A Game of Russian Roulette
For a second, the uniformed officer looked threatening. He followed me. When I reached the stairs leading to my Transavia flight to Paris, he stepped in front of me, asking, “Sir, may I talk to you for a second?” Did he suspect I was smuggling precious Islamic art or some cannabis, the popular Kif? “When are you returning to Marrakech,” the customs officer inquired. “In four days”, I replied. “Perfect,” was his reaction. “May I ask you to buy in a French pharmacy the drugs mentioned on this prescription for my mother?” Before I could react, he handed me the medical paper and added, “Mama, Allah protect her, believes those rumors that some of the pharmaceutical products sold in our pharmacies are fake, substandard or outdated.”