Time for Tea

by Alice Stobart (South Africa)

Making a local connection Morocco

It's swelteringly hot. The kind of heat that dictates staying inside with the air-con on full blast, or lying in a swimming pool until you begin to resemble a prune. I've chosen to spend this unnaturally blistering day with my camera, exploring the narrow alleyways of an extremely busy market. I'm dodging the carts full of livestock, leaping out of the way of scooters, and desperately wondering how anyone could possibly navigate the labyrinthine souk of Marrakech. I'm lost in a whirlwind of vibrancy, from the vivid colours of the babouche-lined stalls to the pungent aromas of the conical spice displays. Everyone seems to know exactly where they're going as they disappear down minuscule alleyways that inevitably lead to another whole world of crafts and produce. I realise I've been standing in the same position for quite some time, looking around aimlessly and clearly establishing myself as an outsider to the surprisingly well-oiled machine that is this bustling marketplace. People are here with purpose, they know what they're looking for, and they know where to find it – and they also know how to get out again. "Fish and chips! Spice Girls!" The bizarre couple of exclamations cause me to spin around, and I'm greeted by a mammoth, toothless smile. The speaker is in traditional clothing, sporting a cream djellabah and a striking red fez jauntily sat on his balding head. I smile back while sweating profusely, trying to hide the panic inside me as I realise I'm very close to fainting. "Yalla, yalla!" He takes my hand and leads me into his carpet shop. Under any other circumstance, I probably wouldn't blindly follow a toothless man into a dark shop, but I'm feeling a bit delirious and a shaded shop feels like some sort of safety. I collapse onto a Boujaad pouf, and try to focus on staying upright. The man has disappeared, leaving me sitting in a pool of sweat with nothing but a camera and a bag of souvenirs. I'm alone in a carpet shop smaller than my garden shed. I'm beginning to think about leaving when the man returns with the same toothless grin, holding a tray with a very ornate teapot and two glass cups on it. He takes his place on the pouf opposite me, and puts the tray on the floor. He picks up the teapot, obviously hand-crafted with delicate patterns carved out of the metal casing, and pours a mildly green-tinged water into one of the cups and hands it to me. I must confess to being a slight germophobe, but at this point I'm so desperate for some kind of liquid that my fears about the dusty, unwashed glass seem to dissipate. He pours himself a cup, and raises it towards me, which I assume is the universal motion to say cheers. I smile and follow his lead as he downs the cup in one. Strong mint dances with a delicious sweetness on my tongue as the tea slips down my throat – certainly not the bitter taste I'd been expecting. I look up at the man, and he is smiling at me as if waiting for my reaction. "It's really good," I tell him, and I can see that he has no idea what I'm telling him, yet he smiles all the same. I give him a broad smile back, point at the pot, and give him a thumbs-up. He gives me a thumbs-up back, and takes this to mean that I want more – he isn't wrong – and pours me another cup, seemingly delighted that I've appreciated his help. We sit together for a while. There's no conversation, I've established that fish, chips, and spice girls are most likely his only knowledge of the English language – more than I know of his home tongue. In silence, we sip on multiple cups of tea, with the same smile and thumbs-up routine with every cup. It's swelteringly hot. The kind of heat that dictates staying inside with the air-con on full blast, or lying in a swimming pool until you begin to resemble a prune. I've chosen to spend this unnaturally blistering day with my new, toothless, tea-loving friend.