Sometimes, It Takes a Village...

So I went to a Kyrgyz village this weekend, and will now challenge myself to describe what I did/saw in less than 2,000 words. Here it goes:

Saturday morning I set out with my co-worker Eleanora to visit her family (Grandfather, his sons/daughters, and their young kids) for the weekend. Originally I was under the impression that we were going to Talas, a small town (but town nonetheless) in NW Kyrgyzstan which is, for reasons I haven't been able to figure out, the center of opposition politics.

We started at the Bishkek bus station, which is in fact more of a hub for shared taxis. These have a set destination, and leave as soon as all the seats are full. It costs more than a bus, but is faster and generally more comfortable. My 4 hour trip to Talas, for example, cost me $10.

Eleanora & I shared a taxi with 2 other young Kyrgyz women, including one who, oddly enough, spent part of last year living in Corpus Christi on a work-exchange program. Somehow, she got to Corpus on a program, but once there they had her working at McDonalds... so she went to visit a friend in Ohio. Weird story.

To describe Kyrgyzstan as "Mountainous" is rather more accurate that such a simple adjective should allow. Bishkek is the main exception, though apparently Talas is also positioned on a smaller flat valley as the arms of the Alatau mountains recede into the Kazakh step. Regardless, to get to Talas, we had to cross mountains which were very numerous, usually very steep, and generally not passable without extensive engineering.

Having said that, our trip was quite pleasant and easy. I don't know if this can be attributed to stubbord Soviet policies, or post-Soviet attempts by the Kyrgyz government to validate its sovereignty. Either way, the highways, limited as they are, are impressive in their quality and their audacity. Whether skirting along a narrow cliff, or brazenly switchbacking up a mountain face, they operate year round (and winters are a monster) with minimal signs of wear-and-tear.

At the apex, we stopped for a photo op (at top).

The tunnel (because you cannot go Over these mountains) was closed when we got there - a laborious process of dredging out the gravel was underway - so we enjoyed the sudden snowfall and some more views before proceeding into the heart of the rock. We emerged on the otherside, none the worse for wear, and no bolrogs in sight.

About 40 km shy of Talas the taxi pulled over, and Eleanora told me it was time to get out. I was confused, but since I'm regularly not included on the full details of our plans, I have learned to just roll with it.

We started walking down a dirt side road, past a barrage of cinderblock and mudbrick (but very "modern") houses, and shortly found ourselves knocking on a thin metal gate. This was her uncle's house, and within the compound its wall encompassed would be found most of her extended family.

The partiarch of the family was Eleanora's grandfather (whose name I never caught). He is 85, but remains very quick-witted, taking regular jabs (friendly, and apparently very funny) at Eleanora, who is 26 and unmarried. While Eleanora hasn't been back to the village for about a year, her Grandfather keeps up with her program on Radio Azattyk, and is anxious to talk politics (that is, to tell Eleanora what she needs to be more focused on, or what of her analysis he thinks she got wrong). He listens to a lot of radio, not only because he's a life-long news enthusiast, but also because he has been blind for the past 25 years. He also happens to be a Hero of the Soviet Union, though I wasn't sure if that was awarded as a result of his service in WWII, or his work on the Kolhoz (collective farm) thereafter.

The rest of Eleanora's family was very kind, and very comfortable having an American around, if not especially interested. They were excited to see Eleanora (especially the 3 young neices); I was a very well-treated after thought.

While Eleanora caught up and watched TV with the youngsters, I went for a hike in the hills next to the village. There were true mountains in the distance on almost all sides, and a pair of thunderstorms kept threatening to come down into the valley, but did not. Still, on the hill tops it put up enough of a wind to get interesting. Eventually Eleanora and the kids came to find me, and were gracious enough to give me a 2 minute horse riding lesson on the way back. I certainly didn't impressed them with equine expertise - I later saw a 5-6 year old galloping down the highway.

We went to visit another uncle before sundown, and we passed the village mosque. I've mentioned that Bishkek only has one mosque, which is very odd (they just broke ground on a second, much larger one, as part of the incumbent president's attempts to woe the "pious" vote). From the drive, I can say that most villages seem to have one mosque. Nothing fancy - large, square, one-room buildings with a metal, faceted dome and occasionally a small minaret. They tend to be more functional than decorative, and none are especially old. I asked if we could go inside, and after a slight hesitation (the issue was Eleanora as a woman, not me as a non-Muslim), it was decided that it would be OK. The two young mosque-keepers brought us in, sat down, and gave a short recitation of the Qur'an before explaining (all this through Eleanora's later translation) that Kyrgyz were bad Muslims, since women should wear the hijab and the Shari'a should be followed (I could tell that he was referring specifically to the punishment for theft).

On the way back to the house, I had a good talk with Eleanora about Islam in Kyrgyzstan, how most Kyrgyz consider themselves true Muslims, but do not participate in the rituals or dogmas that usually go hand-in-hand with such an identity. I likened it to most American Christians, which I think is a useful analogy, though clearly inexact. I do marvel at what it means to be a mosque-keeper in Kyrgyzstan; to hold to a very particular (and honestly unpopular) interpretation of Islam in a country where you have only minimal social authority. To preach that all women should wear the hijab in a country where the most common hijab-wearers are foreigners (Iranians, some Pakistanis).

We went back to the house for dinner (at 10 pm!), but I wasn't very hungry. Since arriving in the village at 4, we'd already eaten 3-4 times.

