African Brew Ha Ha

"Do you drink tea in England?"

October 25      

"But the tea, the tea comes."

The only Tiger in the desert

You too, can Springdoo

Black Africa

October 25            Question: where does the Arab land end and black Africa begin?

I think I’ve found it on the west coast : Nouakchott, Mauretania.

I have always thought of Africa as the whole continent, that beautiful, sensuous shape spreading itself over the globe. The island of Africa – allowing for the Suez Canal – is imprinted on our collective consciousness as a place of mystery, which makes it a simple concept to grasp - containable and a place apart; neither east nor west. Africa: it seems to say so much.

The first few days in Morocco were heady with the excitement of having arrived in ‘Africa’ but no Moroccans I spoke to regarded themselves as ‘African’ at all. “I’m not an African, I’m an Arab”, they would declare, “look at my skin”.

So the search was on to find the cusp of Black Africa, and I found it in Nouakchott at the Cabinet Dentaire Ramadan.

The Bastard Beast Shows Me Who's Boss

Thursday – Sunday October 18-21  After six times on the deck I realise I should have taken that off-road motorcycle course. The sand is now so deep and fine that it is difficult to get the bike moving at all, and when I do, I soon fall off, hands first, the sand coming up over my gloves. I’m eating the stuff now.

If it wasn’t for Bwedra, I would be there still. He jogs ahead over the dunes leading the way to the encampment and occasionally looks back over his shoulder. Seeing me hit the ground brings him jogging back to help me right the bike, wait for me to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my red, bloated face, and continue on. His expression never changes from an encouraging look that suggests ‘You can do it, we are nearly there’, for it is expressions only that we rely on, Hassaniya and English not having many words in common.

When I  see the camp I give in to hubris and increase the speed slightly to quicken the pace but instead give the bike a final balletic spin, which puts me on the deck with an awkward, grim finality. The bike gets heavier every time we pick it up.

The bike is eventually righted but will not move; the engine roars but the bastard beast just stands there covered in sand like an ass that has had enough and would rather die than take one more step no matter how much it is thrashed. Let it die there, see if I care.

Perversely, I find I am pleased it won’t shift; it means I won’t have to struggle the last 100 metres or so to the camp. I sit down on the hot scalding next to it with Bwedra – both of us not knowing what to do.

He looks at me hopefully and utters just one word: “Thé?”

Three days in the desert was made more than tolerable by the hospitality of Colin and Freya. You may not have much to fall back on in the desert but you can rely on the people. Colin, the owner of the encampment, worked with someone who had a nephew who found a mechanic who knew someone who could make me some new clutch plates. That’s how it’s done in the Western Sahara.

But even with the best will in the world this idea seemed too far-fetched to entertain. We were in the desert. There’s nothing in the desert, let alone a man who can make me some replacement clutch plates for a Triumph Tiger 955i 2001 model. It was Saturday night now and it was suggested that I had nothing to lose by letting him try. If he couldn’t manage it, I’d be on the phone to England to send out a new clutch on Monday morning.

Within 24 hours the clutch plates were manufactured and replaced with fresh oil for a fee that I am embarrassed to commit to the keyboard.

I picked up the bike at 3.30pm on Sunday with a sizeable crowd in attendance; all proud that the traveller could now continue on his way. I thanked the mechanic and tried to apologise for doubting his skills and I promised the beast I’d take it easy in deep sand for the duration.

" ... most mellow and worth waiting for."

Friday October 19     “You must drink three cups: the first cup is young and strong; the second cup is not so strong and is beginning to mellow; the third cup is most mellow and is worth waiting for. If you don’t drink the third cup it shows your host that there is a problem and is regarded as extremely rude.”

By the end of the second I am already struggling with the sickly sweet liquid and there’s still another glass to go. The sweetness is making me gag, the tannin is puckering up my gums and the sour caramel taste makes my eyes water. I am enjoying the ritual and the company but my taste buds cannot lie.

Bwedra is boiling up the liquid over hot coals and going to extraordinary lengths to blend, swirl, mix and stir the third pot of tea, adding copious amounts of sugar as he goes.

There are six of us squatting or sitting cross-legged on low cushions in a large Saharwi tent 77 kilometres from Dakhla in the Western Sahara, the last disputed territory in the world, drinking tea and setting the world to right. Two of our number are ex-members of the Polisario, the popular front fighting for independence from Morocco, (the third Saharwi, Bwedra, had his fingertips blown off when he found a landmine as a kid). Although the ceasefire has lasted for a couple of years, it is clear that these people do not view themselves as Moroccans. The huge and heavy-handed police and military presence in the region is a constant reminder to the Saharwis that their land is occupied.

