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“This is sketchy right?” I ask my partner. He’s behind the wheel of our campervan, struggling to keep up with three locals in a beaten up motorhome. They’re leading us into the pitch dark of the Sahara Desert, just outside the small village of Merzouga, in Morocco. “Way too sketchy,” he replies. This is what happens when one cold beer leads into five - you’re more likely to agree to camp under the stars with strangers in a new country. A few hours of being serenaded with guitars and ukuleles later, as the campfire roars blood orange, we decide to let our worries go and enjoy the evening with our new friends. If, after all, they’re looking to rob and/or murder us, they’re putting on an outstanding performance, worthy of an Oscar or two. The following morning, one of the three men, Mbarek, joins us for coffee. All is still and the whisper of the campfire must be the only sound for miles. We recline in our tatty camping chairs; completely content. We are surrounded by velvety sand dunes, so vast they make me feel comfortingly insignificant. The soft spoken Mbarek invites us to his family home for a traditional Berber meal - Madfouna pizza, an offer so unassuming and welcoming we heartily agree. Along the uneven roads, our van coughing up dust, we follow him to the heart of the village, the racket of children playing and motorbikes roaring in our ears. As we enter his family home, I am struck by a gust of cool air, a stark contrast to the torrid midday sun and something I have been yearning for. The walls, dense with mud and clay, are gloriously cold to the touch. “A thousand welcomes,” Mbarek declares, with open arms and a toothy grin. In the low lit room, we perch on benches strewn with vivid blankets and throws, whilst he opts for the floor. Piping hot Moroccan mint tea is served to us in small shot like glasses with intricate blue artwork. The dull green liquid feels thick and sticky on my lips, but is too sweet for me to care. Mbarek introduces us to a small woman, kneading dough at lightning speed, borne of long experience and muscle memory, as she sits in a deep squat on the packed earth floor of her kitchen. “This is Mama,” he says. Mama’s lambent eyes and small smile welcome us to her home. We follow Mama to the communal stone bake fires in an open courtyard not far from the house. Huge, vibrant mounds of vegetable skins and peels dominate the area and the earthy compost smell engulfs us. “Outsiders are not usually allowed in here, you are lucky!” we are told and we feel it. We are given a quick peak and return to their home. Not ten minutes later, Mama reappears, four large madfouna pizzas wrapped up in tea towels in her arms. The aroma of rich spices and herbs fills my nostrils. There’s a pizza base, curried vegetables in the middle and another layer of dough on top. Mbarek swiftly draws out a penknife and makes short work of slicing them evenly. “Eat!” he exclaims as he sees us hesitate. He leans in and takes a slice for himself, expertly keeping it intact. The fiery flavour of the pizza overwhelms me, the sharp spice catching in my throat, but it is mouth-wateringly tasty. The filling is as vibrant as the pottery so prevalent here in Morocco. I take slice after slice. The finely chopped vegetables spill out either side of my slice and the turmeric stains my fingers marigold yellow; a small price to pay. With full bellies, we sit back and listen to Mbarek speak of his dreams to create a community house and garden for locals and tourists alike to visit and connect with one another. A desert guide for over a decade, he has some captivating stories to tell; stuck in a sandstorm so dense he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, his trusted donkey knew the twenty mile trek from memory. We leave Mbarek and Mama, our hearts full of gratitude, arms full of leftovers.