Lava Lakes, Bubbling Acid Pools and Nomadic Camel Caravans Carrying Salt Across the Lowest and Hottest Desert in Africa

Into the Inferno: The Danakil Desert

December 2012 – Earth’s Most Alien Landscape

Quite simply, the Danakil Desert is one of the most incredible places I have ever been.

Tucked into the northeastern corner of Ethiopia, near the borders of Eritrea and Djibouti, the Danakil is raw, remote, and otherworldly—a land that defies description and challenges every comfort zone.

A World Like No Other

This is a place where:

• The sun scorches the Earth year-round, making it one of the hottest inhabited regions on the planet

• You can wander among surreal geothermal fields, with acid pools, sulfur chimneys, and neon-colored mineral formations straight out of a sci-fi film

• Ancient camel caravans of Afar nomads still haul heavy slabs of salt across the desert, following centuries-old trade routes

• And, most mind-blowing of all—you can hike to the edge of a lava lake and sleep under the stars beside a living, breathing volcano

There truly is no other place like it on Earth.

The Danakil Depression: Heat, Salt, and Fire

A Place Few Dare to Go, and None Forget

Located in northeast Ethiopia, the Danakil Desert stretches across the borders of Djibouti and Eritrea, forming one of the most extreme environments on Earth. It sits at 330 feet below sea level, making it one of the lowest points on the planet, and is notorious for its scorching temperatures, often soaring above 120°F (49°C) during the day.

Rain is virtually nonexistent here, and the land is shaped by volcanic activity, salt flats, and a haunting, barren beauty that feels more Martian than earthly.

Land of the Afar: Salt, Survival, and Warrior Spirit

Despite the region’s brutal conditions, the Danakil is home to the Afar people, a fiercely independent, nomadic ethnic group with a long reputation for resilience and warrior culture.

Historically, the Afar were hostile to outsiders, and there are chilling tales of unwanted visitors being captured and castrated. While those times have passed, the memory of their protectiveness of their land still lingers in their customs and in the strict security requirements for travelers.

The Afar have long mined salt from the desert crust, loading it onto the backs of camels and forming ancient caravans that still traverse the desert today, journeying for days to transport the “white gold” into the Ethiopian highlands. Watching these caravans on the move—unchanged for centuries—is like stepping back into a Biblical time.

How to Visit the Danakil

A Journey Not Meant to Be Taken Lightly

The easiest gateway to the Danakil is by flying into Mek’ele, the capital of Tigray State, from Addis Ababa. From there, you’ll need to join a local tour operator, ideally with a small group of other travelers to split the cost.

This is not a destination for independent travel. The Danakil is too remote, too extreme, and too dangerous for solo exploration. Here’s what to expect:

• At least two 4×4 vehicles are mandatory in case one breaks down (a common issue)

• No cell phone reception for most of the journey

• Afar permission and armed security escorts with AK-47s are required

• No hotels – you’ll be camping rough, often on bare ground or wooden platforms

• No bathing, and you’ll face flies, blowing sand, bad food, and relentless heat

At the time of my visit in December 2012, the Chinese were beginning construction on a new paved road into the Danakil. While it will no doubt improve access, it also threatens to radically change this untouched and wild region.

Security Warnings

Only months before my trip, a tragic incident occurred at Erta Ale volcano, where several tourists were kidnapped and killed by rebel groups operating along the Eritrean border. The armed escorts provided by the Afar are not just symbolic—they are essential for your protection and survival in a region where political tensions still simmer.

My Danakil Adventure

I booked a 4-day trip through a local operator in Mek’ele. The journey was raw and intense—not for the faint of heart. I endured:

• Extreme heat

• Rough camping conditions

• Swarms of flies

• Scarce water (read: no bathing)

• Repetitive, barely edible meals

And yet, despite all of that—or maybe because of it—the Danakil remains one of the greatest adventures of my life.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not easy. But it is absolutely unforgettable.

One of our vehicles/and Afar security guards always sit on top of the vehicle

Vast emptiness’ of Danakil

Afar nomads are muslim and pray 5 times per day. This man paused to pray during our trip and set his AK 47 down on to the ground while he prayed

Day 1: Into the Danakil

From Highland Roads to Goat Heads and Desert Skies

Our journey began with a full-day drive from Mek’ele into the heart of the Danakil Desert. I traveled with my friend Evan, our guides, and a small group of fellow travelers, split between two rugged Toyota Land Cruisers—the vehicle of choice in a place where flat tires and axle-cracking roads are the norm.

