from kif to gold
how the rif became europe’s cannabis supply line
Danny had never really stopped moving. It was the late ’60s, a time when the world felt like it might crack open under the weight of its own potential, and he was already on the road. The Hippie Trail was a lifeline, stretching from Istanbul to Kathmandu, pulling wanderers like him eastward in search of something they couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just a route; it was a shared understanding. Everyone on that trail knew what it meant to lose yourself in the chaos of a bazaar, to sleep under open skies, and to pass a joint around a circle of strangers who, for a fleeting moment, felt like family.
Cannabis was part of it all, but it wasn’t the whole story. The trail was alive with possibilities, philosophy debates in teahouses, impromptu drum circles, and the kind of raw human connection you only find when there’s nothing between you and the world but a backpack. Still, the hashish was unforgettable. Danny learned how to make it in a quiet Himalayan village in Nepal, where the air smelled of pine and resin. The villagers rubbed the sticky flowers with their hands until the resin balled up on their skin, and they taught him how to press it into dark, potent blocks. It was a craft, almost a ritual and Danny carried it with him, really for no particular reason. He just did, driven by a love for the smoke and a restless curiosity.
The trail started to die in the late ’70s. Iran closed its doors, the revolution consuming everything that had once defined the journey. Afghanistan, once a haven for the trail’s wanderers, became a battleground for world powers that didn’t care about its beauty. The borders shut, one by one, until there was no trail left to follow. Danny went home, but he didn’t stay. The world felt smaller now, and he needed something to remind him of what it had once been.
Morocco was the answer. He’d heard stories of its twisting medinas and endless deserts, but what drew him most were the Rif Mountains. By the time he arrived, the cities were a blur, shouts, motorbikes, and the thick, humid air of constant motion. But the Rif was different. The mountains, a patchwork of green and brown, offered a stillness that felt untouched by time, where the rhythm of life slowed to something ancient and unhurried.
It didn’t take long for Danny to find the fields. They were everywhere, tucked into valleys and climbing the hillsides. Cannabis wasn’t hidden here; it was part of the land, part of the people. The farmers worked the plants like any other crop, and in the evenings, they sat together, smoking kif in long wooden pipes. It wasn’t like the hashish Danny had known on the trail. Kif was raw, earthy, and straightforward. It was untouched by refinement, a far cry from the polished distractions of the outside world.
Danny didn’t plan to teach them anything. He spent his days with the farmers, learning their ways, sharing meals, and smoking in the quiet moments between sunset and nightfall. But as he sat there, the resin-stained memory of his time in the Himalayas began to creep back. He thought of the villagers rubbing the plants, the soft crackle of pressed hashish burning, and the way the smoke curled differently in the air.
One night, sitting with an old man whose pipe never seemed to empty, Danny started talking about hashish. At first, it was just stories, the kinds of tales that drift easily between tokes. But the old man listened. He wanted to know more, wanted to see how it was done. So Danny showed him.
It wasn’t a revelation. The process was simple, just an extension of what the farmers already knew. But the results? That was something else. The hashish was richer, easier to store, easier to sell. Word spread quickly, and before long, Danny’s little experiment had turned into something bigger. Villages across the Rif started making hashish, and the blocks began to flow outward to Tangier, across the Mediterranean, and into Europe.
Danny left not long after. He’d had his time in the mountains, and the world was pulling him in another direction. But by the time he was gone, the Rif had changed. The fields were the same, and the farmers still worked with the same quiet patience, but now their crop carried a different weight. Morocco wasn’t just growing cannabis anymore, it was growing gold, one block of hashish at a time.
Disclaimer: While Danny is a fictional character, this story reflects the real history of cannabis cultivation and hashish production in Morocco. The Rif Mountains have been a center for cannabis farming for centuries, with kif being a traditional part of the culture. However, the practice of refining kif into hashish is relatively recent, introduced by travelers who learned how to make it while on the Hippie Trail.