Religion in Kyrgyzstan

July 23, 2013

Kyrgyzstan is a predominantly Muslim country. As a result, one of the first things that people in the US typically ask me about my life in Kyrgyzstan is, “Do you have to wear a headscarf when you’re there?” Um, no. However, after more than a week without washing my hair, I generally do wear a headscarf; no one wants to see my greasy, unwashed head. Traditionally in Kyrgyz villages, a headscarf is indeed worn by the women. However, the Kyrgyz headscarf is not a hijab. It’s more of a bandanna than anything else. As the more conservative Saudi strain of Islam gains more of a foothold in Kyrgyzstan, hijabs have started to crop up here and there – but for the most part, it’s the Kyrgyz bandanna-scarf or nothing. Foreign women are not at all expected to wear a headscarf – unless, of course, they want to.

Women of Toguz Bulak 
Women of Bar-Bulak
Women of Bar-Bulak

One of the few women I saw wearing a hijab

OK. Now that we’ve gotten the scarf issue out of the way, let’s look at the other ways in which religion affects the people of Kyrgyzstan. As I said before, Kyrgyzstan is a majority-Muslim country. Similarly, the US can be considered a majority-Christian country. Now, I’m sure that if you’re an American, you know quite a few folks who self-identify as Christians – and who may even go to Church regularly – but for whom religion has little effect on their lives. Meanwhile, if you’re from (or have spent time in) the American Bible-belt, you’ve probably met the sort of Christian for whom every facet of his/her life revolves around the church, and who will want to talk religion – and conversion, if you’re a non-believer – with you at any possible moment. Like Christianity in the US, Islam in Kyrgyzstan runs the gamut, although in my experience there seem to be far more folks who identify themselves as Muslims, but who don’t think about religion all that much in general, whereas there seem to be only a few on the ultra-serious end of the religion spectrum.

The mosque of Toguz-Bulak The mosque of Bar-Bulak

Bishkek, the capital, tends to be filled with self-identified Muslims who believe in Allah and Muhammad and the Koran, and who celebrate the major Islamic holidays, but who don’t really think about religion all that much. I’ve met many Bishkekers who self-identify as Muslims, but who smoke, drink alcohol, have pre-marital sex, don’t keep halal, wear short skirts, and don’t cover their hair (the last two applying to women, obviously). Outside of Bishkek (especially the more rural the area), women typically don’t smoke, have pre-marital sex, or wear short skirts, although all but the most strict Muslim women don’t drink alcohol. Most rural women do, however, cover their hair with the Kyrgyz-style headscarf. Some rural Kyrgyz men do abstain from vices on religious grounds, but smoking and drinking in particular are very common.

My host family in Toguz Bulak self-identified as Muslim, but they were not an overly religious bunch. Other than at the forty-days memorial service for Rakhat’s father, I never heard them pray other than a quick ‘omin’ at the end of a meal or before a sheep was slaughtered. They never spoke of religion. The call to prayer would come and go and neither they (nor anyone else I witnessed in Toguz Bulak) responded in any way. My host ‘parents’ did not drink alcohol themselves, although many of their relatives did. Additionally, they operated a private store from which they sold vodka to the locals. And you might remember the great pleasure they seemed to derive from getting me plastered. So, religious, but not overly so.

In contrast, my host ‘father’ in Bar Bulak was the local imam. On our drive from Toguz Bulak to Bar Bulak, he brought up religion, assuming that I was a Christian: “So, what are you – Orthodox, Catholic, or Protestant?” Me: “Um… I’m not anything.” Him: “Oh. I guess you just haven’t thought about it yet. You’re young and probably very busy. You’ll think about it more when you’re older.” I thought that was kind of an odd thing for him to say to me, considering that he and I are the same age, but that was it. That was the extent to which the local village imam and I discussed religion.

