Peace, Love, and Mate

My hand painted mate, made from a gourd.

And now, a long-awaited post on mate. Pronounced "mah-tay," mate is a traditional hot beverage shared all over Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and parts of Brazil. It's very caffeinated and always shared. The word mate refers to the cup, traditionally made from a hollowed-out gourd but these days more often made from wood or plastic. The loose leaves placed in the mate are called yerba. Hot water is poured over the yerba to make an infusion. A metal straw, called a bombilla, with a filter on the end is used to drink the tea without having to drink the leaves. It's definitely an acquired taste, kind of smokey and bitter. You can drink it dulce, with lots of sugar, or amargo, straight-up yerba and water. The person serving the mate is called el/la cebador(a). He or she will fill the mate with almost-boiling water, and pass it to the person next to them who will drink all the tea in the mate and pass it back to the cebador. He or she will pour more water into the same mate and pass it to the next person in the circle. No one cares about sharing a bombilla with the rest of the group, although many have refused a mate because they were sick and did not want to spread germs. This passing and refilling continues until the yerba gets weak, there is no more hot water, or conversation ends, whichever comes first. And a person can always opt out of the next round by saying "gracias" after finishing a mate.

While this whole ordeal might sound strange to someone from almost anywhere else in the world, most Argentines I talk to can't imagine a world without mate. I've grown pretty fond of it myself.

My coworker recently shared this bit of prose on facebook and I thought I would translate it and share it here. Originally written by Lalo Mir, an Argentine radio personality, it is pretty representative of the value and tradition wrapped up in the simple mate.

Mate and Love, by Lalo Mir

Mate is not a beverage. Well, yes. It's a liquid and it enters the body through the mouth. But it is not a beverage. In this country, no one drinks mate because they are thirsty. It's more of a habit, like scratching an itch.

Mate is exactly the opposite of television; it makes you talk if you are with someone and it makes you think when you are alone. When someone arrives at your house, the first thing you say is "hello" and the second is "want some mates?" This happens in every house. In the homes of the rich and the poor. This happens among chatty and gossipy women and among serious or immature men. This happens among the elderly in nursing homes and among teens while they study. It's the only thing that parents and children can share without discussion or throwing in each other's faces. Peronistas and radicals prepare mate together without question. In the summer and in the winter. It is the only way victims and tormentors appear the same; the good and the bad.

When you have a child, you begin to give him or her mate when they ask. You give it to them lukewarm, with a lot of sugar, and they feel grown up. You feel enormously proud when the little lazybones with your own blood starts to drink mate.  Your heart leaves your body. Later, they will make a choice to drink it sweet, bitter, really hot, cold, with an orange peel, with a little lemon juice.

When you meet someone for the first time, you will drink some mates. People ask, before they are sure, "Sweet or bitter?" The other responds: "However you drink it."

Argentine keyboards are full of yerba. Yerba is the only thing that is always present in every house. Always. With inflation, with hunger, with militaries, with democracy, with whichever of our plagues and eternal curses. And if one day there isn't yerba, a neighbor will have it and will give you some. No one ever denies another of yerba.

This is the only country in the world where the decision to stop being a child and become a man happens on one day in particular. Nothing about long pants, circumcision, university, or living far from your parents. Here, we become grown ups the day we have, for the first time, the need to drink some mates alone. It is not a coincidence. It is not just because. The day when a kid puts the kettle over the fire and drinks his first mate without anyone else in the house is the day he has discovered he has a soul. Or he's dying of fear, or he's dying of love, or something: but it is not an ordinary day. None of us remembers the first time we drank mate alone, but it should have been an important day for each of us. There were inner revolutions.

The modest mate is nothing more and nothing less than a demonstration of values. It's the solidarity of putting up with some weakened yerba because the conversation is good. The conversation, not the mate. It's respect for the time to talk and to listen. You talk while the other drinks. And it's the sincerity to say, "That's enough, change the yerba!" It's the companionship made in the moment. It's the awareness of the boiling water. It's the care behind asking stupidly, "It's hot, right?" It's the modesty of whoever prepares the best mate. It's the generosity of serving until there is none left. It's the hospitality of an invitation. It's the justice of drinking one by one. It's the obligation to say "thanks" at least once a day. It's the attitude, ethical, frank, and loyal, of finding yourself sharing without pretense.

Original in spanish here.

Being and Butternut Squash

Sorry about the lapse in blogs. Since my last post I've traveled a tiny bit more (mid year retreat!) and things have pretty much settled down. I'm in charge of a space for english tutoring at my nonprofit and have been learning about creating websites. I've started an english conversation group with some young adults in my congregation and have really enjoyed speaking english with my friends. I was warned at Chicago orientation that there might come a point in the year where I stopped having words to describe my experience. I think I'm there now. And it's not that I'm overwhelmed with my reactions and emotions or anything, but rather that things have become more normal. Here I am, just making my way in the world.

One of my goals for my remaining months here is to learn how to cook Argentine foods. Empanadas, tartas, milanesa, dulce de leche, etc. So last week I was making a tarta de zapallo, aka butternut squash tart, and wasn't sure if I had enough butternut squash. "Bueno," I thought, "es lo que hay." This basically means, "it is what there is." It's a commonly used phrase at Compartiendo Un Sueño where we sometimes only have the essentials (crackers and jam) to serve for a snack. Chloe and I had been talking about spanish phrases that we might have to give up when we return to our home communities and how our brains are this weird mix of languages right now, so I started thinking about why I like this phrase.

Es comes from ser, "to be." Hay comes from haber, which more or less means "there is." If you remember from spanish class, there is another verb that also means roughly the same thing as these two, estar. That's three commonly used verbs that all refer to existence. And we didn't even include existir, to exist. What might that say about a culture's values?

Something we talk about as YAGMs in accompaniment in Argentina/Uruguay is ser vs hacer ("to be" vs "to do"). We come from a culture that puts a lot of emphasis on action and some days it is hard to remember that just being is enough. Showing up with a smile, sitting beside a stranger, or being a set of ears to listen is often what another needs. Of course there are days when more action is necessary, but it is comforting to remember that a lot of good can come from the simple act of being with someone.

Es lo que hay means getting by with what you have. It reminds me that I can wish and imagine and hope for all the best things, but something is existing in front of me. It is what it is. I might as well make the most of it.

I thought about going to the verduleria down the street and picking up another butternut squash for my recipe, but it turned out that lo que habia was plenty.