The Yerba Matte Tribes

30/01/11

Back in Argentina, we headed to a little town called Gualeguaychu having read in the paper that there would be a big carnival where one goes to “escape the boundaries and conventions of modern society.” We found considerable disappointment when this translated into sitting in reserved seats among a bunch of kids spraying silly-string all over the half naked performers.

The mission was not a bust however because we met a bunch of nice young Argentines who taught us rude expressions (cara de verga) and drinking songs (yo tomo liquor, yo tomo cerveja, y me gusta las chi-cas...). That somehow translated into a couple of nights out in the clubs and a nice rainy afternoon sitting on the sidewalk eating tortas fritas.

Gualeguaychu is set up nicely on the sandy bank of a river where everybody goes to take sun. We spent a bit of time there and had the chance to get into the Yerba Matte culture. For those not in the know, this is not the name of some exotic South American tribe, but rather the name of the drink consumed at all times by all people, all over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. It has to be the most equipment intensive beverage in the world, requiring a special cup, metal filter-straw, pack of yerba matte, and a thermos full of hot or cold water. A pack of Tang is an optional addition used to enhance refreshment delivery. To jazz things up a bit, rebellious youth sometimes elect place some stickers on their thermoses.

Throughout this part of the world we have been entirely amazed at the lengths people go to in order to consume their matte. It seems that you don't leave the house without thermos tucked under your arm, hand holding steaming cup of matte at chest level as you walk determinedly toward any destination. Further observation suggests that there is no inappropriate time to consume the concoction as it is drunk at all times of day or night.

It is pretty good. I guess.

Leaving the matte behind, we headed out for some off the track adventure in the Pantanal region of Brazil. I sat on top of a truck as we approached and once again began to feel the throb of the jungle. As night fell the pulse grew more intense with the rhythmic whine of thousands of frogs. Out in the water were the dozens of gleaming eyes something silent but much more deadly than the insect eaters. These were the cayman, a predator nearly as vicious as the millions of mosquitoes. They were looking for whatever they could find in the night, perhaps a tasty water pig - the world's largest rodent. That night I slept with the noise of the jungle all around me.

The following day we set out on foot hopping over rotten logs and listening for the buzz of unseen wasps. Not carefully enough, and I was soon stung through my pants. Undeterred we forged ahead past holes in the trees rich with honey and bees, before stopping to watch a baby anteater cling to it's mother's back as she climbed through the leaves above.

We went down to the river to catch some piranhas and this drew the interest of some Cayman that actually came up on shore after the fish on my line. I was amazed how voracious the little fish were as the scraps of steak disappeared one after another from my hook.

The jungle was alive with noise, the calls of hundreds of birds but most distinctly the screech of the McCaw and the howls of the monkeys. Eyes are watching from the treetops and as we approached the noise fell silent. The leaves rustled, the bows shook, flashes of colour darted through the air and the animals had vanished. And soon we had too, back over the dirt road to civilization beyond.