’d always wanted to ride camels and have a vintage-style adventure like something out of One Thousand and One Nights. 

Although Algeria’s far from Arabia, I thought venturing into the Tassili n’Ajjer – a UNESCO World Heritage Site in the country’s south-east – would feel like stepping back in time. A lover of vintage fashion, I even dressed the part, donning kit like what T.E. Lawrence – better known as Lawrence of Arabia – wore before he started dressing in traditional Arabian attire.

As we set out from the frontier town of Djanet – the concrete and wood buildings struggling from being swallowed by the voracious sand all around – worries about discomfort amid high heat and harsh sun are pushed aside. 

The fantastical landscapes, that we’re on a camel-powered expedition like I’ve been dreaming about, means my imagination is on fire more than perhaps anywhere I’ve been – which, as I’ve been to more than 120 countries and every continent, including glamping in Antarctica, is saying something.

In some places the sand stretches in all directions like a gargantuan, wrinkled rug. 

We cross undulating dunes, enormous, barren plains, and with loud, crunching steps traverse narrow, rocky passes that look like what Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee would use to sneak into Mordor. 

The comparison is apt: Moustapha says the area can indeed look like the foreboding kingdom from Peter Jackson’s ‘Lord of the Rings’ films.

I keep thinking of a book I’ve brought to read during afternoon siestas. Pierre Benoit’s Atlantida, adapted into films several times since it was published in 1919, involves discovering what’s left of Atlantis – among the rocks of the Sahara in Algeria.

As we travel, it’s easy seeing what inspired Benoit. Some of the rocks rise from the sand as if they’re the remains of an ancient city – they are remarkably straight.

Soaring arches could be huge gates or doorframes. Geologically speaking, this area was once underwater, part of an ancient seabed.

We don’t encounter any Atlanteans. But we do meet a passing herder and his dozens of white, black and brown goats, their bleating echoing off canyon walls so loudly it sounds like an approaching thunderstorm. 

He joins us for lunch – and sells us a goat for 200 Algerian dinars (about $2.15 Australian dollars, or £1.15).

We also don’t discover any magic lamps with genies inside. But we see rock art Moustapha says is thousands of years old. The Tassili n’Ajjer’s famous for rock art: we find it along cliff walls under rocky overhangs, in sand-filled, refreshingly cool caves, and sometimes up the sides of mountains.

Animals like antelopes and cows, women, men, farmers, hunters with spears – the diversity of the faded, red-coloured paintings is impressive. Some of the figures depicted are smaller than my hand, while others are far larger than life. One painting shows what looks like an armoured warrior, with several people following behind.

We switch between walking with the camels and riding on their humped backs with special cloth and wood saddles that I find like sitting in a comfy chair. 

The camels are, of course, big – on their backs, I’m much higher up than on a horse. But getting on is easy: a simple. light tap on the front legs and the camel crouches down. Then all I need to do is hop on and tap the leg again – the camel then stands up.

The camels carry all our gear – everything from food and cooking utensils to tents, blankets and sleeping mats – but don’t seem to mind. Their gentle gaits are smooth – much smoother than horses. I don’t need to use my hands much to lead them, as they tend to instinctively follow behind whichever camel is the leader.

I’m wary of being spat on – I’ve heard horror stories how camel spit smells terrible. Thankfully, there are no known instances of spitting on our expedition. However, the camels sometimes grunt and roar when they can’t see each other: Moustapha explains they can’t bear being alone.

The camels don’t have names. I call the one I’m riding ‘Rakiura.’ The name seems to fit: ‘Rakiura’ roughly translates to ‘glowing skies’ in Te Reo Māori; Rakiura the camel has a glowing, friendly personality. He also enjoys head and neck rubs – his light fur is thick and a bit coarse.

On day two I’m given a sash, called a tagelmust, to wear. A several metre-long strip of light cotton used by Tuareg men, I’m shown how to wrap it around my head and face, to act as both a turban to keep sun off and veil for protection from dust and sand, leaving only my eyes exposed. Rather than stifling, the pale blue garment turns out to be very breathable.

I’m enchanted by the desert’s beauty. The cloudless sky shimmers like a sapphire as we wander, day after day, deeper into the maze. Next to turquoise pools of water – called gueltas – sandwiched between ochre and onyx canyons are date palms with emerald-green leaves. Pink, orange and lavender sunsets gently fade to midnight blue, then black. Out come twinkling silver stars, so many we can walk without torches.

Nighttime also means temperatures drop, so we gather around the ruby glow of a campfire, using sticks we’ve scavenged as fuel. A rich, smoky smell fills the air. It’s soon joined by the sounds and smells of sizzling meat and boiling soup – the main things we eat out here.

I do some cooking, too. To share some Kiwi culture, I make a version of Southland cheese rolls (a popular snack food and cultural icon in the lower part of New Zealand’s South Island), using the pancake-like, savoury takyawt flatbread and cheese we have. There are no leftovers.

No matter what we eat, it’s accompanied by mint tea, boiled in a pot over the fire and served in shot glasses. with a thick layer of foam on top to catch any flies that might wander in. It tastes like liquefied sugar. I consume several cups – and we have tea with every meal.

Then there’s Moustapha’s ‘desert medicine’ (as he calls it). I have never tasted anything sweeter – or seemingly more caffeinated. I feel I could run all the way across the desert back to Djanet, by now at least 50 or 60 kilometres away.

There are no sounds except the popping and fizzing fire, our chatting, and the steady thrum of crickets. As has been the pattern for the past few days, I drift off to sleep atop a basic, striped mat and under thick wool blankets.

We know we’re under attack on our sixth night in the desert because of the banging. Another passing herder’s donkeys have wandered off, and decided our camp is the ideal place to go rummaging for a post-midnight snack.

We spring into action – we need our food. Yet every time we drive the big-eared trespassers away with whoops, sticks and shouting, they return a few minutes later. Their assault is relentless.

Eventually we give in and toss them some of our vegetables. They saunter off with smug expressions.

All we can do to regroup, says Moustapha, is have more tea and desert medicine.