So, you’ve all gotten to be witness to my birthday, and now things are settling in here at my new home.
Some things I’ve learned, are different. Others, strikingly similar.
For instance, we still eat a lot of sheep. But here, when I told my father that I didn’t know how to butcher one, he looked quietly into my eyes and said, “I’ll teach you.” This is a sentence, it seems, he delights in repeating.
Here too, we drink funny drinks. Before, we drank a fair amount of shorpo, the salty broth from boiled lamb, preferably mixed with kimiz, the fermented mare’s milk. Here, already I’ve been privy to drinking a cloud.
This Kyrgyz legend, told in variations since I first arrived, has been somewhat clarified to me. Probably not a cloud shot with a gun and caught in a jar, as I was first told, but instead, perhaps just the mist of fog, if even that. What we have now seems to be the juice secreted from a rubbery fungus patty soaked in sugary tea. This fermenting concoction rests in a large jar covered in cheese cloth that sits on the kitchen counter. I get a small glass every night or so. My father says it will keep me regular.
Other differences mostly revolve around the people in the house. We have fewer relatives coming in and out than we had before. No workers in the yard, sticking around for dinner. All this may be on account of the change in season, but I notice it all the same. Instead of people coming physically in and out of the house, however, the neighborhood itself seems to be a closer knit community.
This may be because of the people in the neighborhood, but also, perhaps, because my new street is exceedingly narrow. With just the width enough for a single car, the neighbors, are quite literally, a lot closer. But the narrowness of the road (combined with its irregularity) keeps traffic light and slow. Here, the children play ball in the street, and neighbors amble around amiably.
Otherwise, life here in Sunny Naryn seems to revolve around the coming of winter. A new hat seller has appeared in the bazaar, selling traditional fur hats, ones he says he makes by hand. In every house I visit, with the last of summer’s vegetables people seem to be preparing a cornucopia of salads, to be preserved and eaten in the dead of winter. Snow is starting to fall on the passes, and people are beginning to talk about the safety of the roads. I’m also trying to get my hands on a traditional Kyrgyz winter coat, the kind made from corduroy and the pelts of sheep.
Its powerful, living so much closer to the weather. If I don’t have the right clothes by the right time, I simply won’t make out. If we don’t prepare the right food, we just won’t have it. Its passionate. Its intimate. And its just so wonderful to see.
Originally Written Oct. 16th 2009
