The thing that makes Awjila visible from a hundred kilometres away is the deep green smudge of its palm groves against the otherwise unbroken gravel and sand of the Sahara. The oasis grows more than thirty distinct varieties of date, the most prized being the soft, honey-sweet taghyat that traders once carried across the desert to the Mediterranean coast. Each grove is owned and worked by an extended family, with individual trees passed down by inheritance.
Walking the dirt tracks between the groves is the simplest pleasure in Awjila — temperature drops by several degrees the moment you step under the canopy, and you will hear the constant rustle of fronds against the ever-present wind. Harvest takes place in autumn, when ladders go up against the trunks and the village fills with the smell of fermenting fruit. Outside that brief window, the groves are quiet, broken only by the occasional donkey cart and the call to prayer from the village.