Twilight Tea and Tawla in Alexandria

Article by: Lauren Salathiel, November 2005

This was the place to be. Families were out strolling, dragging their children away from the decorated ponies that waited in the street to take tourists for carriage-rides. Eyes lit up as towering ice-cream sundaes were unloaded from trays and water-pipe coals were stoked. Salesmen shuffled from table to table, displaying socks, model boats, perfumes, toys and even bulky, black telephones that would have been more at-home on a Get Smart set than they were in a street in Egypt. A father-and-son acrobatics team cart-wheeled and flipped down the pavement, pausing in front of each coffeehouse to perform gravity-defying feats of flexibility. They balanced on each other's shoulders, spun, and contorted themselves into pretzel-like shapes, before scooting through the crowd for donations, and moving onto the next cafe.

I was bustled into the neighbouring coffeehouse, squeezed into a chair, and introduced to my hosts

Enquiring of the neighbouring table whether they could take a photo for me, I was commended on my knowledge of the local lingo, and engaged in a typical my-life-in-a-nutshell conversation. Two old men in the adjacent coffeehouse, upon hearing the discussion, leant over their backgammon board to my table and asked me, 'You speak Arabic? You know how to play tawla?' Indeed, I did not. With the bill quickly paid, I was bustled into the neighbouring coffeehouse, squeezed into a chair, and introduced to my hosts, Abdullah and Bassam.

The two men crept out of their respective houses each night to meet at the coffeehouse and challenge each other at backgammon. As I glanced about the coffeehouse, I came to the realisation that there must be a number of wives sitting at home by themselves - the entire place was filled with elderly gentlemen, crying out in glee (or disgust, depending on who was winning) over the clatter of black and white game pieces. Needless to say, as the only woman in the coffeehouse, my presence was a novelty, and waiter and patron alike wandered over to the table sporadically to enquire as to 'where my father was'.

Waiter and patron alike wandered over to the table sporadically to enquire as to 'where my father was'

As we sipped tea and bitter Turkish coffee in bladder-bursting quantities, I was enlightened on the game of tawla, quickly learning how to set out the pieces, what moves were allowed with each roll of the dice, and how to throw up my hands and express my disappointment with each loss!

Just before midnight, the waiters began to stack the chairs and collect glasses. The patrons folded up the tawla boards, and confirmed meeting times for the following night. Abdullah and Bassam admitted dejectedly that they had to get home, and shook my hand as we rose from the table. Thanking my two gentlemen hosts, I set off down the street, following the exhausted ponies into the night. I was halted as Bassam called out after me, 'Tomorrow night, eight o'clock. We'll save you a seat'.