Algiers, Algeria

A dark-skinned man from the southern desert brews traditional tea for his light-skinned brothers up north. Around the campfire, they sit on stumps, in the outskirts of coastal Algiers, dousing their disapproval of Bouteflika with splashes of praise and one-liners from American action movies.

Late into the night, debate rages on, reaching extreme ends of the volume spectrum. Politics and football draw the loudest remarks, the fiercest gestures, while the pouring and subsequent sipping of mint tea renders everyone mute. I, too, fail to speak, both deferentially and uncertainly, as I reach an empty cup toward a circle of others. My hand is still, noticeably so, calmly waiting its passive turn.

“Yaallah,” says the dark-skinned man from the southern desert. Let’s go.

He grabs the cup from my too-tight grip and pours. As he does, talk resumes, tea is drunk—sometimes both at the same time—the bellies of Bouteflika love-haters readying for the next wave of sweetened mint.

“Shukran,” I know to say when warmth finds my palm. Thank you.

It’s my third time sitting in a group of Algerian men, but the first on their turf. Though I’d seen this outdoor brewing of traditional tea before, this scene felt far from familiar, a long way from home. The practice played out in the same ritualistic, almost theatrical way, but the ingredients, the land, the air was something new.

Volume intensifies, as two near the center argue in tones I’ve never heard used without leading to blows. Right to left I look, praying for mediation, when another joins in and fuels the fire. Louder it grows, Arabic rants flavored with French, and I hide in my tea. Politics and football, I can only assume, are the fodder that feeds this hungry beast of a conversation but fails to satisfy. Nearing the end of my cup, I begin to honestly fear for each debater the moment his sharp tongue and flexing jaw combine to force out superheated words, even position my feet in preemptive defense.

The dark-skinned man from the southern desert sees it, too, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he just knows. Knows by voice, by tone, by tradition.

“Yaallah,” he says from behind a steaming pot. Let’s go.

The crowd grows quiet. The tea is ready.