Sharing is Caring: An Ode to Mate

When I came to Argentina I fell in love.

And it was love at first sip. My two and a half year, on-again off-again relationship (it got complicated when I was in the U.S.) all began with a picture. When I first laid eyes on mate. In attempt to prepare for my semester abroad in Buenos Aires, I purchased a book on Argentine culture, and was immediately drawn to a peculiar photo of a woman drinking from a bulbous vegetable cup, using some sort bent of metal stick.

This is actually my friend Claire, but this photo may as well be in Argentine culture book

Yerba Mate, the section header read. Intrigued, I continued reading, and learned that mate, pronounced mah-tey, (not mah-tey, and definitely not meyt), is tea-like beverage (yerba), which one drinks out of a gourd (el mate) using a metal straw (la bombilla). It is prepared and enjoyed in a ritualistic fashion, and involves many defined rules and specific etiquette. Strangest of all, it is to be shared. The section concluded with a frightening list of mate rules, the most perplexing being, "Yes, the straw, or bombilla, may burn your lips. Too bad, so sad! Drink until there is no water remaining in the mate, or risk offending your server."

Mates galore! 

Despite my fear of third-degree burns to the lips, I wanted nothing more than to try mate. My first day in Buenos Aires I had a single objective, and once I dropped off my luggage, headed directly to a cafe. My heart racing, I called over the waiter: "Me puede traer mate, por favor?" Several minutes later, the waiter returned with a tea cup full of hot water and a tea bag. I am an avid tea fan, but I had never been so confused and bitterly disappointed to see a tea bag in my life. Had the book lied? Had the waiter misunderstood my order? I left the restaurant more anxious than ever to taste, to experience this mysterious Argentine beverage.

Qué onda?

During my next weeks in Buenos Aires, I would learn the fundamental lessons of mate (I continue to learn the secrets, tricks and nuances). When I moved in two and a half years ago with Natalia, my wonderful porteña 'host mom' and friend, we first exchanged names. Then I got straight to business: Could we please drink mate? Natalia nodded with a smile, and headed toward the kitchen. As it turns out, Argentines drink mate in their homes, in parks, at work, on long car rides, in plazas, (while riding a bike, if you're in Uruguay), and even sometimes during class. Basically, everywhere except in restaurants. This explained the tea bag fiasco.

Drinking mate in the car. Es complicado....

I held my breath as Natalia entered the room, and when I spotted the gourd and metal straw, I let out a sigh of relief. My time had finally come. I took my first sip of mate. It was strange, but I liked it immediately. I savored the bitter, herby flavor, and handed back the mate with an emphatic 'Gracias!" Natalia gave me a funny look. I had just made my first big mate mistake.

Drinking mate in Nati's house. Maybe a little too excited....

Now, if someone tells you that there is never any harm is being too polite, they are wrong. As it turns out, 'gracias,' in the context of mate-drinking, actually means 'I'm all done.' More times than I'd like to admit, I thought my friends were ignoring me, and then realized (qué boluda!) I had said 'gracias,' unintentionally removing myself from the mate circle. I had so much to learn. And I couldn't get enough.

At Argentine gas stations, fill up your tank and your thermos, all in one stop! 

Perhaps the most important lesson of all is that mate is to be shared. Yes, shared. For those of us from the United States, the concept of sharing a drink among a potentially large group is very, very strange. In restaurants, coke and beer come in single serving containers. At sports practices everyone has his or her own water bottle. Generally, only close friends and family share beverages. People often rationalize this one-drink-per-person mentality as a preemptive measure against the dreaded 'spread of germs.'

Argentines are often surprised when I say I like mate. 

Imagine my surprise then, when I witnessed large groups of not only friends, but acquaintances and even strangers, sharing the same straw. This cultural difference was perfectly captured several months ago in a hostel in Buenos Aires, where I approached two guys from the United States. They were sitting together at the same table, chatting, each drinking from his own mate. From the perspective of an Argentine, this scene is utterly comical, for the mate ritual is at its essence a collective one. My fellow yanquis had not yet learned that mate is so much more than just a drink. It is a shared experience.

