Paraguay is the second largest marijuana producer on the planet, growing a reported 6,000 metric tons a year in the lush, sparsely populated, smack-dab-belly-button of South America. But the ‘yerba’ we were looking for was a different breed – Ilex paraguariensis: the consumption of which has been a ‘craze’ lasting more than 500 years.
Yerba maté is the daily eye-opener, night-cap, daytime refreshment, ceremonial and social drink of central South America. On my first trip to Punta del Este years ago, I noticed how everyone on the street had a thermos of hot water tucked under one arm, as they carried their guampa (gourd cup) – with a bombilla (strainer-spoon-straw all in one) sticking out – in the other.
Nothing has changed since then. Among Piriapolis’ teens lining the embarcadero on a Saturday night (with ranchero music blaring), maté is more common than Coke or beer. Here, in steamy Paraguay, not only is it drunk hot (a bit like grass soaked in dirty socks, to me) but cold as tereré; or as cocido, toasted and served like Thai iced tea, with milk and sugar (the way Marie enjoys it every morning).
Yerba maté is such a significant part of Paraguay’s culture – and the making and breaking of this once-great nation – we planned a field trip in search of the source.
Cornelius Cacerès, one of the coffin factory managers, offered to escort us on our mission; so at 9:30 Tuesday morning we met him southeast of Asuncion on a street corner in Itauguá ... where he surprised us by bringing along a musician and friend, Juan. Cacerès took the wheel and Juan rode shotgun – wielding instead, a guitar – and we meandered away from the city on the ‘Pan American Highway’ (which is truly taking liberties with the term “highway” … ).
Ahhhh. Traveling east into the countryside, through the cordillera – a modest ridge of mountains that lifted us into cooler climes – was both refreshing and encouraging. What populated places we did pass were tidy and clean: homes and yards were well kept, buildings intact, and there wasn’t garbage strewn everywhere.
Along the way we pulled over at yet another street corner and a third guy joined us, barely dodging a sudden rainstorm. He was the friend-of-a-friend-who-knew-the-yerba-plantation-owner, but Marie and I never learned his name … so we referred to him as ‘Toro’. We continued along the pressed clay roads – much preferable to the cobbled stone with its deep potholes and jagged rubber-detonating edges; passing the rare car or tractor, and more frequently, a bunch of cows.
Now it was midday and of course time to stop for lunch. We rambled along more clay roads to a pasture grazed by Brahmas as far as the eye could see (and obviously all male) and followed the driveway to a Tyrolean inn. In Paraguay. The only guests, we picked a table outside, overlooking the vacant pool, and had a hearty lunch of potato salad, rice salad, tomatoes, bread, steak, steak, and more steak. When we left, I counted one less bull among the herd …
The men continued to harmonize, songs in both Spanish and Guarani (the language of the indigenous people – spoken by 95% of the population: even more than Spanish) until finally, around 3:00pm, we arrived at the manicured entrance to the plantation and its high, high, very closed gate.
Our guides had not bothered to call ahead. We could not go in, as they were loading trucks and would be busy the rest of the day. Mañana?
I didn’t ‘get the story’.
But I did. Because that’s the essence of Paraguay! ‘So hand-to-mouth; so live-for-today, so who-cares-about-reforestation or pollution or education … that of course no-one would have called a whole week ahead to make an appointment! What is this? L.A.?!
Instead, we walked through a field and old maté plant which had been abandoned to newer, more modern practices. A few yerba trees – a subtropical relative to the holly plant – remained, as did several aging buildings where the maté was first seared after hand-harvesting … later smoked and dried on wooden racks … then bundled and aged for a year or two. The ground was dollopped with cow pies but the creaky wooden buildings still smelled deliciously of toasted yerba maté.
Our trio serenaded us one last time from the tailgate before we all climbed back in, kicking up the red clay dust (‘a brown squall’ we called it) as we rambled home.
PHOTOS: tereré; Cacerès picking some yerba from a tree grown - traditionally - under a canopy; Toro; the abandoned old plant; tailgate serenade
