First published in 'The Oldie', January 2008

I was delighted to hear from Marit that this article is indeed in the January 2008 edition of 'The Oldie.'

‘Let’s sit on the zaguán,’ my friend Rosa says. The zaguán is the space between her front door and the street. We squeeze out two plastic folding chairs and a table.

I’ve been invited to matear, Uruguayan style.

Maté is a national social pastime here.

[More:]

The maté is a calabash: you fill it with a bitter dried leaf called yerba, add boiling water, and sip it through a bombilla – a silver straw. The whole set of maté, bombilla and yerba are also referred to as maté, and the verb, matear, means to sip it.

There are rules: you carry your maté in your hand and flask under your arm, or put everything in a leather case called a matera, but you can’t order it in a bar. It’s something personal, which you pass around your friends. Groups of young people sit in parks, chatting, enjoying the sun and sipping away. In street markets, or even in business meetings, people clutch their calabashes. Kiosks sell hot water to refill flasks. During summer months, when hoards of Uruguayans hit the beaches, first aid centres are set up to deal with burns.

‘Okay, Rosa, I want to get this right.’

Rosa pours cold water onto one side of the leaves, digs a hollow with her straw, and starts sipping.

‘The leaves have to hinchar, to swell. You use cold water at first; otherwise the straw clogs up. I’m inviting, so I sip till the temperature is right. It’s rude if I give it to you luke-warm.’

She sucks, and when a gurgle indicates she has drained her brew, she fills it with boiling water, slurps again, checking the temperature, refills, and hands it to me.

I sip. We chat. I learn that is impolite to hand the maté back before the last drop of water is finished. You need that slurpy noise.

‘Yuk! You don’t want to sip someone else’s water!’ Rosa says. I wonder about the hygiene of the operation. ‘Most people share with anyone. But I’m selective.’

I’m honoured.

‘I’m the hostess, so I fill. And we chusmear. We gossip about passers- by.’

‘Rosa, if gossiping is part of matear, I’ll go for it.’

‘Ooh, see that woman? She’s asquerosa.’ I wonder why she’s nauseating. ‘She moved into the area and rebuilt the house next door. Loads of money. Moans all the time: says my pipes are wrong, my bathroom is making damp seep into hers…’

A man walks by. I nod and say ‘Buenas tardes.’

‘No, don’t greet, just smile. Don’t say anything unless you know the person.’

‘But I don’t know anyone.’

‘Okay, don’t say anything unless I know them. You have to differentiate between those you know and those you don’t.

An elderly man passes with a dog. ‘Not all there.’

We pass the maté back and forth. Every few fills, Rosa shifts the straw around the wet leaves.

‘How’s Alicia?’ Rosa asks. She met Alicia at my house recently.

‘Ah, poor Alicia, she’s the first of twelve siblings. When she was fifteen, and her youngest brothers, twins, were a few months old, her mother gave one of them away – can you imagine? She handed him over to a stranger, then left. With another man. Alicia didn’t see her again till last week, at a funeral. But Alicia’s kids refuse to call her grandma. Can you blame them?’

Is this me, talking about other people’s affairs, and judging?

Rosa pours the last drops from the flask, and sips the maté del estribo. The dregs.

‘Great, Paola. You’ve managed to matear and chusmear, simultaneously. You’re a real Uruguayan now.’