Shopping for Spices
Amina, the chef at our riad, guided us past stalls of fruit sellers, artisans and shopkeeps, through tight corridors and low arched ceilings until we were outside the walls of the medina at a dead end in the labyrinth where the smell of spices traveled up our noses and down our throats. We saw huge piles of garlic in giant burlap sacks, old men in beige tunics skimming thin papery peels with calloused hands, littering the floor with a flimsy, transparent garlicky crunch.
Spices pointed to the ceiling, towering mountains of brilliant yellow, orange, and red, along with giant bins of fragrant dried herbs of every description. The pungency was overwhelming.
Amina made her selections and paid for them, then gave us our change discretely. On our way back, my eyes wandered to a selection of oils, and spotting my gaze, the vendor seduced us into his stall. He held a glass jar to our noses, something that looked like shards of salt, but its smell was as strong as a shot of whisky, a peppermint vitality almost lifelike in its strength.