Back in Bishkek, back to the States

July 31, 2013

My initial plan was to return to Bishkek on Saturday, July 27^th. I’d reserved a bed in the Sakura hostel for the 27^th-30^th way back in June… but, this being Kyrgyzstan, a wrench was (of course) thrown into my carefully laid plans. This particular wrench came in the form of M., an American undergrad student who, fresh off a year in Russia and a month in Tajikistan, was spending a week or so in Kyrgyzstan before returning to the US. His local Kyrgyzstan travel arrangements had been made through The London School. His plans were to spend Thursday night at the Beach Camp and then return to Bishkek on Friday night. Logically and logistically, it made far more sense for me to return to Bishkek with him on Friday night than to have The London School arrange separate travel for the both of us. Of course, the problem was that Sakura was packed. I had a bed reserved for Saturday, but there wasn’t space for me for Friday. We were too late in the planning stages to arrange a homestay through The London School (such as the one where M. was staying), so I ended up spending the night at the home of the director of The London School… where Aliman and Murat from Toguz Bulak happened to be staying as well. (The director is, I believe, the aunt of their mother.)

In the morning, after a nice, late breakfast, I made my way to Sakura. When they’d said the place was packed, I’d had no idea just how packed. There were only two dormitories when I first stayed there back in May. In June, they opened a third dorm. All of the beds in all three dorms were full, as were all of the private rooms. And the floor on the third floor. And the rooftop patio. Considering the solitude in which I’d spent the previous two months, it was all a bit much.

I had four full days to spend in Bishkek, although I admit that I did very little. Most of the Bishkek folks whom I know had left the sweltering heat of the city (and it was boiling – in the upper 90s, sometimes topping 100F – every day I was there) for the cool air and waters of Issyk Kul, and the temperatures made wandering about the city a challenge. On the one hand, after having spent the entire summer being cold, this was quite a welcome change in temperatures. On the other hand... it was bloody hot. I didn’t even carry my DSLR with me most of the time, as it was simply too hot to lug around something of that size. Yeah. Of course, as the hostel was not air conditioned, I spent a good amount of time in “expensive” (by Bishkek standards) restaurants with air conditioning: curry at The Host, rabbit at У Мазая, Khachapuri at Mimino, pizza at VEFA, and a calzone at Cyclone. (Cyclone has the best hot chocolate in the world, but as I was so hot by the time I got there, I couldn’t bring myself to order it; I had one of their milkshakes instead.)

Curry at The Host

Khachapuri Adjaruli at Mimino

'Hunted Rabbit' at У Мазая

The remains of my calzone at Cyclone

I didn’t just eat my way through four days in Bishkek; I had errands to run, too. I had to return my borrowed laptop to The London School, complete with the audio recordings of myself which I had made for them, tape-scripts, edited texts, and photos of my volunteering experiences. In turn, I finally received my stipend (haha). I then spent most of said stipend mailing home the large box of gifts from host families and students. I also finalized my souvenir/gift buying, and even braved the heat to wander around the city (albeit with my point-n-shoot). I also managed to get a really great haircut at a place not too far from the hostel. And that was it, really.

As you can see, the weather was gorgeous. But sweltering, absolutely sweltering.

A really lovely haircut, by a very nice woman... who I must admit was horrified by how long I'd gone since last dyeing my hair. Bishkek and the villages are really different worlds.

At 1:30am on July 31^st, three French tourists (who had been among the masses at Sakura) and I left the hostel and headed for the airport. Checking in at Manas is definitely a lot easier without four cats! I did, however, see an elderly gent traveling with two small dogs – good times. I arrived in Istanbul at 7am local time, and got to sit through a six hour layover. There was actually a later flight out of Bishkek, but I would have had less than an hour to catch my flight to the States. I hadn’t wanted to miss my connection, so I settled for six hours of mind-numbing boredom. M, on the other hand, chose the latter flight. He and I were supposed to be on the same flight from Istanbul to New York, but he didn’t make it in time.

And that’s it, the end of my summer in Kyrgyzstan. I leave you to contemplate a video I made showcasing how - despite New Zealand's attempts to convince us otherwise - Kyrgyzstan is indeed Middle Earth. You have to click here to download it; YouTube won't let me post it as they say it's a copyright infringement.

