By Rebecca Taub

 

Yes, it’s true.  I’m from the United States.  And I like mate.

It seems to be a bit of a source of pride to Argentines that their national drink is often unpalatable to us foreigners, and I get mixed reactions when people find out that I love the stuff.

“¿Probaste mate? ¿te gusta?” They ask, a knowing half-smile already on their face.

 When I reply with, “sí” and a grin, their expressions turn incredulous.

 “¿En serio?”

Now, they are wondering if maybe I’ve misunderstood them. Maybe my Spanish isn’t as good as they thought and I’m one of those dumb student travelers who just nods and replies “sí” to everything I hear.  Surely I can’t actually like mate.

But I do. I admit, the taste took some getting used to, and some brands are still too bitter for me to handle.  But I’m working on it, and in truth the taste of the mate has very little to do with my love for it. The other 95% is all in the ritual.

 For mate beginners, let me explain.  Mate is a bitter tea that is traditionally drank out of a gourd.  The drink is “mate” but the herb itself is called yerba and the gourd is referred to as the mate.  You can actually buy mates made out of any number of materials – traditional gourds, wood, even cow’s hooves.  You pack the yerba in the mate and add the metal straw, called a bombilla.  Then you pour hot water over the yerba almost to the top and sip from the bombilla until the water is out before refilling.

 When you tomar (or drink) mate with friends, one person is designated the water pourer and holds the thermos or teakettle. They fill the mate and pass it to one person, who finishes all the water before passing it back to the pourer, and so on and so on. You never thank the pourer for handing you the mate – that means you don’t want it any more, as in “thank you, but no.” The mate continues to be filled and passed and drank until the flavor is gone from the leaves, at which point it is lavado – washed.

Argentines drink mate everywhere. Store owners and clerks sit by the cash register with their mate lying next to them, workers drink it at their desks, but the pervasiveness of mate in Argentine culture becomes most obvious on the weekends in the parks, where everyone comes out with their friends to talk all afternoon and drink their mate. It becomes the most social of traditions, and this is what I love the most. Mate crosses all demographics – it is for men and women, the youths and the elderly, the rich and the poor.  Families come out to drink mate, friends and couples. There are parks in poor neighborhoods and even more parks in rich neighborhoods. Mates, bombillas and yerba are all cheap – you can pick up a gourd for 2 pesos, even in a relatively touristy area.

My earlier comments were not to suggest that all Argentines are snobs about keeping mate to themselves.  In the end, it will probably make them respect you more as a tourist who can appreciate such a uniquely Argentine pastime.  And if you really want to get in their good graces, ask them for some advice on packing the mate.  Everyone has a distinct way of doing it, and everyone is convinced that their way is best.  Fill the mate half way with yerba, put in the bombilla, add a little water, fill it the rest of the way.  Fill the mate all the way with yerba, flip it over your hand a couple times to get some of the dusty bits out, put in the bombilla, pour the water over the straw.  In this matter, Argentines are more than happy to share their wisdom, that someone else might know the superiority of their method.

I’ve been in Argentina three months now and I’ve done embarrassingly little traveling outside Buenos Aires – as in none.  I’m on a low budget and while I could plan a cheap weekend vacation backpacking around some youth hostels, staying in my relatively cushy city apartment often seems much more appealing, and gives me plenty of opportunities to explore the city.  So my weekends are often spent strolling the city, finding the parks, tomando mate.  And on the weekends in Buenos Aires, where there are parks there are ferias.  I may not know much about the interior, but I am a virtual feria connoisseur.  It isn’t really the shopping that draws me to these outdoor markets where you can buy things from jewelry to olive oil to . . . well, cow-hoof mates.  It’s the mix of people, the jostling crowd, the locals mixing with the backpackers in a soup of languages, and the displays of talent – and of course the mate.  Recoleta has Plaza Francia, where in addition to jewelry and crafts there are acrobats and jugglers splayed out through the parks practicing their throwing techniques and flipping themselves through colored cloths hooked over tree branches.  San Telmo has Plaza Dorrego where you can browse through antiques surrounded by cafes where old men sip on beer and munch peanuts.  And Mataderos, on the outskirts of the city, far from the tourist centers, has La Feria de Los Mataderos, by far my favorite despite the lack of grassy knoll to sip my mate.

You walk into the feria in Mataderos, lulled by the promise of leather goods and the smell of chorizo on the parilla.  A few minutes of wandering leads you to the center, where a band plays traditional Argentine music and a two lines of people face each other dancing el gato.  They weave through each other, with elaborate footwork waving dancing scarves, everyone smiling and enjoying themselves.  This is no tango show, and the dancers are not professionals – some in street clothes, some in elaborate gaucho costumes, they come on Sundays to dance for the sake of dancing, not for the foreigners, of whom there are few, though the spectators are many.

 Wander farther into Mataderos and you realize that the true attraction of the feria is not the band, nor the dancers, and not even the delicious choripan.  It is, rather, the gauchos.  At the far end of the feria the stalls end and the street is lined with sawdust.  At the end of the road is an archway, from which dangles a string with a metal ring hanging off the end.  Cowboys, from age nine to age 90, take turns racing their horses down the lane trying to hook the ring on a small, pencil-like javelin they hold.  Some are just learning, and some are seasoned pros.  If you’re a very lucky lady, the top gaucho might even stop by you on his way back to the starting line, strutting and waving as he shows the crowd the ring he’s landed, and lower his javelin, dropping the ring into your hand and thus appointing you the chosen, his special woman for today’s feria.  I still keep mine on my keychain, my gaucho in my heart.

Weekends in Buenos Aires were obviously made for me, which I guess is a decent excuse for not having left the city since I’ve been here.  Gauchos, ferias, people-watching of the best kind, endless amounts of wandering to be done and new things to find.  Eventually I’ll make it out.  But until then I’m perfectly satisfied lying on the grass sipping my mate, bitter taste in my mouth but a smile on my face.

Plaza Francia is located next to the Recoleta Cemetary and can be reached by colectivo 17, 61, 62, 67, 92, 93, and 110.  Plaza Dorrego is on Defensa and Humberto 1 and can be reached by colectivo 9, 10, 20, 22, 24, 28, 29, 45, 74, 86, 126, and 195.  Feria de los Mataderos is in Plaza de los Mataderos (in Mataderos) and can be reached by colectivo 55, 63, 80, 92, 126, and 180.