November 2010: For years, I was obsessed with visiting Libya—a country ruled by the eccentric and notorious dictator, Mad Dog Muammar Qaddafi. For decades, he had controlled this oil-rich expanse of the Sahara Desert in North Africa, becoming an arch-nemesis of Ronald Reagan and a symbol of defiance against Western powers.

Beyond its political intrigue, Libya fascinated me for its spectacular desert landscapes, particularly in the south. I dreamed of exploring El Kaf Jinoun, a mysterious mountain the Tuareg believe is haunted by evil genies, and the Ubari Sand Dunes, where a series of stunning oasis lakes lay nestled within rolling mountains of sand. These were just a few of the many incredible places I longed to see.

But for years, Libya was simply off-limits to Americans. Determined, I tried everything—I called prominent Libyans with government connections (whose names I had found while watching documentaries), reached out to Libyan travel agencies, and scoured for loopholes. The response was always the same: Americans cannot enter Libya.

Then, after years of closed doors, a rare thaw in relations between Qaddafi and the U.S. government changed everything. For the first time in Qaddafi’s regime, Americans were granted permission to visit Libya as tourists.

I wasted no time. As soon as I could, I bought a ticket and set off for a weeklong journey into the heart of a country I had long dreamed of seeing with my own eyes.

Map of the route I took in Libya

About Libya and Qaddafi

Libya, a former Italian colony rich in oil, is a vast country with a relatively small Arab population. It is dominated by the Sahara Desert, home to some of the most spectacular landscapes in all of North Africa. However, Libya is known less for its scenery and more for its infamous leader—Muammar Qaddafi.

Qaddafi rose to power in 1969 through an Islamic Socialist revolution, overthrowing the monarchy and nationalizing the oil industry. His revolutionary ideology was outlined in his Green Book, a text that became mandatory reading for all Libyan schoolchildren. He ruled as the country’s de facto dictator, using oil wealth both to fund ambitious social programs—such as free housing, medical care, and education—and to enrich himself, becoming one of the world’s wealthiest men.

As a strongman ruler, Qaddafi tolerated no dissent, and critics of his regime were swiftly eliminated. He viewed himself as a revolutionary leader destined to unite Africa and the Middle East under his rule. To achieve this, he sought to remove Western influence—especially the United States—from the region. This vision put him on a direct collision course with the U.S., as he financially supported nearly every major terrorist organization of the era.

The most notorious act of terrorism linked to Qaddafi was the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, which killed hundreds of people, many of them Americans. The attack triggered fierce retaliation from the U.S., including airstrikes on Libya, one of which targeted Qaddafi’s compound and reportedly killed his adopted daughter. After this, Qaddafi scaled back his direct aggression, and tensions between Libya and the U.S. settled into a long, uneasy stalemate.

In the 2000s, seeking to rebrand himself on the world stage, Qaddafi struck a deal with the West—offering to give up his weapons of mass destruction in exchange for foreign recognition. This diplomatic shift led to Libya reopening its doors to American visitors for the first time in decades.

Over the years, Qaddafi built an elaborate cult of personality, portraying himself as a flamboyant revolutionary leader. His image was everywhere in Libya, from murals to billboards, often depicting him in extravagant robes, military uniforms, turbans, and his signature oversized aviator sunglasses. His eccentricities extended beyond his fashion—he was known for traveling with an elite squad of tall, muscular Ethiopian female bodyguards and insisting on staying in a luxurious Bedouin tent whenever he traveled abroad.

Qaddafi’s Libya was a land of contradictions—both oppressive and extravagant, revolutionary yet corrupt, a place where state propaganda glorified its leader while the people lived under his iron rule. I was eager to see it for myself before history inevitably took its course.

Tripoli Airport mural of Qaddafi 

Qaddafi the General

Another Portrait of Qaddafi

Getting to Libya

Tourist visas for Libya were available on arrival, but I first had to apply through a Libyan travel agency for a visa pre-approval letter. Once that was secured, I could be issued a visa upon landing at Tripoli International Airport.