Bwedra deems the third pot of tea now ready to drink. He lifts the pot to shoulder height and pours me the first glass without losing a drop. He hands me the glass and I do what anyone in my situation would – I think of all that sand outside the tent, the hundreds of kilometres to the nearest town of any consequence, then sip the tea and politely say: “Excellent, the best yet”.

The Diamond of Life

Thursday October 18            “If you are at one with the desert you hold the largest diamond of life in your hand.”

Freya sits back and allows me to digest that little nugget from the Sahara as she prepares the tea the waiter has just set down on the table.

The sun is blinding as it approaches noon by the roadside a little way outside Dakhla – a satisfying sounding place name that affords the opportunity to clear the throat in the middle of the word; the utterance becoming Dargklgklar on expression. A shared pot of tea is as good an excuse as any for not getting back on the bike at this time of day. The welcome shade and the chance to speak some English is enough to convince me that Mauretania can wait.

The tea is very sour when it first arrives but that is soon corrected by a ritualistic pouring and re-pouring of the butterscotch-coloured liquid. Freya pours the tea from the pot into her glass then pours it back into the pot, she pours herself another glass then pours it into my glass; this she pours back into the pot, and so it goes on. “This can take hours sometimes. The process helps to brew the tea while mellowing the flavour. The Saharwis do it best.”

Freya tastes and re-tastes at each pass while adding sugar broken from two misshapen lumps on the tray. The ritual continues: pot to glass, glass to pot, pot to glass, glass to glass, glass to pot, taste, until there are two small glasses of now rich caramel liquid with a deep head on top of each.

Freya and her husband Colin escaped from the German rat race when her husband announced the day after his 50^th birthday in Monaco that he was selling up and buying a Land Rover to see what the rest of the world had to offer. They found their Eden in the desert ... Insha’Allah.

Advice: “Stay Here.” (Neither of us were to know then how prophetic those words would become.)

Patisserie in the desert and other important matters

October 17        Lieutenant Colonel Fergus Hannan is having his shoes shined at a pavement café he has brought me to. He has cappucinno, I have tea. My drink is especially sour, it being towards the end of the day with all the taste now brewed out of the small, barely distinct leaves in the pot. No combination of fresh mint or sugar can bring this brew back to life. I swallow a couple of sips and try not to wince.

Earlier, Fergus walked up to me while I was considering eating at an unappetising buffet and said: “Hello, where are you from? My name’s Fergus. I’m from Ireland.” As tea introductions go, it was as direct as they come.

“Of course, I’ll meet you for tea. I’ll be in the lobby in about an hour.” Fergus suggests a beer at his 4 star hotel bar but I insist on tea. (Beer? I’d forgotten what that was, it being a largely dry country.)

Neutral Ireland is heavily involved in UN peacekeeping missions all over the world and Fergus is here in Western Sahara as a UN observer overseeing the ceasefire between Moroccan troops and the Polisario (Frente POpular parea la LIberacion de SAguia el hamra y RIo de Oro), the armed wing representing the Saharwis who have campaigned and fought for independence since the Spanish left this desert area in 1975. On the Spanish retreat, King Hassan quickly sent 350,000 civilians on what has become known as the Green March to populate this part of the Sahara with Moroccans.

“There’s a demilitarised zone along the berm that divides the country in two. Our job is to make sure the ceasefire sticks, although it’s generally very quiet here. We do this using 26 different nationalities in the armed force. There are over 500 of us based both here in the city and in encampments throughout the country."

Fergus gives the boy a 20 dirham note and waves him away. "More than he usually gets."

“In another month or so we’re off to northern Chad. The key is to protect countries that neighbour conflict areas otherwise they may get sucked in. Don`t ask me for any opinions on the political side of things - we`re here just to keep the peace.”

The UN presence in Laayoune accounts for the unexpected number of good hotels in the city. Sit at any pavement café and you will see the tell-tale white TLCs (Toyota Land Cruisers) woosh by every few minutes.

We say goodbye on Laayoune’s main drag – he, probably, to the bar, me to another patisserie, my new African vice.

“Don’t go quoting me on any politically sensitive stuff now, will yeh?”, he advises as he strides off in his newly polished shoes down the dusty street.

Advice: “Be careful and rely on your sixth sense to get yourself out of trouble.”

