Two Stops Past Siberia
- Projects
- Handicrafts
- Books
- A History of Inner Asia, Svat Soucek
- Beyond the Sky and the Earth, Jamie Zeppa
- Chasing the Sea, Tom Bissell
- Empires of the Silk Road: A History of Central Eurasia from the Bronze Age to the Present, Christopher I. Beckwith
- Erica Marat, The Tulip Revolution: One Year After
- High Adventure in Tibet, David V. Plymire
- Setting the East Ablaze, Peter Hopkirk
- Shadow of the Silk Road, Colin Thubron
- The Day Lasts More than a Hundred Years, Chingiz Aitmatov
- The Great Arab Conquests, Hugh Kennedy
- The Lost Heart of Asia, Colin Thubron
- This is Not Civilization, Robert Rosenberg
- Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin
- Informations
Posts Tagged fermented milk
Winter Food
The diet out here is changing pretty dramatically since the cold has really hit. Most notably, aside from apples (who’s time, too, is coming), fresh produce has receded into the realm of dreams. We still have the sugared jams and salads, made this summer not to rot, but otherwise, its bread, tea, potatoes and meat.
Speaking of meat, we just slaughtered the winter cow this past weekend. After deliberating between the purchase of a cow or a yak, my father decided to kill a heifer he had out in the village. We are now the proud owners of lots and lots of beef, sitting frozen in the garage.
The slaughter itself was an event. We tied the beast down, slit its throat, skinned it, and then proceeded to butcher it, as often with an axe as a sharp knife. During this time, our group of four nearly tripled in size, at one point blossoming with a dozen beers and a bottle of vodka. It was all done outside, and I have pictures of cold, bloody hands and organ meat in the snow. I felt pretty good, being able to identify most of the organs. It was the especially large sack that caught me off guard. Apparently, it did the rest of the men as well; I guess nobody knew the cow was pregnant.
Since then, most of our dinners have been well boiled organ meat. The water its boiled in, somehow tastes better than its sheep meat counterpart. The meat is fattier, with yellow fat, as opposed to the white of sheep. Also, every part is just bigger, from the intestines to the vertebrae. One night, sitting around a table of 13, after devouring some rice wrapped in stomach made to resemble a duck, I had the pleasure of watching my mousy little mother scrape rings of the cow’s esophagus with her teeth, as if it were an artichoke leaf.
Otherwise, we’re eating lots of garlic and onions to ward off the flu. The schools all shut down last week, owing to poor attendance on account of all the sick children. Folks with the flu are identifiable enough, all sporting white, cotton face masks.
Aside from tea, our drinks seem to revolve around the carbonated variety. Not beer or soda, per se, but a more uniquely Kyrgyz version. Here at home, I sit down to a tall glass of fermented cow milk in the mornings, and after dinner usually have a little bit of that “cloud,” which has turned out to be sugary tea fermented with a mold patty. After my tutoring lesson in the morning, I’m treated to a chunky, fermented barley drink, which is apparently good for my hemoglobin.
Winter is here, folks. Its good and dark by six o’clock, and doesn’t brighten again until well after 8. As cold as it seems, I’m told from Dec. 20 until Feb. 15 is the peak of the storm. I sounds impossible, folks, but if the locals can do it, then I can, too.
Originally written Dec. 10th, 2009
The Three R’s
I’ve spent the past two weeks giving presentations on solid waste at each of the 6 the local K-12 schools. The teachers prepared 30 students, ages 15 – 17 interested in the subject, and we prepared a training and a coffee break. Good deal all around.
As my first real foray into the schools here, I’ve been just taken aback. As in America, the buildings hustle and bustle, feeling like their own worlds of miniature people. They frequent large murals of the hero Manas and idyllic mountain scenes. The boys generally where clean, well tailored suites, and the girls some variation on the white blouse and dark slacks. In the classes we teach, there is no semblance of that Asian stereotype, passive, quiet listening. The kids pay attention, but they are quick to ask questions, and debate rules the day. They have strong memories and are keen on group work. In all, it reminds me of my high school days at Northside College Prep in Chicago.
In this way, too, the kids are universal. There are the quieter kids, the louder, more outwardly confident ones, and even the jokers. One young man, sporting a clean cut look and spiffy little suit, topped off his ensemble with a beanie perched precariously on his head. He was the same joker seen at every school I’ve ever attended.
The most profound difference, I noticed, despite not being able to understand much, was the profound bilingual ability of the students. No single language dominated our classes, not Russian or Kyrgyz, regardless of which the school purportedly taught in. When giving presentations, kids would flip casually from one to the other, sometimes applying the grammar forms from one language to words from another, and no one even batted an eye.
When it came time for me to present, I told them about my work with the new recycling program in Chicago, and about the Three R’s (Reduce, Reuse and Recycle.) These translate delightfully into the Three K’s (and thankfully don’t hold their unique, American connotation.) To my surprise, I’m able to do this entirely in Kyrgyz.
However, that’s easier than it sounds. See, I always start my sessions with an apology, “I don’t speak your language very well, so I might need help.” With this in mind, the kids often fill in words I don’t know, and endings that I stumble over. I will smile and make hand motions, and they will spit out the word I’m miming. If I didn’t know the material well, I’d fall apart at the seams. You just never know what life will ask for.
In other news, I’ve recently become a connoisseur of fermented milk products. My grandmother offered me kymys the other day, and after pouring from the yellow, reused motor oil jug, announced that today the milk was from a cow, not a horse. I can now accurately report that cow kymys is thicker, and there is more sediment than from a horse. The flavor has a similar sourness, but tastes a little more “spoiled.” Once I go to Kazakhstan and sample shubat, fermented camel milk, I’ll have the trifecta complete.
