Attaya

February 4, 2008

Photo by author

The Senegalese ritual of attaya is no less solemn than the Japanese tea ceremony, I think, often lasting well over an hour as strong gunpowder tea sold in tiny boxes is boiled not once, not twice, but three times. On a recent visit to a Senegalese family, we spent most of the afternoon under a shady tree in the front yard, first preparing and then enjoying the customary three rounds of tea.

The Senegalese love their tea sweet, and they do not even bother with the little sachets of Domino or Sweet’n Low – they buy their sugar in quarter-pound bags and it is virtually all used up by the time the third round of tea has been served. The three rounds represent friendship and love: the first round is strong, almost bitter, growing sweeter with each successive round as more sugar is added to the pot, the last round being sweet as love.

Charcoal is first put on the brazier and must be fanned in order to catch properly. When the coals are good and hot, the water is poured into a doll-sized aluminum pot. Tea here is always served in tiny glasses reminiscent of shot glasses, never in cups. The glasses are generally served no more than half full of the precious and very potent dark amber liquid. The tea is topped by a frothy crown which is created by patiently pouring the liquid back and forth over and over again from an impressive height (I read somewhere about 12 inches, though I rarely have my tape measure along for the occasion, myself). It looks deceptively easy to do, and is fun to attempt, but it takes a certain knack, including a very elegant flick of the wrist: I am still practicing the technique. As a New Yorker, it astonishes me that people are willing to spend quite so much time preparing a beverage; in the land of ‘time is money’ I grew accustomed to seeing stressed executive types jogging to the subway with their cups of coffee - God forbid they should savor the experience.

During my most recent visit to England I was shocked and disappointed to discover that the sons and daughters of Albion have now turned to using tea bags rather than brewing loose leaf tea, which marks the end of an era, I think. (Thankfully, scones have not yet gone out of style, though they are pronounced differently than you might expect). But before I get lost in reflections on the importance of taking the time to have a proper cup of tea, let me return to describing the customs of the country in which I find myself presently.

Tea is drunk anytime, anywhere, to while away the time. It definitely fulfills a social bonding function, as after-work drinks might in NYC or elsewhere. (This image is rather funny, as I am picturing the Wall Street types with their wingtips and attaché cases on the one hand and boubou clad men wearing pointy babouches on the other). There are some folks with a nose for tea, who will ‘happen’ along just as it is being drunk, and hospitable as they are, the Senegalese will always offer to share. In fact, when in the street you are expected to drink your tea almost as you would down a shot in the glass, because there is usually a long line of thirsty people waiting their turn. (The glasses may or may not be rinsed out for the next person; the assumption is, I think, that the boiling water is bound to kill anything really harmful that might still be clinging to the glass).

The green tea may be served with fresh mint or else, more unusually, with basil. Where I happen to be in Dakar, beautifully aromatic basil grows like weeds in enormous bushes that are almost taller than I am (granted, this is not saying much). When there is a slight breeze, for example at the beach where the accompanying photo was taken, its scent perfumes your steps as you pass. As it is so freely available, people will often snatch a handful of basil leaves and drop it into the pot, lending the tea a wonderful and novel taste.

Interestingly, when we once were served weaker Moroccan tea in a beautifully decorated silver pot, also with lovely glasses and plenty of mint, a Senegalese friend in a moment of rare obstinacy refused to have a second glass: “What is this, water?” he exclaimed scornfully, pushing the weak tea aside in disgust. “Flavored water? Tea should taste like tea.”

And there you have it, my friends: tea should taste like tea. The Senegalese clearly have strong feelings on the matter, as undoubtedly the Moroccans, the British and the Japanese do as well…!

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com