I acquired a handful of spices – four packets in total: three for cooking and one for tea, my favourite beverage. That Friday evening of September 29, I stepped into a spice-laden shop in Medina town, Marrakech City in Morocco. It was a sensory treat, as my nostrils were enveloped in an aromatic embrace.
Nevertheless, I was also a little bit bewildered. How on earth could someone run an entire shop dedicated solely to spices? It made me wonder whether the spice trade held greater significance in Morocco. Throughout the town, numerous other shops likewise displayed an array of spices.
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The vendor, a woman whose head was veiled by a hijab, conversed with me in English, a rarity compared to most I had encountered on my journey. Many either blended it with French or Arabic or simply responded with a friendly shake of their heads and a smile, perhaps indicating their unfamiliarity with the language.
The woman persuaded me to purchase Moroccan spices. Their vibrant colours still linger in my memory – hues of red, orange, light green, grey, and white. Their smell was delightful, and their taste never failed to satisfy my palate. My favourite is the Saffron Threads, which are known for altering moods, killing cancer cells, decreasing swelling, and acting like antioxidants.
The woman painstakingly bundled the four packets of spices into a sachet, sealed it with a scorch, and placed them in a small, milky bag before handing them to me. I settled the payment and exited the shop.
A cab driver was waiting for me outside, still eager to give me a tour of Medina. Interestingly, I hadn&039;t planned on visiting here; it was entirely his suggestion. About 20 minutes earlier, he had tracked me down in front of the Grande Mogador Hotel, where I was staying, and convinced me to explore the town.
He illustrated Medina as a beautiful town with enticing shopping opportunities.
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Though I initially declined, suspecting him of being a scammer, a nearby police officer reassured me with a friendly nod, dispelling my doubts. Upon further contemplation, I realised that the taxi driver had a valid point.
As a reporter, I spent the last 70 hours participating in the Second African Health Harm Reduction Conference (AHHRC) in Marrakech, Morocco. I had hardly explored the place. Besides, it was my first time in the country, and the conference had just come to a close.
"Okay, let’s go and see,” I told the driver before getting inside his yellow-coloured taxi. And that is how I moved to Medina, particularly to the spices shop.
Leaving the shop, the driver suggested that I should visit one of the town's largest mosques, known as Kasbah. Although I wasn't keen on going there, he did snap a photo of me from a nearby vantage point. It turned out to be the sole picture I captured during the entire excursion, as I completely forgot to take any others. Don't ask me why.
The driver insisted that I should explore some other Moroccan-made products. Following my "Yes,” he chauffeured me to a store brimming with Made in Morocco items. He assured me that this was the only shop he trusted for "real” products.
Upon entering, my eyes fell upon an array of beautiful traditional kitchenware, including plates, glasses, teapots, and an assortment of leather goods adorned with Moroccan artistic patterns. Alas, I refrained from making any purchases, mainly due to their hefty price tags. I mean, who would spend £140 on a leather card holder? Not me! I knew I could find something similar for just £5 back in my home country.
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"Guys, I think I will have to leave," I told the man who was presenting the products.
His face lit up with a smile as he expressed gratitude for my visit before I exited the shop.
I hopped into the cab and told the driver to take me back to where he had picked me up. On the way, traffic jams were a common occurrence. It reminded me of the scenes on some Kigali roads during the evening hours—same stuff.
The driver explained that it was because, on Friday nights, many people either head to mosques to pray or go to Medina to shop. The town has a shanty appearance, featuring numerous shops lining its many small streets, akin to Kigali&039;s Biryogo neighbourhood.
The roads were immaculate, lined with trees. We even spotted horse-drawn carriages ferrying people. I learned that this mode of transport was more expensive than a cab. Nonetheless, I enjoyed witnessing horses sharing the same road with vehicles. Such a comely blend!
The driver skilfully navigated through the traffic jam without a scratch. Upon reaching the hotel, I settled the fare and expressed my gratitude for his quick tour. My shuttle to the airport was scheduled for six hours, so I needed to pack my stuff and catch some rest. He passed me his business card and urged me to reach out if I or anyone I was acquainted with needed transportation assistance. I nodded and carried the spices to my room, still enthralled by their aroma.