Now, there were definitely signs that my host family in Bar Bulak were religious (other than Kuban being the local imam): they sent their eight year old son to a month-long Muslim summer camp, Rita and Aidai would don hijabs to pray – not necessarily five times a day, but roughly – although they only wore them for prayer (the rest of the time they wore Kyrgyz headscarves), Kuban and his son wore Islamic skullcaps, they kept halal, they didn’t smoke or drink alcohol, and fasting during Ramadan was very important to them. And… that’s really the extent to which I witnessed the practical effects of Islam on their lives.

(As a side note, Kuban’s call to prayer was always very beautiful and moving. He usually did it through the loudspeaker at the village mosque, although he didn’t always make it there. Sometimes the call to prayer went out from our backyard or from the yurt camp by the lake. I really wanted to record him, but somehow that just seemed too intrusive.)

Interestingly, Kuban’s family is not overly religious. Most of his relatives live in the city of Balykchy, which is half an hour or so away from Bar Bulak. As such, I saw many of his relatives quite a few times during my stay. One of his sisters told me, “You know, Kyrgyzstan isn’t that strongly a Muslim country. It’s funny that you came here and got stuck with a fanatic like Kuban.” She said this quite jovially. And it was funny, because he’s a far cry from what I would consider a religious fanatic. I mean, once during dinner we watched an Islamic sermon on TV. When it was over, we watched the last hour of Miss Congeniality. Anyway, when I lost my voice, another one of Kuban’s sisters told me that I should come and stay with her, as what I needed to cure my sore throat was a shot or two of vodka, and I wasn’t going to get that from her brother.

Meanwhile, while Kyrgyzstan is predominantly Muslim, there are a large number of Christians who live here as well. Despite the dwindling population of ethnic Russians in Kyrgyzstan, there are still quite a few Russian Orthodox believers in the country, especially in Bishkek and Karakol. There are quite a few Christians of other denominations in Bishkek, although few are ethnic Kyrgyz. Ethnic Russians, ethnic Koreans, and ex-pats make up the bulk of the Christian community throughout the country. Additionally, I have met quite a few local people who, like me, are simply non-religious. I’ve even met a small handful of Kyrgyz folks who are anti-religion in general. As far as I am aware, while there have been inter-ethnic tensions and violence within Kyrgyzstan, there has been little to no inter-religious tension or violence. I believe that it is illegal to come to Kyrgyzstan for the purpose of proselytizing, but if you simply come as a member of any faith – or of no faith – you should not expect this to cause you any problems whatsoever.

Rural Kyrgyzstan’s Water Woes

July 16, 2013

I started thinking about this back when I was in Toguz Bulak, and the thoughts have continued on into Bar Bulak. The round table discussion that we had the other day brought up this topic, and as such, I’ve been thinking about it even more. Both Toguz Bulak (“Nine Springs”) and Bar Bulak (“There are springs”) have no real shortage of water in a literal sense. It kind of pops up out of the ground all over the place. However, despite the fact that there is water about, both places definitely have a water supply problem, and running water exists in neither village.

I’m not too clear on the timeline, but according to the folks in Bar Bulak, roughly 10-15 years ago or so, the UN started a program to provide clean drinking water to the rural areas of the Issyk Kul region (in which both Toguz Bulak and Bar Bulak are located). The project started… and then something happened to the funds. Whether the money was simply mismanaged or blatantly stolen, no one seems to know for sure (although most folks assume the latter). The UN money ran out before the wells were completed, and the UN cancelled the program. Aris, a Kyrgyzstan-based NGO that focuses on development projects stepped up to finish the job. Sort of. They finished installing wells in many villages (including Toguz Bulak), but never made it to many other villages (including Bar Bulak).

This is the Aris logo; you see it on a lot of old development projects
scattered throughout rural Kyrgyzstan.

