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in an Italian café, or a Melbourne laneway. These roadside dealers supplement a thriving café, or more to the point coffee shop, trade that sees a traveller become addicted to a brown sludge that is said to be coffee.
My first introduction to this liquid was almost two weeks prior, somewhere much further north and on the other side of the magnificent mountains. It had the consistency of watery mud, and a texture to match. It had been bitter enough to require multiple sugar cubes, something it always comes with, and even with milk had caused me to screw my face. And yet, here I was, needing my sixth hit for the day, and knowing that the same would occur in a few hours’ time.
While the caffeine hit was becoming addictive, these roadside stops were much more than that, they’ d become the perfect place to meet local people, to discuss the outlook of each other’ s nations, world politics, and to laugh at miscommunication brought about by language differences.
Numerous such interactions stood out from this journey so far. The first on the eastbound road out of the ancient city of Taroudant where a tiny car, small enough to be laughable like that of a circus clowns vehicle stood waiting for the passer by. Strategically placed by a market vendor offering all forms of fresh produce, our coffee dealer was as interested in us as we were of him.
A gas burner in the back of the car had only just been lit and took a while to produce boiling water and steam for the coffee machine.
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