
10 Days
Morocco Photography Journey
Scheduled around light, not logistics. Blue hour in Chefchaouen, golden hour in the desert, the way afternoon sun falls through medina lattice. You'll know where to stand and when to wait.
Your Route

Day 1
Marrakech
The souks spiral inward by specialty—leather, brass, carpets, spices. Each turn narrows. Bahia Palace holds its painted ceilings in afternoon shadow. The hammam strips you down to quiet. By evening, Jemaa el-Fna transforms. Smoke rises from a hundred grills. Storytellers gather crowds. The square has done this for centuries. It doesn't need your permission.

Day 2
Marrakech → Ouarzazate
The road climbs until the city disappears. Stone villages cling to slopes where light shifts by the hour. Switchbacks tighten around you like a held breath. By afternoon, the mountains release you into ochre silence. Ouarzazate waits—not as a destination, but as a threshold. The air here tastes different. Drier. Older. You've crossed something.

Day 3
Ouarzazate → Merzouga
East into the pre-Sahara. The road stretches through country that empties as you go. Tinghir's palms, then Todra—canyon walls vertical and close, afternoon shadow pooling at the bottom. Beyond Erfoud, the hammada ends. Erg Chebbi rises. The dunes turn gold, then orange, then colors without names. Camp appears. The sand is still warm from the day.

Day 4
Merzouga
A day without roads. The dunes shift color as the sun moves—pink at dawn, gold at noon, orange by evening. You can walk to nomad tents where tea is poured without ceremony. Or drive to Khamlia where Gnawa music rises from the sand. Or do nothing. The desert doesn't require your participation. It just asks that you notice.

Day 5
Merzouga → Fes
You leave the dunes at dawn. Sand still holds the cold. North through the Ziz—palms against red rock, gorge walls rising then falling. The Middle Atlas appears in cedar and mist. Barbary macaques sit like philosophers. By evening, Fes sprawls below—a thousand years of medina, smoke rising from a hundred hammams. You've crossed something. The desert hasn't left.

Day 6
Fes
Nine thousand alleys. The medina hasn't changed in a thousand years—same crafts, same quarters, same calls echoing off the walls. The tanneries still use pigeon dung. The brass workers still hammer by hand. You get lost. Everyone does. A boy leads you out for a coin. By evening, you've stopped trying to map it. The labyrinth is the point.

Day 7
Fes → Chefchaouen
North into the Rif. The imperial flatlands give way to mountains that don't care about dynasties. Villages appear white against green. The road winds tighter. Then Chefchaouen—blue spilling down the mountainside like someone knocked over the sky. The twin peaks watch. The paint doesn't explain itself.

Day 8
Chefchaouen
Blue on blue on blue. Every surface painted—walls, steps, doorways, pots. The tradition started with Jewish refugees in the 1930s. No one remembers exactly why. The color just is now. You climb to the Spanish Mosque at sunset. The blue rooftops spread below. The Rif peaks watch. The town doesn't explain itself. Neither should you.

Day 9
Chefchaouen → Fes
South from the blue hills. The Rif releases you into golden plains. The road finds its rhythm—olive groves, small towns, the slow approach. Fes appears in its valley, wrapped in history so thick you can smell it. The maze awaits.

Day 10
Fes
Nine thousand alleys. The medina hasn't changed in a thousand years—same crafts, same quarters, same calls echoing off the walls. The tanneries still use pigeon dung. The brass workers still hammer by hand. You get lost. Everyone does. A boy leads you out for a coin. By evening, you've stopped trying to map it. The labyrinth is the point.
This journey is a starting point.
These itineraries aren't fixed. They're designed to bend. Add a day in the desert. Skip the city. Stay longer where something pulls you. This is your journey—we shape it around what matters to you.
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