Pu Erh: Tea. Friday Morning.

Friday morning the city of Jeddah looks deserted. I cross the road almost blindly, there is nothing but six lanes of emptiness where streams of bumper to bumper traffic congregated and congested at 1.00 in the morning. January. Friday. Morning. Three things that make walking irresistible in a place where walking is impossible, any other time. This morning is too beautiful to waste inside an air-conditioned automobile.

I meet up with my friend at Teayana, the tea-lounge and café. Coming from the Paradise Isle of Ceylon, I thought I knew my tea until I flipped through their elaborate menu. More than 125 types of distinctly different teas, from over 25 different countries and over a thousand tea gardens. Almost everything from Green or Herbal, to Black or White. Blended, unblended, flavoured and not.

If there was paradise for tea-connoisseurs, this was it.

To my horror, I discover only two varieties from Ceylon. In a bouquet of exotic teas that had even more exotic names, I spot “Nuwara Eliya” after much effort. Surely we should have had more than two varieties, I thought to myself, and spent next 15 minutes trying to prove myself in vain. It seems that the much sought-after teas from Ceylon have failed to move with the times – just like their name. Ceylon, and Ceylon Tea: soon to be nothing but distant memories.

With a long sigh, I settle for a Moroccan Mint tea. And a zatar with labneh on the side.

We chat about life at large. We talk about the impending elections, the future of Sri Lanka and our role in shaping-up the world. We talk about building libraries around the country and how to help our people in need.

We talk about marketing. Or rather the lack of it, when it comes to selling our paradise to the world, tea being one of them.

Later, much later, I decide to try some unique tea and decide to flavour a vintage variety: Pu Erh. (pron. = purée).

Vintage. Like wine.

Older, the better.

Pu Erh is the only tea that improves in flavour and value with age and it takes around 30 years to reach maturity. Until then, the teas are stored in breathable, usually unglazed, clay canisters – leaving them to oxidise and ferment slowly. Once matured, they are stored in sealed containers similar to any other tea. Apparently, some of these Pu Erh teas are coming from the days of the last Chinese Dynasty and a small, compact brick or a cake could easily fetch a few thousands dollars, if they are genuine. Finding such specimens are said to be very rare though.

Since I haven’t made my million$ and billion$ yet, I try the commercial variety that is sold at the lounge: Pu Erh – 10 to 20 years old. Full-bodied, heavy tea that tastes like a fine whiskey. Only lighter, and smoother. My taste buds remind me of the flavour of roasted tobacco and the warm sunshine in Paradise back home.

Sipping that and looking out of the window at McDonalds across the street, I marvel at the power of branding. Then I momentarily wonder where Ceylon Tea would be, if we don’t revive the industry, rejuvenate the market and reclaim our former glory.

From Beijing to Dubai in 55 Frames

At 10.25am, we were heading towards the Plateau of Tibet. “Distance to Dubai: 2,790 miles” read the little touch-screen. I look out of the window and see the snow-capped mountains just below my feet. It feels like 800 feet above ground-level. We were flying north of the Himalayas, 36,000 feet above. Sache to the left and Almaty to the right, we were cruising through the middle.

The scene outside the window was magical. Snow covered mountains and clear skies; nothing else but the shades of blues and the whites.

Jammu and Kashmir lay further south on the map.

The terrain below is impossible and impassable. It looked like as if it had rained mountains. Mountain peaks as far as the eye could see. The view had been like this for a couple of hours, only the size and the colour of the mountain-tops changed.

A scene from Ice Age flashed before my eyes and I tried not to think of the unthinkable. Surviving a fall of a few hundred meters and being frozen to death is not my style. I don’t think I would make a good exhibit in some Discovery Museum in 2375 AD, either.

I hate the cold. I recall my memory and find consolation in the fact that no aircraft fell to its death in this region since the World War II.

I grin to myself and look at the time. We still have four hours to the destination. We are going to cruise above the clouds for a few more hours. We would take a left further ahead to fly over Pakistan, cross over to Iran and descend over Bandar Abbas to head towards the big city.