A genuine Kyrgyz picnic

June 27, 2013

After my first day of class had finished, I had a quick lunch with the family, then we grabbed our swimsuits, hopped into the car, and headed down to the lake shore to attend a picnic. When we left, it was in the 80s, hot and sunny, and we all set out dressed for a sunny summer’s day at the beach. You’d think I’d have learned by now how quickly the weather here can change, and therefore would’ve thrown some warm clothes in my bag… but of course I didn’t. But we’ll get to that later.

We arrived at the lake shore around 1pm, and found the picnic already underway. The older folks sat around drinking tea and chatting, while the younger folks and the kids played in the water and on the beach. I took a long stroll westward along the beach, taking photos as I went and splashing my feet in the rather chilly (IMO) waters of Issyk Kul. (“Issyk Kul” means “hot lake” in Kyrgyz, but even at the height of summer I’ve found it far too cold for my liking. I am a Floridian after all!)

I returned from my stroll to discover that Kuban’s Audi had been pulled up next to a gigantic and rather industrial looking truck. A blanket had been strung between the Audi and the truck, creating a tent to shade the tea-drinkers below – and I’d returned just in time for the first course (salads). After the salads, it was time for more swimming and hanging out.

The men played cards. The women busied themselves with cooking and/or tea drinking and/or taking care of infants. The teens and twenty-somethings swam and/or played that awful volleyball derivation which I’ve only ever seen in the former Soviet Union which involves trying to smack the crap out of your helpless opponent with the ball. The second course was a very flavorful sheep-based soup, containing a variety of spices and peppers! And tomatoes! All this variety!

Then the weather changed. The temperature dropped and drizzle began to fall. The locals all pulled warm clothes out of their bags. I shivered. Eventually the drizzle turned into rain and I retreated into the Audi. Despite the weather, the party was not going to end until we’d had our beshbarmak. Of course, by the time the beshbarmak made its appearance, the weather was truly frightful: pouring rain, biting wind (children had been drafted into holding the blanket in place above the table as the wind had blown it loose from its holds in several places), and it was bitterly cold. The blanket, which had provided excellent protection from the sun, did little to keep out the rain.

I was summoned from the warm, dry confines of the Audi to partake of the beshbarmak. Let’s just say that was the quickest divvying up of beshbarmak that I’ve ever seen. Despite the absolutely foul weather – and the fact that by the end of the meal everyone was completely soaked and shivering, everyone remained in good spirits, laughing and joking, even as we frantically passed portions of beshbarmak to one another. An elderly fellow – a retired cop – turned to me and said with a smile, “Вот: настоящий Кыргыз пикник!” (“This is a genuine Kyrgyz picnic!”)

The instant that the plastic bags had been passed around for us to bag-up our leftovers (which for pretty much all of us consisted of ALL of the beshbarmak) we fled to our various cars and made for home. The “road” to the shore – which had been nothing more than a sandy track on our way in – was an absolute mire of clay-enhanced mud on our way out. I am amazed that we didn’t get stuck, given how we slipped, slid, and spun our way up to the main road.

I huddled under the covers with Котчик for the remainder of the afternoon, then spent the evening planning lessons before returning to the warm, cat-filled confines of my bed.

Not at my best in Bishkek, Part 2

June 17, 2013

Thank goodness for Imitrex. That stuff might knock me out, but it knocks the migraine out, too. I awoke fairly early (around 7:30am) with no headache, but with that strange ‘Imitrex hangover’ feeling. Days like that one should take it easy, lest the Imitrex wear off too soon and the migraine reassert itself. However, as I had a lot to do – and a date with the family for sheep slaughtering that afternoon – taking it easy wasn’t an option.

I started off with breakfast at Fatboy’s, figuring none of the places I needed would open until 9:00 or 10:00 anyway, and Fatboy’s opens pretty early. After breakfast, I took some pictures from in front of the museum in Ala Too Square, as the mountains were clearly visible for once.

Then I made my second attempt to locate Dom Byta, the place where – according to ES – I could probably get my long lens fixed. During the night, she had emailed me detailed directions for finding the place, and that – combined with the lack of migraine – enabled me to locate it on the second floor of a small, kind of sketchy looking building just west of the square (Kievskaya 104). The fellow inside the tiny camera repair shop was incredibly nice. He had to slice open the side of the cap on the back end of the lens with a small saw in order to get it loose. Then he taped the cap back together in such a way that it was still usable. And just like that, the long lens was back in business! He also had a fantastic collection of old film cameras that I would have loved to have played with if I’d had the time… but alas.