Let’s examine the results of the UN/Aris project in Toguz Bulak first. Toguz Bulak is hardly a huge village by anyone’s measurement, although it’s several times larger than Bar Bulak population-wise. It’s laid out along a grid, with the houses fairly close together. The UN/Aris program installed one well per block, which in my estimation comes to roughly 24 wells. Fast-forward to the present day. I’d say maybe four of those wells still work as intended. Maybe. Probably about ten work, but poorly. The one on “my” block could only be turned on/off with a wrench. Several other wells throughout the village also had similar methods of being turned on/off. In contrast, several other wells ran constantly, having no shut-off function whatsoever. The rest of the wells in the village simply didn’t work at all.

The house in the background is the home in which I lived while in Toguz Bulak. Despite the fact that it is brand new, it has no indoor plumbing. We got our water from the well in the foreground, which had to be turned on and off with a wrench.
Often, when the water pressure was low, buckets would be left in front of wells that were turned on, waiting for the water flow to resume.

The wells were designed to operate without electricity. This is great, since regular, reliable electricity has only recently come to Toguz Bulak. Instead of using an electric pump to bring the water to the surface, the pumps operate on water-pressure. You turn on the spigot, and the pressure forces the water up and out of the well. Great, huh? Well, unfortunately, the underground water supply isn’t that great. Whether it comes from the same source as the nine springs from which Toguz Bulak gets its name, I don’t know. What I do know is that sometimes it runs dry. The fact that there are several wells which run non-stop surely is a contributing factor. Whatever the reason, sometimes the wells are turned on and either nothing – or a tiny little trickle – comes out.

This was one of the wells which ran constantly.
As you can see, there's not much left of this well.

We were lucky to have a working well on our block. Many families must cart their buckets several blocks to get water – and keep in mind that this water is used for everything: cooking, cleaning, clothes-washing, bathing, watering livestock, irrigation, etc. That’s a lot of water to haul for several blocks! My host family (and many others) also collected run-off from the gutters of their homes and out-buildings to use for irrigation and watering livestock. Several of the springs were located in a swampy area to the north-west of the village; most people herded their cows and sheep into this area during the day, so that they could graze on the freshly watered grass and drink from the water seeping out of the ground. People made do with the broken wells, although it certainly wasn’t easy.

One of several water collection containers at my host family's house
One of Toguz Bulak's nine springs

So how did this happen? How did Toguz Bulak go from having one working well per block to the situation in which they find themselves today? Well, this is indeed one of those sustainable development issues. First you must consider that for decades under the Soviet Union all infrastructure changes (for good or ill) were made in either Frunze (now Bishkek) or in Moscow. Locals grew accustomed to making no decisions regarding their local infrastructure; someone from above would always come along and tell them how to do it. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union ­– after decades of being told how from above to manage their villages – rural villages have been rather slow at coming to the realization that they need to take care of things themselves.

A few years after the collapse of the Soviet Union – and while still laboring under the mindset that people from above would solve their infrastructure problems – the locals of Toguz Bulak were suddenly treated to the sort of thing they had come to expect: the UN/Aris well project. The UN and Aris came in from above and donated wells, meaning that the locals no longer had to get their water from the swampy “springs” and melting mountain snows. Unfortunately, all the UN/Aris project did was install the wells. None of the locals were trained in how to properly maintain or repair the wells. No money was provided to the village to cover the cost of maintenance or repairs, and Aris themselves did not provide any maintenance or repair services. Over the years the wells have simply begun to break – and it seems that the locals are still waiting for someone to come from above and solve their water woes.

Now let’s examine the water situation in Bar Bulak. In many ways it is similar to the situation in Toguz Bulak, although there are some key differences. Unlike in Toguz Bulak, the wells in Bar Bulak from the UN/Aris well project were only half installed. If you compare the photos of the wells in Toguz Bulak and their counterparts in Bar Bulak, you can see that they are identical, except for the fact that the ones in Bar Bulak were never fully assembled. Sadly, it seems that at one time, all of the pieces were available, they just needed to be connected; however, this never happened. The wells have never worked, and now most of the parts have either broken or disappeared.