Drinking (one) mate in park in Mendoza with my friends

My next 'Mate 101' lesson was on the ritual itself. One person, el cebador, is designated to prepare and serve (cebar) the mate. Depending on the cebador, the preparation can be fairly relaxed, to very intense and precise. My first teacher fell on the 'intense' end of the spectrum. He prepared the water, using a thermometer, allowing to it heat to just before boiling. (Once when I accidentally let it boil, and he demanded that I start over. If I was going to prepare mate, he insisted, I had better do it right.)

Yerba mate!

I will now describe the preparation and serving ritual for my curious yanqui readers. (I recognize that an entire book could be written on this topic, and therefore apologize in advance for the brevity of my description.) While the water is heating, the yerba is to be placed inside the mate, at a slight angle, extra dust is to be removed placing one's hand over the mouth of the mate and turning it upside-down. The bombilla is placed inside, also at the proper angle, and water is to be poured at the base of the bombilla, which should not be moved. Some opt to put some lukewarm water in the mate, before adding the hot water, to prevent the yerba from burning.

Giulia, cebando in the park

After trying out the mate, the cebador/a fills the mate with hot water for each person, who passes it back to the cebadora after drinking all the water from the mate. The mate moves in this way, in a circle but always passing through the cebador, until the mate is lavado, or without flavor. Repeat!

Emi, cebando! Grosa!

The cebador should remember the order of those in the mate circle, to avoid skipping and possibly angering an eager mate-drinker (I have seen this occur, and it is not pretty). Also, the cebador can choose to prepare the mate dulce (with sugar), or amargo (without sugar). Many Argentines fall decisively into one camp or the other, and some have very strong feelings about their preferred mate style. (For some point of reference, this division is not unlike the polemical crunchy-creamy peanut butter debate in the United States.)

I met one Argentine who had a yerba mate dispenser on the wall of his store. Now that's intense!

When I returned to Argentina and moved to Bahía Blanca six months ago, I was determined to master my mate technique. I knew that I would need my own equipo de mate. Now, I absolutely love this term. 'Equipo' translates to equipment, which is how it is meant in relation to mate. 'Equipo,' however, can also mean 'team.' I prefer to translate using the second option. My mate team.

The Mate Trinity

Despite my enthusiasm, my first attempt to form my mate team was an utter failure. I eagerly set out in search of the necessary items: a mate, a thermos, and a bombilla. First, the mate. Having irrationally decided that my mate would 'speak to me,' this step took months, but I finally found a lovely mate gourd to call my own. Mates must be cured before use however, and so I would have to wait.

Not wanting to ruin my precious mate, I asked dozens of Argentines how to cure a mate gourd. I watched numerous youtube videos. Every person, and every video professed a different technique. Cure for one day, some explained. Many said three, others said seven. Use butter, use burning coals, use a few drops of whiskey (I'm am nearly positive this was not a joke). More confused than ever, I chose one technique, and gave it a go. I chose wrong. When I discovered black mold in my mate, I almost cried . The bombilla I had bought clogged, and then I think I did cry. My only team member who had pulled through was the thermos.

I persevered however, and ultimately formed a functioning mate team. Indeed, there were some rocky patches on my road to becoming a cebadora (i.e. spilling hot water on my friend Daiana's lap, dumping a entire tupperware full of yerba on the floor, twice), but thanks to my wonderful Argentine teachers, I can now successfully prepare and serve mate for my friends, without causing any major offense or serious destruction.

Drinking the happiest drink around with my two housemates, Bianca and Carine!

For example, I have learned to NEVER move the bombilla around in the mate. I used to laugh at Argentines who turned red in the face watching a foreigner wiggle, or (heaven forbid!) pull the bombilla out while drinking mate. I knew then, that I was becoming argentinizada when found myself wincing in agony as an exchange student stirred the bombilla around like it was just any straw.

Yerba mate aisle at the grocery store. Does it ever end? I think not.

You may be thinking by now that I am obsessed with mate. And you would be right. I don't know if I've ever once said no to the question, 'Querés que tomemos unos matecitos esta tarde?' It is a tradition which at its essence is about meeting up with friends for the sake of spending time together. To share a drink. To share stories. It is a tradition which for many Argentines is daily, and which is a shared custom throughout the country. Whether you're in a humble jujeño village in Northern Argentina, or a swanky Recoleta home in Buenos Aires, you will see friends sitting in circle, drinking mate.

