Amazigh villages and mountain scenery on a hiking tour in Morocco's High Atlas

Shortly after 4.30am, the day’s first call to prayer drifts across the mountains. A gauzy predawn light hangs over the Ait Mizane Valley, where a dozen villages are scattered across the rough slopes. Each settlement has a small mosque and an early-rising muezzin, whose wavering invocations roll out into the morning air. Twelve voices flow from 12 minaret loudspeakers, filling the sleeping valley with a river of song. In two hours’ time, the sky will be busy with swallows and the ridges will be washed in sunshine, but for now the mountains stir with hazy shapes and half-awake mantras. 

In Morocco, proximity on the map can be misleading. The valley sits barely 40 miles from the city of Marrakech but may as well be on a different planet. If street-level Marrakech is a whirl of thronged souks and bleating taxis, Ait Mizane Valley is its slow-motion antidote. The main village, Imlil, is a place where the smell of freshly baked flatbread drifts on the air, where you can stroll from cafe to mountain stream in two minutes and where your gaze is routinely drawn to the craggy crests overhead. The traffic jams and snake charmers of the city feel a long way away. 

I’m here to walk. The valley is located among the hulking summits of the High Atlas, a brawny mountain belt stretching for over 350 miles across the heart of the country. It’s June, and the upper slopes are dry and biscuit-brown, while the lower slopes are lush with walnut trees. Peaks ring the scene, snow lingers in some of the highest cols and the ridges on the skyline are as jagged as torn paper. “The local name for the High Atlas is Idraren Draren,” says whippet-fit guide Abdul Toudaoui, flashing a grin as he zips up his backpack. “It means ‘the mountains of mountains’. People once thought they were the biggest in the world.”   

His easy manner is reassuring. Over the next few days, Abdul will be leading me and a small group on a long, round-trip hike along age-old shepherds’ tracks and over a series of high passes, all above 2,210 metres. He knows the mountains here better than most. “I first reached the top of Mount Toubkal when I was 14,” he says, pointing at the serrated, 4,167-metre peak visible to the south, the tallest mountain in North Africa. “I was with my older brother. It was hard, but it was very special. I’ve been back up there many times.”    

Hikers visiting Imlil often attempt the same two-day ascent of Toubkal (there’s a base camp refuge near the summit), although the trails we’ll be following this week head to other, quieter parts of the range, veering along steep mountainsides and winding between valleys. I arrive in Imlil late at night, when the village is shuttered and moonlit, but by the time we begin an exploratory walk into the foothills the next morning, the place is alive with pack-laden mules and chattering groups of schoolchildren. Sacks of mint and thyme stand outside a shop. A bored-looking police officer smokes a cigarette, and robins sing in the willow trees.  

The valley, like the rest of the High Atlas range, is populated almost exclusively by the Amazigh people. Outsiders often refer to them as ‘Berbers’, but Abdul is clear on his preference. “The early Romans called us ‘Berbers’, which comes from ‘barbarians’,” he says, as we begin to climb past apple orchards towards the higher slopes. “Amazigh is much better. It means ‘the free people’. We are Amazigh.”

As we walk, I’m given an overview of the region’s history. The Romans took control here over 2,000 years ago, Arabs followed in the seventh century and France imposed a protectorate on the country in 1912. The Amazigh — a historical amalgam of various North African ethnic groups — were living here long before any of them, and although they adopted Islam from the Arabs, they retain a distinct identity. “This is our flag,” an Imlil shopkeeper tells me, showing me a tri-striped ensign emblazoned with a single red letter from the Amazigh alphabet. He points to the stripes. “Blue for the sea, green for the mountains, yellow for the desert,” he says, then rests his finger on the emblem. “This is the most important part. We call this letter ‘yaz’. It represents freedom.”      

The trail we’re on follows the contours of hot, crumbly hills. We stop in the early afternoon at a glade of leafy trees, where Abdul’s muleteer colleague, Mohammad Ait Idan, has lit a campfire and prepared a dish of spiced lentil stew and chicken skewers, accompanied by fresh salads and pillowy flatbreads. Mohammad’s al fresco lunches will become a life-affirming highlight of the trip. Mules, too, play a significant part, carrying our provisions and luggage from valley to valley. After lunch, the mountain path we’re following passes through a hillside village, where freshly washed rugs are being dried on rooftops as part of a spring clean in advance of the upcoming celebrations for the Islamic holiday of Eid al-Adha. Hens peck around mazy lanes and women in floor-length djellaba robes nod greetings from doorways. Beyond, terraced plots on the village outskirts hold rows of onions and courgettes. This sense of calm is typical of the settlements we’ll pass throughout the trip.

