A Tea Reader (6 page)

SECOND STEEP

TEA CONNECTIONS

Connections

BY
K
ATRINA
Á
VILA
M
UNICHIELLO

While genetic ties play a role in defining family, it is my belief that what truly unites us is shared experiences. Common DNA provides one link, but what often feels more important in our relationships are the moments when big brother comes to the rescue or little sister keeps you company while you cry. There are the memories of family car trips that were both magical and maddening. You are bonded by the birthday parties, late night phone calls, and those times as kids when you didn't “get caught.”

These moments, the ones you stay up late remembering, are the unbreakable bonds. They are the ones that make sisters into best friends and best friends into sisters. They are your life's connections.

For me, food has always been an important component of these shared memories. The flavors, the aromas, the visual impact all serve as emotional triggers. The taste of lobster helps me recall nights at the lake with my family, eating and laughing on a hot summer night. The smell of dough frying brings thoughts of Sunday mornings at my grandmother's with a houseful of aunts, uncles, and cousins. The sound of beef stew bubbling on the stove returns me to snowy winter days in my childhood home in Maine.

For many of us, tea is a particularly important part of these food memories. Grandparents shared tea and “the old ways” with grandchildren. Parents used tea time as a chance to slow children down, to really talk. Friends shared quiet moments, baring their souls and daring their feelings.

Tea memories involve the sights, sounds, scents, and tastes of the moment. These shared experiences are links that are not easily disentangled. Tea inspires real and lasting connections.

Afternoon Tea under
the African Sun

BY
J
ODI
-A
NNE
W
ILLIAMS
-R
OGERS

At the time of day when the afternoon draws close to twilight, my memory floats back to the pristine days of my childhood in the early 1980s. Nostalgia washes over me with feelings of enchantment while I reminisce about the treasured moments spent with my grandparents when I was a little girl growing up. During these late afternoons, the hot South African sun tinted the day with an ochre hue, as if to hint that the lounge was now sufficiently warmed for us to enjoy a leisurely afternoon in it. It signaled the start of my favorite family ritual. My cousin Justin and I would gather in the lounge where our grandparents would take a break from their active day to enjoy a cup of tea and eat sandwiches.

As we settled on the mustard cushioning that lined the white and gray mock-leather settees, the conversation would usually start off with my grandmother talking of the housework or gardening that she had managed to get done that day. I particularly remember the delight she took in christening the start of her daily relaxation with the first few sips of tea. Most days my grandparents would enjoy just plain old black or Earl Grey tea taken with milk; other days the scents of black tea with lemon filled the room with a warm citrus aroma. My grandfather always did something strange which amused Justin and me. He would pour his tea into his saucer and then drink it. When we asked why he did that, he explained that it was a means to cool the tea faster before drinking it. Apparently this is an age-old and long-forgotten English tradition that found its way to South Africa during colonialism.

What I most enjoyed about these afternoon tea sessions was that it was a time when my grandfather would engage our inquisitive young minds in discussions about everything under the sun. Being a natural-born philosopher, he loved educating us as well as picking our brains about what we knew. Our topics for discussion included dinosaurs, the formation of the earth, articles he read to us in the newspapers, historical events, the latest scientific discoveries, and even UFOs. When he brought up the subject of the existence of a higher deity or whether or not there was any point in confessing your sins to a priest, my grandmother would become infuriated. Being a devout Catholic she would make the sign of the cross, frown in dismay, and say to my grandfather, the instigator of such conversations, “I will pray for Thomas!” Nevertheless, discovering the fascinating facts, possibilities, and complexities of the world through these discussions filled me with excitement. I loved the feeling of learning and seeing the world expand with what I learned each day.

At some stage,
rooibos
tea was introduced to the afternoon tea ritual.
Rooibos
translates to “red bush” tea. It is endemic to South Africa and is believed to have been discovered by the ancient Khoisan people. The Khoisan were the first people to populate Southern Africa. They used the
rooibos
leaves to brew tea. South Africa's Cederberg area holds the richest concentrations of
rooibos
.
Coincidently this is also one of the regions rich in Khoisan rock art. Some people believe that
rooibos
was the source of inspiration for the Khoisan rock art.
Rooibos
tea was made popular again in the 1970s and 1980s when its numerous health benefits came to light. Naturally the arrival of this new tea to our afternoon tradition sparked lengthy conversations of its origins, as well as its healing and anti-aging properties.

In the summer months, on days when the heat inside the house was too unbearable, we would sit out in the shade on the veranda and watch the African sun drift closer and closer to the horizon. The intense shades of the green rolling hills that defined the rural setting of Eshowe, the place where my grandparents lived, always provided a breathtaking scene as the blue skies turned to crimson.

Visiting these parts of the world often makes me wonder what the experience must have been like for the early British colonialists such as my grandmother's great-grandfather, John Dunn, an infamous trader and hunter in the late 1800s, or the likes of the wild and free-spirited explorer and writer, Lady Florence Dixie. When they traveled through these lands more than a century before my time, did they boil some water on the coals to brew a fresh cup of tea in the late afternoon? Did they view the land with the same appreciation that I do? The romantic in me conjures up images of Lady Dixie at her camp, sitting in the open
bushveld
wearing brown leather boots and hunting gear, taking in the surrounds as herds of plentiful buck danced in the distance, while she sipped tea and wrote in her journal.