One of the many never-functioning wells in Bar-Bulak
Remains of other wells in Bar-Bulak
Some wells seem to still have most of their parts.
Others have just become trash-dumps

While Toguz Bulak had its nine “springs” it lacked any central water source. Bar Bulak, in contrast, has a small river running through it, which is both spring-fed and fed from snow-melts. As in many villages (and even Bishkek) the water from this river is routed through the village by a network of ditches, creeks, pipes, and concrete troughs. These miniature waterways (called арык, or aryk) enable the river/spring water to reach every home in the village, where it can be used for any purpose. Yes, many people rely on aryk-water for cooking, in addition to cleaning, irrigation, watering livestock, etc.

The river, heading for the village

One of the many spring-sources for the river
Yes, there were often fish in the aryks.
This was the aryk that flowed past "my" house
When residents wanted the aryk water to flow onto their property, some simply dug holes in the side of the aryk, and then blocked them up again when they were finished.
Other people had built fancy aryk dams that could be opened and closed when needed.

However, not everyone here in Bar Bulak relies on the river/aryk system to provide their water. My host family (as well as several other families in the village) had a hand-pump well installed on their property several years ago. They use the hand-pump well for all water-related purposes except irrigation (for which they use water from the aryk). The water from the hand pump is clean and tasty – they drink from it, so I do as well. (Although given the stomach troubles I’ve had while here, I do wonder about the cleanliness of the water coming from our well.) The nearby neighbors frequently come over to my host family’s property to fill their buckets from the hand-pump, and I would assume the same thing occurs at the other hand-pump-owning properties in the village. It’s quite far from a perfect solution, but it does seem to be rather a step in the right direction.

This is Ryskul, one the neighbor's children,
filling up buckets for her family from my host family's well.

The area where the yurt camp is located down by the lake shore also has several UN/Aris wells, although most do not work at all. Two have been rigged by the locals to produce a slow trickle of water. Locals also believe in the health benefits of drinking the water from the hot springs, so many collect water from the outdoor section of said springs.

One of several non-functioning wells at the lake shore.
Lake Issyk Kul has a high salt content, which makes it unpalatable and useless for irrigation.
One of the two wells rigged to produce a slow-drip.
My host sister Aidai (right) after having just filled a bucket of water from the other slow-drip well at the yurt camp.

The outdoor area of the hot springs, where many people collected water.

I should also mention that the London School’s Beach Camp “hotel” located next to the yurt camp (and where I will be staying next week) has running water, as they have paid to have an electric well installed, although the water pressure varies from excellent to near nonexistent. Such things are available, one just has to be willing to shell out the funds to cover the costs.

I’m not sure what the solution should be for the water woes of villages such as Toguz Bulak and Bar Bulak. Neither village has running water or a reliable supply of clean drinking water available to all residents. Simply donating wells certainly didn’t work. Only a few families in Bar Bulak can afford to have a hand-pump well installed, and the technology for such a thing is inaccessible in Toguz Bulak. In communities where money is scarce, people simply can’t afford to buy well-drilling equipment or pay for its use. The donation of such items/services doesn’t lead to a sustainable solution. So what is the solution? I have no idea, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the past two months. What are your thoughts?

(Also, special thanks to my students Ryskul and Alia who helped me locate and photograph the various water sources around Bar Bulak, as well as to Aliman and Murat who showed me the springs of Toguz Bulak.)

From Toguz Bulak to Bar Bulak

June 25, 2013

My last classes at the school in Toguz Bulak went well. Many of my students had their cell phones out recording our songs and my last lesson, and of course many of them insisted on having their photos taken with me. I gave them all my address and my email address, but who knows if I will actually hear from any of them again (especially via the email address, given how few of them actually have internet access).

My last night with my host family was quite wonderful – although a tad bizarre. Nuraika and her Bishkek cousin decided that they wanted to dress in ‘traditional’ Kyrgyz clothes and have me take photos. Somehow the first part of this turned into dressing the two and a half year old boy, Nurel, in a shiny gold dress. Not sure why, but ok.

