As the sun started to set, I arrived in Tazarine. Somehow I managed to organize a connecting ride 12km south to a piste (dirt road) that leads to Camp Serdrar, a hotel that was built on the site of an old palm farm after it was destroyed by drought.
We waited in Tazarine while the back of the van slowly filled with people and cargo. Inside, passengers sat on loose wooden benches and spare tires. By the end there were about 6 men on each side.
Outside of town, two men got out and the driver switched the engine off. Three girls in headscarves climbed into the front cab together. I could see the men loading bundles of sticks onto the roof. By now the sun had gone down. I saw everyone in silhouette. We sat quietly, with just the sound of the bundles landing on the roof. The chamber of the van felt warm and safe, even though I was a stranger.
At the piste I was met by Ibrahim. We completed the last 6km of the journey to the camp on his motorcycle.