As we descended from the Ethiopian highlands into the low, sunbaked abyss of the Danakil, the scenery began to change dramatically. We passed through ancient villages, with thatched huts and donkey carts, where life appeared to have changed very little in centuries.

The Worst Lunch of My Life

We stopped for lunch at a roadside café, a place that would forever haunt my memory—for all the wrong reasons.

On the menu: injera, goat meat, and awaze sauce. The food was far from delicious—I managed only a few bites before my instincts kicked in. But in places like this, I rarely eat for pleasure. Food is fuel, nothing more.

Still, curiosity got the better of us.

Evan and I noticed a monkey wandering freely near the front of the restaurant and decided to follow it into the kitchen—or what passed for one. That “kitchen” turned out to be an open dirt courtyard, walled by a loose thatch fence and permeated by the stench of rot.

What we saw next was straight out of a horror film:

• A severed goat head, crawling with flies

• A pool of excrement soaking into the ground

• And an emaciated cat, one eyeball dangling from a thread, gnawing away at the meat we were almost certainly just served

I knew then and there: traveler’s diarrhea was inevitable.

Some memories you try to forget. Others burn themselves into your soul with the help of a dangling feline eyeball.

Arrival in Hamedela: Edge of the Earth

We arrived by sunset at the Afar village of Hamedela, a dusty outpost that sits at the edge of the Danakil’s salt flats. The Afar people are known for being stoic, hardened, and proud, and they are not the easiest people to engage with. But like anywhere in the world, the children break down barriers.

The village kids were curious and playful, and before long, we were laughing, playing games, and being shown proud sketches from schoolbooks. One young boy even gave Evan a drawing as a gift—an unexpected gesture in a land that often feels so guarded.

Desert Campfire and Dust

That night, we slept in open beds under the stars, outside the low huts of the village. There were no walls, no privacy, just the dry wind, a blanket of stars, and the constant hum of flies refusing to rest.

The conditions were harsh—hot, gritty, and uncomfortable—but the sunset over the salt flats was otherworldly. As the last light dipped below the horizon, painting the desert gold, it reminded me exactly why I came.

The Danakil doesn’t welcome you—it challenges you. But for those willing to endure, it gives back something unforgettable.

Hamedela Village Sunset

Afar kids goofy drawings in his schoolbook

Afar Muslim Imam in Hamedela Village

Day 2: Salt, Fire, and Acid Dreams

Nomads, Camel Caravans, and the Alien Beauty of Dallol

We awoke to scorching heat, even in the early hours of the morning—temperatures already pushing into the 90s. The air was dry and thick with dust, and the stillness of the desert felt timeless.

From our campsite near Hamedela village, we set off in our convoy of 4x4s to begin exploring the surreal heart of the Danakil.

Afar Salt Miners and Camel Caravans

Our first stop was one of the most iconic scenes in the region: the site where Afar nomads mine salt from the shimmering white crust of the Danakil. Using traditional tools, men carved thick slabs of salt from the ground, stacking them methodically for transport.

Nearby, we watched as ancient camel caravans trudged slowly across the vast salt flats. Their long shadows stretched across the blinding surface, each camel carrying a load of salt destined for the highlands.

Despite their harsh lifestyle, the Afar nomads were friendly and welcoming, and many allowed us to photograph them without hesitation—their expressions calm, eyes sharp, bodies weathered by sun and time.

Descending to Dallol and Lake Assal

Next, we drove even deeper into the Danakil, toward Dallol—a place that doesn’t feel like it belongs on Earth.

Here, we visited Lake Assal, one of the lowest points on the planet, sitting more than 400 feet below sea level. The landscape shifted dramatically: jagged rock outcroppings gave way to vibrant, neon-colored acid pools, sulfur springs, and fumaroles venting steam and gas into the dry desert air.

The colors were unreal—lime greens, oranges, rust-reds, and milky whites—blending like a surreal painting melted under a sun that never rests.

Walking through Dallol felt like walking on another planet. The air smelled of sulfur, and the ground crunched and hissed underfoot. Even the silence carried weight, broken only by the wind and the low rumble of the Earth beneath us.