Then, once the girls had donned their outfits, Altynbek’s mother (who had definitely taken quite a shine to me) decided to gift me with a traditional Kyrgyz robe and hat. Then we took numerous family photos.

Best photobomb ever.
Me and the girls
Me and the family

Nursultan gave me a miniature felt yurt, designed to old pens, cell phones, documents, and other small items. I gave the kids a set of flashcards that I had made last semester and had brought with me (but which I hadn’t had the need to use) which consisted of photos of animals (both singular and plural) with the words identifying them in English on the back. I also gave Altynbek my wind-up lantern, as he had been so impressed by it during our snow-caused power-outage.

The following morning, though, my joy of living with these folks was slightly tarnished by their creation of the Worst Kite Ever: a bird with its leg tied to a string and a weight attached to the other end of the string to prevent it from flying more than a few meters. This catastrophe was then given to Nurel for his amusement. Given how I hate to see any animal suffer (especially when the suffering is merely for entertainment), this was rather traumatic for me, and an unfortunate final memory of my homestay in Toguz Bulak. (I did, however, get to use the seemingly useless phrase that I learned back in 2008 during my abortive attempt to study Kyrgyz: чымчыкка отурба – don’t sit on the bird.)

Altynbek and the bird kite
Altynbek flying the bird kite

Shortly after 10am, Kuban (pronounced with the b nearly silent), my “host father” from Bar Bulak arrived (not surprisingly, in a 20ish year old Audi) to ferry me to my new home. I put “host father” in quotes, as he is my age, and his wife, Rita, is a year younger than me. Although they have four kids… something that I cannot imagine ever having, much less having right now! He is some sort of imam at the local mosque, and he also owns or manages a farm. His wife is both a history teacher at the school where I will be teaching for the next four weeks and the school’s director. They have four kids, although one of the children is currently out of town. The remaining three are two girls (Aidai, 10 and Jarkynai, 2) and a boy (Akhmat, 4). Rita, Kuban, and Aidai all speak excellent Russian, so as in Toguz Bulak, I will have no trouble communicating with my host family. Akhmat seems a little confused as to why I don’t understand his Kyrgyz though!

I am actually staying in the older house next door to the house in which the family currently lives, and which seems to be used mainly for storage. My room, however, is quite comfortable and clean. After I unloaded all of my things into my new room, though, I discovered that the power was out. Hahahaha. Apparently I gave away my wind-up lantern too soon, as power-outages are fairly frequent here. Sigh. One of the first things I did was to turn on my computer to see if I had an internet signal of any sort with either my Beeline or MegaCom SIM cards. I had absolutely no cell signal on my phone, so I was quite surprised when my cell-modem connected. I was able to quickly shoot off a brief email to friends and family, letting them know that I had arrived in Bar Bulak, before I lost the signal entirely. The fact that I got a connection at all must have been a fluke, as I have yet to be able to re-connect. (You know the old adage that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Well, my hosts probably think I’m a bit nuts as I continue to attempt an internet connection over and over with absolutely no luck.)

The family lives in the building on the right; I lived in the building on the left.

Giving up on the internet, I went outside to explore. Near the back of the property, I spotted a small, reddish-brown, Mochi-type dog, which I approached using my talking-to-dogs voice. It skeedaddled. (It belongs to one of the neighbors.) Then I heard a loud, large-dog WOOF! At the back of the property, sadly stuck on a very short chain, was a large, white dog. I approached him, continuing to talk in my talking-to-dogs voice, and he immediately began wagging his tail. He turned out to be a big baby, who wanted nothing more than to have his head scratched. I was later told that I should be really careful around him because he is a “злая собака” (evil/angry dog) – hah! The dog and I are friends and he’s going to get a head rub every day for the next month.