An Argentine once told me that while people often argue over a cup of coffee, people never argue while drinking mate. And I believe it. For me, mate embodies what I love most about the Argentine people and culture: a warmth, a collective perspective, an emphasis on what really matters. Spending time with loved ones. Making new friends. Telling stories. Forgetting what time it is. Laughing. Sure some germs are swapped, but it couldn't be more worth it.

Where Whales Smile and Seals Strut: A Patagonian Mission to Puerto Madryn

After an epic trip to Bariloche, our thirst for patagonian adventure could not be quenched. Once again, the compass pointed south: Léa, Sofi and I would venture eight hours down the Atlantic Coast, to Puerto Madryn, Chubut. The trip would be short, (just two days), but it would surely be epic. Our objective was clear: we were after whales.

It would not be a proper blog entry without a bus fiasco to impart, and this chapter of my Argentine adventure is no exception. Our bus was running late, and anxious to embark on the journey, I asked the man at the counter how long of a delay to expect. '20 minutos,' he replied, tersely. After 30 minutes, and still no sign of the bus, I returned to the counter, and making my best effort not to be annoying, asked again. '20 minutos.' This bi-hourly, déjà vu-inducing exchange repeated for about three hours, until our bus finally arrived. Señor 20 Minutos however, turned out to be the least of our problems...

1:37 a.m.: Approximately 2.5 hours after ETD

Little did I know that I was soon to embark on what we would later dub the 'Ride of Death.' This ride however, was no Splash Mountain. About 30 minutes into the trip, the bus began to shake. Perhaps, I thought, half-asleep and delirious, this vigorous trembling is normal. Not so. Soon, the bus came to a halt. Periodical stops are not uncommon, and so again, I thought little of it. But when I peered out the window, I discovered that we were not, as I had presumed, at a gas station or a bus stop. Rather, we were inside a very dark, very sketchy garage.

The situation inside the garage did not improve. Although the bus was stationary, it continued to shake furiously, up and down, side to side. I looked behind me at the other passengers for confirmation that something was terribly amiss, and was shocked by what I saw. While Léa, Sofi and I frantically peered out the window, trying to figure out why in the world we were shaking inside a random garage, and equally perplexing, why no one was making an announcement about it on the intercom, the other passengers read quietly or dozed peacefully in their seats. Had they been tranquilized by the complementary snack we had not yet eaten? Was there some unspoken Argentine understanding that we foreigners were not in on?

Before these questions could ever be answered, we left the garage of doom. Apparently the problem had been fixed. Our peace however, was short-lived. About five minutes later the bus began to shake and jerk. To add to the excitement, we were now moving at tilt, the passengers to my left at a distressingly lower level than my own. 'No estoy tranquila,' Léa whispered, ominously. 'Nos vamos a morir?', I asked, only somewhat joking.

Five sketchy garage-stops and 14 hours later, we arrived in Puerto Madryn, 6 hours behind schedule, but happy to be alive. We'd arrived too late for any excursion, and so we headed straight to my friend and fellow Fulbrighter Melissa's apartment. She was generous enough to host the three of us and show us around Puerto Madryn.

The following day also happened to be our last day, and so we had to make it count. Martín, our excursion guide, picked us up in a truck at Melissa's place, and we set off for Punta Ninfas (Nymphs' Point), the home to an impressive colony of elephant seals. Martín had brought along mate for the trip, and I eagerly offered to 'cebar' (serve).

As it turned out, pouring near-boiling water into a small yerba-filled wooden cup (mate), and passing it around while speeding down an unpaved dirt road in not nearly as easy as Argentines make it look. Most of the water and the yerba mate ended up on my clothes and on the floor, and by the time we arrived at Punta Ninfas, I appeared to have jumped in a pool and rolled in loose-leaf tea. Luckily, I had no one I to impress but the elephant seals...

Cebadora in training

Bumpy road = major mate spillage

'Why is it called Punta Ninfas," I asked Martín, inquisitively. Our guide stared pensively ahead, scratched his chin, and launched into the grand tale of Charles Darwin and his epic travels on the Beagle. Darwin, he recounted dramatically, spotted the elephant seals from afar on his ship, and claimed to have seen beautiful nymphs, lounging lazily on the shore. I later googled this explanation, and found not a single reference to Charles Darwin in relation to Punta Ninfas. Somewhat deceptive on Martín's part, but I give him props for creativity.