Camping Among the Afar

As the sun began to fall and the shadows stretched across the desert, we made our way to a small Afar village nestled in the sands. We set up camp nearby, surrounded by absolute stillness and the occasional bleat of distant goats.

The conditions were still unforgiving—dusty, fly-ridden, and hot even after dark—but the experience of sleeping beneath such an alien sky, on land that felt completely untouched by modern time, was unforgettable.

In the Danakil, beauty and brutality walk hand in hand. But each moment—each scene burned into your memory—is worth the sweat and sacrifice.

Driving across the salt beds-Evan posing in front of our vehicle

Ethiopian military patrolling the Danakil

One of the guards looking onwards

Cracking the Crust of an Acid Pool

Among the many bizarre and unforgettable stops we made in Dallol, one of the most striking was a seemingly solid acid pool—a place that played tricks on the senses.

At first glance, it appeared to be completely still, with a crusted surface so dry and solid it looked like sun-baked rock. But when one of our guides threw a rock into the center, the illusion shattered. The crust broke apart like fragile glass, sending ripples of thick, black liquid spreading beneath it.

It was like watching an alien ocean breathe, hiding its danger beneath a false layer of calm.

The surface quickly re-hardened, but the moment was seared in my mind—a reminder that in the Danakil, even the ground itself is deceptive.

Acid pool 

Evan sitting on a calcified crust that hardened over a geothermal pool. 

Me in front of the geothermal pools

A Purple Naked Man in the Acid Pools

The Most Surreal Moment of the Day Had Nothing to Do with the Landscape

As if alien landscapes, sulfur fumes, and crust-shattering acid pools weren’t strange enough, the strangest experience of the day had absolutely nothing to do with where we were, but who we were with.

We were walking through an area of intense geothermal activity, surrounded by bubbling hot springs, steaming vents, and crusted acid pools, when I noticed our Afar guards smirking—eyes wide with what could only be described as a mix of amusement and horror.

I turned around to see what had caught their attention… and there he was.

One of the German guys in our group was standing completely naked, painted purple, ankle-deep in acidic water, doing some kind of performance art photo shoot.

He was posing on the sharp, salt-crusted surface, while another traveler crouched behind a camera, snapping away as if this were a fashion runway instead of a potentially lethal acid pit in one of the hottest, most conservative regions of East Africa.

To say it was surreal would be an understatement. I was stunned. And if I thought it was crazy, I could only imagine what the conservative Muslim Afar guards, armed and stone-faced, were thinking.

Reality—and the Acid—Strikes Back

The spectacle didn’t last long. The acid began to burn his ankles, and he quickly hobbled back for first aid treatment, wincing in pain and covered in purple dye.

Our guide, visibly frustrated, scolded him—not just for the recklessness, but for the deep cultural disrespect he’d just risked. The Afar, while tolerant of travelers, are not accustomed to nudity, let alone naked body-painted performances in sacred desert terrain.

And as our guide reminded us: offending someone with an AK-47 is never a good idea.

The rest of us shared looks that were part disbelief, part secondhand embarrassment, and part “Did that really just happen?”

Geothermal pools

Afar Guard

Me posing with one of the AK47’s of the Afar Guards

Strange landscapes 

Strange landscapes

Me in the Danakil

More Strange Landscapes

Ships of the Desert: The Camel Caravans of the Afar

A Mirage Turned Reality in the Heart of the Danakil

Of all the surreal moments I experienced in the Danakil, the one that moved me most deeply wasn’t the acid pools or the alien colors of Dallol—it was the first distant glimpse of the Afar nomads with their camel caravans, slowly emerging on the horizon like a living mirage.

At first, they looked unreal—wavering figures distorted by heat shimmer, swaying rhythmically with the sand. From afar, it was as if the desert itself was conjuring ghosts from a time long past.

We waited in silence as the caravan drew nearer, each camel burdened with heavy slabs of salt, each nomad cloaked in traditional cloth, their faces marked by sun, wind, and resolve.

These were the ships of the desert, gliding steadily across one of the most hostile landscapes on Earth, carrying their precious cargo toward the highlands on routes unchanged for centuries.