Then it was time for tea – a bit of a slow process, as there was no electricity and we had to heat the water inside a fire-powered самовар. While we were drinking tea, the elder daughter mentioned something about a мышык. Now while мышык might sound an awful lot like the Russian word for mouse, it’s actually the Kyrgyz word for cat. My immediate reaction was to ask, “You have a cat?!” The answer? “Oh yeah, he’s around somewhere.”A scrawny, young, black tomcat showed up about half an hour later, vociferously demanding food and attention – and to my joy he was welcomed into the house.

As I am sure you are aware, I usually either travel with my pets or acquire pets at my destination. Or both. Not having pets during my month in Toguz Bulak was really difficult for me. The only thing I’ve missed more than non-sheep food has been my pets. The dog and cat here in Bar Bulak aren’t my pets, but they certainly are making for some lovely interim substitutes.

After tea, I scooped up the cat (whom I have decided to christen Котчик since he doesn’t have a name) and headed for my room to nap. Котчик was thrilled with the attention and purred and snuggled like crazy. I always like to read before I nap/sleep, but this time sleep was not to be. As I snuggled with Котчик while reading a book, Rita came in and told me that it was time to go to a party. It seems it’s always time to party in Kyrgyzstan.

Apparently one of their relatives had recently gotten married, and her family was having a feast in order to celebrate. At this point in my trip, such feasts have become commonplace for me: tables laden with breads, jams, salads, cookies, and candies, and multiple courses culminating in beshbarmak. There were two things that were different about this party: 1. No booze, and 2. More vegetables! Juice! Ham! I’d been a little worried that I might come down with scurvy up in Toguz Bulak with our meat-n-potatoes diet, occasionally augmented by an onion or a carrot or a plate of sliced cucumber. In contrast, the vast selection of salads at this party was impressive and I ate a lot. (I was surprised at the inclusion of a Russian-style, mayonnaise-covered salad containing diced ham, given the no-booze and prevalent Islamic paraphernalia at the home where the party was held, but I didn’t question it too much – it was meat from a non-sheep!

I had prepared myself for a six+ hour affair, but was pleased when things wound down around the three-hour mark, as I desperately needed a nap. We returned home, and I rounded up Котчик to be my napping partner. He snuggled, purred, and accompanied me to sleep – and was still at my side when I awoke two hours later.

I got up, organized my things for my first classes the following day (using the same initial lesson plan that I had used in Toguz Bulak), and then went out to watch Rita milk the cow. I even gave it a shot. Turns out milking a cow is harder than it looks. You have to pull on the cow’s teats surprisingly hard. I was able to do it, but nowhere near as rapidly as Rakhat or Rita. At that point Aidai said that she wanted to show me the mountains. We met up with a friend of hers, and walked across the street.

Bar Bulak parallels the main road along the southern shore of Issyk Kul. The bulk of the village is located on the southern side of the road, which is lush, green, and fertile. Directly across the road are large, steep, barren, scree-covered hills. We climbed to the top of one of the hills. From the top we could see the entire village, as well as Issyk Kul (located roughly two kilometers away).

Aidai
You can see Lake Issyk Kul on the right

After climbing back down the hill, we wandered over to the old school, located about 50 meters from “our” house – and where I will be teaching. There is a brand new school building in which I had been given the option of teaching; however, it is located over a kilometer away and atop a steep hill. Needless to say, I chose the nearby old school. The school building itself was locked, but we walked around the playground. Aidai and her friends played on the equipment and then picked a bouquet of flowers for me. At that point it had grown fairly dark, so we returned home.

The old school building

In which I drive a car

June 24, 2013

A few days ago, the boys (Nursultan and his cousin Akhmat) had asked me if I could drive a car and if I could drive a stick shift. They had wanted to know all about what kind of car I drove, and I think they were a little disappointed to learn that I drive a ten year old, two-door Toyota. Yesterday afternoon, as I was planning my final lessons, the boys and Rakhat came into my room.

“So… the boys say that you can drive a car?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you can drive a stick shift?”

“Yes.”

