Just 36 hours after leaving Amsterdam, I found myself in Morocco, a whole new world waiting to be discovered. My first stop was Tangier, where the city’s irresistible charm lies in its labyrinth of alleys. Getting lost there felt more like a requirement than an accident.

From Tangier, I hopped on a super-fast French TGV to Casablanca. Booking tickets online was easy, and the modern train stations took me by surprise. Traveling by train in Morocco turned out to be really smooth and efficient. From Casablanca, I boarded a local train to Marrakech. They’re even building a new high-speed line but the current five-hour ride is already pretty great.

Or Sahara Maroccain, as I was firmly corrected by an angry taxi driver. It’s a disputed area, after all. This surreal landscape felt like stepping into another dimension, endless stretches of rugged desert, only occasionally interrupted by glimpses of civilization: a modest tent, a dilapidated police checkpoint, or a herd of wild camels.

I’d heard all kinds of warnings about this region: “It’s dangerous!” they said. Reality? The only danger I faced was being blinded by the sheer beauty of the dunes.

The border crossing? Let’s just say it was a test of patience and resilience.

When I was preparing for my trip, many blogs described Nouakchott as “the worst capital in the world.” Naturally, my response was, “Okay, let’s go!”

My first impressions weren’t exactly promising. Due to a problem with my Airbnb: no host, no water, no electricity, those blog warnings seemed to be true. But the next day, the city surprised me. A local approached me, gave me a tour and even invited me for dinner.

Nouakchott is incredibly raw. The markets are uncommercialized gems, untouched by tourism. It felt very pure, without annoying pushy sellers and tourist trinkets. It’s a city that challenged my prejudices, turning ‘the worst’ into a very authentic experience.

After buses, trains, and a whirlwind of new experiences, it was time for the main event: hitching a ride on the Mauritanian Iron Ore Train. 3km long, it’s one of the longest and heaviest trains in the world and anyone can hop on for free, locals use it to transport themselves, goods and even camels.

Climbing aboard the open-air wagon, I found myself surrounded by massive mounds of ore. No seats, no shelter, just you, the iron, and the endless horizon. As the train rattled through the Sahara, the scenery was both mesmerizing and brutal. Sandstorms would whip across the desert, occasionally turning the landscape into an impenetrable blur. At other times, the view stretched on forever.

After 17 hours and 800km, I reached Nouadhibou. The end of the line, where the iron ore is loaded onto ships for its next journey.

In the taxi to the hotel, I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was completely black and covered in ore. In my ears, nose, hair, and everywhere else. A new look that I call ‘industrial chic.’

Exhausted? Absolutely. Dirty? For sure. Happy? Weirdly, yes. I wish the ride had lasted longer. Of the 17 hours, only 4.5 hours were in daylight. It’s like buying a ticket for a blockbuster and then spending most of it with your eyes closed.