I landed in Marrakesh after a five-hour flight from Stockholm. It’s late afternoon in October, the light was fading, the air calm, almost welcoming. That illusion lasted thirty seconds. I met Lahcen, our rental guy, grabbed the keys, and dove straight into one of the most chaotic traffic jams I’ve ever seen.
I hadn’t driven a stick in ten years. Between relearning the clutch and trying not to crash into scooters, donkeys, and cars jammed into narrow streets, the first hour in Morocco felt like a stress test. GPS glitched out, directions blurred, and I was swallowed whole by the madness. This was exactly what I came for—total immersion without warning. But at least I wasn’t alone.
Somehow, we clawed our way through. A few scraps of French—à droite, à gauche—and the kindness of strangers pointed us toward our Airbnb. We kept repeating the directions until we saw exactly what Lahcen had described: “a big plaza full of kids playing soccer and a gate at the back.” Miraculously, we made it.
Marrakesh Score
Like Lahcen said, the moment I stepped out of the car, kids appeared, offering to guide us to the door for a tip. Within seconds, one of them flashed a thumb-sized ball of hash.
“Ten euros,” he said. I hesitated. He dropped to five.
“I’ll take the five grams for twenty,” I countered.
“I need to go get it. It will be another 15 minutes after we get to the hotel.”
We set up to meet an hour later so we could check in and grab food. He dropped us off at our stay and disappeared in the crowd. We were staying in a riad turned Airbnb. Riads are classic Moroccan buildings constructed around a central courtyard. Most rooms face towards that central garden. This one was owned by Sophie, a French immigrant who embodied laissez-faire—freedom and indifference balanced in one person.
After a quick tagine dinner, we stopped by a souvenir stand and got a small metal sebsi, the traditional Moroccan hash pipe. Metal versions are mostly engraved, seven to nine inches long; wooden ones are made of two or three sections, nine or ten inches each, connected with a clay bowl at the end.
Walking back, the kid was waiting. He pulled out a dark little brick that looked and felt right. A quick bubble test, and the deal was sealed. Moroccan hash isn’t your 90–120u full melt by any means, but nobody expected that. Dropped some in the pipe, lit up, and it melted gently into smoke. Strong earthy wax with a faded pine-spice taste. I used to get it when I first moved to New York. It was the early 2000’s and that first hit brought me back to those days. What a great start.
As the night settles in Marrakesh, you can see people smoking their spliffs in the alleys everywhere you look. Small flames slowly heat up the hash as it gets rolled into cigarettes.
Scoring hash in one hour after getting out of the airport felt pretty fortunate, but by the tenth offer that night it was obvious: hash was everywhere. Not hidden, not taboo—just part of the culture.
My wife has always wanted to visit the Sahara. Her wish to see a sunrise by the dunes, and my curiosity for all things weed, landed us in that overheated, motionless car. A dichotomy of panic and joy leading us into the streets. Our great shark hunt could’ve ended right there—just two idiots abroad, stranded and lost—if we didn’t get our shit together fast.
Blue Pearl
For the next two weeks, we fully embraced our time on the road. A night in the desert, camel rides, dune surfing, and the feeling of overpaying for a bottle of argon oil were all part of the tourist experience. With the right mindset, even carpet shopping is a thrill. But as we closed in on the Rif, all I wanted was a farm. For a while, I’d been shooting 30-light indoor rooms around Santa Rosa, in California—but visiting a Moroccan hash farm was the achievement I’d been chasing for years..
Finally we arrived in Chefchaouen. The town is a living postcard in the Rif Mountains, social media-ready in its blue and white paint. Known as the Blue Pearl of Morocco, it’s more than just a pretty face: the region produces roughly a third of Morocco’s cannabis crop—around ten percent of the world’s hash supply.
At check-in, a young guy named Omar appeared, mid-20s, sharp grin, plenty of local knowledge. He pointed out the avoidable gimmicks, poured the requisite mint tea, and accepted a few hits from a rosin pen. Conversation quickly shifted into stoner territory.
I asked if he knew a guide who could take us to a hash farm. He laughed, leaned back, and pointed to himself. “Omar here is your guide.”
Perfect.
