- 5 mins
In the windswept plains and rugged mountain valleys of Patagonia, there’s one thing you’re guaranteed to find wherever baqueanos roam: a weathered hand cradling a steaming gourd of mate. It’s more than a drink—it’s the heartbeat of baqueano life.
Step into a rustic estancia, share a fireside chat under the stars, or saddle up for a long ride through the grasslands, and sooner or later, someone’s going to pass you a hollowed-out gourd filled with yerba mate. Accept it, and you’re not just being polite—you’re being welcomed into a sacred tradition that defines camaraderie on the open range. Decline it, and you might as well question their horsemanship or their mother’s empanadas.
Mate: The Baqueanos’s Lifeblood
Mate is to the baqueano what coffee is to a New York cabbie—essential, constant, ritualized. Before the first boot hits the stirrup, before a single cow is herded, a baqueano’s day starts with mate. It’s brewed strong, earthy, and bitter—much like the land itself. But the true power of mate lies not in the caffeine, but in the ceremony.
There’s a rhythm to it. One person, the cebador, prepares the brew and serves it in a well-worn gourd with a silver straw called a bombilla. Everyone drinks from the same cup, in turn, and no one skips their share. It’s not about hygiene—it’s about trust. In a world where baqueanos rely on each other for survival, sharing mate is the ultimate expression of respect and equality.
It’s said that you can tell a baqueano’s character by how he pours his mate. Too rushed, and he’s careless. Too fussy, and he’s soft. But just right? You’re in the company of someone who understands balance—on the horse, in life, and in the gourd.
At Las Torres Patagonia, I witnessed this bond firsthand. The baqueano I was interviewing starting pouring water, he introduced himself not with a handshake but with a passed gourd, and told me to drink. The yerba was strong, smoky, and almost confrontational—just like the wind outside—but it went down smoother with each round, especially as stories, jokes, and memories began to flow as we set next to the warm iron stove.
The Ritual: It’s Not Just Tea, It’s a Ceremony
First thing to understand: mate (pronounced mah-tay, not “mate” like your Australian drinking buddy) isn’t just a beverage. It’s an institution. A social contract. A test of trust. The rules are strict, and breaking them means you’re either painfully ignorant or just an inconsiderate bastard.
The first and most critical rule? You drink from the same gourd as everyone else. That’s right. One cup. One straw. One big, happy bacterial family. You don’t wipe the bombilla, you don’t grimace, and for the love of all things holy, you don’t say “ew.”
Then there’s the order. The mate moves in a strict rotation, passed from hand-to-hand like a sacred relic. You finish what’s in the gourd—no half-sips—and return it to the server, the all-powerful cebador, who refills and passes it to the next person in line. This continues until the yerba is spent, at which point fresh leaves are added, and the ritual begins anew.
And one final golden rule: Never—never—move the bombilla. That silver straw stays exactly where it was placed. Stirring it is like double-dipping in the communal guacamole. Just don’t do it.
More Than a Drink: A Baquenao’s Social Glue
Mate slows time down. In the baqueano way of life—punctuated by early mornings, tough weather, and hours in the saddle—this moment of shared calm becomes a ritual of reflection. It invites conversation, laughter, even quiet. It’s a pause in the rush of survival, a grounding moment that says, We’re in this together.
You’ll find mate at the start of the day, during midday naps, and long after the horses are stabled. It doesn’t matter if you’re a seasoned ranch hand or a curious outsider—when the mate is passed to you, you’re family.
A Drink Steeped in History
Yerba mate isn’t some new-age, hipster superfood. The Guaraní people of South America have been drinking it for centuries, long before Spanish conquistadors arrived with their guns, smallpox, and insatiable thirst for gold. Indigenous warriors believed it gave them strength in battle; Jesuit priests saw it as a lucrative export.
Today, it’s the national drink of Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay—and they drink it quite a bit all the way down here in Patagonian Chile as well. A symbol of defiant tradition in a world that moves too damn fast.
It’s not just confined to the rural baqueanos, either. Wander the streets of Montevideo or Buenos Aires, and you’ll see businessmen, students, taxi drivers—even grandmothers—walking around with a thermos under one arm and a mate gourd in the other, taking slow, thoughtful sips like philosophers pondering the meaning of life.
In Uruguay, they take it to the next level. People carry mate everywhere, often tucked into specially designed leather holsters like caffeinated cowboys. It’s so ingrained in the culture that there’s an actual law banning people from drinking it while driving—not because of caffeine jitters, but because too many accidents were caused by drivers scalding themselves with hot water mid-sip.
The Many Faces of Mate
Like whiskey, coffee, or the French approach to cheese, mate varies wildly depending on where you are and who’s making it. The Argentinians prefer it puro—straight and bitter, no sugar, no nonsense. Paraguayans, possibly to combat their sweltering heat, go for tereré, a cold version often laced with mint, citrus, or herbs. In Brazil, it’s chimarrão—greener, foamier, and slightly sweeter. Each style has its own quirks, its own loyalists, its own set of unspoken rules.
In some towns, you’ll see baqueanos in full regalia—beret, boots, bombilla—carrying their mate kits like prized possessions. In others, you’ll find old ranchers brewing it over open flames with the same battered kettle they’ve used for decades.
And if you think you can just waltz into a mate-drinking circle and demand honey, sugar, or (God forbid) milk, think again. Traditionalists will eye you like you just asked for ketchup on a filet mignon. This is a bitter, bracing, no-frills beverage. You don’t mess with perfection.
It’s not about caffeine. It’s about continuity.
Final Sip
So, when you find yourself in Patagonia, don’t just admire the baqueanos from afar. Sit down. Share the fire. Accept the mate. Because once that gourd touches your lips, you’re no longer a visitor—you’re part of the story.
Mate Protocol: Baqueano Edition
- One gourd, one straw, one crew – Sharing is sacred. Don’t flinch.
- Don’t stir the bombilla – That’s like walking into someone’s kitchen and licking their spoon. Just don’t.
- Finish your turn – No half-sips. Drink it dry and return it to the cebador. Say “Gracias” only when you’re done – It’s your polite way of bowing out. If you want more, keep the ‘thanks’ to yourself.
By Forrest Mallard.