Martín, el Gran Chamuyero, leading the way to the beach

Perhaps Martín had invented the Darwinian nymph tale, but I could not deny that the female elephant seals we found at Punta Ninfas (the males had not yet arrived), indeed seemed to perceive themselves as divine nymph goddesses. I felt like a photographer on 'America's Next Top Model' as I snapped pictures of these colossal creatures of the deep. Sure they smelled like rotting carp. And yes, the ground shook with the roaring force of their not-so-femenine barks. These ladies though, sure knew how to strike a pose.

Léa and I sensed our inferiority along side the elephant seal goddesses 

As we walked along the shore, Martín made a miraculous find: a whale's tooth! In reality, whales don't have teeth, but rather bristle-like baleen which filters out krill and other tasty whale morsels, and (fun fact!) is made of the same substance as human fingernails. Name aside, I had to have this cetacean treasure. 'Could I please have the whale tooth?', I asked Martín, trying not to sound too excited. (In truth, I longed deeply for the tooth, and could hardly contain my excitement.) Martín handed over the whale chomper, and I clutched it happily.

In awe of my prize

Next stop: el Doradillo. Time to spot some whales! On the drive to el Doradillo, Léa and Sofi snoozed in the back seat, and once I got bored of taking embarrassing sleeping pictures of my two compañeras, I chatted with Martín. As it turned out, Martín knew very little about Puerto Madryn's flora and fauna. On the other hand, our guide was quite knowledgeable about soccer, and discussed in great detail, and at great length, his favorite team, describing everything from their tactical strategy to the team's origin and history. Meanwhile, I practiced my mate-serving technique as Martín ranted passionately for the two hours it took to arrive at el Doradillo.

At el Doradillo we encountered winds so strong we could hardly stand upright. Nevertheless, we got out of the truck at various points along the beach, fiercely searching the waters for la ballena franca austral, or, the southern right whale. They were no where to be found. Perhaps, we considered sadly, the siesta practiced by many Argentines is a whale tradition as well.

No whales in sight... Un garronazo!

Just when we had given up hope, seemingly defeated in our whale mission, I heard a faraway call: "Ballenas!" And there they were. The southern right whales. We frolicked joyfully down the beach, chasing after the whales, which, not unlike the elephant seals, also seemed to be putting on a bit of a show. The whales swam unbelievably close to the shore, periodically raising their callus-encrusted heads, revealing their sleek, endless bodies, amiably waving their glorious tails. They were massive. They were totally awesome.

Oh hey whale-watchers!

After our spectacular whale sighting, we headed back to Puerto Madryn, very satisfied and smiling broadly. Just as we got back to Melissa's apartment however, I stopped in my tracks, horrified. I had left my beloved souvenir behind in the truck. My whale tooth. Desperate, I called the agency and explained the grave situation to Juan, the man working at the office. 'What did you leave, señorita," he asked. After a thoughtful pause, I replied, "Well, um...a whale tooth actually."

"I'm not sure what to tell you, because whale's don't have teeth," Juan replied evenly, though clearly attempting to mask the fact that he thought I was insane. Once I explained that yes, I knew that it was not actually a whale tooth, he assured me that Martín would stop by the apartment and bring me my tooth. Joya.

The only problem was that we were leaving in 2 hours. I waited, and waited. No Martín. I called back to the office. "If Martín doesn't make it before you leave, he'll meet you at the bus station," said Juan, i.e. Gran Chamuyero #2. We left for the bus station. I called the office. No answer. At the bus station, I waited hopefully for Martín to appear, imagining our guide sprinting down the terminal, a Journey song playing dramatically in the background, whale tooth in hand. I had wished in vain. Martín never came.

On the bus ride home, I was devastated, but tried to think about the situation rationally. How did I know that Martín, who knew close to nothing about wildlife in Puerto Madryn, had not also lied about the whale tooth? Maybe, I considered, my treasure was just a piece of dried bark that looked curiously like a whale tooth. Had I been fooled? Had I used up all of my cell phone credit, and made a somewhat embarrassing scene for nothing? It seemed that the tale of the whale tooth would forever remain a mystery. Perhaps in this situation, ignorance was a preferable option after all. We had made the most of our short time in Puerto Madryn, and had not only seen whales, our principle objective, but had also enjoyed the delightful, albeit stinky company of the elephant seals. Overall, a mega 'Madrynense' success. 

