Walking with the Aït Atta: Preserving the Vanishing Nomadic Traditions of Morocco

A persistent chorus of shrill bleats and guttural baas echoes across the jagged canyons and towering basalt pillars of Jebel Saghro in southeastern Morocco. I squint against the glare of the midday sun, scanning the horizon. High on a desolate, rocky peak, I finally catch a flash of red—the traditional djellaba worn by Telhou Bel’awane, the matriarch of the Berber family I am accompanying. Her presence is the only marker that the herd is near. To my untrained eye, the onyx-coated goats are maddeningly indistinguishable from the volcanic crags and stony folds of the mountains. It is a stark reminder of the deep, intuitive connection the Aït Atta people have with this unforgiving, beautiful landscape.

Jebel Saghro is the ancestral homeland of Telhou’s people, the Aït Atta, a historically powerful Berber tribe whose identity is inextricably linked to the land. The term "Berber" is often used to describe them, but they prefer "Amazigh," which translates to "free people." This rugged, volcanic region unfurls from the shadows of the High Atlas Mountains to the very edge of the Sahara, and twice each year, it becomes the stage for one of Africa’s oldest, most resilient migrations. For millennia, Aït Atta families have navigated the arduous 180-mile trek from the lush summer grazing grounds of the High Atlas to the winter pastures of Jebel Saghro. This seasonal pastoral journey, known as transhumance, is not merely a logistical necessity for livestock; it is the heartbeat of a semi-nomadic way of life that is rapidly fading in the face of modernity.

It is late September, and I have joined Telhou, her husband Hmad, and their daughter Sa’dia ten days into their trek. I am traveling with a support team from Black Tomato, a luxury travel operator that has launched a new collection of itineraries titled "The Keepers." The concept is simple yet profound: to connect discerning travelers with people whose traditional knowledge and ancestral practices are being passed down through generations—from Daoist masters in China to ocean-reading mariscadors in Chile. In an era where information is instantly accessible, Black Tomato co-founder Tom Marchant believes that authentic human connection and the preservation of rare, lived knowledge represent the ultimate modern luxuries. Travelers are no longer content to be passive spectators; they want to be students of the world.

Before my arrival, the Bel’awane family’s caravan consisted of 200 goats, two loyal sheepdogs, a pair of chickens, and three donkeys laden with tea kettles, water jugs, blankets, and essential camp supplies. To support my presence, the Black Tomato team expanded the caravan to include five mules and a dozen additional staff, including a chef, drivers, logistics experts, and mule handlers. Among them are men like Zaïd Oukhazaid, who have reluctantly abandoned their own nomadic roots for permanent village life, driven by factors ranging from economic necessity to the shifting realities of climate change.

We met the support team roadside in Tagdilt, a village perched on the edge of the Dadès Valley. Zaïd, a man of diminutive stature but outsized personality, wore a coarse, sheep’s wool djellaba over trekking gear, his head wrapped in a traditional shesh scarf. Despite the language barrier—my own Arabic, French, and Berber skills being rudimentary—Zaïd welcomed me with a bear hug and an infectious smile that revealed a missing front tooth. With Noureddine (Nouri) Bachar acting as our translator, we soon learned that the family had pushed ahead with the herd, as the nomads’ rhythm dictates the pace of the journey. "You are here to support their journey, and we are here to support yours," Nouri reminded me as we began the trek into the "Land of Thirst," as the Berber people aptly name the Saghro region.

The landscape is Martian in its desolation: an endless, mesmerizing expanse of flat-topped mesas, dry riverbeds, and umber cliffs. "Drop me in a city, I’d be lost," Zaïd remarked, gesturing toward the horizon with a sinewy arm. "Drop me anywhere in these mountains, and I know my way."

Our first two-hour hike was merely a warm-up for the days ahead, where trekking for five or more hours would become the norm. We reached the Tircht pass, sitting at 6,100 feet, just as the team finished establishing our camp. Each Aït Atta family holds traditional rights to specific migration routes and established campsites, known as azib, where stone pens are maintained to shelter the goats overnight. As Zaïd began preparing a fire for tea, I caught him just before he added an enormous, iceberg-sized chunk of sugar to the pot. When I joked that I would prefer to keep my teeth, he erupted into a belly laugh, happy to accommodate my request for a less traditional, unsweetened pour.