To reach Libya, I first flew to Rome, Italy, before continuing to Tripoli via Alitalia. I arrived in Rome in the middle of the night, and aside from a few oil workers, I was one of the only foreigners on the plane to Tripoli.

Entering Libya felt surreal. As I passed through immigration, I was surrounded by giant murals of Qaddafi, his image plastered across the walls in extravagant military uniforms, gazing upward behind his signature aviator sunglasses. The immigration officer pulled me aside and meticulously flipped through every page of my passport, searching for any trace of a visit to Israel. Had he found one, I would have been expelled immediately. Once satisfied, he issued my visa, and I was officially in Libya.

The Libyan company that sponsored my visit had arranged a driver for me, and soon we were speeding down the long, dark highway toward Tripoli—at a terrifying 100 mph. Before reaching my hotel, we made an unexpected stop for midnight tea with the owner of the travel agency and a few other men. It was an odd yet fitting welcome to Libya.

After the late-night gathering, I finally checked into my hotel, catching only a few hours of sleep before my early morning domestic flight to Ghat, a remote town in Libya’s far southwest, near the Algerian border.

Mountain of the Evil Genies in the Sahara

I arrived in Ghat after a few hours on the plane. The airport was as small as an airport can be—just a modest building in the middle of the vast Sahara. Waiting for me at the airstrip were my Tuareg guide and driver, standing beside their rugged 4WD Hilux truck. For most of the remaining week, I would be with them, traveling across the southwestern half of Libya, exploring some of the most remote and breathtaking landscapes of the Sahara Desert.

Our first stop was El Kaf Jinoun, a mountain deep in the Libyan Sahara that the Tuareg believe to this day is haunted by evil genies. I had first learned about this eerie place from a National Geographic article, which recounted the story of a female rock climber who had ascended the mountain on a government-approved expedition. Despite warnings from local Tuareg tribesmen about the mountain’s curse, she climbed to the top, defying the deeply held beliefs that had kept most people away for generations.

When I first mentioned my desire to visit El Kaf Jinoun to the Libyan travel agency, they immediately shut it down, insisting it was too dangerous and that no one could go there. I countered by pointing out that someone had been there—I had a magazine with a photo of a foreign woman standing on top of the mountain as proof. Skeptical, they demanded I send them the photo. When I did, they were stunned but still reluctant. Eventually, they agreed—but only under the condition that I would view the mountain from a safe distance. I figured that once we arrived, I could convince my guides to let me get closer.

The mountain itself was foreboding, rising a thousand feet out of the desert like a jagged monolith. At its summit, enormous boulders resembled twisted, ghoulish figures, lending credence to the legends surrounding it. The Tuareg believe El Kaf Jinoun is inhabited by djinn—malevolent spirits, or “small red men”—who light fires and beat drums atop the mountain at night. Their warnings were chilling: anyone who dared approach would either become lost in madness and perish in the desert, or worse—be captured by the djinn and have their soul imprisoned for eternity. These fears were reinforced by historical accounts of early European explorers who either went mad, lost their way, or were attacked by swarms of bees upon nearing the mountain.

Even my two Tuareg guides—hardened desert men, unshaken by the harshest conditions of the Sahara—adamantly refused to go near El Kaf Jinoun. When I told them I wanted to climb it, they outright refused, saying that if they did, they would lose their souls. But I was determined. After some negotiation, they reluctantly agreed—on one condition: I had to write a note absolving them of responsibility in case I didn’t return.

Lacking paper, I tore a page from my National Geographic magazine—the same article that had inspired me to come here—and scrawled a message:

“I, Matthew Allison, will climb El Kaf Jinoun alone. If I do not return, it is not the fault of my guides. Instead, it is because the evil genies have captured me.”

Satisfied that they were off the hook, my guides stayed behind with the truck, parking it about a mile from the mountain’s base. Armed with plenty of water and some food, I set off alone—toward one of the most infamous and feared places in the Sahara.

To better blend in and protect my head from dust and sun, I wore the traditional Turage head wrap, which was also quite enjoyable to wear. One of my guides is posing with me in this photo.

