First of all, a big shout to the Chicago party crew, who put me to shame by eating more of your lamb than I ever have! Brains taste like cream cheese, do they? You’ve one-upped me this time, but I’ll get you all back!
So, just after I wrote my last letter, I sat down with my wonderful Ivanovka family for my last supper. My Dad brought out some vodka for the occasion (a first for us) and then proudly pointed to the meal. “It’s chicken!” he yelled. “Naughty Chicken!” Naughty Chicken in Kyrgyz roughly translates to Kamikaze Rooster in English. That’s right, for my last meal, my family slaughtered that rooster who’d been charging my legs on my way to the outhouse. Ha! Take that rooster!
Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of activity here for the Peace Corps volunteers in Kyrgyzstan. We had a big swearing-in ceremony, hosted by the ambassador herself, and then a BBQ at her house. It featured hamburgers and chips with salsa. Boring? Mundane? Regular, you say? H’ho! Not when you’re living in Kyrgyzstan! These things are delicacies!
Along with the burgers came a couple dozen of the most fluent non-native English speakers Kyrgyzstan has ever known. The ambassador invited “the most up and coming” Kyrgyz youth the country had to offer. There was an Olympic wrestler, a pair of comedians, some super-models, and a man who cryptically referred to himself as a “fixer.” There were lots of young journalists, including one “independent” fella, who sported long hair, horn-rimmed glasses, tight jeans and red Converse All-Stars – basically the best of the 1980’s underground music scene in one living breathing Kyrgyz youngster.
Arguably, the star of the event was a guy who had spent his senior year of high school in the dead center of Missouri. He impersonated rural Americans flawlessly and cursed like a sailor. At the height of his magnetism, during a long comedic rant about everyone thinking he was a British spy, our Country Director walked by. Knowing he had his audience in the palm of his hand, he turned to her and said, “Well, at least you know I’m not a British spy, because you have all their names on a list!” At which point savvy bureaucrat met confident storyteller, two veritable mountains of the backyard barbeque. They smiled at each other knowingly, both too wise to push it further, but too tickled to just play ignorant to the beautiful moment that was happening before us. They let it sit, for just a beat, and then went along their merry ways. What a beautiful place to be, in a beautiful moment, deep in the knot of mountains, that make up the center of the largest land mass in the world.
Folks, I’m happy as a clam out here. Today I’m writing from Naryn City, my new home. It’s cool and mountainous. I’ve been eating lots of mutton, and drinking lots of lightly fermented horse milk, the national drink. What more could a boy ask for.
Originally Written June 14th, 2009