The lovely fellow who fixed my lens.
...and his fantastic camera collection
Sliced
...and taped

My next goal was to get photos printed. There were some that I wanted to add to my collection of photos that I use in the classroom, and there were others that I wanted to give to my host family as presents. After that, I popped into a supermarket to get some of the things I’d neglected to buy the day before (toothpaste, lotion, etc.), and then I hit up TSUM again, this time looking for shoes. I ended up buying the only practical (i.e. not atop 3+ inch heels) women’s shoes I could find: overpriced, lime green Converse knockoffs from Turkey. I also snagged some new socks and underwear. I had a fried chicken wrap at a fast-food stand outside of TSUM, and then stopped off at one more grocery store for snacks and three liter-bottles of non-gassy water to take back to the village with me. At that point it was around 1:30pm, and my headache was showing signs of an attempted resurgence. I returned to the hostel and napped for a couple of hours, at which point it was time for Sheep Slaughter Number Three.

Rakhat and one of Altynbek’s sisters came and picked me up, and we drove way out to the southwestern edge of the city where another one of A’s many relatives lived. He has something like five brothers and five sisters – they were all in attendance with their spouses and children (and in some cases, grandchildren). It was quite a merry gathering. And apparently they really did all want to meet me.

There were quite a few courses – including two different courses made from the sheep who had ridden to Bishkek with us the previous day. In between courses, the family hung out and chatted while the children played. All in all, it was quite jovial.

Remember the sheep that rode to Bishkek with us in the trunk of the car?

Vodka was brought out – and as they had ALL heard about my drinking adventure with Jumabek, I was not allowed to turn down a shot, even when I pleaded the excuse of my headache (which had started to creep back in around 6pm). Luckily there was only one bottle to be shared amongst all of the people in attendance, meaning that I was able to scrape by with 3/4 of a shot, instead of being forced to display my legendary drinking prowess. (It’s a little ridiculous that they are all so impressed by my alcohol consumption skills, given how little I drink in general!) One of the brothers told me that when their mother is present, they can’t get drunk, which was why they only had the one bottle. I was seated next to their mother (who is in her 70s), so I told her that I was glad that she was there. She laughed and winked at me. “When my children aren’t around, you and I can split a bottle.” Oi.

Around 10pm, it was time to go. I had a minor headache and was not at all intoxicated. I didn’t feel great, but I didn’t feel bad either. Then I got into the car with Altynbek’s nephew, who had been tasked with driving me back to the hostel. He was a terrible driver. Not terrible in the sense that I felt in danger (I didn’t at all) but terrible in the sense that he was one of those drivers who constantly weaves and swerves and makes a lot of seemingly unnecessary turns and sudden stops. As you might guess, I began to feel quite motion sick. I made it out of the car and about halfway down the street to the hostel when I began puking. Ugh. It’s always something. After completely emptying the contents of my stomach, I made it inside, took a brief shower, and passed out.

Boiled Sheep’s Head and Boorsook

June 13, 2013

It’s unfortunate that I felt ill yesterday evening instead of today. It would have been nice to have an excuse to stay in bed all day, but I awoke feeling fine. The weather, however, was anything but, as it continued to deposit tons of frigid rain on the village. The ability to stay in bed all day wouldn’t have been the only perk of being ill today. In mid-afternoon, I had the following conversation with Rakhat:

“Do you remember the sheep we killed the other day?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Right now we’re boiling its head. We’ll eat it for dinner tonight.”

Why was it yesterday that I was ill and unable to eat?

In addition to spending the afternoon boiling a sheep’s head, the family spent a good chunk of time making an insane amount of boorsook. The entire family worked together in an efficient assembly-line fashion: 

Rakhat rolled and sliced the dough, Nursultan and Nuraika shuttled the sliced dough into the next room, and Altynbek fried it. The thin pieces of dough take only about 10-15 seconds to cook.

