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.