A Berber family, a stretch of sand, and a very good reason to stay the night

Our family has lived beside these dunes for generations — first as nomads moving with the seasons, later in the village of Merzouga itself. Travellers started arriving in the nineties, and my father did what any Berber household would do: he made tea and offered them a place to sleep.

One guest tent became two. Two became a camp. Somewhere along the way we decided that if people were going to cross half of Morocco to reach us, they should not have to share a bathroom or shiver through a January night. So we put in ensuite bathrooms, air conditioning, heating and hot water, and kept everything else exactly as it was.

Today the camp is still ours. My brothers lead the camels, my mother and our cook run the kitchen, and one of us is always at the fire in the evening. That is the whole business model.

Guests usually arrive slightly wound up from the drive and slightly unsure what glamping in the Sahara actually means. Within an hour they have tea in hand, shoes off and sand between their toes.

By dinner they are talking to the family at the next table. By the time the drums come out, someone is always dancing. And in the morning almost everyone says the same thing: we should have booked two nights.