“So…. Could you drive us to Turt Kul this evening? My mother’s having a party for her granddaughter’s first birthday, and Altynbek’s only just now leaving Bishkek. If you can drive us to Turt Kul, he’ll meet us there and drive us back.”

“OK – sure!”

“And you’re sure you can drive a stick shift?”

“Definitely!”

I love driving. Driving is one of those things that I always miss when I’m living overseas, and that’s not only due to the fact that I’m far less likely to become motion sick as the driver than as the passenger. I really just enjoy driving. And I far prefer driving a stick to an automatic. With a stick you’re far more in tune with your car – and you have much more control over your acceleration. (Believe me, if your car has a wimpy little four-cylinder engine like mine, you need as much control over your acceleration as you can get!)

Anyway, I was very excited about the opportunity to drive – especially since I’ve long wanted the experience of driving in Kyrgyzstan. Of course, I’m not licensed to drive in Kyrgyzstan, and the traffic police here are known for shaking down perfectly legal drivers for as many soms as they can get… Then there’s that interesting off-road detour alongside the road-work on the way out of the valley to the main road. I was looking forward to driving, but I admit that I was a little apprehensive as well.

I had changed out of my lounging-around-the-house t-shirt and shorts and into a nice going-to-a-party blouse and skirt, which of course caused everyone to ask me if I’d be able to drive in a skirt. Seriously. They asked if I should be wearing pants in order to drive. Haha, no I think I’ll be fine. Altynbek’s mother, Nurel, Rakhat and I loaded into the car and set off for Turt Kul.

It went off without a hitch. All that off-road driving I’ve done in the back woods of Georgia (in two-door Toyotas and other vehicles not designed for such things) certainly prepared me for driving the off-the-road stretch in a twenty year old Audi. Along the way we picked up two local hitchhikers, both of whom were hoofing their way to the main road in order to catch a marshrutka to Bishkek. They each did quite a double-take when they got into the car and realized that I was the driver. We also got obvious double-takes from pretty much every car we passed along the way. Obvious foreign chick driving a car full of locals, WTF? Haha.

As we were off-roading our way towards the main road, I had noticed that the gas gauge was really, really low. After we had dropped our hitchhikers off at the bus stop, I mentioned this to Rakhat as I didn’t know if she was aware of how low on fuel we were or not. Apparently she hadn’t been. Knowing that the nearest gas station was in Turt Kul (our destination) we began looking for any private homes or small stores selling бензин (gasoline).

As we drove, Rakhat and Altynbek’s mother peppered me with questions about my driving experience. They seemed quite impressed by the fact that I had been driving a stick shift since the age of 15 and therefore had been driving for 19 years. (Yes, I am that old.)

Eventually, in the second village we came to – as the car was running on fumes – we passed a home with a cardboard sign propped up outside which read ‘БЕНЗИН’ and I pulled over. Rakhat went inside and returned with a boy about 12 years old carrying two 2-liter bottles filled with gasoline and a funnel. Money changed hands, and the gas was funneled into our tank. A couple of locals walked by during this process, noticed me sitting in the driver’s seat, and cracked up like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Once the four liters were funneled into the tank, we had plenty of gas to make it into Turt Kul without incident.

(Altynbek’s mother was apparently very impressed by my driving skills and history, telling everyone at the party about said skills and the fact that I’d been driving since I was 15. She told this to pretty much everyone as they arrived, to the point that I actually felt kind of embarrassed.)

The party was for the first birthday of Rakhat’s niece. Rakhat’s sister lives in Russia, and her two children live with their grandmother in Turt Kul. The party was held at Rakhat’s mother’s house, the same place where the forty-day memorial service had been held just a few days before. (And much of the food consisted of leftovers from the previous event.) This was a much smaller affair (only close family, close friends, and me) and much livelier – including games for the children and vodka for the adults. (As Altynbek joined us there, I was unable to use the excuse of being the driver in order to abstain.)

