rasta tea.
Then our new rasta guide of Bobo, took Kristina and I to tea at his house. He assured us that it was in the neighborhood and that we would not be long. Before going to his house, we had to stop at the neighborhood bar and drink “Bière Rouge,” which is beer made of millet out of a wooden bowl.
Then we headed to his house, which did not end up being in the neighborhood. After 25 minutes of walking, Kristina and I were getting a little bit curious as to when we would be there, because it was dark and we did not have a phone. He said we were almost there. 40 Minutes later, we end up in a new neighborhood. At this point, we had no idea where we were or how to get back. Uh oh. Then our rastaman took us through a barren alleyway and into a courtyard and into a cement room, which was apparently his. He went to go buy the tea and left us in this room that looked like a murder scene. It was all cement, and mostly barren except for some broken, random objects on the floor and a single candle. On one of the walls was a poster filled with photos. Kristina joked that these were photos of his victims. It was funny, but also not. We realized that we had done everything on the “do not do list” when traveling: following strangers, not having a phone, not knowing where we were, you know. So he comes back with the tea and suggests we go outside, which was much less scary.
We sat in the courtyard and his friend came with a kora, a large wooden string instrument, and he started playing this wonderful and peaceful music. Our rasta friend then started making the tea with the most TLC I have ever seen. He built the fire with charcoal, put the tiny pot with loose tea on top. When it was boiling, he poured the tea into a cup, then back into the pot about 15 times, making it mixed and frothy. Then he put it back on the fire and waited for it to warm up again, then repeated the process with a unnecessarily amount of sugar that would later make us wired. The end result- a frothy, delicious cup of tea. Much better than plugging in the hotpot and sticking a bag in a cup. He made it all over again, and we ended up having three cups in total, just talking and listening to the music in between. I even had a chance to try making it frothy, but ended up spilling a lot in the process. I asked where they learned how to make tea with such care, and they explained that everybody knows and learns from their fathers or older brothers.
We then decided that our friends back at Le Zion were probably worrying about us, so our rasta friends walked us back, with our friend holding and playing the Kora for the entire walk back.
So what had started as the night I was convinced I would be murdered ended up being a very peaceful and relaxing night with new friends.
