Taste tagines and traditions in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
A motormouthed stallholder barrels past pushing a wheelbarrow stacked with pumpkins and pomegranates, snapping me out of my disbelief. I glance back at the man in question. Today, at least, his talents seem confined to the barbershop chair. As I wander through the market in Asni — a small town in the foothills of Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains — I’m steadily swallowed by its unfiltered mayhem. It’s the sort of place where teenage boys carrying slabs of beef wander between scuttling stray cats and men sit in cafes, exchanging news over syrupy mint tea. Narrow alleys are choked with locals testing tomatoes for ripeness, scooters sputtering past bewildered mules, and stallholders gathering on tiny stools for their second breakfast of the day. “We eat a lot here in Morocco,” says Hamid, who hails from the rural town of Aghbar. “It’s usually five meals a day — one after every call to prayer.”
On this balmy October morning, we’re joined by Hassan Ait Mbarek, a local farmer who — with Hamid interpreting — I’m beginning to know a little better. Hassan is from the nearby village of Tikhfist, where we’ll head later for a traditional tagine lunch with his wife, children and parents. Like most families in these mountains, both Hassan and Hamid’s are ethnically Berber — the Indigenous people of North Africa who’ve lived here since long before the Arab conquest of North Africa in the eighth century. The term ‘Berber’, meaning ‘barbarian’, was imposed on them by the Romans, but they call themselves ‘Amazigh’, meaning ‘free people’ in the local Tamazight dialect. The name nods to a nomadic past, when home was wherever their livestock chose to graze. That changed about a century ago, when Hassan’s grandfather settled in Tikhfist and built the family’s current house.
The weekly market in Asni is where all kinds of local trades, crafts and delicacies come together. Photograph by Jonathan Stokes
Hassan’s family own 10 sheep in their village of Tikhfist. Photograph by Jonathan Stokes
In recent years, many locals have relocated to towns and cities, but for Hassan — whose family was one of just two that stayed put — preserving what makes his people distinct matters. “We’re not Arabs; we’re different,” he says, inspecting a bunch of red grapes. “We have our own traditions that vary from tribe to tribe: our food, clothes, music, language, dialects.”
We push deeper into the Saturday market and the heady wafts of saffron and cumin linger in my nostrils long after we’ve passed the spice stalls. Hundreds of people from surrounding villages crowd the pathways, stocking up on fruit, vegetables, spices, clothes, schoolbooks and cleaning products. For many, this is the only chance to gather supplies for the week.
Despite growing much of his own produce, Hassan is here for the few ingredients he can’t procure back home. For today’s tagine, we pick up carrots and green beans before heading to the butcher’s section for the final ingredient: a choice cut of goat meat.
“This place isn’t only for buying things, it’s for socialising, sharing news and spending time,” Hamid says, weaving past the donkey blacksmith towards the exit. “Connecting with the community is very important in our culture.”
The road to Tikhfist
The 45-minute journey from the market to Hassan’s house follows a series of winding dust tracks. As our 4WD climbs higher into the mountains, the pink-hued Ouirgane Valley reveals itself in slow, theatrical stages. Its forested slopes, cloaked in olive groves, oaks and junipers, are dotted with the occasional hiker or elder shepherding their flock. The peak of Toubkal — North Africa’s tallest mountain — is barely visible in the distance. Then the Ouirgane Reservoir appears, a lifeline for surrounding villages, its glassy surface mirroring the mountains around it.
The trills and drumbeats of ahidous — a haunting Amazigh style of music — pulse from the radio as we pass goat shelters and clusters of white beehives. Eventually, the soundtrack fades beneath the shouts of children and a volley of cock-a-doodling cockerels as we pull into Tikhfist.
The vast Ouirgane Valley is cloaked in olive trees, oaks and junipers. Photograph by Jonathan Stokes
Perched at around 1,800m (5,905ft), the village feels like another world compared to the hubbub of Marrakech, the closest major city, around 40 miles to the north. A handful of flat-roofed homes cling to the hillside, built from rust-hued clay bricks and fronted by rickety balconies draped with colourful prayer rugs. As we step out of the car, Hamid tells me the dirt track from Ouirgane, both the nearest town and the name of Hassan’s tribe, wasn’t built until 2002. Electricity came even later; until 2007, the entire village relied on candlelight.