AFTERWORD: 

Several days later, I received wonderful news from Melissa: "THE WHALE TOOTH HAS LANDED!" Melissa had worked her magic, and had not only recovered my precious souvenir, but also verified that it was, in fact, a baby whale tooth. How cool. My prize would be waiting for me in Puerto Madryn. I guess that means that I have no choice but to return...

The Relativity of 'un Rato': Telling Time, Argentine Style

Years ago in a Spanish culture class, I was first shown this famous Salvador Dalí painting, "La Persistencia de la Memoria" ("The Persistance of Memory"), or, as it is most commonly searched for on Google, the more literally titled, 'Melting Clocks Painting.' I was always intrigued by the work, and yet, found its significance evasive. 'Melting clocks...What could it possibly mean?,' I wondered, pensively stroking my chin.

What I realize now, is that I was asking the wrong question. The issue is not 'What?' or 'Why?', but rather, 'Where?'. Where does this painting take place? Because the truth, of which perhaps even Dalí himself was not aware, is that these are not just any clocks. They are Argentine clocks. (Slowly melting, perhaps, on the shores of Puerto Madryn.) 

Puerto Madryn, Argentina, or surrealist beach setting? Qué sé yo!

During my months living in Argentina, I have learned what I could never grasp in the classroom: the meaning of 'the relativity of time.' Finally, Dalí was speaking to me...

I think she's got it!

In the United States, melting clocks do not exist. 'How can time be an idea, something relative,' I often wondered, 'when it is rigid and fixed, absolute and unchangeable?' 7 o'clock means 7 o'clock. A little after 4 o'clock means 4:05, 4:15 and you're pushing it. 1 o'clock sharp? Like a razor. 9 o'clock on the dot? We're talking the end of a needle. Two minutes late and you're toast. Extra crispy. Indeed, one must faithfully abide by the Law of Time. Arrive late to a carpool? Thou shalt apologize profusely. Delayed to a meeting? Thou shalt beg forgiveness. Punctuality is valued and expected.  'Late' is a a four letter word, the eighth deadly sin.

Don't mess with Time!

Ok, yes, I'm exaggerating a little. But that's how I feel sometimes. Perhaps this is because I am not, you could say, the most punctual of people. In the U.S. I am constantly fighting the clock. And in this epic battle, Ali vs. Time, I am always the loser. Indeed, I have spent many years recognizing my dilatory nature as a point of weakness, a flaw to correct. This past New Year's I even resolved to address my shortcoming, in a well-intentioned but ultimately fruitless gesture to be more punctual. Conveniently, I left for Argentina shortly thereafter...

Turns out that, at least for the time being, I can toss my resolution in la basura. Imagine my utter joy when I arrived in Argentina, and discovered that everyone was just like me: always late! And that not only are they are habitually delayed, but that being late is perfectly acceptable, and at times even socially necessary! I currently live in a country where 'late' is not late, but right on time! 

I thought I was being metaphorical until I saw these in a store in Buenos Aires. 

'I'll be there at 9 y pico' a friend may tell me. 'Pico,' or 'a little bit' may range from 10 minutes, to an hour and a half. Wait 'cinco minutitos.' I was surprised to learn that not only are there 'little minutes' in Argentina, but that five of them can translate to half an hour. And if start times are unclear, then end times are completely unknowable. 'I'll stop by for 'un rato,' or 'a little bit,' could mean anything from 15 minutes to two hours. 'Un ratito,' which in theory is 'little rato,' provides essentially zero temporal information, and could range from 1 minute to an entire afternoon. It's all relative.

And it's wonderful. What is perhaps my greatest shortcoming in the United States has allowed me to adapt to life in Argentina, a country where time is fluid. A place where going with the flow is necessary if you have hopes of maintaining your sanity. A land where clocks melt like chocolate alfajores left out in the sweltering South American sun.

