tea for three

Shaded from the Gambian sun, Ebrima slowly pours steaming tea from a small indigo pot. But the ritual is not yet complete; we must wait a little longer before enjoying the taste of hot attaya.
In common with countless customs in this West African country, brewing tea is a slow and deliberate process. In a land of sparse comforts, attaya holds a revered status in the Gambian day, an oasis of refreshment on a weary afternoon.
Attaya is green gunpowder tea, found in tiny yellow boxes on market stalls or street barrows for just two dalasi. When I visit Ebrima, I provide the tealeaves and sugar, and he does the rest.
He breaks a lump of charcoal into the stove, a curved dish set upon a tripod, and adds embers from the fire, which still glows after lunch. The family eat rice every meal, with onion sauce or palm oil, perhaps a vegetable according to season, and a morsel of fish or chicken on a special day.
The teapot is recognisable in any part of The Gambia; small, enamel, and usually stained through years of use. As the water boils over the charcoal, Ebrima tears open the attaya box and tips dried green leaves into the pot. In go two glasses of sugar too; Gambians like their tea sweet!
A friend calls by and sits beside me on a makeshift wooden bench. He shakes my hand vigorously, asks how are my family, how is my work, and did my roof survive last night’s torrential rain? As the culture expects, I return the same questions. Jaama rek, he tells me; all is peace!
Hurrying is an alien concept here on the rim of the Sahara. Following tradition, Ebrima pours again and again, which fortifies the taste and dissolves the sugar, and each time he returns the hot tea to the pot.
At last he pours for us to drink. The pot offers just enough for our three glasses; hot, sweet and refreshing. The same leaves are used a second time with fresh water and sugar, less potent this time. The friend stands to leave; he won’t drink the third weakest brew. He wishes us peace; jaama rek!