We visited Dakhla in what I’m told is tourist season.
The only other foreigner we came across was a Frenchman named Jean who left his job and his wife to backpack indefinitely through Mauritania. He sat at our breakfast table, even though there were always others available. I think he was lonely.
Dakhla was bright and sun-bleached by day, but by dusk it was grey and empty.
They called it sleepy, but Dakhla was tired.