by Greg
After reading about the rituals and rites of Moroccan cannabis users, and looking into the reports of its
many visitors (including Paul Bowles, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Kieth Richards),
I felt that I had to plant my feet on the soil of this mythic land to meet the people, see the holy sights,
and taste some of the sweet hash celebrated by residents and visitors alike.
My Moroccan Odyssey began with a train ride from hell: a nine day sleepless Eurail purgatory
from Santorini Island in Greece to Alcatheris in Spain. Alcatheris is the small border town where ferries
leave for Tangiers, Morocco.
I arrived in Alcatheris in the afternoon and heard that the last ferry of the day was leaving. I raced to the
port, bought a return ticket and began one of the strangest journeys of my life. Along with the Arabian music
coming from the speakers fixed to the ceiling, a pervasive climate of fear filled the ship. Most of the
passengers on board were staring at me. In my hiking boots, with my big blue Mountain Equipment knapsack and
long hair, I felt like a sitting duck. Worse yet: a sore, green thumb.
My arrival on Moroccan shores was punctuated by the threat of arrest from a false policeman brandishing what
looked like a rusty piece of metal as a badge. I managed to escape his insane clutches and tried to ignore
the rest of the hustlers who crowded in on me with every step. Filled with the fear of a new arrival, I
climbed aboard the first train I saw.
An hour into the ride I realized that I had gotten aboard the wrong train. A friendly stranger informed me of
my mistake and we got off the train at the small seaside town of Asilah. My new Moroccan friend and I walked
from the train station to the centre of town. He told me he was a telephone operator in Spain. I knew he was
lying though his teeth, however, I had nothing to do until the right train to Marrakesh arrived.
When we got to town my new friend asked me if he could buy me a tea. I accepted and we went into a small
sidewalk café. The café was pleasant and looked over Asilah's seaside and its Medina (the
Arabic part of town). It was here that I first smelled the exotic, sweet, slightly spicy aroma of Moroccan
hashish.
At the back of the cafe I noticed some elderly men playing a board game and passing a long-stemmed pipe. At
this point, however, I was too paranoid to ask what they were smoking. After a delicious hot peppermint tea
(with the leaves served in the glass), my new friend asked me if I wanted to visit a traditional Berber cafe.
"Of course" I said, the words traditional and berber conjuring up images of old world Arabic
nomads smoking cannabis as they travelled from village to village.
The offer turned out to be a setup, and I narrowly escaped being strong armed into buying some Moroccan
clothes by my new "friend" and three of his cronies in a dingy backwater flat in the Medina. The men let me
go after I offered them some oranges. They started to laugh, gave me back my knapsack and I walked out into
the street. This is the kind of shit my mother warned me about, I thought to myself.
After this unsuccessful and slightly unnerving encounter, I decided to drop the idea of scoring hash in
Asilah. Instead, I went back to the train station and read my Graham Greene novel. Once aboard the train,
heading south, I realized that I was on the fabled Marrakesh Express of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fame.
Yes, there were "chickens, pigs and everything" on board. Although I smelled the old smoke ring of ganja, I
stayed in my sleeper car, protecting two older European women from the advances of the eager Moroccan men.
The train arrived in Marrakesh the following morning. Marrakesh looked hot, red and flat. I left the women at
the train station and headed for the bus station. I knew that I wouldn't be staying in Marrakesh. Instead, I
got on a cheap bus and headed towards Essouira, a small town on the coast. Essouira has long been known as a
"freak" town and a regular stop on the "gringo trail".
In fact, (as guide books to Morocco never fail to mention), Jimi Hendrix had stayed in Essouira in 1967 and
1968. I decided to follow Jimi's ghost. Part of the impetus of my travels is to document the last outposts of
the "counter-culture" experience. Essouira, with its legacy of hash smoking hippies lying on the beach,
seemed to be the perfect place for finding cannabis, covering the freaks, and recovering from the rest of the
hard fought "EuroDisney" trail.