The hike to El Kaf Jinoun began on gradually ascending terrain, and I made sure to track key landmarks to ensure I could find my way back to the vehicle. Since I was climbing, keeping the truck in sight wasn’t difficult—at least in the beginning.

As I moved deeper into the mountain, navigating ridges and boulders, the terrain became more hostile. The sun was merciless, beating down on the bare rock, and the silence of the desert was eerie. Yet, despite all the legends, I saw no sign of the little red men that the Tuareg had warned me about.

But as I climbed higher, something changed. The wind howled around me, and I became acutely aware of how alone I was in this desolate expanse of the Sahara. Then, in a moment that I will never fully be able to explain, I thought I heard something—my name.

“Matthew.”

The whisper came from the wind itself.

A trick of my mind? The echo of the desert playing games with my senses? I’ll never know. But just as I registered the sound, I also thought I caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye—a shadowy figure, there for an instant before vanishing into thin air. It was too quick, too subtle to be sure of what I had seen, but it left me momentarily unsettled.

Still, I pressed on, knowing the real danger was far more tangible: a misstep leading to a fall, an injury that would leave me stranded, or an encounter with one of the Sahara’s venomous snakes. Hiking alone in such an environment is never advisable, especially in a place with such an ominous reputation.

I already knew from the National Geographic article that reaching the devilish-looking rock formations at the summit would require technical climbing gear, which I didn’t have. I had always planned to go as far as I could before turning back, and now, standing at the edge of a sheer cliff halfway up the mountain, I had reached my limit.

This was the end of the line.

I took a moment to absorb the eerie beauty of the place before beginning my descent. As I made my way back down, the unease I had felt earlier faded, replaced by a sense of exhilaration.

When I finally returned to the truck, my Tuareg guides were ecstatic to see me. They clapped my back and commended me on my bravery, though they still shook their heads in disbelief that I had dared to challenge the mountain. To them, I had taken a foolish risk, but to me, standing on that cursed mountain was a rare and unforgettable experience—one that few outsiders had ever attempted.

 

El kaf Jinoun with the devil horn formations to the right

El kaff Jinoun with its devil Horn formations

That night, we set up camp deep in the desert, far from El Kaf Jinoun but still within sight of its looming silhouette. Under the glow of a full moon, the mountain stood ominously against the night sky, its jagged peaks casting long, eerie shadows over the sands.

I couldn’t help but keep my eyes fixed on it, watching, waiting. My guides had told me stories of seeing the little red men atop the mountain from a distance, claiming to have witnessed their bonfires and heard their drumming in the dead of night.

I sat in the sand, straining my eyes and ears, hoping—or perhaps dreading—to see some flicker of fire or hear the distant beat of drums carried by the desert wind. But the night remained silent, except for the occasional gust of wind rippling across the dunes.

Whether the legends were true or not, El Kaf Jinoun still had a presence about it, something intangible yet undeniable. Even from miles away, it felt as though the mountain was watching me just as I was watching it.

Camping in the Desert near El Kaf Jinoun

Akakus mountains and Ancient Pictographs of Much Wetter Times

 

Over the next few days, we drove deep into the roadless wilderness of the Sahara, venturing into the breathtaking Akakus Mountains. This rugged, alien landscape—marked by towering rock formations, deep canyons, and endless sand dunes—felt untouched by time.

The Akakus is home to thousands of prehistoric caves, their walls covered in ancient pictographs. These remarkable cave paintings tell the story of a Sahara that once thrived with life—long before it became a desert. The images depict people swimming in rivers and lakes, hunting hippos, crocodiles, and other animals that no longer exist in this now-arid land.

Standing in these caves, staring at artwork that dates back thousands of years, I was struck by the realization that the Sahara was once a lush, fertile region—an unimaginable contrast to the vast sea of sand that now surrounds it. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional gust of wind sweeping through the rocks.

Traveling through the Akakus felt like stepping into a lost world—one where nature and history collide in the most surreal and awe-inspiring way.

Akakus Mountains

Akakus mountains

Camping in the Akakus mountains

Some of my most cherished travel experiences come from the moments I spent camping, and camping in the Akakus Mountains is a memory I will never forget.

