Three cups of tea, Malian edition.

They say the first cup is strong like death, the second sweet like life, and the third is sugar like love. I say, all three cups are disgusting.

We sat barefoot on a coarsely woven mat. Light filtered through the opening of the dome-shaped burlap tent, illuminating its underbelly. Textiles draped from wooden beams furnished the interior with brilliant bursts of color. The structure itself wasn’t temporary, although its tenants were.

Across a small plot of sand sat three men in bright indigo robes. Turbans distinguished their individuality; one white, one orange, and one green. Our new white-turbaned friend, having caravaned three weeks to Timbuktu for his short two day stay, lit a coal fire in a tube structure. A round teapot with a thin long spout was placed on top. Embers glowed as thin cardboard was fanned, coaxing the fire along.

Three shot glasses stood on a serving tray, one containing loose tea nearly filled to the brim. “It is Moroccan sweet tea,” he stated, handing us the cup to smell before dumping its contents into the pot, “it is very strong.” The Tuareg pulled the turban from his mouth long enough to puncture a plastic bag with his teeth. A second shot glass was filled with sugar, relieving the previously swollen bag by one-third.

Sufficiently hot, the teapot was held high. A long stream of tea flowed into the cup containing sugar, stopping mere drops before the brimming glass overflowed. The process was continually repeated with poured liquid returned to the pot until I, the sole female of the group, was offered the first cup. My tongue numbed instantly, its taste having overpowered my senses.

Round two brought more water to the pot. And, veritably, with extra sugar, the second cup was sweeter than the first; the third more so than the second. Or maybe my inability to taste, after the first cup, led me to believe so?

The one treat that was, and will forever remain, sweet to the taste is the memory of us seated for tea with a Tuareg in Timbuktu.