The sun went down behind the dunes and we drank three glasses of sweet mint tea while the kettle hummed softly on the fire.
From the edge of Tamanrasset we watched the desert turn from copper to plum. Hassan, our host, poured three glasses of tea: the first bitter like life, the second sweet like love, the third gentle like death — so goes the Tuareg saying.
Tea hour never hurries. An hour can pass between the three glasses. We talked about the caravan routes, about silverwork, and about how the workshop families came to settle here three or four generations ago.
By the time we started back to town, stars were already burning above the desert. We carried the scent of tea leaves with us, and a few hand-engraved amulets in our bag.
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