After having tea and dinner around the campfire, I decided to explore the valley where we had set up camp on my own. The full moon cast an ethereal glow over the sand dunes and cliffs, transforming the desert into something out of a magical fairytale. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind shifting the sands.

Surrounding me were caves adorned with ancient pictographs, remnants of a time when this landscape was fertile, teeming with rivers and wildlife. One image, in particular, stood out to me—a simple handprint left on a rock thousands of years ago. I thought about the person who had placed their hand there, just as I had done today. Did they, like all humans, feel a sense of immortality in their own lifetime? Could they have ever imagined that their handprint would outlast them by millennia, even as the entire climate and world around them changed beyond recognition?

The beauty and solitude of the Libyan Sahara left an indescribable impression on me. I was spoiled by being the only foreigner and visitor everywhere I went—something rare in most places but a gift in Libya, where I had the vast desert landscapes entirely to myself.

We camped every night in the desert, except for my time in Tripoli. The weather was warm enough to sleep out in the open, in nothing but a sleeping bag under the bright desert stars. In the mornings, I would wake up to evidence of nighttime visitors—small footprints scattered around camp, left behind by desert foxes or jackals that had silently wandered in, scavenging for crumbs while we slept.

These moments—alone in the vastness of the Sahara, surrounded by ancient history, under a sky filled with infinite stars—are the ones that stay with me forever.

Jackel tracks in the sand

Me running down a sand dune

My Tuareg guides navigated the desert with an effortless confidence that amazed me. There were no roads, no visible landmarks—just an endless expanse of sand and rock. Yet, they needed no GPS, no maps. They relied solely on memory and an innate understanding of the landscape, passed down through generations of desert travelers.

At times, I couldn’t help but feel a slight tinge of concern. What if our vehicle broke down? Out here, in the heart of the Sahara, where so few cars passed, the consequences could be severe. The thought lingered in the back of my mind, but my guides never wavered. They drove with purpose, instinctively following invisible routes across the dunes and plains, reading the terrain as if it were a language only they understood.

Their ability to navigate the desert with such certainty, despite its ever-changing nature, was a skill that felt almost mystical—proof of the deep bond the Tuareg have with their land. It was both humbling and awe-inspiring to witness.

 

Desert Driving

Incredible Rock Formations of the Akakus mountains -Afazijar (big Arch) 

Ancient Cave Pictographs Thousands of Years Old Showing Signs of a Much Wetter Sahara

Ancient Cave Pictographs Thousands of Years Old Showing Signs of a Much Wetter Sahara

Ancient Cave Pictographs Thousands of Years Old Showing Signs of a Much Wetter Sahara

Tuareg Nomads

The native people of the Libyan Sahara are the Tuareg, traditionally a nomadic people who have roamed the desert for centuries. However, under Qaddafi’s rule, many nomads were settled into free housing and discouraged from maintaining their traditional way of life. My guides were Tuareg, though no longer fully nomadic—they still kept close ties to the desert, but their lives had changed.

As we traveled through the Akakus Mountains and beyond, we occasionally passed makeshift camps consisting of stick huts and beat-up old trucks. These belonged to the remaining true nomadic Tuareg, who continued to live in the desert with their goats and camels, clinging to a vanishing way of life.

At one camp, we stopped to visit what appeared to be an abandoned settlement. For a few minutes, there was no sign of life, but then, from inside the huts, a few men emerged, their faces partially concealed by thickly wrapped turbans. The women, as per Tuareg custom, remained inside.

The nomads were stoic but kind, greeting us in a calm, measured way. We sat together and shared tea, as is tradition in the desert. One of the men, curious about me, asked where I was from. When I told him I was from the USA, he surprised me by saying, “I have a brother in New York.”

He then asked me for a favor—after I took his photo, he requested that I deliver it to his brother in New York. He believed that if I carried his image across the ocean, I could reunite them in some way.

I asked for an address, but all he could give me was his brother’s name and the words: New York City.

I knew there was no way I could possibly track his brother down in a metropolis of millions, but I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. So, I simply smiled and said, “I will do my best.”