The bus ride to Essouira was exceptionally beautiful. As we headed towards the coast the desert began to
recede and oases began to appear. People seemed happy and the small towns that dotted the bush route
fascinated me. I kept my eyes peeled for evidence of cannabis use, but I couldn't see any. At one point an
old man with rotting teeth offered me some interesting looking white snuff, but I declined, lest I be drugged
and robbed of all my possessions on my second day in Morocco.
When we arrived on the coast I was overjoyed. The sun danced from the distant waves and the hills turned a
beautiful golden brown. When I got to town I immediately headed towards the tourist district. Hustlers tagged
me, children followed me and the women glared at me from behind veils. I avoided the insults and offers of
the hustlers by continually biting off "I've been here before!" Try it, it works.
When I got to the tourist district, centered around a remarkable tile square with a number of sidewalk
cafés and shops, I booked a room at the Hotel Beau Rivage. The Hotel had been suggested by fellow
travellers and my Let's Go! guide. The owner was very friendly and I placed an order for a week's stay.
My room was a small clean affair with a lumpy bed and a comfortable desk and chair. The room was far better
than anything in Greece or Spain, and a quarter of the price. A fellow tourista commented that the pink walls
reminded her of being inside a Pepto-Bismol bottle.
After a brief nap I hid my valuables behind the desk in the corner of the room, and decided to get on the
hunt: my cannabis clock was ticking and I couldn't believe that I had been in the country for 24 hours
without smoking a damn thing. In the café I let my hair down and tried to look the part of the hungry
white dope fiend. I asked a few of my fellow travellers about "smoke", but they didn't seem to have any idea
what I was talking about.
Finally, after two peppermint teas and three coffees, I was approached by a friendly Moroccan man who said he
would like to smoke a jouen with me. When he pulled out some oversized rolling papers I realized we
were about to smoke a spliff. I was ecstatic. Over three weeks without smoking had given me a real lust for
the stuff.
As I watched the joint being rolled I was amazed at how much tobacco was being used. Still, I was eager to
get high, and when the joint was lit I took long, deep pulls every time it touched my lips. A small, filial
crowd gathered around us and I felt like the centre of attention.
However, as a non-nicotine smoker, I also began to feel horribly sick. As the joint came to an end I realized
I had to go lie down. I stumbled to my room and flew around in circles on my bed. How ironic, I grumbled, my
first night in Morocco and I end up with a tobacco overdose. Bummer!
The next day I awoke feeling a lot better and decided that today was THE DAY to find the smoke.
I went down to the hotel's cafe and had breakfast with the hotel gang: a nice enough bunch, but uniformly
straight.
Finally, I caught the eye of an interesting looking European hustler with snakeskin boots, blond hair and a
gold tooth. He must have noticed my impatient manner because he came up to me and said with a smile "Need a
smoke?" "Yes" I squeaked, and with that he took me to a store in the Arabic quarter, bought me a pipe and
pushed a small hard block into my hand as he whispered "hash." He declined my offers of payment, and walked
off after telling me to "be cool."
Elated, I zipped back to my hotel room and prepared to smoke. The pipe I had been given was beautiful. It was
about 15 inches long, brightly coloured, with a thin stem and a small ceramic bowl. I later found out that
the Moroccans call these pipes sipis.
I lit my first bowl and was instantly floored. The hashish burst my brain like a thousand tiny bubbles. After
not smoking for a few weeks my tolerance was down and I was ready to get HIGH. The wonderful North African
light shining off the walls and ceilings was infinitely appealing.
I filled another bowl and marvelled at the taste and smell of the hash. It tasted creamy and sweet, as
opposed to the acrid, bitter black hash I am used to smoking in Canada. Instead, the hash was blonde-green
coloured and quite hard.
A third hit was all I needed. I was filled with creativity and began to write a short story about time
travelling in Morocco, using cannabis as the intra-dimensional agent.
I spent many happy days in Essouira wandering around the town, drinking steamed peppermint milk
(with the leaves still in it), talking to the residents and hanging out in my room. I had a small gas stove
with me, so I bought some mint leaves at the market and sat in my room making rounds of tea for the other
hotel dwellers.
