She’s just a speck out on the fringe, where the stony plain and scrubland converge. A herd of goats is scattered across the landscape, heads down, searching for a meal.

Yahya, our driver, guide and partner with Sahara bespoke tour operator Wild Morocco, slows the SUV, watching the woman in his rear view mirror as she signals to him. “She is asking if we have water,” he explains as he pulls to a stop.

We are, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, on the last leg of a two-day drive from Marrakesh, heading to our camp among the great golden dunes at Erg Chigaga in Morocco’s near south. We left the military outpost village of Foum Zguid, and the end of the tarmac road, two hours ago. We’ve been off-roading across the Sahara since then.

We’re as excited as school kids when we make our first camel sighting, but they are unimpressed with our gas-powered dromedary. The camels belong to local Berbers although we see no evidence of humans. This unforgiving desert is the land of Morocco’s Tuareg Berber nomads. Over the centuries, Arab, Roman and French invaders have come to conquer them. But neither the region nor the people would be tamed and each would-be victor in turn relinquished it to these hardy, strong-willed people who to this day, work the land and call it home.

The terrain changes with every passing mile, from palm oases with lush green foliage erupting from a barren wilderness, to an otherworldly landscape – a millennia-old seabed littered with fossils – ancient fish and insects frozen in time, to a vast stony plain peppered with hardy shrubs conditioned over centuries to tolerate the cruel desert droughts and poor soil.

Berber shrubs.

The herdswoman is alone out here with her goats. The sun is relentless. It’s getting hotter by the hour and she is the only person we’ve come across in our drive across the desert. As she approaches the SUV, Yahya exchanges words with her in Arabic. The compassion in his voice is unmistakeable. They are kindred spirits – both are Tuareg Berbers and Yahya knows what life is like out here.

I can’t guess her age. She might be 30 or 50. She must have been beautiful once, before the harsh sun, cold nights and long hard days took their toll. Lines mark her hands and face, but her warm smile reveals sparkling white teeth. She wears the traditional clothes of the Berber – layers of loose cotton in blue, red and yellow, draped for comfort and function.

While Yahya chats with the herder, my husband, in the backseat, reaches for a nearly full bottle of water and hands it to her. Yahya gives her an orange which she gratefully accepts.

We wave goodbye and drive on, leaving her to the goats. In twenty minutes, we come to a stone well – the closest source of fresh water for miles. Beyond the well, a couple of kilometers in the distance, we can see the herdswoman’s camp. My rough calculation makes it about a two hour walk for her and the goats to reach the well and her camp from where we left her.

“Where is her husband”?  I ask, wondering where he figures in this. Yahya laughs, “He’ll be sleeping at their camp. That’s what they do. The women do all the work. The men are lazy.”

Berber resilience comes with a price, I think. Resistance to change.

We drive on, and reach our guest camp by sundown, in time for a climb up a nearby dune to watch the sunset and enjoy cocktails that have been laid out for us. Later, back at camp, we dine on tagine, drink chilled wine, and sit around the campfire until late in the night, sharing stories with the camp staff, who all come from local tribes.

It’s after midnight. I’m in my tent, snuggled in bed under layers of thick blankets. I’m keenly aware that this camp, with its warm beds, hot water, plentiful food and kind staff, is a faint replica of the real Berber camp experience.

In the dark desert silence, I think about the herdswoman. As a Berber of the desert, she was destined to live the life she has. Tending to the goats, cooking, fetching water and wood for her family’s camp, raising children.  Days in blistering heat, nights in frigid cold. She has a life I can hardly comprehend – as a Western woman, my lifestyle couldn’t be more different. And yet, I somehow feel connected to her. We are ‘sisters’ – separated by geography, culture and tradition. Joined by a bottle of water, and hope.

Featured image (A gift of water for Berber goat herder) photo credit: Yahya Boulfrifi, Wild Morocco