Ali Baba's Desert Journey (Not)

On a map at the wind-tunnel hotel, the proprieter pointed out that it's possible to travel from Erfoud to Merzouga either by asphalt (normal roads) or "piste" (desert tracks), but that there are lots of tracks so we'd need a guide.
Passing through Erfoud, Keith stops at a car workshop and one of the guys there, a mechanic I thought, agrees to guide us. I'm driving as we leave the town on asphalt and, due to a miscommunication, briefly get stuck in the very first deep-ish drift of sand across the road. Great!
Deserts don't turn out to be what I'd thought. Yes, there are great expanses of sand dunes, in various shades between yellow and red depending on the area, but there's far more area of hard-packed sand, covered with many small stones, mostly between the sizes of grit and grapefruit.
It is quite fun driving across the desert tracks, with the occasional patch of deeper soft sand that would be able to bog us down and so we have to go more quickly across or power through.
When we get to Merzouga, the mechanic claims the agreed price for his services was 700 Dirhams, not the already-exorbitant 500 Dirhams that Keith understood. He's a bit stupid, as we were considering employing him to guide us on the next, longer leg of our journey. No way now.
We find Merzouga horrible. It's just a tourist-trap on the edge of the dunes full of hotels all offering "chambres, camping, bivouac."
As the mechanic gets out, another guy introduces himself and tries to establish himself as our "fixer". We decline, and choose one hotel set a little apart from the others for a cold beer with a view of the dunes. Refreshed, we decide to shake the over-eager dust of Merzouga from our feet and head for the small town at the very end of Morocco's tarmac, Taouz.
We have to pass by the "fixer" chap on the way, and stop when he waves us down. He won't take "no" for an answer and stays hanging in through the window. We have to drive off to get away, and even then we see him getting onto a motorbike to chase after us, but we double back and lose him. I guess the mechanic told him just how much money he managed to get from us, and wanted similar for himself.
Another fixer approaches us when we stop just outside the town to check the map, but gives up politely at our disinterest.
We read in the guidebook that there are places to camp in the desert, with GPS locations on roadside signs. We're stopped by the roadside trying to make the TomTom simply show us direction and distance (which it won't let us do), when a Land Rover pulls alongside and yet another "fixer" introduces himself, explains his wares and gives us the card of his hotel. This guy does seem different, smarter and informative rather than persuasive. Also, he offers us a good rate of 200 Dirhams a head for dinner, bed (with aircon) and breakfast.
We drive to Taouz, find there's nothing for us there and reluctantly turn back to Merzouga, deciding to locate the hotel. It's one of the first we come to and the fixer, Hassan, is waiting outside.
We consume our own beer and wine before and with a pleasant dinner. Afterward, we discuss options with Hassan for cross-country travel through the Sahara. We settle on a two-day trip to Mhamid, with our bus folowing Hassan's Land Rover, sleeping in the desert "with family" and going over the mountains on the second day.
Hassan and his colleagues give us nicknames: Keith is Mohammed Tagine, Sarah is Fatima Cous-Cous (which she loves) and I'm Ali Baba (because of my beard).
We set out at about 11:30am (don't ask), with Hassan and brothers Achmed and Ibrahim plus either Sarah or myself in the Land Rover and Keith plus the other in the Landcruiser to minimise weight.
The trip is fabulous, and we see several different landscapes during the day, starting with areas of dark volcanic rock that we have to pick our way through, and including a super-smooth lake bed, which we race across at near-motorway speeds.
Toward the end of the day, we see puddles by the roadside and stop for a closer look. They aren't puddles - they're the edge of a huge flood which we walk onward to stare at from the top of a sand-hump. Apparently, a short way forward the road will be under 4 metres of water. This completely blocks our way forward to our overnight stop and to Mhamid. Judging from the last time this happened, the route will remain impassable for 20 days. Shortly after we turn back, the old men in a village tell Hassan that the water suddenly arrived between 9am and 9:30am this morning, which is why Hassan didn't hear about it when he rang ahead earlier.
The water has come from the Atlas Mountains. This is the same rainfall that fell on us there, causing the landslips that blocked the road! Now it's blocking our route again.
We return to the tiny hotel, on it's own in the desert, where we stopped before for cold drinks.
As a last flourish, the guys drive the Land Rover to the top of a high sand dune, giving me a fabulous view over the range of dunes stretching beyond, by the light of the evening sun. Keith tries to follow but, due to his narrower tyres, bogs down half-way up and has to be pulled out.
We catch the hotel owner just as he's getting on his motorbike to go home. It turns out that the rooms are still being built and don't have lights, power or bathrooms. There's a separate toilet block with at least one sit-down toilet.
Dinner is lovely, a lettuce-free salad dressed with olive oil laced with cumin, followed by a tagine filled with cous-cous, vegetables and some meat which I think is chicken but comes on very non-chicken-like bones.
One thing we've learned about the desert is that there always seems to be some wind, although its strength varies. The bus gets very hot with the windows shut, but driving with front windows open has been entirely bearable. I shut the outside door of the hotel sitting/dining room and the temperature rise means it soon has to be re-opened.
The guys suggest that we sleep on the flat roof rather than in our hot rooms, so we do. Under the substantial blanket the temperate is very pleasant. Lying there, the sky amazes me. With no light or air pollution, the million stars are stunningly clear. For the first time I think I see the milky way. Just before 4am I wake up and find the insects have too. Expecting the guys to get up soon for their 4am meal before the Ramadan daytime fast, I retire to my room.
The revised plan is to make our way to a town not far from our start point (hence not-travel, the flood is the non-desert part from the post title). Some of the way is across sand cut into continual humps by wind or water and proves very heavy going. As we emerge we see more water - our way is blocked again! The depth would only be 2 metres this way, but faster-moving and just as impassable.
We turn back again and head up into the hills, climbing ever higher. We hit water again, but this time the guys decide it's passable. For the first time, apart from one watersplash the first day, we drive into standing water. A bit further on we find the floods have swept away part of the river crossing, so we have to make another way across. Keith gets through with no problems, saying that this is right in line with his experience from Australia.
We find ourselves in an area with palm trees everywhere, some sitting in flooded fields from recent rainfall here.
The guys take us to a local co-operative where a very pleasant guy takes us inside, gives us water and sweet tea ("Berber whisky") and tells us a story about Moroccan history, ethnicity, culture and language, all as depicted in the carpets he shows us. Keith and Sarah say that they live in places too small for rugs like these and the chap takes it well. I decide to recompense him slightly by telling him a joke that a carpet salesman might find useful: (to a woman) "Why is a man like a carpet?" "Lay them properly the first time and you can walk on them forever." It's not a great joke, but the sales chap and his friend are simply delighted.
As we're leaving, the chap asks whether we have any books he can read to improve his English (not that I think he needs that). A little while ago, my dad took up the practice of passing on books and not wanting them back. I'm sure he'll be very happy indeed that a pleasant and cultured Moroccan on the fringes of the Sahara is now the proud possessor of works by James Herriot, Jack Higgins and some Napoleonic political actioner.
We're short of cash to settle with Hassan and co. and we have to go back to Erfoud to find a working ATM.
We round off the day with a 150km run through the dusk to a town with nice hotels to minimise tomorrow's drag to Marrakesh. We'll overnight there, and afterward face the long drive home.