It was a moment that spoke volumes about the deep-rooted ties of family in Tuareg culture—and a reminder of how vast and interconnected the world can feel, even in the most remote corners of the Sahara.

Tuereg Chief

Tuareg Camp

Tuareg Man

The Great Murzuq Sand Sea

 

As we ventured deeper into the desert, approaching the Niger border, we reached the edge of one of the largest sand seas in the world—the Murzuq.

The Murzuq Sand Sea stretches for hundreds of miles, an endless expanse of rolling dunes that rise like mountains from the desert floor. It is one of the most remote and awe-inspiring landscapes in the Sahara, a place where the vastness of the desert truly humbles you.

We drove up onto the edge of a towering dune, the sand shifting beneath the tires of our vehicle as we climbed to a high point overlooking the endless sea of sand. There, under a sky untouched by city lights, we set up camp for the night.

As the sun set, the dunes changed colors—golden hues deepening into fiery reds before cooling into soft purples under the twilight sky. The desert silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional gust of wind that rippled across the sand.

That night, I lay in my sleeping bag atop the dune, staring up at the clearest night sky I had ever seen. The Milky Way stretched across the heavens in a dazzling display, and for a moment, I felt like I was on another planet—just a small speck in an infinite, timeless world.

 

Murzuq

Murzuq

Murzuq

The drive to Sebha, the first city I’d seen in days, took us through an endless stretch of stark, featureless desert. For hours, we traversed a barren expanse of sand and rock, where time felt suspended in the vast emptiness of the Sahara. Occasionally, we passed the remains of abandoned vehicles or faint desert tracks, but otherwise, there was no sign of life. After what felt like an eternity, a shimmer on the horizon signaled our return to civilization—Sebha.

 

Drive through wastelands

Ubari Oasis Lakes

Before heading to the Ubari Lakes—a stunning collection of oasis lakes surrounded by rolling sand dunes—we first had to pass through Sebha. The city was heavily militarized, with numerous checkpoints. At one stop, an official suddenly scolded me for crossing my legs and pointing my foot toward him. I wasn’t sure if he was offended by the gesture itself or simply because I was a foreigner, but his reaction was instant and irate. I remained calm as my guide quickly diffused the situation.

Leaving Sebha, we drove through endless sand dunes, following the faint tire tracks of those who had traveled before us. The journey was long and disorienting, but the reward was incredible—one of the most breathtaking oasis landscapes on the planet.

We camped in the sand beside one of the lakes, and as always, I had the entire place to myself. The lakes were warm and salty, making swimming a surreal experience—similar to floating in the Dead Sea. The high salinity kept me effortlessly buoyant, which was preferable to touching the lake’s slimy, gooey mud floor. Floating in the middle of the Sahara, surrounded by towering dunes and palm trees, felt like stepping into a mirage.

Ubari lakes

Ubari lakes

Ubari lakes

Ubari lakes

Ubari lakes

Leptis Magnum (Roman City Ruins)

 

After Ubari, we returned to Sebha, where I bid farewell to my Tuareg guides before flying back to Tripoli for my final two nights in Libya. From there, I set out to visit Leptis Magna, one of the best-preserved Roman cities along the Mediterranean.

I took a public bus from Tripoli to Leptis Magna and spent the entire day exploring the vast ruins on my own. Wandering through the ancient city’s grand arches, towering columns, and intricate mosaics, I felt as though I had stepped back in time. Beyond the ruins, I strolled along the idyllic Mediterranean beaches, where the sound of waves against the shore was a stark contrast to the silence of the Sahara I had left behind.

 

Leptis Magnum

Leptis Magnum

Leptis Magnum

Leptis Magnum

Leptis Magnum

Leptis Magnum

 

Visiting Libya and having its incredible sites all to myself was one of the greatest travel experiences of my life—one I will never forget. As with most countries that have had tense relationships with the U.S., I found that ordinary people treated me with warmth and hospitality. Despite the political narratives, the personal connections I made in Libya reminded me that human kindness transcends borders.

 

11 + 8 =