The first day’s walk brings us back to Imlil and our base at hilltop eco-lodge Kasbah du Toubkal. Once the home of a local chief, it was converted into upmarket accommodation in the 1990s. Film director Martin Scorsese chose it to double as a Himalayan monastery in his 1997 epic Kundun, which says plenty about the drama of the setting. “The hike starts properly tomorrow,” says Abdul, standing in the courtyard and pointing at a long, dry climb in the distance. “We’ll be heading right up there, inshallah. All the way to the Azzaden Valley.” 

Mountain highs

The Amazigh alphabet, commonly known as Tifinagh, is a singular-looking script full of circles and glyphs. As of 2011, the Tamazight language it’s used in has been recognised as one of Morocco’s official languages, alongside Arabic. When we begin climbing the next day, the script appears on signs at the trailside. Its strange allure fits the giddy surroundings. The early morning is already warm, with woodpeckers swooping across the path and scraps of mist snagging at the mountains. When, after 90 minutes of uphill walking, we turn to see how far we’ve come, Imlil is already a speck far below. 

The path continues, rising past scree and buckled rocks. The going is steep and we pass almost no one, so when we reach the 2,438-metre-high Tizi Mzik Pass it comes as both a shock and a blessing to find a stone cabin selling tea, snacks and freshly pressed orange juice. Its owner is Hassan Meskouk — baseball cap, half-smile, strong handshake — who’s made the climb here with his mule almost daily since 1998. He buys his oranges at daybreak from the market in Imlil. “A quarter of a century ago, I built this hut with my hands,” he says. From where we’re standing, the views spill out to both the east and west. A flock of yellow-billed choughs rushes across the hillside. “I like being in nature. I come up every day, even in winter. There are hikers then, too. They need tea.”  

As we carry on, dosed up on vitamin C, the sense of remoteness builds. It’s been hours since we last passed a house. The barren slopes, until now almost lunar, begin to grow green with juniper trees. Some of them, Abdul tells us, are almost 300 years old. They stand twisted but immutable on the sun-baked hillside, their roots lumpen and their bark stringy, with bowed branches and clustered needles. The path curves past hundreds of them. At ground level, far below us, yellow patches of broom and desert marigold shimmer in the heat. 

We eventually arrive at a giant cleft in the land, where the mountains become more textured and folded. The white-noise roar of the 55-metre-high Tamsoult waterfall betrays the cascade’s presence before we see it, plummeting down slick cliffs, sending spray ghosting into the afternoon. We linger next to it in the shade, enjoying the cool. When we turn to leave, the Azzaden Valley is spread out in front of us, wide and rippled, a whole world of terraced hills and minaret-studded farming hamlets. We pass an old man wearing a taqiyah skullcap, riding a mule. As we disappear down the trail, he starts singing into the hills. 

Our goal for the night is the Azzaden Trekking Lodge, perched above the village of Ait Aissa. The valley here is less visited than the one Imlil sits in, its contours a little wilder. Recovering from the day’s exertion — replenished by a bubbling tagine and homegrown vegetables — we sit on the lodge balcony as the stars appear one by one. The dusk is purple and full of toad and cricket song. Dogs bark into the vastness of the valley. Thick layers of cut grass, destined to become winter hay, are spread over the village’s flat rooftops. From the lodge, we can see at least four distant villages, and when the day’s penultimate call to prayer comes just before 9pm, one of the far-off minarets glows like a beacon, outlined in flashing lights. Later, the Milky Way appears overhead, a plume across the heavens.

Eyes on the future

According to global human rights organisation the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs, as much as 70% of Morocco’s population claims at least partial Amazigh heritage. Less than half of that number speak a Tamazight dialect, however, and the valleys of the High Atlas represent one of the culture’s traditional heartlands. The locals identify as Moroccan — they were hoarse with joy, along with the rest of the country, when the national team reached the FIFA World Cup semi-finals in December 2022 — but also view themselves as distinct from the mainstream. 

