Three Cups of Mint Tea

As I stared down the hollow metal tube a few meters down the dirt path, the bright red wildflowers dancing around us and the low grown of mountain goats orchestrating some folk medley as ancient as the rocks surrounding us, memoires long forgotten and dreams still unfulfilled burst into focus with each heart beat: that one day when we chased a leprechaun through the snow, those ducks we named outside our hotel room in Disney, my younger brother holding my sister and I the night before my grandfather’s funeral. Moments, at their time, that seemed as insignificant as any other, and yet, that pastel color of Francesca’s jacked crouched in the snow beside me and the feel of my siblings tears on my skin were the only things I could think about. Movies make you believe that in near-death experiences the milestones of your life flash before you: my acceptance to Lehigh, or perhaps my high school graduation, even my Bat-Mitzvah would have sufficed. And yet, as I heard the boy cock the gun, all I could think of was how lackluster my final seconds would be: a gun pointed at my head and thoughts of George and Martha the ducks behind the target.

A week before I was jostled from my Hemmingway reading with a similar sound as the wing to my left prepared for the flight’s descent. Bright-eyed and eager about the adventures that lay before me in this desert land, I embraced the far too windy air outside the airport. Tangier, though only a few hours away from Switzerland, is truly a world apart. The city is cramped untidily with massive apartment and business towers adorned in deteriorating facades and soot gnawing at the once white paint of a once incredible place. Pollution liters the streets, as does the smell of rotting refuse. The city itself seems alive, wheezing in and out as its inhabitants fight through unbearable temperatures. Both men and women wear traditional attire: a long dress down to the ankles, pointed leather shoes, a veil for women, and a petit hat for men. Though I can hardly claim to have assimilated into the crowds of Istanbul or Yerevan, here with my increasingly red Irish skin, ripped jeans, and uncovered head I clearly stand out.

Within Tanger there are four distinct atmospheres: the central, chic part of town, the coastlines, the medina, and the outlying neighborhoods. In my first week I have been to all four. The main area of town, my home for the next four weeks, is filled with cafes where men old and young sip mint tea into the wee hours of the morning. Bakeries with delicious smelling breads and even more delectable tasting meat pastries, and a strangely disproportionate number of barbershops line the boulvards. Every so often a minaret juts above the building line or the cross to a church peaks its way out from behind the trees; there is also a synagogue in Tanger, though I have yet to find it. The most intriguing aspect of my neighborhood, however, are the international territories. In the mid 20^th Century Tanger was deemed an International City governed by multiple countries within the United Nations. Although it has long since been repatriated to the Kingdom of Morocco, legal territories of other states still remain. Behind high walls you find Spanish, French, and even Italian areas with their own hospitals, school systems, and consulates.

The oldest part of the city, the medina, lies to the west and is an even tighter design than the center. The cobblestone allies weave in and out of peddlers’ storefronts selling everything from carved leather to brass lamps reminiscent of those found in Aladian. The sook, or marketplace, is a vast labyrinth of every food one could imagine: fish the size of my body, goat’s heads hanging from strings, at least a dozen different types of dates, country eggs and cheese, and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables (never again will I buy an entire watermelon for myself, though the jam I made from a Kilo of fresh apricots will surely be recreated). While meandering through the medina, I visited the Kasbah Museum, which told the history of the town’s fortress. My visits to French, Spanish, and Moroccan art galleries, different religious cemeteries, and a Moroccan style ‘running of the bulls’ have all given me unique insights into distinctive life perspectives of those who call this city on the tip of Africa home.

The final two parts, the coast and the neighborhoods, create the physical boundaries of Tanger. Both the Mediteranian and the Atlantic make their shores here, allowing breathtaking views of both the sunrise and the sunset with horsemen, camel nomads, and crowds of muscular fishermen casting their nets as your only companions. On the other side, the poorer neighborhoods (where I work) are teeming with Sub-Saharan migrants, impoverished Moroccans, and in recent months calls for revolutions (which have been echoed in many protests during my short stay).

Getting my fill of Tanger I decided to take a weekend trip to Chefchouen, an enchanting mountain town three hours away by public transportation through winding dirt roads tucked away in the Riff Mountains, not far from where Hercules supposedly completed his twelve labors (for you OMers, there was no sign of a thirteenth labor). The captivating medina is painted entirely in white and pale blue, which stands starkly against both its red walled fortress and the austere rocky mountains above. The architecture and the local flavor have been deeply influenced by the Andalusian migrants form Spain in the 15^th Century. After a visit to their Kasbah Museum and a rousing but unfortunate soccer game (wherein I was the only person to adorn a Manchester United jersey), I took a path from behind the village’s waterfall and up through the mountain range, passing by spectacular views, hidden mosques, and fields of marijuana plantations.

 Upon my descent I met the boy, no more than twelve, with the dark barrel and unforgiving stare. In my first post five months ago I penned how grateful I was to have the opportunity to get on a plane and engulf myself in exotic cultures from around the world. Having nearly half a year’s worth of foreign experiences has given me wonderful memories that I will forever be appreciative of: I will always cherish the impressions of the first time trying Khatapouri in Georgia over a conversation on gay rights and the awe-inspiring atmosphere of the Haiga Sofia. But working with Sub-Saharans living in complete desolation and watching a hollow-cheeked boy raise a gun for a few dollars has made me even more grateful for what, and who, I have left behind an ocean away. Growing up with a loving family and food on the table every night, thoughts of begging or being sold into a trafficking network were not only unimaginable, but entirely unknown. My childhood and beyond has always been filled with friends and family who have done nothing but support me in my endeavors and shown nothing but the warmest of hearts. It would be a lie to say I have not suffered through hardships, but through everything, I have always had the support network and more than enough material necessities to get through. Making the decision to run, through my pounding heartbeats and steps kicking up lose dirt, I could not help but imagine the destitute that led that boy to where he stood behind me, his boney arm raised and extended into an ugly metal machine. Words cannot express my gratitude for my friends and family who have made my life beyond incredible; I am aware that a simple Thank-You could not possible be adequate to what you all have given to me, but for now it is all I have to give. Please know that the emotions behind that two word phrase are the most sincere I have ever felt.