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 ...