We’re greeted at the door by Hassan’s 80-year-old father, Hussein, dressed in a brown gandoura (a light tunic) and white kufi (a brimless cylindrical hat). Before entering the house, he bows to kiss his father’s right hand — a gesture indicating reverence for elders that’s adopted across Morocco. “Parents here are respected even more than wives or children,” Hamid explains. “They’re like your hands — your mother is the right, your father the left. And you can’t do anything without your hands, right?”
Placing my right foot first — as is the custom when entering a Muslim home — I step inside. A small courtyard unfurls before us, where washing hangs in glinting shafts of sunlight. In the stone-walled kitchen, Hassan’s wife, Aïcha, is shaping tafarnout (a traditional Amazigh flatbread), rhythmically kneading the dough before a wood-fired clay oven in the ground. Their three children — Khadija, one; Fatima, five; and Imran, 11 — play together while Hassan’s mother stands at the sink, rinsing a cut of goat with quiet concentration.
Tagine, both the name of the dish and the cone-shaped clay pot it’s cooked in, is so central to life here that Aïcha will sometimes make it twice in one day. It’s a simple combination of slow-cooked meat and vegetables, with the specifics shifting from region to region. Here in the High Atlas Mountains, it’s usually goat, the vegetables whatever happens to be in season.
Aïcha mixes chopped garlic, red onion, coriander, parsley, home-pressed olive oil, salt, paprika and turmeric, then spreads the mixture in the tagine to caramelise. Within seconds, the air swells with spice, mingling with the hiss of the teapot bubbling away on the fire. At 2pm, the wavering call of the muezzin drifts through the window, summoning villagers to prayer. Zahra murmurs prayers as she layers bottle gourd, green beans, potatoes, carrots, green pepper and the goat into the tagine before leaving it to simmer for two hours.
While we wait, we gather around a low round table in the kitchen. Hassan pours green tea infused with mint, lifting the pot as high as he can to cool and aerate the water. Wearing her perpetual smile, Zahra tears off a piece of piping-hot bread, tops it with a walnut plucked from the tree in their yard and gestures for me to try it. As I do, I ask if she’s ever been tempted to move away from the village. “The modern, easy life in the cities isn’t for me,” Zahra says, her widening eyes ringed with black eyeliner. “I want to look out my window, stretch my eyes and see land and mountains, not buildings.”
Green tea is often infused with fresh mint and served alongside most meals. Photograph by Jonathan Stokes
Tagines, like the one Hassan and his family prepared with goat, are meant to be shared. Photograph by Jonathan Stokes
The land, after all, is their lifeline. It’s where they tend to their 10 sheep and where, despite droughts, they grow fruit and vegetables so organic that, according to Zahra, the family never need to see a doctor. In summer, they all sit on carpets outside and talk into the early hours, often with a barbecue on the go. “People here don’t need much to be happy,” Hamid tells me. “Here, our wi-fi is conversation.”
When it’s time to eat, we move to the main dining room and sit at a table beside a large window, where fresh mountain air drifts in and the land stretches out in a seemingly endless sweep. Aïcha sets the tagine in the centre, alongside a simple tomato-and-onion salad and a mound of flatbread. There are three rules here, Hamid tells me: “The eldest eats first, you eat only with your right hand, and when it comes to tagine — vegetables first, then the meat.”
Zahra lifts the lid of the tagine, releasing a plume of steam and revealing a kaleidoscope of perfectly cooked vegetables. Tearing bread for everyone around the table, she says “Bismillah” (‘in the name of Allah’), a blessing spoken before meals. I scoop up the buttery-soft stew, which melts the moment it hits my mouth, juices dripping down my chin. When the goat follows, it’s impossibly tender— warming, rich and slightly tangy with cumin.
For a few minutes, no one speaks. I use the silence to reflect on the resilience of the Amazigh people — from Hassan and his neighbours to the multitalented barber at the market. Despite the temptations of the modern world, they hold fast to family, community and a conscious simplicity. “Nobody wears a watch here,” says Hamid, pointing to the entanglement of hands scooping tagine. “But they will always have the time.”
Published in the Culinary Collection 2026 by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
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