Dakhla Diaries: Surviving the Desert in Vintage Threads Under a Cold Sky
the first thing you notice when you stumble into Dakhla isn’t the sand-it’s the magnetic pull of dust on your vintage leather jacket, like it’s trying to claim you. i’d packed this chunky, paint-splattered coat on a lark, thinking it’d clash, but it just felt right here. the air’s sharp, 14.99°C kind of bite that makes you shiver but keeps grinning-cold enough to see your breath swirl like smoke rings, warm enough to forget the whole ‘desert hell’ myth. someone told me that about the place once, ‘you think it’s hot? wait till you see the winter chill,’ and they weren’t kidding. my boots crunch over gravel, ankles kicking up flecks of dust that cling to my frayed jeans. the locals stare, used to seeing foreigners in, you know, sand-shorts nonsense.
if you get bored, Laayoune is just a serpentine drive away-rumor says the road there doubles as a highway to nowhere. but here? the soul’s in the silence. i found a stray dog napping in a pile of palm fronds, warriors of the Sahara it keeps calling itself. the owner? this tiny old man sipping mint tea, swearing the dog’s ‘the only one left who remembers the victories we buried.’ I’m not sure if he’s delusional or prophetic. (old man later said if you ask for directions, don’t say ‘where?’ say ‘what’s the ride to? i’m a walking tourist.’ got me to a hidden soup spot that tasted like regret and victory.
looking for something to photograph? the camera bag’s heavy, but this place? priceless. the beach at golden hour? golden. i crouched behind a rusted military vehicle from the ‘70s, pressing the shutter like a prayer. the waves rolled in, skinny and wild, clawing at the shore with the same stubbornness as the colonies that tried to hold this land. a Yelp reviewer from 2021 called it ‘a postcard soaked in existential dread,’ and honestly? they nailed it. but then again, so did the overpriced tagine place where a guy in a tracksuit yelled, ‘YOU WANT FOOD? YOU WANT PEACE? YOU WANT TO CRIE?’-then handed me a free mint tea.
the weather’s playing tricks. feels like 13.22 inside, 1015 pressure squeezing the lungs, humidity dipping below 30 like it’s trying to vanish. i checked the app-sea_level’s 1015, grnd_level’s 1014. no one can explain it, but the locals just shrug and say, ‘it’s the desert. it forgets what it is.’ I’m still here, arguing with the cold in my bones, my coat, the silence. someone warned me about the kasbahs-ghosts of Spanish soldiers, they said. I stayed until dawn, camera pointed at the cracked windows, waiting for a flicker. didn’t see one. the stars made up for it, though. millions of tiny lights, sharp as a blade.
[local tip: avoid the beach at night unless you’ve packed a shovel. and a grudge against man-made things.]