When twilight was born, the afternoon ritual would come to an end. Soon the sounds of neighborhood children playing outside would begin to subside. Parents would start returning home, exhausted from their day's work; kitchens in the homes that lined the street where my grandparents lived would be a hub of activity as hands, pots, stoves and ovens got to work preparing the night's meal.

Years on, a blissful cup of tea or two a day is still very much a part of my life. The variety of tea selections that we now have access to is tremendous. Nothing beats a refreshing cup of mint tea to help increase my concentration at work during the later afternoons, or the sweet and playful aroma of mango and berry tea in summer. To keep the flu and colds at bay, lemon, ginger and honey tea is my favorite winter warmer. Chai or chamomile tea helps me unwind and beat the day's stress, while fennel or peppermint tea works wonders for digestive problems. Beyond that, although something as simple as a cup of tea is easy to take for granted, it is very much a part of my heritage. It is something that laces my childhood memories to the various stages of my life. The afternoon tea tradition is something I hope to carry forward with my own children and perhaps my grandchildren someday.

The
Mistri-Sahib

A
UTHOR
U
NKNOWN

Excerpted from
Rings from a Chota Sahib's Pipe
,
1901.
¹

Ay! The
Mistri-Sahib
!
²
Was it not Shakespeare who said “What's in a name?” But of course I hardly think Willy knew much about
Mistris
when he wrote that, or he might have thought fit to modify it—but to the point.

Mac and I are great friends and he confides in me “a wee bit;” yet there are lots of things I should like to ask him about himself but dare not, for he is very “touchy.”

For instance he wears huge solid double-soled “tackety” English boots, for which, I know, he pays a great price. These monstrosities are made in his
busti
³
in Scotland, and he gets a pair “out” at regular intervals. He is proud of his boots, and keeps telling you they simply
can't
wear out. If this is so, why does he get so many pairs? His bungalow is not more than thirty yards from the tea house, and as his work is entirely inside and round about that beastly structure, there is absolutely no necessity for him to wear boots at all. He would be comfortable in a pair of loose slippers which would do admirably for his work; but, no, he goes thumping round with these heavy “beetle crushers” to the detriment of the tea house floor, and the annoyance of all lovers of peace. Thud, thud, thud!

Well, well! at the same time it is hardly fair to criticize his boots and not his clothes, which are beautifully clean and neat every morning. Mac looks the reverse of “at home” in ‘em so long as they
are
clean; five minutes in the tea house and he is himself again. His first action is to peel off his coat and hang it on a nail, along with numerous wrenches, in the engine house. To get to the engine house he has to pass through the office where there is a neat little hat-rack, and why the deuce he doesn't hang his coat there, instead of going out of his way to make it the neighbor of dirty, greasy tools, passes my comprehension.

Rid of his coat, he gives a sigh of contentment and rolls up his shirt-sleeves, exposing to view a forearm of massive proportions hardened by years of “work at the file in the shops at home.” He then proceeds to poke his hand into every part of the engine, which he addresses familiarly in this way; “An' hoo are ye feelin' this mornin', ye auld Rechabite, ye?”

He has no fear; he chucks her under the chin here, he tickles her there, he wrestles with the great piston, he climbs over the flywheel, he opens and shuts every handle she's got; he dives under her, he slides along her, he slaps her, and after risking every limb he possesses, he emerges from the conflict, smeared with dirt and oil, but with the flush of victory on his face.

“She's daein' fine, man!” he says, stepping back to look at the little clock on the top of the boiler. Ah!—another handle attracts his attention; he can't resist; without a word of warning he jerks it round and “ph-r-r-r—r—br-r-r—oof”—“What the devil?” you yell, as you leap into space, thinking the boiler is burst! But Mac has now got the furnace door open and the fierce red glow lights up his grim face and gives it a weird, uncanny look, as he peers in.

Now what in creation does he want to look into the furnace for? It beats me hollow. Bang goes the great door, and a heated—bound to be so!—discussion arises between the
kalwallah
and himself. Neither can hear one word that the other says, from the noise of the machinery, but they shout and gesticulate for all they're worth, till Mac eventually clears out having evidently had the worst of the argument. The
kalwallah
tugs nonchalantly at the whistle cord, the answering
poof-poof
of the whistle signaling his triumph and Mac's discomfiture and retreat.

From the engine house Mac makes his way through the tea house, leaving behind him a trail of badly-treated and loudly-grumbling rollers, firing machines, sifters, etc. Not one escapes; he pulls every one of them about most mercilessly and, if it should happen that there is no handle, cock or lever by which he can annoy any machine, then he relieves himself by abusing in most opprobrious terms the dead relations of the poor devil in charge of it.