For dinner, Eleanora's aunt brought out 4 large trays of boiled noodles on top of which were various parts of boiled lamb. Sheep are a staple of village fare, and it is joked by non-Kyrgyz that this diet (and regular proximity) gives them a "cultural odor" of sheep.

I was given the largest such piece - a huge femur with kneecap including all manner of non-muscular tissue. The uncle then took a slab of lamb fat and began cutting pieces onto everyone's plate. To this was added a bowl of "lamb soup," which was really just the thick broth in which the lamb was boiled. I surveyed the situation, considered the challenge before me, and after 30 minutes, decided that - rude as it might be - I just wasn't going to be able to eat it all. I felt bad - no, I still feel bad - but I also didn't get sick, which is a plus I'm not going to play down.

I slept in a large room by myself on the ample mats (we ate at low tables, with thick padded rugs/mattresses stacked on the floor for sitting, and in my case, sleeping). The family got moving early, but I was fortunate to be a sound sleeper. Breakfast was tea with fresh-squeezed milk (the cow was in the backyard), bread (we had bread with every meal and snack - it was great), and more lamb-bits. I took it pretty easy.

While we waited for another one of Eleanora's uncles to drive us to our next destination, we played more with the neices, took photos, and enjoyed some of their fresh produce. They grow apple trees, potatoes, and carrots. I've had freshly-picked fruit before, but I think this was the first time I'd pulled a carrot out of the ground and sunk my teeth into it. Very good - incredibly sweet (for a carrot).

The uncle arrived, we said our goodbyes (more Eleanora than I), and then went to visit Manas Ordo, which is either a religious site, a national monument, or a low-expectation theme park. It is deserving of its own post, so I'll hold off for now.

From Manas Ordo, we took a mashrutka (minibus) into Talas proper to see what little there was of a town, and to find a shared taxi heading back to Bishkek.

It's impossible to know what you're getting with shared taxis. The one we picked looked really great - a very new, clean, comfortable white Honda mini-van. As it turns out, our driver was something of a jerk, and the trip was frought with minor inconveniences. We were 15 minutes out of town when the driver realized he left something behind, so we doubled back. One of the passengers needed to stop to pickup luggage along the way, so we detoured. Another passenger was on her way back to Russia, so we stopped a few different times to say good bye to relatives along the way. One such stop included a snack break at a yurt setup along the highway. There are many such "settlements" where families live for the summer, sometimes tending flocks, but more often just selling the Kumis and other "traditional" food and beverages that are harder to acquire (at least, fresh) in Bishkek.

Kumis, which I've alluded to before, is a Very popular "national drink," of Kyrgyzstan. It was described to me as "semi-alcoholic fermented horse milk." They weren't far off. You can tell by the taste that there's some alcohol in there, but I'm guessing it's less than 1%. Kumis makes some people sick; it doesn't make Anybody drunk. The consistency is just like milk, not any more thick (thank goodness). And the taste....

Sort of like bitter liquid goat cheese.

My vote is still out on Kumis. I didn't love it. I didn't even really like it. But I was able to finish off the enormous bowl/cup I was handed, and that was a decent triumph. However, unlike everyone else in the van, I did not purchase an extra 1 litre bottle to take with me.

As I mentioned, the driver was not especially nice. He drove that minivan like it was a ferrari in Milan, swerving around minor potholes and flying through the intense switchback curves. He dashed around every car we came upon, usually darting back into our lane just as the on-coming car, headlights flashing, wizzed by. At first this all seemed exciting, but as the swerves and brake/accelerate/brake continued, it took a toll.

In all, we had 7 people in the car plus the driver, and had to stop 3 times for people to get out and throw up. That number would have been higher had one kyrgyz girl not come prepared with her own plastic bag. I could blame the Kumis, but I'm pretty sure we just had a jerk taxi driver.

I am proud to say that, riled as the Kumis inside me was, it stayed where I put it.

It took a long time to get back to Bishkek, between all the planned and emergency stop offs, but it certainly was good to get back "home."

A day later I'm feeling exhausted, generally worn out, hungry, and greasy. Despite a month now in Bishkek, my system is not nearly acclimated to the savory (read "fatty") content of Kyrgyz food. I would kill for a salad. I even tried to order one, and instead got a large plate of slimy tomatoes with dabs of mayo. Not the solution I was looking for.

But at least I got out of Bishkek. And while I'm worried about making generalizations (as I've done here) about "Kyrgyz" lifestyles based on just this one trip, I'm content to say that I've seen more now that I had 3 days ago, and that I'll need to see a great bit more before I really have any clue what I'm talking about. Please don't take anything you read here as authoritative - these are just my (ignorant) observations and (foolish) contemplations.

I have 3 weeks left until I return to the states, 1 of which will be spent in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. I'm also supposed to visit the southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, and hopefully spend a day at Issyk Kul (a very popular lake/resort in NE Kyrgyzstan). That's a lot of movement, but after a month of sitting at a desk with little to do (but write over-long blogs) my legs are aching for the activity.

I'm sure you'll appreciate the time not-spent reading these digital blurbs as well.

So a good weekend in Manas village, and a good couple weeks still to come. Hopefully my busier itinerary will help me focus these posts on the more relevant details, but alas, I can make no guarantees.

Needless to say, for the moment, "on the lamb" is a better descriptor of my travels than has previously been apt. I very much look forward to getting off that over-used construct in the months ahead.

But not yet.

Weber (on the lamb-diet)