Before the sun rises in the milky gray sky, not yet cleared by the warmth of the sun, the two of us sit on our small white stools on the side of the cobbled street. By now, our third day in north-west Africa, we are regulars at this makeshift market stall. A woman with a weathered face and slow hands, the only bits of skin showing on her body, tops up our sweet hot milk with a little bit of coffee. Before we sip from the plastic cup, we hold it for a while, quietly. The mysteries of this place only begin with the spices shaped into impossibly tall cones, oranges piled in perfect pyramids, and the cacophony of silence. This is only the beginning. We must unlearn what we have been taught and start before everything began: this world has been here every single day of our lives, and we have only just become a part of it.
This is a place that is defined by the people who operate the machinery of the moments: the peanut-seller, the mint-tea men, the hollow tinkling of the blind beggar shaking his tin, the lures of the herboristes promising salvation through ginseng, and the competitive orange juice makers.
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