We discover this the next day, when we break from a long, butterfly-rich walk down to the valley floor by visiting a family home in the village of Tizi iZggar. The settlement is small but neat, with sturdy mud-brick houses and flowerpots in open windows. Aisha Ait Adi ushers us in a motherly fashion into her first-floor reception room (the ground floor is given over to livestock, as is customary in rural Amazigh communities) and produces a steaming pot of mint tea. A small alcove holds a TV; hanging above it are her children’s sports medals and a verse of scripture from the Qur’an. She’s lived here for 30 years, she tells us as she carefully pours the tea. 

“I have two sons and a daughter. They have opportunities that weren’t possible for Amazigh youngsters when I was their age,” she explains. “The valley is a different place now. Until 20 years ago, we had no electricity. The government put in irrigation channels around the same time, to help the crops. Roads have been built, too, so buses can travel to towns more easily — it means my daughter spends every week in high school, getting an education.” Aisha places the teapot down. “Her future makes me happy.”    

Abdul remembers the arrival of electricity well. At the time, he was still at primary school, so found himself doing homework by candlelight one week and watching Tom and Jerry cartoons the next. “Our bedtimes changed too,” he says, smiling. “We stayed up later. But the big change was having the world right there on the TV screen: politics, news, other countries. You can’t imagine.” 

Aisha’s daughter, meanwhile, is just one of many Amazigh girls benefiting from brighter employment prospects. A combination of government funding, tourist income and specialist charity work has enabled the communities of the High Atlas — which generally lack secondary schools of their own — to provide new options for young people.

One organisation leading the way is Education for All Morocco, which supports rural girls, helping them to continue into higher education by funding spots in boarding houses near schools. After a hike through deep-sided valleys, home to quince trees and crowing cockerels, we return to the Azzaden Trekking Lodge to meet two young women benefitting from this initiative. Cousins Selma and Hafsa Ait Hmad, aged 20 and 19, respectively, grew up in the valley. They’ve just finished their time at high school in the foothill town of Asni, and will shortly start at university in Marrakech.

The pair are bright-eyed and chatty. They finish each other’s sentences and volunteer Stranger Things and Adele as two of their favourite things. Selma plans to study engineering; Hafsa hopes to become a French teacher. They fizz with optimism but are realistic, too. “My engineering course is six years long,” Selma tells me. “But it’s my dream. I need to be patient for it.” They talk about the pros and cons of rural and urban life: “The city has more possibilities,” Hafsa says. “It’s easier to make a future.” And they discuss the changes they’d like to see in the region. “I want the valley to have its own high school and a proper hospital,” says Selma.    

Their energy is contagious — which is just as well at this stage of the walk. The following day, Abdul leads us on a long, serpentine path back to the Ait Mizane Valley, where our journey began. Juniper trees stud the route, giant shoulders of red rock jut overhead and rumpled slopes yawn into the distance. Fat beetles range through the dust at my boots. The trail itself feels somehow ancient, and I find myself imagining the feet of numberless traders and goatherds plodding the same track over the centuries. I ask Abdul if he can put a date on the age of the path. “Yes,” he says. “It opened six months ago. Government money.”

Back in Imlil, we return to the Kasbah du Toubkal for two more nights — a chance to put the hiking poles to one side and adjust the pace of the trip to sedentary. I split my time between the soap-and-scrub of the Kasbah’s traditional hammam and the blockbuster view from its rooftop terrace, which not only faces the summit of Jebel Toubkal but gives a wraparound lookout over the whole valley. Like the rest of the High Atlas, the granite and sandstone peaks here have been forged over hundreds of millions of years. It’s a timescale to dwell on over your pre-dinner olives.

In my last conversation with Abdul, our chat turns to the old man we’d seen singing two days earlier. “I know this man,” he says with a laugh. “He knows many Amazigh songs from the past. He’s like a kind of poet — the words always have lots of deeper meanings.” I smile at the thought of the man plodding up the road, serenading the mountains as baffled foreign hikers stride past. “This is something very important for us,” says Abdul. “Today, even with all the progress, we have to keep the old ways alive.”