At one point, while rolling the dough, Rakhat said, “Annie, go pose there and act like you’re rolling the dough. You can tell your friends you made boorsook!” My response was that no one who knows me would believe that, to which she agreed that I was probably right.

Look guys, I'm making boorsook! Haha, nothing is ever staged.
The finished product
Nurel snacks on fresh boorsook
In the evening, when it was time for dinner, the plate came out with the whole boiled head as well as the boiled feet and spine and various other boiled bones. I was given a chunk of spine, which did have some tasty meat attached to it. Altynbek – as the oldest and the head of the household – got the job of dismantling the head, as well as his pick of its meat, although he did offer various pieces around. I ate some tongue, which wasn’t bad, although I found eating taste-buds to be horribly disconcerting. Nuraika got the soft-palate, as apparently daughters are supposed to eat the soft palate (although I was not clear on the reason for this). I was offered (but declined) and ear and half an eye. Apparently a boiled eye is quite similar in nature to a hard-boiled egg. Imagine scooping out the “yolk” (the iris and pupil) and eating just the “whites” and that’s essentially how you eat a boiled sheep’s eye. The feet weren’t touched; they went back into the pot at the end of the meal, and I suspect we’ll be seeing them again.

In which a sheep is slaughtered “in my honor”

June 10, 2013

WARNING: This post contains graphic images of a sheep being slaughtered.

Altynbek was gone most of the day yesterday at some sort of political meeting two villages west of here. He returned around 6pm, at which point I was told that they would be slaughtering a sheep “in my honor.” Now I don’t know how often they slaughter sheep in this family, but given that we consume sheep two to three meals a day, this surely is a frequent occurrence. I suspect that the “in my honor” thing is just their way of being polite. Of course, other than when we slaughtered a sheep in honor of the birth of Jumabek’s granddaughter, I haven’t witnessed the slaughtering of any sheep, so who knows. Of course, I definitely had mixed feelings about being told that this particular sheep was being slaughtered specifically for me (whether that was the entire truth or not). I mean, I’m not a vegetarian, and I have been eating sheep essentially every day for the past month. And just a few days ago I watched the slaughter of one of Jumabek’s sheep without flinching… but being told that an animal is being killed specifically for you is rather disconcerting.

Altynbek led the sheep out of its enclosure and over to the area in the courtyard next to the yurt. He tied its feet together and then we stood in a row facing west to pray ‘omin.’ I silently prayed to the sheep: “Dear sheep, I’m sorry. I thank you for your sacrifice. I will try to enjoy eating you.” It’s somewhat disconcerting to watch how rapidly something goes from being alive to being… not. It’s something that – unless you’re a hunter or a farmer – most people back home rarely think about.

The slaughtering and butchering process followed the exact same pattern as it had the previous time at Jumabek’s. This time I observed the whole slaughtering and butchering process from a much closer vantage point. It occurred to me that kids out here have a much better grasp of anatomy than kids back home. I remember in 10th grade when we dissected fetal pigs and struggled to locate the various internal organs. In contrast, kids here learn from a very young age how to locate and identify all of the various internal organs. And unlike me and my 10th grade companions, they do it without flinching.

After the sheep was slaughtered and butchered we went into the big external kitchen located behind the house. It’s been there since the original house (not the new, two-story house they currently live in, but the older one next to it) was built. It is the place where all of the cooking is done. The “kitchen” inside the new house is a fairly sterile place with a hotplate and an electric tea kettle – no stove or running water. The real cooking is done out in the external kitchen, which contains several wood-burning stoves, and a large wooden table. (Underneath the wooden table is a ladder descending into a large, underground root-cellar.) It also had what appeared to be an inflated and dried large intestine hanging from the ceiling.

First Altynbek lit the fire – filling the place with smoke – then he placed the portions of the sheep that we were going to consume in a vat above the fire where they began to boil. The remaining cuts of meat and various internal organs were brought inside and spread out on the large wooden table.

Rakhat began chopping the liver and several other unidentifiable (at least to me) internal organs, which she then mixed with rice, salt, pepper, and a smidgeon of flour. She then took the dried large intestine (yes, that’s what it was) down from the ceiling. Apparently the large intestine is soaked in brine for a week or two, then blown up and hung up to dry. This one was from the last sheep that they had slaughtered. The large intestine from “my” sheep was then placed in brine to soak. The dried intestine was rehydrated in water, and then filled with the rice-liver-innards mixture and tied shut. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is how you make sausage (or as Altynbek put it, “Kyrgyz Kielbasa”). The sausages, as well as the braided small intestines, were then thrown into the vat with the meat that was already cooking.