Watching them toil across the sun-scorched salt flats, I felt a deep reverence—not only for the spectacle, but for the endurance of culture, the rhythm of trade, and the incredible will of the Afar people to thrive where few others could.

Camel Caravan 

Camel Caravan 

Camel Caravan 

Afar Nomads of Camel Caravan 

The Salt Harvest

Work That Hasn’t Changed in a Thousand Years

Later in the day, we drove to another stretch of the endless white salt flats, where a small group of Afar nomads were already deep in their daily labor—cutting thick blocks of salt from the crusted desert floor.

With simple hand tools, they chiseled the salt into precisely shaped rectangles, stacking them in neat piles, ready to be loaded onto camels for the long trek back to the highlands. It was slow, grueling work, done under the unforgiving sun, and yet they moved with the calm efficiency of people who had done this every day of their lives.

What struck me most was how completely oblivious they were to us—a small group of wide-eyed foreigners with cameras slung over our shoulders, watching like spectators at a living museum. But to them, this wasn’t a performance. It was just another day in the desert.

In a world moving ever faster, it was grounding to witness something so timeless, so unaltered by modernity.

Afar Man Mining Salt

Day 3: Across the Afar Heartland

Desert Roads, Nomad Villages, and a Cultural Misstep

Day 3 began with a long, bumpy drive across the desert, navigating the rugged volcanic tracts of Afar land in our convoy of 4x4s. The further we pushed, the more isolated and raw the landscape became—sun-scorched plains, jagged black rock, and the occasional wisp of dust rising from the horizon.

We passed through a number of Afar nomad villages, where life exists with little more than sticks, mats, and shade. Their homes—small, dome-shaped huts—were built from wooden frames covered in woven grass and mud, perfectly suited to the unforgiving climate.

A Tense Cultural Clash

In one village, our progress slowed as a herd of goats crossed the track, kicking up dust as they meandered between the huts. We stopped the vehicle and took in the scene—a brief, silent window into daily life.

That silence was broken when my friend, unaware of the cultural sensitivities, snapped a photo of an Afar woman. Within seconds, an elderly man noticed and came charging at us with a long stick, shouting in anger.

The Afar are deeply conservative Sunni Muslims, and photography of women is strictly forbidden. What may have seemed like a harmless photo to us was, to them, a serious offense.

We quickly pulled away in the vehicle, dust trailing behind us. I leaned out to try and apologize, but the words fell flat—lost in translation and frustration. The man’s reaction wasn’t just anger—it was about dignity, culture, and boundaries being crossed.

It was a sobering reminder that while we are guests in these lands, respect is not optional—it’s essential.

Afar Camp

Afar Camp

Afar Camp

Afar Girl

Afar Camp

Hiking into the Fire

The Ascent to Erta Ale Volcano

We reached the trailhead for Erta Ale late in the day, just as the sun vanished behind the jagged volcanic skyline. From there, we began our ascent in darkness, hiking by the beams of our flashlights, the air heavy with silence and dust.

The climb took about an hour, cutting through desolate lava fields and hardened rock. With the memory of the recent rebel ambush fresh in our minds—an attack that killed several tourists just months earlier—we were on edge. Our Afar security guards, rifles slung over their shoulders, hiked close beside us, scanning the horizon as we moved. I kept a constant eye on the shadows, half-expecting something to move.

In retrospect, packing more alcohol than water wasn’t our smartest move, but it felt in character for a trip like this—equal parts reckless and unforgettable.

A Snake in the Shadows

At one point during the hike, a black snake slithered across our path, catching the flashlight beam as it darted over the rocks. I instinctively reached for my camera, hoping to photograph it. But before I could even unclip the lens cap, one of the Afar guards stomped it to death, crushing it under his boot with a practiced thud.

I would have preferred to let it live, but the guard meant no harm—in Afar culture, snakes are omens of death, and killing one is a necessary act of protection.

Arrival at the Crater Rim

We arrived at the summit camp of Erta Ale, a small area carved out near the edge of the crater. This was the exact site of the ambush that claimed the lives of foreign travelers, a chilling realization as we dropped our packs and took in the vast openness around us.

From the camp, it was another 20-minute walk to the lava lake—a path we followed without hesitation, hearts pounding with both excitement and unease.

And then… we saw it.