Nine hours of scenic beauty is what I’m going to enjoy this time. A few movies, two meals, and capture the view from the window with my mobile every so often – so I could put them together, quietly.

Of Bestie’s Air Massage and Christmas Shopping in Arabia...

It felt like time travel. I was walking through the alleyways of an Arabian souq (market), and for a moment, I thought I was wandering across the movie-set of The English Patient. There were vendors selling spices, silver trinkets and various nuts and seeds in their little kiosks or just by the wayside. Arab women clad in their burkas and abayas sat behind their arrays of gadgets and knick-knacks. Their eyes pierced through the inch of opening in their burkas like the full moon on a dark night: mesmerising and inviting, and capable of alluring the vulnerable young men to buy utterly and completely useless things for a riyal or two. Some fell in the trap while the others just stopped for a good bargain. Muffled in the hustle and bustle and the chattering, I could hear the women giggle behind their black masks. Men sat in long, wodden benches in little coffee-shops, smoking; enjoying the mild wintery breeze. There were small stalls and trolleys piled up with layers of gum that looked like honey-bee combs, and there were wheel-barrows that were portable corn stands. The far side of the wheel-barrow had a little coal-fire burning, and the vendors sold freshly cooked corn to the young, old and the hungry – trotting around the souq. Occasionally, my eye would spot the beautiful prayer beads in array, and I fought to resist the temptation to be the world’s largest bead collector.

Walking under the canopies, weaving through the narrow alleyways, I ended up in an open area that somehow reminded me of the Pitt Street and Market Street in Sydney. Only a hundred years earlier, and in a basic, primitive manner. Or was it a flashback of the Fort World Market, I wondered for a moment. But this was grandeur in scale and much more intriguing and interesting in sight. A little boy ran behind a football, and disappeared in to a narrow passageway as I tried to find my bearings.

As I made may way through the open square to reach the other end, I discovered another fascination: the silver shops that sold beautiful Yemeni jewellery. Rough and uneven, with coloured glass-work, they told stories about the nimble hands that crafted the designs. I imagined those beautiful Arab women sitting in their corners in their humble abodes, tinkering with metal to crate these fabulous ornaments. No wonder they wear them with so much pride on occasion, I thought to myself.

Beyond the silver jewellery were the fabric shops. Like the good old story about the black abaya in Prophet Mohammed’s days (peace be upon him), the fabric sellers were the highlight of the market. Yards and yards of beautiful designs in psychedelic colours, drawn like canopies from the roof to the ground covered my sight. From black-on-black designs to everything imaginable under the sun were on offer, and the shop assistants were serenading us to just walk inside and take a look. They knew that if we stepped in, we wouldn’t be able to resist their charm and the attraction of the selection. An occasional tailor shop displayed with much pride some wedding gowns that adorned amazing needle-work. I knew that under the abaya, the Arab women were very fashionable. But this, was far beyond what I have ever imagined. This was Paris, this was haute couture for the average Arab woman.

Just two days before the Christmas, I was discovering the downtown Jeddah. The old market, where sailors from around the world met the Arab merchants long before the dollar was born. Thousands of years later, only the buildings have changed, but not the habits of their inhabitants. They souq is still old-fashioned, they still like to drive a good bargain, and offer you a cup of seylani chaai if you were a good customer.

Wondering through the maze, we were looking for a shop that sold something that was supposedly banned in Saudi Arabia.

And finally, we were directed to a little shop that sat by the waterfront. It looked like mini China and the shop was (cleverly camouflaged?) with cosmetics, cheap electronics and all kinds of fancy items at the entrance. We look around and approach a shop assistant who gestures us to follow him up a wooden staircase. Up the staircase, zig zag through the aisles, we are taken to a back corner and the shop assistant points his hand to a rack, with much delight.

As we see what’s on display, my friend’s face lights up. Underneath a pile of “elegant” lamps that had a not-so-elegant penguin on the box and “Bestie’s air-massagers,” we’ve finally found what’s impossible to find in Saudi Arabia: Christmas Cards.

And they were musical too.

The elegant lamp, the forbidden cards and the Bestie’s Air Massager: New Concept ot (sic) Health