That evening, we gathered in a tent made of goat hair for a communal meal. The atmosphere felt less like a professional expedition and more like an intimate family reunion. While the men exchanged gossip and news, Telhou and her 17-year-old daughter, Sa’dia, sat quietly nearby. Traditionally, the man of the house manages the logistics of the move, while the women shoulder the burden of guiding the herd through difficult terrain, in addition to managing household duties. My presence, however, offered the women a rare reprieve from cooking. As our chef served bowls of harira—a rich, tomato-based soup filled with beans, herbs, and spices—I bypassed the provided spoon and followed Zaïd’s lead, lifting the bowl with my hands to take a long, hearty slurp. "The nomad way," he nodded, clearly approving of the gesture.

The challenges of this lifestyle are growing daily. Rising global temperatures and severe, persistent droughts have drastically reduced available grazing land. Furthermore, since 2019, the Moroccan government has legally mandated that children between the ages of 6 and 16 attend school, which removes vital hands from the herd. Telhou’s family is no exception; four of her six children are currently in school, one daughter is married, and Sa’dia will soon be starting a family of her own. When youth are exposed to the conveniences of modern life—the flick of a light switch or the turn of a faucet—the harsh, physical labor of the nomadic life becomes increasingly difficult to sustain. Hmad shared with Nouri that while 80 families from his sub-tribe once made the trek to Jebel Saghro, this year, only six remained. It is a story playing out across the globe, from the Swiss Alps to the American West: a way of life deeply dependent on the land is quietly disappearing.

Each morning, the camp was roused before sunrise by the rhythmic hee-haw of the donkeys. After a breakfast of baghrir—crepe-like pancakes topped with amlou, a local almond butter—the team dismantled our camp, leaving no trace behind save for the stone shelters. By 7:30 a.m., we were on the move. Hmad led the donkeys along a dusty trail lined with almond and date trees, while Telhou and Sa’dia tackled the arduous, off-road climb with the goats. Watching Sa’dia navigate near-vertical cliffs of loose scree, dressed in a shimmering gold-striped dress and simple plastic loafers, was a humbling experience. She moved with an agility that made the task look effortless, a stark contrast to my own calculated, boot-clad steps.

Our second day involved a 7.5-mile trek over the Tizi n’ Tircht pass at 8,200 feet, offering breathtaking vistas back toward the High Atlas and down into the remote Azib Almou n’ Ouarg campsite. By the second night, the barrier between "guest" and "family" had all but evaporated, especially after a goat was prepared in my honor. We shared a "hoof-to-horn" meal, eating from a single, massive bowl of couscous. Conversation turned to the news of the day—the king’s appointment of the country’s first female prime minister. Zaïd joked that it was "the end for men," while Sa’dia remained focused on the herd. Telhou, however, cracked a genuine smile. "Why are you happy?" I asked. Her response, relayed through Nouri, was simple and profound: "Because I’m a woman, too."

By the third day, I had begun to recognize the individual personalities of the goats, even naming a young kid with white ears "Mittens." I even attempted to help with the herding, using a slingshot to steer strays back to the pack—though my lack of aim resulted in more laughter than success. Telhou eventually signaled to Nouri that I had "earned my keep," a comment that filled me with a sense of accomplishment. What started as a physical challenge had transformed into a purposeful, human-centered experience.

As the trip drew to a close, I spent time with Telhou at the fire, attempting to learn the art of making aghroum flatbread. My efforts were clumsy compared to her effortless, rhythmic tossing of the dough, but the experience was deeply rewarding. On our final day, as I successfully guided "Mittens" back to the herd, the realization hit that this was more than just a trip. It was a witness to a vanishing history. As I prepared to depart, Telhou offered a final, touching invitation: I would be welcome back every year. "She is a nomad at heart," she told Nouri. I left with the hope that perhaps this kind of immersive, respectful travel might play a small part in ensuring that the nomadic way of life finds a way to endure.