Sleeping Beside a Lava Lake

Just below us, on a narrow rock ledge, was a gaping crater about 50 yards across, filled with gurgling, glowing, sloshing lava—a living cauldron of molten rock. It hissed, roared, and churned like a beast breathing fire beneath our feet.

I had never been so close to something so deadly, so alive, and so mesmerizing.

We stayed for hours, unable to look away. The decision was easy: we would sleep next to the lava lake.

Partly because the open terrain gave us more options to escape in case of another ambush, but mostly because none of us wanted to leave. The heat, the glow, the primal energy of it all—it was otherworldly, unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.

We lay there under the stars, lulled to sleep by the pulsing breath of the Earth itself, as if we’d spent the night camped on the edge of creation.

Erta Ale Lava lake

Erta Ale Lava lake

Me at Erta Ale Lava lake

A Night Beside the Fire

Tequila, Toxic Gas, and the Glow of the Earth’s Core

We stayed up late that night, entranced by the molten world below us, staring into the fiery depths of Erta Ale’s lava lake. The surface pulsed and churned like a living organism—hissing, gurgling, and occasionally exploding with sparks that lit up the black volcanic sky. Every few minutes, the lava would slosh violently, reminding us of the thin ledge we stood on and the very real possibility of falling into hell.

Tequila and a Sacrifice to the Volcano

To celebrate the moment, Evan pulled out a bottle of tequila he’d bought at Emirates duty-free, and we passed it between us—equal parts joy, exhaustion, and madness.

When we drained the bottle, we decided on one final toast: we tossed the empty glass into the lava lake to watch it burn. It shattered on the crusted surface, and for a few seconds it reflected the red glow—before being slowly swallowed by flames, like some kind of offering to the ancient gods of fire.

Sleeping at the Edge of Earth’s Furnace

Eventually, we laid out our sleeping pads beside the lake, careful to position ourselves upwind to avoid the toxic volcanic gases spewing from the crater.

But in the middle of the night, everything changed. The wind shifted.

I woke up choking, the air thick with sulfur and gas. My eyes stung. My throat burned. I shot up in a panic, grabbed my sleeping pad, and tried to shake Evan awake.

He was completely passed out, refusing to move, mumbling in protest. So I dragged him across the sharp rock until we found a spot where the air was clean enough to breathe.

I barely slept after that. I spent the rest of the night watching the lava dance, unable to look away. The heat on my face, the low roar in my ears—it felt both apocalyptic and oddly peaceful.

The Miserable Morning Descent

When morning finally broke, we were both dehydrated, hungover, and running low on drinking water—not the best condition to descend a volcano in the desert.

The hike down was rough. The sun came up fast and hard, and every step felt like we were being slow-roasted in our own skin. My head pounded, my tongue felt like sandpaper, and all I could think about was water.

But even as I staggered down that volcano, part of me couldn’t stop thinking:
I just slept beside a lava lake. And lived to tell the story.

Me Posing with Our Afar Guards

Day 4: The Long Road Back

From Lava Lakes to Air Conditioning

Our final day in the Danakil was spent driving back to Mek’ele—a long, grueling haul across heat-scorched desert tracks, volcanic rock, and dusty villages that blurred together under the glare of the sun.

I was beginning to feel the full effects of food sickness, likely a delayed gift from that unforgettable roadside goat lunch earlier in the trip. My stomach churned with every bump in the road, and the relentless heat didn’t help. Still, I tried to make the most of the ride, peering out the window and snapping photos of more Afar nomads and tribal life that we passed along the way.

There was something poetic about seeing it all in reverse—watching the alien world of the Danakil slowly fade behind us, giving way to civilization once more.

Back in Mek’ele: A Return to Comfort

By the time we rolled into Mek’ele, my body was exhausted, my shirt soaked through, and all I could think about was shade, water, and maybe a flush toilet.

We checked into a modest hotel, but to us, it may as well have been the Ritz-Carlton. It had air conditioning, and that cold, artificial breeze felt like divine intervention. After days of lava heat, flies, and open-air desert sleeping, I lay on the bed, let the chill wash over me, and didn’t move for what felt like hours.

The Danakil had taken a toll—but it also delivered something I’d never forget:
A journey through one of the most hostile, surreal, and spectacular places on Earth.

Village Girl on the way back to Mekele