Mini Guide to the Moroccan Road

1. If you’re in front, the rules of the road do not apply
2. If you’re in front, you’re always in the right
3. If you’re in front, you win
4. Indicators, like fairy lights on a Christmas tree, are for decoration only and come in a variety of colours: red, amber, and au naturel (ie. with the glass missing)
5. Lit brake lights on the vehicle in front does not mean he is stopping or turning, he is probably trying to make it easier for you to overtake while he makes up his mind where he is going – that is, if you haven’t gone into the back of him by then
6. If you get an especially large face-full of fumes, the vehicle in front is about to pull out as this indicates he has just changed gear and intends to take the next 90 seconds attempting to overtake the equally slow van ahead of him
7. The seven men in the grande taxi (Mercedes’ otherwise known as the blue terror) will all turn around simultaneously (including the driver) as you approach from behind – followed by the braking mentioned above
8. The white lines on a highway are there as a test. There is no need to drive in between the white lines as you can easily get seven vehicles into four marked lanes without too much trouble
9. Approaching vehicles overtaking on your side of the road ALWAYS expect you to brake
10. A left turn from the right hand lane is perfectly within the rights of every truck driver, so do not get caught in the outside lane just because you wish to overtake. Do not dart for the inside either as he is also within his rights to change his mind at the last possible second.
11. Roundabouts are handy for
    1. Taxis to stop and pick up a fare
    2. Bikes to stop and ask for directions from a polite policeman
    3. Dropping off the family for their weekly shop
    4. Give the car a much-needed wash (very dusty country)
    5. Guessing if this particular town employs the ‘give way from the right’ rule or the ‘give way from the left’ rule (so far, vehicles have always stopped for me no matter what I do)

"Take a smile with you from Marrakech ..."

October 13      Constance Thiollier has lived the life of a diplomat’s daughter, moving from continent to continent experiencing new languages and cultures (including Morocco) but leaving little time to establish deep roots in any one place. The French journalist returned to Marrakesh as an adult preferring it to Paris, her parental home, because “I want to be with people. I basically like … humans. You’re never alone in Morocco. There is always someone to help you. You will never be left in need.”

We take mint tea on the Djemma el Fna, a huge gathering place of food stalls, snake charmers, fortune tellers, hustlers, touts and lookers-on. The tea is weak China tea crammed with fresh mint with optional sugar on the side.Constance has found something here that is missing in European (or more broadly Western) lifestyle. As a booming economy, Morocco is likely to welcome more like Constance who appreciate the human scale of life, the growing opportunities in a developing nation and a chance to spend life in the sun.

Her life is eased by her remarkable facility with languages as she speaks fluent English, Spanish, French (which would be enough to get by in Morocco), and also Arabic which takes many people by surprise and makes her quite unique in this marvellous city.

Advice: “Take a smile with you because those who don’t smile back probably need it most”

"When in doubt turn right"

October 12-13          I will not forget the Benslimane family of Casablanca in a hurry. In the search for the ultimate cuppa, I struck tea gold in the first African country I visit.

It was the last day of Ramadan when I met Mehdi, his brother Bashir, father Driss, sister and mother (whose names I am ashamed to admit I do not recall) and a cast of wonderful characters who called at the house. The following day was the festival of Eid (a kind of mixture of the end of Lent and Christmas Day rolled into one) during which it would appear Moroccans do little else other than eat – and prepare for the next meal – and share it with as many people as possible. And what food! During the 24 hours I spent with the family, I was allowed a glimpse into an important Muslim festival through the eyes of the Benslimanes.

If tea is social glue, the Benslimane family, and also Moroccan society so far as I can tell, is well and truly bonded.

I had tea on arrival, tea with breakfast (at 6pm celebrating the end of Ramadan), tea with dinner (at 11.30pm), tea the following morning and tea at the Casablanca Golf Club. The drink is most often served in glasses in a variety of sweetness and flavours – although Mehdi suggested I drink a Lipton’s at the decidedly swish golf club so that I could take a tea bag with me. Many may argue that Morocco does not identify itself with sub-Saharan Africa so much as curry a cautious association with Europe. That would certainly appear to be the case in Casablanca, the most European city I have visited in Morocco. It has unique Arabic and Berber traditions that do not lie easily with either continent but leave a European astounded at generosities and a way of life that are sure to leave a lasting impression.

But the admixture of the ritualistic, secular and independently-minded Benslimane family gave a traveller great heart to continue. On to Marrakech and another Tea Encounter.

Advice from Mehdi “When in doubt, turn right” and “The trip is in the image of your life”

Advice from Bashir: “If you hurry you will be late”