Tiny Traveler in Morocco: Exploring with a 5-Month Old

Mausoleum of Mohammed V, Rabat, Morocco

Traveling to Morocco with a husband, a four-month-old baby, and a suitcase full of diapers felt like the beginning of an adventurous parenting chapter. We flew from Rome to Marrakesh, just a simple three-hour flight, but as every parent knows, three hours with a baby can feel like a trip across continents. Thankfully, I came prepared. Since my son poops like it’s a competitive sport, I was on diaper-changing duty more often than the flight attendants passed snacks. The airplane changing table was so tiny it felt like wrestling an octopus on a shoe-box, so yes, future parents, change that diaper before boarding if you value your sanity. A small spinner toy with a suction base became our lifesaver; I stuck it to the window and my son stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa, drifting in and out of sleep between his frequent poop breaks. A quick breastfeed during take-off, frequent naps, and before we knew it, we were touching down in Marrakesh, ready to explore Morocco.

Our home in Marrakesh was a charming riad tucked inside the Medina—beautiful tiles, cozy vibes, and a warm welcome. The riad even sent their own taxi to pick us up, which I highly recommend, because Moroccan taxis do have meters… they just frequently “don’t work” when the fare gets interesting. Better safe than sorry, and cheaper too! The riad staff adored our baby so much that strangers nearly adopted him on sight, so if you aren’t prepared to say no, your child may leave Morocco with a dozen new godparents. The crib provided looked like it had survived previous dynasties, so we made the pram our baby’s royal bed and took the rest of the day off after arriving in the late afternoon.

The next morning, we set off to explore. The souks were full of charm and colors, Ben Youssef Medersa was stunning, and Bahia Palace felt like stepping into a postcard. Then came Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main square, and suddenly it felt like we walked into a live-performance version of Arabian Nights. Snake charmers to the left, monkeys on shoulders to the right, henna ladies stalking us like friendly hunters, and restaurant staff calling out like auctioneers. Our baby looked around, overwhelmed, and we knew a meltdown was coming. We fled to a restaurant for lunch and peace until, of course, the baby pooped. No changing table, tiny bathroom, so we did a public pram diaper change operation like true travel parents. Not glamorous, but effective. By afternoon we were questioning everything: Was Morocco too much for a four-month-old? Were we the crazy ones for trying? The next day didn’t change much, so we hopped on a train to Rabat with hopeful hearts and tired arms, praying that round two would treat us better.

Our rookie mistake in Marrakesh was dragging the stroller through every crowded corner like it was a royal chariot, while the perfectly good baby carrier sat in our room doing absolutely nothing. If you’re traveling with a tiny human in a place that feels like a live bazaar maze, trust me, skip the stroller. Wear the baby… or convince your strong husband to do it while you pretend to ‘navigate’.

In Rabat we stayed in a cozy Airbnb studio, a total game-changer compared to the riad chaos with a baby. There was a washing machine, so we could throw in all the “souvenir” (i.e. poop-exploded clothes) without a second thought. We didn’t cook a thing, why bother when almost every restaurant offered delicious food (yes, even for a vegetarian like me). Rabat blew our minds. Wide boulevards lined with cafés where you can have a breakfast enough to feed an elephant, and glasses of fresh orange juice sold cheaper than water (I basically “hydrated on sunshine juice” the entire trip). While we were in Rabat, the baby officially turned five months old, yes, a big boy now, so we celebrated with an ice cream. Pro tip: if you’re not a fan of rose flavor like me, do not trust anything pink in Morocco. Rose essence sneaks into almost every dessert like world politics. I took one bite, immediately regretted all my life choices, and my husband heroically had to finish the entire thing. Nevertheless, the city was calm, clean, baby-pram friendly, and pleasantly sunny, perfect for pushing a stroller without feeling like we were dodging camels.

Breastfeeding was surprisingly smooth too. I was nervous at first, wondering if feeding in public was okay, turns out it’s completely fine, or at least nobody complained. My baby refused the breastfeeding cover like it was a blanket of fire, so I fed him naturally, and men politely pretended to be fascinated by walls, clouds, anything but me (respect points!). I carried formula for emergencies, but never needed it. The little king wanted nothing but the original source.

Kasbah des Oudaias, Rabat, Morocco

We wandered through charming spots like the old city walls at the Rabat Kasbah of the Udayas, the quiet alleys of the old medina, the peaceful gardens near the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, the Hassan Tower standing proudly nearby and enjoyed scenic views from the Atlantic-facing waterfront. Rabat really won our hearts: baby, stroller, and all. Feeling confident (and very full), we rented a car and hit the road to Fès for the next leg of our Moroccan adventure.

Another important thing to remember: bring a sun hat and sunscreen for the baby. Even though we visited in November, Marrakesh and Rabat were surprisingly sunny and warm. I had the sun hat but skipped the sunscreen because I thought, ‘It’s winter, how harsh can the sun be?’ Turns out – very. Luckily, Moroccan supermarkets (which are impressively European-style and everywhere) sell baby sunscreen easily, so crisis avoided.

