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It didn’ t matter as our new friend explained he was a part time English teacher, it seemed this was a perfect time for him to practise what was more than likely at least his fourth language behind Arabic, Berber, and French, in what order I couldn’ t confirm.
Our barista proudly took us across the road to demonstrate an‘ automated’ watering system he had created from hose and plastic bottles. It indeed was impressive and seemed for no gain rather than to see the roadside roses kept hydrated.
As we sat a glass jar of Nescafe was produced and my heart sank. I’ m from Melbourne, Australia, the self-proclaimed coffee capital of the world, I couldn’ t lower myself to freeze dried powdered coffee. Thankfully, the jar was nothing more than a vessel to carry fresh coffee grinds.
As usual the coffee was bitter, slightly sludgy, and yet thankfully a warmth spread throughout my vascular system, and I soon forgot the hardship of a poor coffee. As the coffee took control we were informed of things we must see along our route, of the best roads to ride, and of course, where to seek more produce to feed an addiction.
A handful of days later we witnessed a repeated occurrence that took us to yet another roadside stop and a visit with a proud man, welcoming visitors to his little piece of coffee paradise.
Somewhere on the road to Ouarzazate, the door of the desert, we came across a small hill adorned with varying flags of the world. A
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