SmartWool and Eggnog
15 years ago
15 February, 2009
The Tao of Ataya
The first time I came back to my room and stumbled upon my roommate Bai carefully portioning a pile of tea leaves into a midnight blue porcelain kettle, I had no idea of the journey that I had in front of me. He invited me to join him for ataya (a-tie-ah). We drink it in the Gambia, he said. We didn’t know each other very well then, and I certainly didn’t know what to expect, but I sat down. Soon we could hear the water boiling. Moving deliberately, Bai removed the kettle, added a double shot of sugar, and then returned it to the burner. We waited, steam wafting towards us. Bai took the kettle again, using a piece cardboard as an oven mitt. He daringly poised the kettle a foot or so above the tiny glass and then sent the tea in a neat black stream to its target. Sufficiently impressed, I braced myself to drink. But the glass didn’t come. Instead, with a snap of his wrist, Bai passed its contents back into the kettle. And then poured another glass, the line of steaming tea incredibly obedient as it fell into the cup. This one was for me, I was sure. Nope. Back into the kettle. The tea passed from glass to kettle and kettle to glass, again and again and again. Then the long-suffering kettle went back on the burner. I swallowed a sigh, my eyes wandering to my backpack, leaning heavily against the dresser, practically bursting with assignments.
We waited. And waited. Then the kettle came off, and he poured a glass. This time I actually reached for it. Bai smiled to himself as the tea arced once more from glass to kettle. And then back into the glass. To the kettle. To the glass. To the kettle. To the glass. To the kettle. To the - what? The burner? Certainly not… We waited. And waited. When I finally received my 4 ounces of sweet, strong, searing Chinese green tea, I was convinced that such a maddening process could’ve transformed the water, leaves, and sugar into liquid gold and it still wouldn’t have been worth it. This was no alchemy, though. It tasted like tea. I relinquished the glass and prepared to excuse myself when more water and an alarming amount of sugar were added to the kettle which still carried a clot of ataya in its bowels. And the ritual was repeated. Twice more. I had three glasses in all. As I polished off my 11th and 12th ounces rather summarily, I checked the time. 1 hour and 15 minutes since the ataya was unboxed. I cursed under my breath and then pledged myself to academic penance in the library after dinner.
The next afternoon when I returned to the room, there was Bai, brewing again. This time, I felt like I had had a reasonably productive day already. I deserved a little break, and what else was I going to reward myself with? So we drank our three glasses and chatted aimlessly. After I finished my 12th ounce, sipping, not gulping this time, I realized that I felt a bit different. I was relaxed, and thankful for the time out, for the bit of human contact.
Bai and I have settled into a pattern of drinking ataya nearly every afternoon. Sometimes we’re joined by friends. When they’re other Gambians, the Wolof flies thick and fast, punctuated by staccato “wow”s, which means yes. When they’re members of Bai’s insect science program, the discussion moves from the whims of never-been-pleased professors to the intricacies of acquired resistance in Anopholes gambie. And when it’s just Bai and I, we talk about home or going home, studying, and cooking, politics and the English Premier League.
I’m relatively good at time management, mostly because I have an abiding aversion of wasted time. I’m so good at not wasting time in fact, that some days I don’t leave time for anything but not wasting time. Making time for ataya won’t help me write my thesis, the methodology section of which is keeping me up at night and then giving me nightmares. But making time for ataya has helped me realize that the time we spend is a flexible currency.
We waited. And waited. Then the kettle came off, and he poured a glass. This time I actually reached for it. Bai smiled to himself as the tea arced once more from glass to kettle. And then back into the glass. To the kettle. To the glass. To the kettle. To the glass. To the kettle. To the - what? The burner? Certainly not… We waited. And waited. When I finally received my 4 ounces of sweet, strong, searing Chinese green tea, I was convinced that such a maddening process could’ve transformed the water, leaves, and sugar into liquid gold and it still wouldn’t have been worth it. This was no alchemy, though. It tasted like tea. I relinquished the glass and prepared to excuse myself when more water and an alarming amount of sugar were added to the kettle which still carried a clot of ataya in its bowels. And the ritual was repeated. Twice more. I had three glasses in all. As I polished off my 11th and 12th ounces rather summarily, I checked the time. 1 hour and 15 minutes since the ataya was unboxed. I cursed under my breath and then pledged myself to academic penance in the library after dinner.
The next afternoon when I returned to the room, there was Bai, brewing again. This time, I felt like I had had a reasonably productive day already. I deserved a little break, and what else was I going to reward myself with? So we drank our three glasses and chatted aimlessly. After I finished my 12th ounce, sipping, not gulping this time, I realized that I felt a bit different. I was relaxed, and thankful for the time out, for the bit of human contact.