“They’re making it right now,” he said. “Harvest was three weeks ago. Kief is on the table. Tomorrow afternoon works—does that work for you?”
It worked for me.
The Farm
The next morning, we met up in the lobby, and it seemed that the entire hotel staff knew what was going on. They literally gave me an extra hearty breakfast so we could smoke more. Too funny. My wife befriended another couple as I was loading the car with the photo gear. The guy asked so many questions that we just offered him the last seat in the car. Defying his partner’s daring eyes, he took the offer.
The drive into the mountains would take twenty minutes, nothing more. Incredible: twenty minutes from hotel to hash farm. During the drive, we were trading a bizarre compilation of stories from Morocco, the Philippines, Israel, and Brazil. A revenant of old weed memories coming together. The chatter died when we saw a police car at a roundabout.
“They’re here for the trucks, not tourists,” Omar said. He was right.
At the gate, we met Elhad, the eldest brother of three. He ran the farm, which grew far more than cannabis—beets, potatoes, olives, oranges. All organic, though they’d never call it that. Around here, farming is just farming. No need for up-charging labels when the old way is the whole right way.
Elhad led us to a separate section of their compound. Inside a small and underlit hut, he had about 150 pounds of weed. Some were still drying in a well-stashed pile. The dried material was in these three huge plastic tube bags, with about 40-45 pounds each. Traditionally, male and female plants are not separated during the season, and the buds are full of seeds. Forget rolling a joint—this weed was grown for hash, the seeds saved for next season. If anyone brought this to a smoke sesh, you’d slap them. But here, it was perfect raw material.
The air was thick, basement-dry room feel, unmistakable smell. Another 2 pounds of kief was casually lying around in between some beets and potatoes. Just like another crop. We went over the process of making hash a couple of times and sat down to smoke, talk, and have mint tea. It was about time to get to work.
Making Hash
Hash-making here hasn’t changed in generations. A mesh screen is stretched tight over a big bowl. A small wooden stick is used to stretch the net and then tied to the bottom of the bowl. Dried cannabis is handbroken and placed on top of the mesh. Heavy-duty plastic is used to cover the pile of weed, and that plastic gets tightened by elastic bands around the bowl. The farmers take two sticks and beat them into this contraption like a drum.
After a few minutes, golden dust—kief—sifts through the mesh, collecting in the container below. Releasing the covers disperses terpenes all over the room. The amount of time and strength used in the process differs for each farmer. Like any classic dish, there’s a general way to make it, but every family has its own style.
The result looks exactly like the powder at the bottom of your grinder, but fresh, potent, and twenty times the volume. Later, it’s pressed into bricks ranging from 100 grams to two pounds.
After we were done, Omar and Elhad smoked theirs in long sebsi pipes, mixed with taba—a local herb with a tobacco-like taste. Not my style. I stuck to the pure stuff. Omar explained to us that local women don’t socially consume hash. My wife didn’t want to offend anyone, but she ripped some huge clouds with those dudes. That was an image I’ll never forget.
Soon we were all stoned, half-watching a soap opera, tearing bread into pieces, dipping it in olive oil from their groves. We spent more time talking than taking pictures. Elhad told me how making hash and growing cannabis was taught to him by an uncle. In return, I tried to explain what a COA is.
Ruminating
On the silent drive back, the weight of the experience settled in. A conversation over tea had turned into a guided trip to a hash farm. The local hospitality: breakfast prepared with extra care, tea poured in abundance, and knowledge shared without hesitation.
What I expected as a sinister adventure turned out to be some kind of eccentric tourism. Less outlaw explorer, more privileged guest. We safely navigated the mountain roads back to our hotel. Tired like kids after a long day in the park, we parted ways.
Looking back, it still blows me away that hashish is part of the local daily life.
The real connections happened in the search, not the arrival. From Marrakesh’s alleys to Chefchaouen’s blue streets and mountain farms, Morocco’s relationship with hashish revealed itself in a deeper way no tour guidebook could describe. The knowledge was passed like family secrets from one generation to the next. An unwritten way to preserve history.
Hash is not some illicit side business or someone’s unrealized gonzo fantasy—it is culture and heritage. And for a couple of hours on a sunny October afternoon, I was invited in.