Now that the weather has warmed up, all of the eating and tea drinking takes place in the yurt in the courtyard. I was told that the meat needed two hours to cook, so I brought my kindle into the yurt and curled up on a chair. (They’ve rigged a light from the tunduk – the opening at the top-center of the yurt – so it isn’t dark inside.) While I was inside reading, a man arrived. This is nothing new; guests pop in unexpectedly all the time. This guy, however, was actually expected.

He and Altynbek sat and chatted in Kyrgyz for some time before Altynbek went off to deal with sheep-cooking issues, at which point this fellow started talking to me. It turned out that he was the district prosecutor, as well as a distant cousin of Altynbek. They’d seen each other at whatever the regional meeting was where Altynbek had spent the bulk of his day, and Altynbek had invited him over to partake in the freshly killed sheep.

The prosecutor, whose name I promptly forgot, was an interesting fellow. He had spent some time in Cuba back in the day, and spoke basic Spanish, roughly on par with mine. We traded a few phrases back and forth in Spanish, then switched back to Russian. He had spent time in both St. Petersburg and Vladimir in Russia (both places where I have lived), so we discussed both cities, and what life was like there, and how that contrasted to life in both Kyrgyzstan and the US. We also talked about some of the more current problems throughout European Russia, such as the racism against Central Asian minorities. He was a tad nostalgic for the former Soviet Union. He wasn’t one of those who glorified the FSU with memories beginning with ‘когда был Советский Союз…” but he did say that before the collapse of the Soviet Union, everyone seemed to get along: Muscovites and Central Asians, Kyrgyz and Uzbek, etc., and he could travel throughout the Soviet Union without fear of racism, unlike today. He also said that while the transfer from communism to capitalism was extremely difficult for Kyrgyzstan, things were finally starting to get better.

At this point, the food – and the booze – was brought out. Booze. Goddamn. Rakhat and Altynbek don’t drink, meaning that this bottle was destined for me and the prosecutor. Luckily he was a bit of a lightweight; he had trouble keeping his eyes open after three shots, and by the fourth he looked as though he might pass out right there at the table. At that point, Rakhat put the bottle away. For people who don’t drink, Rakhat and Altynbek seem to take a lot of joy in getting other people intoxicated! Luckily four shots amounted to less than half of what I’d consumed with Jumabek so I, unlike my prosecutorial drinking partner, was not too terribly inebriated. But let’s get back to the sheep.

The beshbarmak came out as a giant plat filled with meat-covered bones. The meat was perfectly cooked so that the flesh simply melted off the bone. As tired of sheep as I have become, I actually found this to be quite tasty. The meat was also accompanied by bowls of hot, greasy sheep-bullion for each of us, and I was actually able to drink half of mine. (And I didn’t even drop mine in my lap this time! Haha.)  The plate did not merely contain meat-covered bones, however; it also contained the two sausages and a variety of freshly cooked innards. I was able to avoid the straight-up innards, although I did eat a couple of pieces of sausage. The sections that consisted of liver and rice were pretty tasty. However, the sections that consisted of miscellaneous other sheep guts… well, let’s just say that my gag reflexes reacted strongly to the texture (although thankfully in a way that I was able to disguise).

After we gnawed on the bones for a while, Rakhat cut the meat off the remaining bones and sliced it up into tiny pieces. She also did the same with some of the guts. This meat/guts mixture was then placed on a large plate, then topped with homemade pasta and a liberal dose of sheep-bullion. This was the meat-n-pasta portion of the beshbarmak, and my companions actually ate it with their hands as well. (Remember, beshbarmak translates as “five fingers” as this is a meal that is traditionally eaten with one’s hands.) The pasta was actually quite good, except for the few moments when my tongue realized it was touching guts. Sigh.

In which we slaughter a sheep and I drink half a bottle of vodka

June 8, 2013

WARNING: Some of the photos in this post clearly depict sheep-slaughtering.

