BY: Eugene Smith/Contributing Writer

Waiting for Zaid

We had arrived at Seven Saints Café in Marrakech in a dusty old beige Mercedes. The café’s terrace offered an ample vantage point to witness the slow morning routine of the place Jemma el-Fnaa, the lively heart of Marrakech. It connects a circulatory system of bazaars, roads, shops, home fronts, parks, mosques and baths that make up Marrakech’s medina.

The massive square is surrounded by restaurants, shops, and rickety four-story structures that jut haphazardly into the sky. Inside the Jemma el-Fnaa are lazing cats, disgruntled tourists, prying traders, and mingling youths. It is a panorama of human industry, which reaches its zenith in the late hours of the night.

We sat at the café waiting for our host, Zaid who was meant to accompany us to his Riadh (a traditional home with an open space or garden in the middle). Zaid was a perpetually late man whose unpunctuality would provide as much serendipity as frustration in our future travels together.

We were offered tea to pass the time by a kind waiter and acquaintance of Zaid. Two cups were placed on our table as the waiter pulled an ornate silver kettle high into the air and let the steaming tea fall into our cups. I was surprised by the idea of hot tea on a blazing summer day. Yet, my first sip brought a fresh mint sweetness that transformed the heat of the drink into a cool, refreshing taste. It was mint tea, known by outsiders as Berber Whiskey.

A staple of social gatherings, mint tea is ubiquitous in the region. Moroccans have been coming together to share stories and news, discuss events and gossip over a cup of the mint drink since ancient times. In the past, it was the drink of repose for Berber traders who would often stop to share a cup with fellow travelers or passing strangers.

In many ways it was a beverage that begged the drinker to stop, pour and listen.

Atop the Riadh

It was Ramadan and after breaking fast with Zaid, his cousins and other Riadh guests, we headed to the roof to rest on scattered cushions and listen to the sounds of Marrakesh. Abdeslam, who worked at the Riadh, appeared with a kettle of mint tea. We drank quietly, letting the mint flow into our noses as we listened to the city erupt in a thousand calls to prayer. It was a powerful and pervasive sound completely alien to my unaccustomed ears.

Conversation flowed over mismatched and chipped cups of tea, and tokes of hashish-laden cigarettes. Hasan, one of Zaid’s cousins, told us of the nightlife a town over, painting a picture of bars and clubs where young Moroccans drank and danced deep into the night. Then, prompted by Adi’s curiosity, we moved to politics.

The conversation turned into a healthy debate and nothing was left at surface value. Something unseen played a visible role in everything we discussed. Over a cup of mint tea, we discussed everything that came to mind.

At an Oasis between Marrakech and Zagora

Zaid’s djellaba draped over blue jeans and leather sandals. An orange turban was wrapped around his wrinkled brow and closed eyes. He was dead asleep in a dark room on the rooftop of a nameless highway motel. The Ramadan lifestyle had caught up with him, despite his best efforts to remain awake.

We were at the home of one of Zaid’s many friends, somewhere near Zagora, past the impending Atlas Mountains and approaching the outskirts of the Sahara. During our drive across the country together, he waved to someone at each town we passed; pausing often to chat over the 221 miles between Marrakesh and Zagora.

This particular stop was meant for a meal of Tagine followed by mint tea and fresh peaches, but it turned into a midday siesta.

As we sipped on the tea, we watched the children swim. Their laughter echoed across the rooftop in what was otherwise an oddly silent location. They greatly enjoyed each other’s company despite the fact that neither of them could communicate in a common language.

The Outskirts of Zagora: An Hour with the Camel Guide

At the tail end of our trip, Zaid left us at a desert camp, which turned out to be an extravagant tourist trap. We waited hours for him to return with an old man who had guided the tourists back from the encampment.

The man was short and bent from years of hard work. Fasting left his lips dry and cracked, but his smile was still warm and friendly. He didn’t speak a word of English, and only nominal French, of which I spoke some.

He was kind enough to wait with us, yet after some time, he shrugged, pointed off into the distance and beckoned for us to come with him. My friend and I, who would have otherwise been stranded on the edge of the Sahara, thought of no better option than to follow suit.

We walked through the small rural town to a walled compound, evidentially where the old man lived. A crowd of children had gathered outside of the house, whispering and laughing at us as we attempted to communicate.

The man invited us inside his home and brought us to an ornate room donned with wall cushions and an elegant chandelier. It was his tearoom, used for social gatherings and entertaining guests. With an air of prompt hospitality, he started a gas-stove and mounted a kettle. Brewing yet another kettle of mint tea.

We sat across from each other, sipping on the tea and speaking pidgin French; our conversation was punctuated by smiles. By sheer force of poor planning we found ourselves in a small desert town with a man who had presumably lived and worked there for his entire life. Just sitting and drinking tea as one was accustomed to do in these sorts of situations.

In the days of great Berber camel caravans, when strangers passed on the long trans-Saharan desert routes, they would greet each other over a kettle of mint tea. As the water boiled strangers would feel each other out, determining intentions and character and eventually sinking into conversation. It hasn’t changed much since.