Bai and I have settled into a pattern of drinking ataya nearly every afternoon. Sometimes we’re joined by friends. When they’re other Gambians, the Wolof flies thick and fast, punctuated by staccato “wow”s, which means yes. When they’re members of Bai’s insect science program, the discussion moves from the whims of never-been-pleased professors to the intricacies of acquired resistance in Anopholes gambie. And when it’s just Bai and I, we talk about home or going home, studying, and cooking, politics and the English Premier League.
I’m relatively good at time management, mostly because I have an abiding aversion of wasted time. I’m so good at not wasting time in fact, that some days I don’t leave time for anything but not wasting time. Making time for ataya won’t help me write my thesis, the methodology section of which is keeping me up at night and then giving me nightmares. But making time for ataya has helped me realize that the time we spend is a flexible currency.
08 February, 2009
Home, through another's eyes
If you look hard enough, you’ll find traces of the people and places you miss almost anywhere you go. Waiting in the International Programs Office at the university early in ther term, I glanced at a bookshelf to my left and saw a promo VHS for Marywood University, my sister’s alma mater. A few weeks later, I was handing my backpack to the porter at the library when I found myself staring at the logo on his polo shirt. It was from Bishop Hoban, the now defunct Catholic High School in Wilkes-Barres whose baseball and basketball teams dealt me and my friends many a sound defeat. I constantly find myself in circumstances that remind me of my parents, my girlfriend, my home.
Not too long ago I was having a conversation with a friend and fellow grad student from the Gambia (not my roommate) when he mentioned that he had studied for a semester in the US. I asked him where. Indiana University of Pennsylvania, in the western part of the state. I asked him his impressions. He replied that while he found the people at the school to be very pleasant, small town Pennsylvania wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. So he headed for Boston where he spent the rest of the year with family. On the bus ride to Boston, he looked at the window. And I know what he saw. The low-lying hills, the bare rock where the road was blasted through, the forests and cornfields tripping over each other, truck stops, and Perkins. So he wondered to himself what types of opportunities could possibly exist in a place like this. His bus stopped for a time in a small, gray city, a very depressing place. “W something. Wiksbaum maybe.”
I held my breath. “Wilkes-Barre?”
“That’s it.”
I laughed nervously. He was saying exactly what many of my friends have said about the non-Pittsburgh, non-Philly parts of PA and doing exactly what many of my friends and, despite my genuine fondness for my home, myself have done: leave. But he’s an African. Shouldn’t Africans look upon America – all of America – as the land of opportunity? Whether its amber waves of grain or a strip mall, doesn’t America at its least appealing beat Africa at its best?
Well, no. Brain drain from Africa is a much-discussed topic, but it’s just as live an issue in the rural T of PA (the Northern Tier and the central part of the state). My friend’s impressions don’t prove anything about the US, PA, or the Gambia. They just present a reminder that Africa does not look upon the US with unqualified envy and that America need not look back with unqualified pity. For that particular man, gazing upon that particular part of the country, the Gambia held more promise.
Not too long ago I was having a conversation with a friend and fellow grad student from the Gambia (not my roommate) when he mentioned that he had studied for a semester in the US. I asked him where. Indiana University of Pennsylvania, in the western part of the state. I asked him his impressions. He replied that while he found the people at the school to be very pleasant, small town Pennsylvania wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. So he headed for Boston where he spent the rest of the year with family. On the bus ride to Boston, he looked at the window. And I know what he saw. The low-lying hills, the bare rock where the road was blasted through, the forests and cornfields tripping over each other, truck stops, and Perkins. So he wondered to himself what types of opportunities could possibly exist in a place like this. His bus stopped for a time in a small, gray city, a very depressing place. “W something. Wiksbaum maybe.”
I held my breath. “Wilkes-Barre?”
“That’s it.”
I laughed nervously. He was saying exactly what many of my friends have said about the non-Pittsburgh, non-Philly parts of PA and doing exactly what many of my friends and, despite my genuine fondness for my home, myself have done: leave. But he’s an African. Shouldn’t Africans look upon America – all of America – as the land of opportunity? Whether its amber waves of grain or a strip mall, doesn’t America at its least appealing beat Africa at its best?
Well, no. Brain drain from Africa is a much-discussed topic, but it’s just as live an issue in the rural T of PA (the Northern Tier and the central part of the state). My friend’s impressions don’t prove anything about the US, PA, or the Gambia. They just present a reminder that Africa does not look upon the US with unqualified envy and that America need not look back with unqualified pity. For that particular man, gazing upon that particular part of the country, the Gambia held more promise.
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