What the F*ck is Kif?
Morocco has long been a hotbed for spice markets, but they’re also into another herb of sorts, and make a decent killing slinging it around the world. Usually smoked in combination with tobacco, Kif is hashish, a condensed form of marijuana. Moroccans love this lung-clouding “perfect bliss” (the direct Arabic translation), and if you’ve ever smoked the stuff, the irony is uncanny.
If you feel that any problem can be fixed by smoking weed and kicking around a hacky sack, then this kif’s for you. In the interest of helping you look scholarly in front of your beanie-wearing, dred-head friends, let’s upgrade your stoner dictionary. Ever heard of “50‘s” or “aces?” They’re a half cigarette, half joint creation that some stoner undoubtedly concocted when he was short on the pot supply. Now add kif to your vocabulary: a concentrated mixture of pot rolled up with tobacco in a cigarette paper for your portable, mind-altering enjoyment.
In the early 1900’s, kif was openly sold in Moroccan markets. It was sold as purely marijuana then, but in the 60’s, English hippies swooped in and started mixing it with tobacco, creating the version we all know and love today. Kif has an interesting identity around the world. The uptight French have banned it, it’s perfectly legal in Spain, and in Morocco, although it’s not a lawful activity, it’s a popular one. Many young Moroccan boys start smoking at the age of 9 or 10 years old; elementary school assemblies and times tables would have been way more fun after a couple of hits.
Finding a kif dealer is like finding dirty sheets in a college dorm. While there’s a dealer everywhere you look, buying kif from a stranger in public is a common rookie mistake. Sure, it seems convenient at the time, but the likelihood of finding out that said stranger is a police informant is quite high, and you’ll end up in a dingy Moroccan prison without food, water and your dignity faster than you can scream your mommy’s name. Despite it being a chief export for Morocco and a major pastime for the male population, kif is actually illegal. If your idea of fun doesn’t involve rubber gloves, a fistful of sand, and your ass, then you’re better off getting the ingredients for your high elsewhere.
Now, if you are a bong-toking tripper who came all the way to Morocco to find the kind, listen up. There isn’t an 1/8th of Moroccan kif that comes with a money-back guarantee, so avoid purchasing last year’s oregano by keeping your shopping away from street dealers. If you’re friendly and outgoing, find a group of men in a café to discreetly smoke with and you can be fairly confident that the kif is of decent quality. Souvenir shoppers should look for small pipes called sebsis, or water pipes called hookahs (or hubbly bubblys) in markets around Morocco. They won’t be out on display, but can be found if you cruise into smaller bazaars. Keep your wits about you, and your personal belongings close to the vest when participating in illicit kif activity in Morocco.
OTP Tip: Remember that homegrown, Moroccan kif is going to be much more potent than the stuff your band-mate hid in your guitar case when you were crossing the Canadian border. Portion accordingly.
Nearly all of the kif in Morocco comes from the Rif Mountains that stretch from the Mediterranean Sea to the port city Tangier. The police know the route all too well, so it’s not wise to travel with kif anywhere in the country, as cops are looking to shake down hazy-eyed tourists. While you can get 10 years in the slammer for buying or smoking kif in Morocco, not every square inch of Morocco is a kif landmine.
Chefchaouen is a pot-smoking backpackers paradise where most people feel safe enough to puff the good stuff with their newfound homies in hostels and guesthouses. For a change up, try taking your toking to the beach or out into nature where the public won’t be made to watch your drug-induced shenanigans. You can let down your nappy hair, dance around with tambourines, and take an irie look at a country that’s a total mind-fuck with or without kif.
I’m Kyle, a 2002 graduate of UC Santa Barbara with a degree in English and Art History. My studies also include time at Cambridge University, but short of picking up phrases like “cheers” and an affinity for “a good curry,” the experience was more social than academic. In addition to fashionable beers and cuisines from far-flung places, I started embracing things like currency conversions and the metric system. In other words, it was when the travel bug nestled in for the long-haul.
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OH – and there was me thinking that the lead photo for this post was something connected with a dog poop clearing up mission!