Part 4: Mint Tea in Marrakech
And then one day the inevitable happens. Your steps become shorter, your breathing becomes more laboured, and you crave a cup of tea more and more.
And that has nothing to do with altitude.
Slowly, the years force you to give up extreme trekking. You opt for a more urban way of roaming. Nature, mountains and the animal kingdom are traded for noisy streets, small hidden cafés and bustling markets.
And so I went to Marrakech.
Marrakech had been on my list for ages. In the 1960s and 1970s, Marrakech was, for some Europeans, a kind of nearby version of the great road to Kathmandu—less distant, but with the same promise of difference, spices, slow time and the feeling of having arrived somewhere far away.
At a time when Western musicians were looking for new sounds and new routes to the East, Morocco was close enough to feel almost like the promise of another world. Marrakech became a gathering place for artists, musicians and travellers. Famous faces came too.
I landed at the airport in the middle of the night and set off for the medina. Narrow streets greeted me as I made my way around a few tight corners to my riad.
In the morning, I was woken by the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer from a nearby minaret. Still enchanted by the mysticism of the Arab world and the exotic smells in the air, I got lost in the narrow streets of the medina.
It was December, and the temperature outside was pleasant.
I walked across the famous Jemaa el-Fnaa. At the far end, almost outside the square, I discovered a small teahouse on a street corner. There were a few small tables and chairs outside.
I sat down and ordered mint tea. It came hot, with fresh mint leaves in the glass and sugar on a saucer.
In Morocco, tea is a symbol of welcome. Refusing it can be considered impolite, almost an insult. It is not uncommon to be offered tea when you enter a shop. The ritual, of course, takes time. First you slowly sip the tea, then you haggle over the price. When the deal is done, another round of tea may follow.
Since I had decided from the beginning that I would simply enjoy my days off, I bought nothing and haggled over nothing. I just watched the people around me. The medina was loud, sometimes intrusive, and full of clever merchants.
And so every morning I went back to that little place, sat down and drank desperately sweet mint tea. Always the same waiter, friendly, with a few words of English. Without asking, he brought me the same tea. I drank it slowly, for an hour or two, until it had gone cold. The waiter would bring me fresh hot tea, without extra charge, as he did for the other regular guests.
Every now and then, we nodded to each other.
We chased the warm December sunbeams.
And watched the passers-by.