On my third day in the hotel I met a wonderful Spanish jewelry maker called Jesus. He introduced me to a
Moroccan linguistics student called Ali, who introduced me to a reputable cannabis merchant. Before long I
was stocked with a nice flat slate of blonde hash and a small bag of kif.
Before going to Morocco I was misinformed that what the Moroccans call kif is the refined product of
the screening of cannabis buds until only the THC crystals are left. However, kif actually refers to
Moroccan cannabis with the stems and seeds removed. The pure flowering tops are then ground and mixed with
strong, black natural tobaccos and smoked in massive amounts: this is called kif.
The end product of the screening of the cannabis buds is known as pollen. This item is very rare in
Morocco and unsuspecting tourists are often sold henna-hash (poor quality hash mixed with henna and camel
dung) as pollen. True pollen can be recognized as a light, small, sticky chunk of hash-like substance that is
quite reflective.
Nevertheless, I soon learned that I preferred the smooth hash to the harsh kif: the kif simply had too
much tobacco for me, it made my head reel and my throat wheeze.
As previously mentioned, one of my main reasons for coming to Morocco and to Essouira was to see one of the
places that Jimi Hendrix had visited. I have always held a great love for Jimi, he influenced many of my
psychedelic experiences and has had an incalculable influence on the drug culture.
One morning I woke up, had my usual sipsi hits before climbing out of bed, packed a day bag, and
headed out for a long walk to the much rumored "house of Jeemeee Hienddreex" located in the nearby village of
Diabet. As I left the heavily garbaged section of beach near town, I began to feel better and better. As
Essouira is often known as "Wind City" there was an assortment of brightly coloured windsurfers skiffing
across the bay.
Diabet is located about 2 kilometers from Essouira. The walk is beautiful an endless stretch of golden sand
dunes with wind running through one's hair and clothes. In order to smoke a bowl I had to hide from the wind
in a depression next to a sand dune. It provided the cover and as I smoked the hash I felt like a Berber
staring off into the distance.
Soon I came across what I was looking for, a sand coloured castle melting into the sea. As every Hendrix fan
knows, Castles Made of Sand from the groundbreaking 1968 album Axis: Bold as Love is one of
Hendrix's most beautiful and opaque songs, drenched in psychedelia and wistful memories. In fact, Hendrix
wrote the lyrics in Diabet while he watched over the castle made of sand, melting into the sea. He recorded
Axis shortly after leaving Morocco and one can feel the Arabic influence in some portions of the album.
As the castle sits crumbling into the ocean, about 30 feet from the shore, I decided to observe its
countenance from the vantage point of a standing 16th Century Sultan's palace, which sits back from the dunes
about 200 feet from the sea. I climbed onto one of the castle's ruined balconies and prepared to do some more
bowls and toast the legend of Jimi Hendrix.
I was just lighting up when a young Moroccan popped up onto the balcony and asked the eternal Essouira
question, "Do you want to see Jeemee Heeendrix's house?" "Sure" I said. The fellow seemed friendly enough. As
I looked towards Diabet I said, "Just let me finish my pipe." With that the young man pulled out a large vial
of smoky translucent liquid. My heart leapt!
The Moroccan showed me what looked like incredible hashish oil and said reverently, "Me father make it." He
proceeded to roll a jouen. We smoked it staring out into the bay and onto the beautiful castle melting into
the sea. Aching though my consciousness were Hendrix's strange "G" chords: the gulls careened around us and
our souls flew together. Brothers of the herb, Citizens of the Universe, flying on the mothership
connection.
After visiting Jimi Hendrix's old
residence, (which turned out to be a rather uninteresting adobe-style first floor walk up) we returned to
Essouira. I told my friend that I wanted to buy some hash and we headed towards the Arab quarter. We entered
a small café and he sat down with a group of his cronies.
I took a look around- no tourists here, all Moroccans. I felt slightly paranoid, as if I was walking into a
setup. My fear only increased when an ounce of weed was poured onto the table from a large brown bag and
cleaned right then and there. I kept glancing at the door looking for the Moroccan police and a place to drop
the hash that sat nervously in my waist pouch.