Fes was our next stop, and yes. We bravely booked a riad again, but this one restored our faith in riads everywhere: clean bathroom, proper toiletries, decent towels, and surprisingly cheaper than the previous one. Just one tiny problem… our room was on the fourth floor, and there was no lift. Picture me carrying a baby, a diaper bag, my soul leaving my body, and climbing ancient, narrow, vertical-ish stairs like I was training for Mount Everest. Every trip up and down felt like a workout session I did not sign up for. I swear I reached level 3 spirituality by the second staircase.

Fes felt a bit like Marrakesh: souks, squares, vendors, except with slopes and curved alleyways that made the stroller feel like a rollercoaster ride.This time we were smarter and carried both the stroller and the baby carrier sling. But honestly? In Fes, just bring the sling, unless you want your husband to spend the whole day lifting the stroller over steps, slopes, and maze-like alleys. However, less chaotic than Marrakesh, yes, but still full of enthusiastic baby-admirers. People couldn’t resist, again, touching my baby, stretching hands toward his cheeks like he was freshly baked cake. I nearly yelled when one man got too close. After Marrakesh and Rabat, we had evolved into parents who defend their baby like lions. Compliments never stopped though, every two meters someone would coo “MashaAllah” like he was the Sultan of Fes. Flattering, but exhausting.

Sightseeing was a bit limited. The Medina is huge, but mosques and madrasas were mostly inaccessible unless you’re Muslim. However one this is quite interesting to see in Fes are Tannery. During our Fes excursion, one guy literally grabbed us to show the tannery from his roof and handed us some mint to avoid the smell. However, the smell was so intense we had to make a speedy escape back into the maze-like streets!.

Chouara Tannery, Fes, Morocco

And directions? Oh, Fes was a comedy show. Google Maps gave up on life inside the Medina. Nothing made sense. There are thousands of derbs(streets), narrow alleys twisting like spaghetti, each one looking exactly like the last. Take one wrong turn and congratulations, you now live in Fes permanently. Luckily, every path somehow led back to a Bab (one of the big gates), so we kept resetting like lost characters in a video game. But be smart when asking locals for directions, kindness often comes with an invoice. Either they ask for money or escort you straight to their shop, restaurant, cousin’s carpet business, or all three.

Despite the confusion, climbing marathons, and cheek-touching attempts, Fes was calmer for the baby. He survived without dramatic tears.

Our final stop was Chefchaouen. The famous Blue City and according to Instagram it should’ve felt like walking inside a fairy tale. Reality, however, gave us a slightly different plot twist. We stayed in a hotel tucked high on the hills, and getting there felt like driving on a serpent’s spine: narrow roads, no side barriers, and cliffs so deep they could swallow Google Maps itself. My husband drove, while I held on to the baby car seat like I had the power to prevent gravity. For the first time ever, adventure didn’t feel thrilling, it felt like planning imaginary evacuation speeches for my five-month-old. This, I suppose, is motherhood.

The hotel was charming, but had absolutely no heating, and Chefchaouen gets cold. Very cold. Thankfully our little one had a full-body suit that made him look like a tiny astronaut, warm and unbothered. My Italian husband, on the other hand, spent three nights complaining like he was trapped in Antarctica in his underwear. Meanwhile, I was just proud we remembered to pack baby thermals: parental victory unlocked.

Now, Chefchaouen’s blue houses are what everyone comes for. But here’s the truth: for us, the magic was a little lost. Many blue walls were hidden behind stalls, souvenir shops and cafés, and quite a few buildings had become hotels or Airbnbs. Touristy, yes. Authentic? Debatable. Coming from India, I couldn’t help but think, if you want a real Blue City, go to Jodhpur in Rajasthan. Local homes are blue, charmingly lived-in, with forts capturing tourists while the blue lanes remain themselves. Just a personal blue-city review from someone who’s seen both!

Blue house, Chefchaouen, Morocco

But Chefchaouen had more to offer beyond the Instagram-famous shade of indigo. We hiked (yes, hiked) with a five-month-old because apparently we became mountain parents on this trip. The walk up to the hilltop Spanish mosque was surprisingly peaceful, even if non-Muslims/women can’t enter. The view from up there made the entire climb worth it: stillness, mountains, and a moment where the baby slept like a saint.

The next day we walked to the waterfalls. Fourty-Five minutes to the small one and another 30 to the bigger falls. Beautiful, fresh air, and manageable even with a baby. We skipped the hike to God’s Bridge, because crossing fragile wooden planks over running water with a baby sounded like a plot from a survival documentary, so we politely declined that adventure.

Compared to the rest of Morocco, Chefchaouen had fewer baby-grabbing hands and fewer “MashaAllah!” fans. By the end, after 10 days of mountains, souks, diaper changes, and cultural rollercoasters, we were exhausted and deeply ready to go home. But we were also proud that we survived Morocco with a five-month-old. We learned, we sweated, we climbed, we dodged people, and we diaper-changed in public. Our tiny explorer made it…. and so did we.

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