One of the appealing things about Montevideo is that it does not seem to be a tourist destination. Maybe it’s just that little bit too far away from the centre of the world (Edinburgh) or too close to Antarctica. Either way there is an irrational pleasure in feeling less like a tourist and more like a (temporary) resident.
Having said that, it’s hard to distinguish tourists from locals solely on the basis of physiognomy. Apparently 88% of Montevideo’s inhabitants are in some way or other of European descent, so on the whole Ewan and I blend in. But there is one tell-tale thing that sets the locals apart: mate (Spanish pronunciation required here!)
There are some coffee cafés in Montevideo (like our favourite, Café Gourmand) but they are generally few and far between; and you can probably find tea if you persevere. But Montevideanos don’t seem to bother with either: they start, spend and finish their day with mate.
Mate is prepared by pouring hot (but not boiling) water over dried, ground mate leaves (yerba) in a gourd (traditionally) or a roundish cup; the resulting mixture quickly turns into a kind of slushy mush that would leave you with a mouthful of pulp if it wasn’t for the bombilla, a tube with holes which functions both as a sieve and a straw. Montevideanos are born with a silver bombilla in their mouth.
Mate is not served at cafés, for the simple reason that locals do not want to be parted from it. They carry it wherever they go so they can take sips throughout the day. To make sure that they don’t run out of mate, they clutch a large thermos flask filled with hot water under their armpit (same arm that carries the cup) for continuous top-ups. And if their thermos runs out of hot water they knock on the nearest door and the person opening it has to fill it up again straight away. Ok I am making that last bit up, but it may be true. Mate is an important part of social glue in Uruguay, and cups are shared around in groups as a kind of bonding ritual.
We chat about mate to the person at the front desk of Skyline who buzzes us through to the building. He is a friendly guy in his forties with stargazer eyes, and he is currently reading the second volume of a hefty biography of Fidel Castro. We like him! We set out our questions about mate in tentative Spanish but he quickly, unobtrusively switches to his much more competent English. He relates how, as a student, he drank three flask-fulls a day, slept badly and eventually developed palpitations and stomach pains that told him to cut down. He now knows his limit… He tells us, with some regret, that he would let us have a sip of his mate (which is sitting right next to him on his desk, obviously – he’s a local) but that we would need to have our own bombilla, for hygiene reasons.
Fair enough. Especially since mate actually looks pretty disgusting, while the coffee at Café Gourmand does not. There seems to be a limit to living like a local. But after a few days in Montevideo, mate cups and thermos flasks look as familiar as coffee-on-the-go in London,