I’m in a fantastic mood. The sun is shining (five full days and counting!); flowers are blooming; the Canucks are winning; dogs are out walking their people; couples are making out on street corners; and I have thus far managed to successfully (and politely) stave off all solicitation attempts from the plethora of enthusiastic, clipboard-wielding, vest-wearing, non-profit fundraisers scattered around the city. But, while all of this is indeed cause for celebration, what really put me over the top was Friday night.
Unfortunately, delving into this euphoria will mean that, once again, I’m going to be writing about life and not shark trade legislation. I know this is a crushing development but, on the bright side, today’s post will at least provide something good to listen to for when you finally do read my unwritten post on the CITES shark shakedown. Too optimistic? For once, I think not.
The best cup of tea I ever had was served to me by a Berber man, in a cave, near Todgha Gorge in the High Atlas Mountains. While I was initially expecting sweet green tea infused with fresh mint (as is customary in Morocco), I watched as he instead prepared it using thyme. Truth be told, I’m not quite sure why I trusted this man as he enthusiastically ushered me inside a hole in the mountain (literally), but I felt no fear. And I know that for as long as I live, I will never make this beverage taste so delicious, nor appreciate it so much as I did inside that dark, confined little space. It goes without saying that someone who can make a pot of tea so good must possess some sort of old world alchemy, and there was something magical about this man; a nomad who lived life by the seasons, who travelled with his wife, son, and their donkeys from place to place throughout the region. The deep lines on his face were balanced by a sparkle in his eyes and a spring in his step, such that he might have been fifty years old, or eighty— I had no idea. And although our conversation was broken and contained mostly hand gestures, laughs, smiles, and pictures drawn in the dirt, I was reminded that day of how special something as simple as a pot of tea can be. He gave me the best he had, and for over an hour we enjoyed each other’s company. As I left, I went to offer him money (I honestly had nothing else to give him in return for his generosity), but he refused it. Perhaps sensing my concern, he simply took my hands and smiled, reassuring me that it was alright, and wishing me a safe and peaceful journey.
salt heart | wet coast 