As always, we had a table of boorsook, other fried breads, rolls, salads, and candies, followed by beshbarmak and quite a few shots of vodka. After the party was over, we loaded into the car (this time with me as a passenger in the back seat). We swung through a gas station to fill up the tank for real, and then returned to Toguz Bulak.

Horse in all forms

June 22, 2013

I slept in late today, and as such it was nearly 10am when I was awakened by a summons: one of my students was taking me to spend a day in the mountains with her family. Okay. The mother of this particular student is a math teacher at the Myrzamambetov School, and she is also related to the director of the London School. (She is the director’s niece, and from what I understood, her husband is the director’s husband’s nephew – although I could be wrong about that.)

My student, Burella, took me to her family’s house where her parents, brother, and cousin were waiting. Her brother, Murat, is also one of my students. Their cousin was visiting from Bishkek. He was a first-grader, and definitely a city boy. He did not seem to be enjoying his stay in the country at all. They also had an incredibly sweet, one-eyed, white-haired dog.

The family had a table piled high with boorsook, candy, and salad – and they were preparing plov. Now, before I had left *my* house, my host family had insisted that I breakfast on plov. As such, I wasn’t sure how much more plov I could eat, as it was only an hour since I had eaten breakfast! Then I learned that instead of the usual sheep-meat, this plov was made with horse-meat. My apologies to Honey and Merlin (my/mom’s horses in the US), but that stuff was delicious and I ate a lot.

Burella
Left: Cousin; Right: Murat

After our late morning feast, Burella, Murat, their young cousin, and I loaded into the family’s SUV. Murat (who just finished 11th grade) drove. We drove up into the foothills of the mountains, not far from where Rakhat and Altynbek keep their sheep. Murat and Burella’s family has a small home up there where their grandmother lives, and where they keep several horses. Murat and Burella’s older sister Aliman (who studies at a university in Bishkek) was there visiting, along with the mother of the first-grader and her six month old infant.

Their land is the location of one of the nine springs which give the village of Toguz Bulak its name (toguz = nine, bulak = spring or water source). As a Floridian, the word “spring” conjures up images of large, round, deep, crystal clear holes from which large amounts water emanate, and in which swimming is possible. In contrast this “spring” was a boggy area from which water slowly leached out of the soil, first forming mud, then a trickle, and then a small stream. They showed me the spring and their horses, and then we drove further up into the foothills to visit their neighbors.

Murat and one of his family's horses
The "spring"
Me and Aliman

We arrived at a small house near a stream (fueled by snow-melts) and surrounded by chickens, turkeys, and their chicks. We met the woman who lived there and her young daughter, with whom we then drank several cups of kumys (fermented horse milk). While kumys is a fermented beverage, it is generally considered ‘mildly alcoholic’ and even the few Kyrgyz teetotalers out there still drink it. This stuff, though, was pretty potent, and after several cups I was feeling a tad buzzed.

Turkey family
Chicken, stream, and outhouse
Stirring the kumys
Aliman

Aliman and I wandered around the jailoo (high mountain pasture) for a little while, and visited another of their neighbors. This family lived in a yurt, and had an incredibly adorable puppy – which unfortunately was terrified of me.

We then returned to the first neighbor’s house to watch them milk their horses. The nursing foals are kept tied in a row during the day, away from their mothers. At milking time, the horses are rounded up and their mothers are herded over to their babies. Each foal is allowed to drink a little bit to get the milk flowing, and then the horse is milked in much the same way as a cow.

I was offered a fresh glass of horse milk. I was worried, because while I love fermented milk products, I cannot drink straight cow milk. It makes me gag. (I can drink chocolate milk, but not straight, white, cow milk. Yuck.) I was worried that I might have the same reaction to horse milk, but luckily I did not. In fact, horse milk tasted more like soy milk than cow milk – although I found the fact that it was still warm a tad disconcerting!

Drinking fresh horse milk
After the horses were milked, we said goodbye to the neighbors and returned to the grandmother’s house for a mid-afternoon bowl of soup (accompanied, of course, by tea and more kumys), and then it was time to return home.