When a large joint was rolled and passed around the café my heart started to pound. However, when
everybody in the café had a toke and began to smile I knew I was safe and merely the recipient of some
quixotic, but friendly, Moroccan hospitality.
I stayed another two weeks in Essouira. I grew accustomed to the standard Moroccan sales pitch, the charming
line, "Do you want to fly to the moon?" I did, of course. I spent most nights horizontal on the hotel roof,
smoking hash with Jesus, talking philosophy and politics, and watching the stars perform lazy spirals in the
sky.
Highlights of my stay included the feast of Abraham, the wonderful peppermint tea and the company of the
Moroccan people. I grew to love their whitewashed homes, hidden courtyards and the early morning calls from
the Mosques. Still, as I thumbed through the guide book, I began to feel it was time to move on. I was
intrigued by a town that other travellers could not stop talking about: Chefchaouen. Chefchaouen, or
"Chaouen" as it is known in Morocco, is described by Harvard University's Let's Go! guide in the following
manner: "If you love rolling your own, you'll love Chefchaouen." I had to go.
So, I gave away my pipe and hash and got on the bus back to Marrakesh. It is a good idea not to carry the
sacrament between towns in Morocco. Although I escaped unscathed and unbothered, I was often told that the
police had many road blocks to seek out European drug smugglers. I didn't see any, but the paranoid air in
some of the bus stations led me to believe that the danger was real.
It took me two days to get to Chefchaouen. I saw Casablanca through the train window and got mildly lost in
the sights and smells of the ancient city of Fez. Chefchaoun is rumored to be "The Dope Town" of Morocco. It
is located high in the Rif Mountains, one of the biggest hashish producing areas of the planet.
The nearby city of Ketama, however, is the real centre of the Moroccan cannabis trade. Here are the two ton
presses and the Moroccan mobsters in their rusty Mercedes' and cheap 70's leisure suits. Young hippy types
like me are not allowed in Ketama; only the big guys with a lot of money. Instead the tourists are restricted
to the Chefchaouen area, where the Moroccan government seems content to let them get as stoned as they want,
as long as it is not in public, or at least too public. Those that have visited Amsterdam will note that
Ketama is also the name given to the superior quality Moroccan hash found in Dutch coffee shops.
I was in love with Chefchaouen as soon as I arrived. From the vantage point of the hotel rooftops, I could
see the cannabis plants growing in the distance.
Chefchaouen seemed like a place out of time. It had only been discovered by Europeans in the late 1920's, and
it retains cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, ancient Medina and oil lamps. Until the 1940's a boys
market was a prominent feature of the town. The hotels exuded a friendly, funky vibe and had left over hippie
posters from the 70's on the wall: lots of rainbows, longhairs and upbeat colours.
As well as its hash, Morocco is also famous for its beautiful arabesques: intricately latticed designs which
lace the walls of public buildings and some private homes. The Islamic religion does not permit the depiction
of God in works of art (unlike Christianity), as a result, Moroccan Muslims portray God in an abstract way.
Chefchaouen features a number of wonderful arabesques: they are fantastic when tripping or stoned.
I was burned on some fake hash when I first arrived in Chefchaouen. A
quick lesson in the fact that Moroccan Northerners are not as friendly as those from the South. The hash was
a crumbly mixture of real hash, henna, camel dung and dirt. It gave off a foul smell when lit and had a
rather noxious effect. I smoked a few ill-tasting bowls and retired in a bit of a huff.
When I awoke the next day I found the town in the midst of a deluge. The streets had turned to mud and the
Moroccan men were uniformly dressed in Jelhabas, brown, hooded cloaks that made them look like Jawas
from Star Wars.
I decided to walk around and try and pump some information from a fellow gringo. I asked where I could
purchase kif and he pointed to a café in the main square. I went in and sat down with a group of young
Germans. We shared travel stories over mint tea and ate some of the delicious Moroccan baked goods.
I asked them about buying some "smoke" and they referred me to a young, unshaven Moroccan. I sat down next to
him, and, as is the scoring ritual in Morocco, bought him peppermint tea. He proceeded to sell me a chunk of
heady blonde hash and a strong bag of kif.