Rewind five months. During my first week in Bahía, a friend told me a group was to meet at 6 at a spot near my house to drink mate and eat some facturas (magically delicious Argentine pastries). Not wanting to be a huge loser and show up right at 6, I had decided it would be appropriate to get there fashionably late, at 6:15. Seemed reasonable enough. When I arrived though, no one was there. My master plan had backfired; I had got there too late. Too late. Ha.

About an hour later I wandered outside to take out the trash, and saw my friend strolling in, with a bag of facturas in one hand, and mate thermos in the other. "Che, Ali! Estás lista?" Could this be real? It was 7:22, one hour and 22 minutes behind schedule, and we were just now meeting. Even by my standards, this was unthinkable. And yet, it was totally okay. As I munched on my medialuna, surrounded by dilatory Argentines, I knew that I finally belonged.

Or perhaps, not quite. For the first time in my life, the tables had turned: I often found myself the first person to arrive. I had a 9 a.m. meeting with all of the 20 international students living with me in the university housing. At 9:07 I ran out of my house, extremely flustered, and peered into the houses whether the others live. No sign of life. Oh god. I was late. The meeting had begun and everyone was there. Mild panic setting in, I sprinted to the English building several blocks away where the meeting was to be held, and burst into the room. It was 9:11 a.m. The room, aside from my director and her assistant, was empty. 

Although I am not the timeliest yanqui there ever was, I am realizing that I am nevertheless bound unconsciously to the Clock of my homeland. I have internalized the notion that I must adapt to Time, and not, alternatively, Time must adapt to me. My friend Carla captured this fundamental cultural difference when she recounted our first encounter to our soccer team: "My first memory of Ali is of her approaching the bus stop, sprinting down the street while scarfing down an apple." This is an image which is not uncommon in the United States, but which in Argentina, categorizes you as very strange, if not freakish. Indeed, there are two things wrong with this picture, as viewed in Argentina:

1) Running on the street. You could say that we take the expression 'running late' very literally. In the U.S., arriving exhausted, flushed and/or sweaty is preferable to showing up late, and it is therefore not uncommon to run to one's destination in order to avoid a major stink eye, or a dreaded tardy. During college, I could always count on seeing at least several students after the bell had rung, heavily breathing as they sprinted frantically to class.

In Argentina, no one runs on the street. Except for me, that is. Sometimes people scream when I run by, seemingly under the impression that I am going to rob them. Clearly this aberrant behavior is not conducive to my assimilation to Argentine culture, and I am therefore making a determined effort to suppress my urge to book it down the street when I notice that I'm late.

2) Eating on the move. In the United States people eat while they're walking, while they're running, while they're driving. En route is primo snack time. I was raised amidst a culture where coffee is synonymous with drive-thrus and to-go mugs, where 'food trucks' are all the rage, and where people eat yogurt called 'Go-Gurt'. It is normal to be in a hurry, and if scarfing down yogurt out of a disposable plastic tube, or devouring a hot dog on stick saves time, then great!

In Argentina however, things are not so rushed. Eating is as much about energizing the body as it is about enjoying one's comida, socializing, and spending times with friends and family. 'To-go' cups are antithetical to the notion of drinking coffee, and it is therefore no surprise that there are only a handful of Starbucks in Buenos Aires, and not a single one in Bahía Blanca. Perhaps that explains why people stare at me as if I were a gorilla escaped from the zoo when I eat a banana on my way to work.

Despite these tendencies, I am adapting to the Argentine Clock. I can now arrive to a party 40 minutes 'late' without a single pang of guilt. I can walk to a meeting in the city center without checking my watch ever 7 seconds. I am making an effort to enjoy my apples in the privacy of my home, though I will not lie, I have not yet been able to fully make this cultural transition.

Besides learning that time is in fact relative, and that I am not fatally flawed, I am finding that Time can be my amigo. That when schedules and meeting times are a little more flexible, that when I am not running down the street, I can stop and enjoy the smell of medialunas wafting lazily from a bakery. I can enjoy a mate gathering for hours on end without worrying about what comes next. Life is not to be rushed, but rather savored. And while the probable effect this will have upon my punctuality upon my return to the U.S. is quite alarming, I am enjoying this new rhythm, embracing this new perception of time which stalls and accelerates, expands and contracts; which gives true meaning to the expression 'making time,' and creates space for the joys in life that transcend the clock.