As measures, latitude and longitude have been around for centuries, but only the development of GPS (Global Positioning System) devices has made it possible to know your whereabouts with absolute precision. For example, someone in Kampala can see from a map that their city is roughly on the equator, but only with a GPS will they know if they are standing at 0° or a few yards to the north of it. A few years ago, GPS devices were hugely expensive and available only to NASA and MI5; now they are used as stocking-fillers for small boys. Many new cars have a GPS built in, to provide reassurance when driving in Milton Keynes.

Technology has a remarkable way of spawning dubious hobbies. Aeroplanes and binoculars produced plane-spotting, elastic inspired bungee-jumping and the internet generated blogging. More recently, GPS devices, digital cameras and the internet have combined in a heady brew to bring about confluence-hunting. This involves visiting a point on the earth where latitude and longitude lines meet, taking a photo and uploading it to the Confluence website. Only the integer degree intersections, of course. Otherwise it would be ridiculous.

On the morning of 31 December 2003 I leave Markoy, a small town in the far north of Burkina Faso, to go in search of fifteen zero, the confluence point where the line of latitude 15° North meets longitude 0°E (the Greenwich meridian). According to the map, this point is in the desert in the south of Mali, forty kilometres north of Markoy, and there is a track which goes within ten kilometres of it. How hard can that be?

My companions are American missionary Chris Laddish and his teenage children. Chris and his family have lived in Burkina Faso for many years and so are used to difficult terrain. They are no strangers to confluencing either; this will be the third notch on their GPS.

We follow the track north from Markoy, the level sands on each side punctuated only by pitiful acacia trees. Through the heat-haze a line of small hills on the horizon marks our Eldorado; somewhere over there lies fifteen zero, just begging to be stepped on. We pass a line of blue-robed Bella women on donkeys, bearing goatskins full of water. We pass woven domes deserted by their nomadic Tuareg occupants at the end of rainy season. We pass a hoopoe standing by the roadside, a glorious bird even to an orno-sceptic like myself. And all the while the GPS is winking at us - 25, 17, 11 kilometres to go.

The Confluence project was started by Alex Jarrett back in 1996: ‘I liked the idea of visiting a location represented by a round number. I also hoped to encourage people to get outside, tromp around in places they normally would never go, and take pictures.’ Alex points out that ‘there is a confluence within 79 kilometres of you if you are on the surface of Earth.’ Who knows, there could be one in your kitchen.

There is no sign or boundary stone to mark our passage into Mali, probably because there is nothing here for a nation to be possessive about. We have gone as far as is helpful on the track and must tackle the last ten kilometres cross-country. Progress is slow because of crevasses in the ground and stumpy, recently-harvested millet-fields.

“Oh no, it’s a wadi!” exclaims Chris, and I look up from the GPS, half expecting to see the slavering jaws of some fearsome Saharan monster. But all I see is a dry river bed with sand in the bottom. We stop on the edge and Chris and his son get out. They climb down into the wadi, test the sand and scan the banks for good entry and exit points. Chris gets back into the driver’s seat and grimaces. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘I will be a lot better when we are on the other side of this,’ he says grimly, putting the truck into four wheel drive. We plough down into the deep sand and immediately the vehicle’s movement becomes sluggish. As it creeps towards the far bank the engine screams its resistance, and several times we nearly stop. At last the tyres bite on solid ground; we accelerate up the bank and lurch over the top. ‘That was close,’ I say. Chris nods, then glances down. ‘Oops,’ he says, and takes the handbrake off.

One kilometre from our goal we come to another wadi; this one is very deep and clearly impassable. We have to leave the truck behind and continue on foot, taking with us our cameras and water-bottles. We walk as one, huddled around the precious GPS like schoolgirls around a mobile phone.

After ten minutes or so we hit our line of latitude, 15°00’00” N. We stop, turn left and walk forward again. 0°00’09” E, 0°00’08” E. ‘This is where the GPS batteries run out,’ says Chris and we laugh nervously.

With cat-like tread upon our prey we steal. 0°00’03” E, 0°00’02” E. The North reading has suddenly become 15°00’01” N and to correct that we scuttle sideways on tip-toes, an oversized, eight-legged crab. 0°00’01” E. We hold our breath. 0°00’00” E.

15°00’00” N, 0°00’00” E. We are there. There is a long silence while we gaze at the GPS. The sight of all those zeroes makes me feel pleasantly giddy. Then someone cheers and the spell is broken. ‘Well done, well done,’ we say to each other. Back-slapping would seem over the top but a few firm handshakes are offered around. Welcome to fifteen zero, Mali’s second deflowered confluence.

For the record, fifteen zero is in the middle of a vast expanse of loose rock and drifting sand. There is a line of small hills to the south, but in every other direction the desert stretches away to a flat horizon. We take photos obsessively, as if sheer volume of celluloid can make this an interesting place. In many of these snapshots, the GPS is held close up in the foreground, and we are desperately hoping that the midday sun will not erase those beautiful, liquid-crystal zeroes from the photos. These photos are the story and they need to be in cyberspace next week. Without them, our fellow adventurers at Confluence.org will not know that we have been here.

Mark reaches into his bag with a ‘Look-what-I’ve-brought-along’ expression on his face, and takes out a firework the size of a lollipop. He sticks it in fifteen zero, flicks his wind-proof lighter and lights the wick. We withdraw, chuckling.

The rocket is a dud. It emits a small puff of smoke and flops sideways, and at that moment cynicism bites me. What we have achieved is futile. Latitude and longitude are convenient measures but their integer intersections are basically meaningless. We have travelled to a non-place and confirmed for posterity that there is nothing interesting here. We drift back to the truck for a picnic, each of us taking a different route across the wadi. Oh well, I am thinking, at least we saw that hoopoe on the way.

Arriving back in Markoy we are met by Roosman, an old Tuareg man resplendent in his white robes and voluptuous indigo turban. He watches us appraisingly as we step out of the vehicle, covered from head to toe in red-grey dust. ‘Toy njaadon?’ he asks, frowning. Where have you been?

I want to seize the old man by his beard and cackle and say, ‘We’ve been to fifteen zero.’ But that would require an explanation as long as the ancient mariner’s.

‘Fay nokku,’ I hear myself say. Nowhere, really.

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• See the photos and read Chris' story on the official Degree Confluence Project website.
• Read about another unusual use for a GPS - introducing the cyber-shepherds!