Following the purchase the Germans and I went back to their hotel room. It turned out that they were
Deadheads and were pleased that I too was a fully indoctrinated member of the Grateful Dead cult. We listened
to my live Dead tapes and a copious amount of Frank Zappa and European techno music. As the young longhairs
gathered around the candle to share the sacred smoke, I had the feeling that the freak legacy had not left
Morocco. In fact, it was alive and well.
I couldn't stay in Chefchaouen as long as I wanted . Had I stayed any longer I would have paid to have a tour
of the pot fields, but the rumours of machine guns and tourist ripoffs made me a little wary about getting
too far out of town. The mountainous position of the town affords wonderful vistas of the lush Rif Mountains.
I met a number of very friendly and literate Moroccans in Chefchaouen.
I also met a number of hardcore partyers. People smoked more in Chefchaouen than any other place in Morocco.
In addition to the Germans, I met three really cool women from England. They had the biggest chunk of hash I
had ever seen and were smoking it like it had never been in style. Most afternoons were spent getting stoned
on the rocks near a waterfall.
Once one had spent a couple of nights in town the hustling began to lessen and the conmen and dealers began
to leave one alone. In fact, the three English women enjoyed taunting the Moroccan men with false
affections.
It was disappointing to leave Morocco. I felt like I could stay for months. One of the only annoying factors
of life in Morocco was the insane worship of King Hassan II, the latest incarnation of the 400 year old
patriarchal hereditary dynasty that has ruled Morocco with an iron fist. I saw Hassan's picture everywhere in
hotels, taxis, restaurants, trains, and even bathrooms. I saw pictures of Hassan swimming, playing tennis,
posing with two cherubic sons and even Hassan in a fringed leather jacket and sunglasses.
I admit that sometimes I felt a little guilty drawing on my long stemmed sipis while observing the
poverty and the constant sexism of the Moroccan men. Still, most Moroccans were fairly liberal, and many were
absolutely incredible people. They are very heartfelt and are possessed of an earthy, genuine spirituality.
When they smoke cannabis they sweat, drink tea and declare that Allah has entered the room and that the
future is I'Shallah: as Allah wills.
As one sips on "Moroccan Whiskey" (peppermint tea while indulging in a cannabis sesh), it becomes easier to
be sympathetic to Islam, that there is "only one God and his name is Allah". There is a distinct Moroccan
sensibility that is felt throughout the land.
Before leaving Morocco my good sense triumphed over my cannabis-loving sensibilities. I thought about
smuggling a tiny amount of hash out of the country to keep me company in Europe. Other travellers told me
that the best way to do it was to make small olivepit size lumps of hash and cover them in cellophane. Then
burn the cellophane with a lighter to seal the hash. Repeat this process with each lump of hash, covering
each piece in two pieces of burned cellophane. Then place them into your ass.
I was afraid of shitting the hash out, or of getting it lodged up my ass, so I decided to try sticking a
condom-covered lump of hash up my ass. I tried the maneuver and felt very awkward. The lump of hash scraped
against the insides of my ass and I felt increasingly uncomfortable.
I decided to take the lump out. This was a taxing, sort of embarrassing procedure in which I had to dig a bit
with my finger to get it out. I washed the condom, washed my hands, took off the cellophane and aired out the
hash. I gave the hash to the English the night before I left and headed back to Tangier.
The ferry ride back to Morocco was fairly uneventful. I saw the rock of
Gibraltar and wished that I was still in Morocco. I managed to meet a young German with massive dreadlocks
and a tanned face. He offered to give me a ride in his van to Portugal. Since I was headed to Portugal I
decided that this was a kind offer.
We crossed over into Spain in a multicoloured 1970's van that was slightly crushed after an accident in
Morocco. It felt odd to be answering the typical border question "Do you have any hashisha?" with an honest
"No". The risk was not worth it, but we could have gotten away with pounds. Still, I smuggled out my memories
of my adventures in the transgressive zone of international cannabis use. I felt I had touched the legacy of
the Beat Generation, Burrough's interzone where anything can happen, magic fills the air, and the spirits are
introduced to all.
I'shalla.
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