Yesterday after breakfast, Rakhat informed me that we’d been invited to our neighbor’s in order to slaughter a sheep in celebration of the birth of his first grandchild (a granddaughter). The fellow across the street – a 77 year old man named Jumabek, or “George” as he told me to call him “but not Bush!” – is a distant cousin of Altynbek, and quite a jovial fellow. He seemed just as excited about the birth of his granddaughter as he was to be able to ask me questions about the US. (“Is it true that there are mostly black people living in Washington DC?” “Did you know that there are a lot of Kyrgyz living in Chicago?” “What is the weather like in Orlando?” etc.) He even pulled out an old encyclopedia so that he could locate Orlando on the map and so he could look up the entry on the city (which essentially said that we have citrus trees and Disney World – still fairly accurate, even if the encyclopedia was from the early 1980s).

The sheep slaughtering was a fairly quick process (although undoubtedly for the sheep not a painless one). First the sheep’s feet were tied. Then we stood in a line facing west and prayed ‘omin.’ Then the sheep’s head was held over a bowl and its throat was slit. Its head was held over the bowl until its heart stopped pumping and the blood flow ceased. Then I rinsed the open neck with water from a tea kettle.

At that point the sheep was strung up and dressed in much the same fashion as I’ve seen hunters dress deer in the US. The one exception to this was that EVERY part of the sheep was kept to be used. This included the guts. While it was the men’s job to skin and butcher the sheep, it was Rakhat’s job to clean the stomach and intestines of the, well, shit. It was fascinating to watch the care with which everything was cleaned and preserved (including the heart and lungs, the head, the feet, etc.).

Rakhat cleans intestines.
Nursultan and the fresh cuts of meat

The complete set of photos from this and several other sheep slaughtering events can be seen HERE.

Once the entire sheep had been butchered and cleaned, Rakhat began cooking kurdak, a fried meat and potatoes dish – using the meat from the sheep, of course. The rest of us retired inside to watch TV. Oddly enough, we watched Francis Ford Coppola’s late-90s take on The Odyssey. (While it was apparently a mini-series, many – but obviously not all – of the episodes had been edited together into a movie for Kyrgyz television. Several key parts of the story had been left out, and the whole thing had been dubbed into Russian.)

Eventually the food was ready to eat. Now, I wholeheartedly believe in eating what you kill. (There’s a bit of a problem with hunters in my neck of the woods in the US who hunt for sport and just leave the carcasses behind to rot, and I thoroughly despise people who do this.) However, despite my desire to actually eat the sheep which we had just slaughtered, I was unable to eat much of the kurdak. There’s a certain method of cooking that is sometimes used here. I don’t know what that method is, but it makes the meat utterly unpalatable to me. Unfortunately, this was the method used to cook our sheep. Out of politeness – and to honor the sheep’s sacrifice – I forced myself to swallow several chunks of meat, after which I concentrated on the potatoes.

I really didn’t eat very much. This was rather unfortunate, as after we had finished eating lunch, Rakhat produced a bottle of vodka as a present for Jumabek. Now Rakhat and Altynbek don’t drink, which left only me and Jumabek to consume the entire bottle – sadly split fairly evenly between the two of us – as we drank toast after toast to his granddaughter, to me, to him to Rakhat and Altynbek, to my mother, to his children… (To those of you who have never been in a situation like this, let’s just say that being unconscious or claiming that you don’t drink at all due to religious beliefs are really the only ways to avoid shot after shot…)

When we returned home, my goal was to stagger up the stairs without falling and then to pass out. 

Unfortunately, in front of our gate were two local elderly women (one of whom I’d met before, although I can’t for the life of me remember where – At the school? One of the stores? At Rakhat and Altynbek’s?) and five students from the school! They weren’t any of my students – thank goodness – but they all see me around regularly, and had obviously come over for the express purpose of visiting me. I, meanwhile, was in absolutely no shape to socialize with anyone. It took all of my willpower to keep myself upright and my eyes open during the course of their 30 minute visit. I’m sure it was pretty obvious that I was a good twelve or so sheets to the wind. Sigh.

After they left, I stumbled upstairs and promptly passed out.

(I later learned that one of my good friends had given birth to her daughter at approximately the same time that Jumabek’s granddaughter was born. I count this as my celebration of the birth of my friend’s baby!)