The Kif in the Rif

From long ago, well before this remote region and town in Northern Morocco became famous for it’s blue buildings, and a time when few dared venture here.

For sure it was soft, so we had to blow it up somehow. But where was my pump? Ahh, yeah, of course, it was back in Spain. The problem was that we were in the middle of Morocco, and standing next to a police checkpoint at the bottom of a mountain.

That was when we realised that Mark was running Schraeder valves, and that I was on Presta. We fiddled around with his pump for a while, and then finally sussed it; only thing was that we let all the air out of my tyre, and it wouldn’t blow up again. An hour later we were still sat beneath the tree, waiting for some kind of divine intervention. But it just wouldn’t come. Ten Swiss Army knife minutes later a bastardized bit of rubber was rammed in to the pump fitting, and with a two up effort we managed to re-inflate my flat tyre. And that was just the start of day two....

Day one had been the arrival day, the day we got confused and sat three hours outside a bank, waiting to exchange some currency. The day we moved our watches the wrong way, that day. Oh well at east we were on the move again, and heading off towards some great canyon the guys at the hotel had told us about. It may have been December but it was still pretty damn hot, and we were grinding our way up some 7-mile long climb in to a dead head wind. We’d been out for two hours by now, and were considering a mint tea stop in the next village, which was right at the top of the pass. Next thing we knew there was a strange chinking, we were being stoned by the local kids. There was to be no tea stop here. We big ringed it rapidly out of the village, beneath a shower of stones and boulders. I’d come across this kind of thing before - in fact I even get it at home. But Mark was most concerned; I’d never seen him look so worried. Which was quite amusing for me. 

It was almost two hours climbing later that we decided to give best to the days ride, but this meant that we had to retrace our original route, kids and all. This time round they were waiting for us, and chased us well out of town, unfortunately we were climbing at their running pace. I glanced over my shoulder to see a pale faced, and very worried, Mark surrounded by jeering kids, hurling stones at him and chanting “ Roberto Carlos “. I didn’t work it out until later, but they must have seen the World Cup or something. 

Sunset now

It had been an eventful day, and one Mark wouldn’t forget in a hurry. We sat up in the town square at Chefchaouen that evening, supping mint tea and eating local sweets as the sun went down over the Rif. The square is a great place to hang out and watch the World go by. A huge paved area, with a fountain in its centre, which pans out before the kasbah and the mosque, and is lined with small cafes and fruit shops. The locals sit in the cafes playing backgammon and watching TV. Most still dress in traditional hooded robes, even if they do have Nike trainers beneath them. It really is quite a chilled out and cool place, far from the hassled out streets and medinas of Tangiers and Marrakesh.

By now we’d been in town a couple of days, and the local kif dealers had more or less given up on us. The stress of things was beginning to melt away, and the dimly lit town begun to look a whole lot sweeter. There were very few Westerners around. And those who were tended to be of the variety that you’d expect to see in a seedy kif smoking place. 

As the sun bid good night the grand mosque called the locals to prayer. This was also time for our holy bit, a pilgrimage to the mega bucks Hotel Parador, for some of the only beer in town. This was a great palace of a hotel, and we promised to treat ourselves to a slap up meal here on the last day. That could be construed as extravagant, until you realise that the whole lot cost just over a tenner each, for four courses of Morocco’s finest.

After about 10.30 pm the whole of Chefchaouen closes down, and there’s diddly squat to do. Which I guess is why kif smoking is so popular with the locals. We were pretty well knackered anyway, and another days adventure had to be hashed together. So it was back to the hotel for a cold drippy shower and an electric shock before bed. 

Out of bounds

We’d been climbing for ages. Three old women carrying house sized bundles of sticks had been heading us off on every hairpin bend, embarrassingly keeping pace with us. Luckily for us they eventually turned off, which eased the pressure some. Where the track went we hadn’t got a clue. These kind of trails were neither on our map or signed on the ground. All we knew was that we were in the general area that the guide book advised not to go.

Each and every corner revealed a whole new vista, and an even better one at that. It was becoming strangely magnetic, the terrain and scenery luring us deeper and deeper in to the Rif. Things were getting greener by the meter, and great secret villages miraculously appeared upon the terraced hillsides. This was what we’d come for, the real and secret Rif. 

I couldn’t help but notice a kind of ever -oudening thudding noise. It seemed to be echoing right across the valley, but there was no sign of anything. We figured that it must be some kind of weaving, or agricultural implement. That was until we entered the first of these hidden villages. We climbed up a rocky track to a small plateau above the village, where upon we were surrounded by bemused villagers. This was it; kif country. All this greenery, all the hidden villages, Morocco’s kif growing industry was centred around these valleys. As for the beating, the local women beat the stuff with great sticks to make it in to a kind of pulp. 

They’d never seen mountain bikers before, and many of the villagers had never even seen a white man. What the hell should we do? Make a run for it? Retire here? Or just get on with the job?  

The latter was the only serious option, and that took some doing. But finally our new found friends let us continue, on the understanding that we would drop in for “ mint tea “ on our way back down the valley. 

The main track ended here, but one of the locals told us of a narrow single track that followed an irrigation line right through the whole valley. We soon picked it up and were on our way. It has to rank as one of the finest, and most obtuse, single tracks I’ve ever ridden. We passed through village after village, sending local kids, women, and goats running for cover. We didn’t dare stop or we’d probably be stoned to death.

The trail traversed a spectacular open valley, with beautiful green terraces lined by wild mountain flowers. Entranced by the views we were oblivious to the gang of locals who were perched just above us, shouting and beckoning to us. We pushed on in a hurry as soon as we noticed them, then suddenly the track ended, in a ravine. It turned out that they were telling us that there was a better track just above, which lead on to the next village. I kind of felt ignorant and rude having ignored them, so we stopped off for a chat. This turned out to be the day’s top move. One guy virtually directed us right back to Chefchaouen.

The route back was just amazing; a long 2 mile rocky climb, followed by a 7 mile dirt track descent. The whole scene was almost biblical. The trail was lined with locals fully robed up, riding their donkeys back from the market in the next village. A truly magical sight indeed. 

The only problem was that the other village just happened to be along what the guide book described as the most dangerous road in Morocco, being as it was controlled by kif growing Mafia mad men. Sure it made for an interesting ride back to Chefchaouen, but it’s all part of the Rif experience. And that was some fine experience for us “ Engleesh “.