Inside a dusky interior is a labyrinth of doorways and chambers, leading from one to the other in a quite unexpected manner. Exotic maze. The ceiling is low the doorways even lower. The floor is covered with colourful blankets and textiles, which in their turn are covered with the most fascinating range of jewellery, weapons and beads. Everywhere there are the whites of eyes and teeth. All the faces are black. You glimpse strands of the warmest coloured Mauritanian and Sudanese Trading Amber and bags of brightly coloured glass beads from the West African Trade: there are also bronze and silver artefacts from nomadic Saharan tribes. Oh please let me take you to the Tuareg people, as you are here on their old trading route. There they are, glistening blackish blue from the indigo cloths. Camel bags, hats and finely crafted jewellery and swords cover the floor. There is excitement of trade, children sleeping in corners, hidden bags of treasure, laughter and wonderment. The commerce is all taking place under an exposed single light bulb, and when that goes out, as it does frequently, it's all done by candlelight. Three hours later you stagger out-somehow lost in another world - with four Tuareg crosses around your neck, eleven mud cloths in a plastic bag, Christmas presents for your whole family even those you don't care for.

It's hot. It's time to chase up one of those classic African taxis.

Unfortunately Marche-Rosa' burnt to the ground in 1991. A lot of the tresures were destroyed - but as far as I know nobody was killed. Nothing has yet replaced it. The traders have scattered throughout town some moving further a field.