Finished with the machinery, he wipes his brow, throws away the end of his Burma,
⁴
and begins to sidle towards the tasting-table. His bullying manner is now quite gone; he knows there are no handles or wheels
here
,
and besides, it is a serious matter this tasting. At his invitation, I gingerly lift the cup pointed out, and suck up a mouthful of its contents noisily, throwing back my head, and gargling away beautifully, with Mac's eyes fixed on my face. And now I spit, and I can see he is satisfied; for, though my gargle is not much to boast about, I can
spit
with anyone.

Next the leaf houses come in for a share of his attention, and it is a sight to see Mac chase the leaf-boys from end to end of the different houses. Yes! it's quite worth anyone's while to go round the tea house with Mac.

A funny thing about the
mistri-sahib
is, that it is next to impossible to catch him, if you should drop into the teahouse for a minute. As you stroll in you see him at the other end of the rolling room bending over the last “roll.” You start along towards him, but by the time you have got round all the litter in your way, behold! he is gone. Oh, there he is, smelling the
mal
at the Victoria,
⁵
but when you circumvent the
kutcha
⁶
sifter, he is gone again. “Confound the man!” you say as he again reappears, this time on his way to the withering-loft; “got him now” you think, and you nip up the stairs after him; “gone away, tally ho!” as you hear him thundering down the outside gangway, for he has outwitted you once more. But he is heavily handicapped, carrying all the weight he does on his feet, and you bless his
busti mochi
,
as, pumped and blown, you pursue your quarry to the three-decked leaf-house. The scent is now strong, and you hear he has just left, by the south door. Hurrah—!
View holloa!
⁷
for there he is sauntering back into the tea house; a good spurt and you run him “to earth” in the fermenting room—a grand finish! I've often thought that, if you wanted to see Mac for a minute during the day, it would be best to start with him in the morning and stay by him all day. Then when you wanted to speak to him, why there he is at your side! How's that for Political—or should I say “Domestic”?—Economy?

Mac takes his “leave” on Monday as there is always manufacture on Sunday—our “leave day.” On Sunday evenings I generally dine with Mac, unless I go visiting; and sometimes Hamilton, the junior assistant brings the party up to three, but I know he only stays by invitation, while it is an understood thing that I dine with Mac whenever I can. We always ask him—Mac—if he is going out anywhere on Monday. The joke is, that Mac never goes out. Nevertheless he mentions every Sunday night that he is thinking of “takkin' a rin ower to Kalybeti (our next garden)—the morn's morn,” but we know he'll never “tak that rin.” It's like his trip down the river; he has been threatening to “gæ doon the watter” for the last six years, but always puts it off till the next cold weather. When I come in to breakfast on Mondays, I regularly find Mac stretched on a long chair in my verandah with a peg
⁸
and a Burma cheroot of much potency. A clean shave, clean clothes, a pair of highly polished boots, if anything heavier than usual, and this breakfasting with me, comprises his idea of a holiday. I remark casually as I toil up the steps, “You didn't go over to Kalybeti then?” “Ah well, you see,” he says “A' jist thocht a'd better get at the guts o' that infernal drier as long as she's cauld, an' by the time a' wis threw wi' the waster, an' haud a bathe and a clean sark, a' seen it wisna worthwhile orderin' the pony.”

The
Burra-Sahib
⁹
says he often used to see Mac take a ride round the garden on his leave days, but I've never seen him out “on the field.” I rather think he despises the outside work; I know he does what he calls “that dawmned muttie scrapin,” by which elegant term he means the “hoe.” However, in some mysterious way, Mac always knows where and how the outside work is being carried on, and I have always found that, should he by any chance ever pass an opinion on any work, what he says shows an amount of knowledge and judgment hardly to be expected in a man whose entire time is spent in the tea house. He is acknowledged by the district to be one of the best engineers, whose abilities have been thrown away on tea; for thrown away they are, most certainly. One Monday night, when we had more pegs than usual, Mac produced, from deep down in one of his boxes, letters and certificates which testified to my belief that the “old country” had lost one of its best engineers when Mac sailed in the City of Glasgow for India. Little Scotland, lumpy and swollen as its top end is, should feel proud that it can produce men of such caliber as “Our Mac.”

In some documents this text is classified as fiction, but it is unclear how much is based in fact. In any event, this text provides an interesting description of some of the relationships that occurred within the confines of Indian tea gardens.

1
[Certain British spellings have been amended. Ed.]

2
“
Mistri
” refers to a carpenter or other craftsman. “
Sahib
” is a term of respect used in colonial India for respected white Europeans.

3
“
Busti
” is a Hindi term for a small village or settlement.

4
“Burma” likely refers to a clipped cigar type called a cheroot which was common in Burma and India and was popular with the British in this time period.

5
“Victoria” likely refers to a piece of equipment built by Victoria Machine Tools.

6
“
Kutcha
” means makeshift or second-rate.

7
“
View
holloa!
” is the fox hunter's cry when the prey leaves cover.

8
A “peg” is an alcoholic beverage.

9
“
Burra-Sahib
” is a term of respect for a manager.