You arrive to the smell of orange blossom and diesel—Marrakech’s medina spilling people, vendors and raucous scooters into the street. The first morning the caravan feels cinematic: an air-conditioned minivan pulling away from the city, Atlas mountains carving the horizon, a driver who knows every hairpin and village by name. Over the next eleven days the route reshapes: plunging waterfalls at Ouzoud, the serrated profile of the High Atlas at Tizi n’Tichka, the red clay kasbahs of Ouarzazate, and finally the vast quiet of Erg Chebbi where dunes fold like slow-moving waves under a desert sky.