Originally Written October 23rd, 2009
Winer is Coming!
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
A Taste of the Dream
This here is Kyrgy Carl, writing from the (possibly) most mountainous country on Earth.
I’ve just had a taste of my dream job, boiled mutton and lots of dairy products made from horse milk –hang on tight folks, and enjoy the ride.
So yesterday I began what looks to be a very promising partnership with the local United Nations Development Project. They have agreed to let me tag along with their poverty reduction work in local villages, in exchange for little more than the opportunity to bask in my unbridled excitement (as best as I can tell.)
The day began with the UN driver, boasting intimate knowledge of every road, river and valley in the Naryn oblast, taking us to the village of “Uchkun” or “Spark.” Half hour or so outside of Naryn City, we found a room full of 20 eager women, ages 25 to 50. The ladies had recently developed “self-help groups” among themselves, and were preparing for micro-finance loans to develop handicraft cooperatives, milk processing facilities, and a host of other small enterprises.
When they asked me what I thought of it all, I tried to explain to them how exciting their excitement was, and how valuable their energy was. God only knows what came out, but everyone seemed pleased as punch that I spoke as well as I did.
After the meeting, we were invited to the community leader’s home for a lunch of boiled lamb over a kind of fried rice. This dish comes complete with the salty, oily water that the lamb was boiled in as a drink, and if you prefer (which I do) you can mix it with fermented mare’s milk.
Down an exceedingly bumpy road, which our driver navigated with expertise, after lunch we arrived at “Lone Poplar,” a veteran UN project village. These women, just as excited, but clearly old pros, had more concrete questions, like complications with handicraft sales, and improving technology for turning milk into cheese and cream.
They also had more concrete questions for me, like, “who was that girl you were walking with in town on Monday?” and “didn’t I see you the other day on the news?” It seems that, due to no fault of my own, I’m becoming somewhat of a celebrity in my own right.
And, true to form, after this meeting, we were invited to another house, and served more fried rice, boiled lamb as well as the boiled, oil-water to drink.
Traveling to local villages and helping them develop is, as you might by now know, definitely my dream job.
But the capstone on the dream, was, as always, what I found upon arriving home. When I walked in the door, my father said to me, “Carl! We killed a sheep today!”
“How come?” I asked.
“Because we didn’t have any other meat!” he said.
Fresh sheep? That means Besh Barmak – boiled sheep over very well cooked noodles, with, as always, the salty-sheep-meat-oil-water as thirst quenching drink. As I mixed my drink with yogurt made from horse milk, I watched my sister-in-law tear the roof of the sheep’s mouth off, and split it with my 9 year old sister. Then she poked the sheep’s eyes out with her thumbs, backwards, threw the temples.
I’ve finally arrived folks, its true.
That’s all from my corner of the world. Thanks for reading, thanks for writing back. I love all of you.
Originally Written July 30th, 2009
Bash at At Bashi
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on August 13, 2009
Some days are just so good, it’s hard to keep them to myself.
My dad told me last night that he was going to the mountains, and offered to take me with. This morning, around nine or so he came into my room to get a vest and ask me if I still wanted to go. So I dressed quickly and we ate breakfast, then Ulan, the cousin who lives nearby, Ryspek and I all got in the car to head out.
It was then that I learned we weren’t going to the mountains, but to the nearby market town of At Bashy, or Horse Head. So we first attached a trailer to the car and then headed for the central bus station/taxi stand. Here we found to people to fill our vacant seats, and then set out.
First in At Bashy, we pulled over on the road that bordered the giant Bazaar. Here my dad met some people, talked to them for a bit, and then we crossed the bridge going out of town. There we stopped, and the people came over with most of a cow. The legs were chopped off at the knees, it had been gutted, and was resting peacefully in three parts.
Then we headed down the road a ways until we entered a small town of little cottages and dusty streets – just like most towns you see around here. We came to an intersection and found five men, all in their forties, about. One was little and squirrely, and the leader looked kind of like the guy Butch Cassidy has to duel to keep control of his Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. The squirrely fella sat in the car with us and directed us to where the meat was we were there to buy.
The squirrely guy got out and pulled aside a stick-supported barbed-wire fence and directed us to drive down the little strip between their house and the next. He showed us space were we could turn around with our trailer with a smile, and just otherwise bounded around like an excited little frog. The four other older, more sober seeming guys followed us in.
In this moment, I had the first real flash of foreignness I’ve had since coming to country. I only seem to get them in general when I am doing something totally foreign to me, like buying meat to butcher, i.e. something I’ve never done in the States. I just thought to myself, “this is how business is done here. There is nothing weird about it. It feels like those men cornering us and laughing at us in Guatemala, but I am with my Dad here, this is his job. He knows what is going on.” It’s amazing how gut feelings in some ways are oddly right some times.
So, we pull the car in, and get out. The men then go to a spot in the yard, and pull a large tarp off of an oddly contorted horse, and two large bowls of its entrails. I think my Dad made a sound, and Ulan laughed audibly.
My Dad only seems to eat mutton, and only sells beef. So I imagine the fact that this was a horse somehow caught him off guard. I mean, it also looked real strange, gutted, throat slit, front legs cut off just above the hooves. Was it supposed to be a cow? Were they supposed to wait for him to kill it? Were all these men necessary to seal the deal? Somehow, the least strange thing about the whole event was that it was a dead, gutted horse laying next to a tarp in someone’s back yard, and we were buying it, presumably, for sale in the Bishkek meat markets. That, it seems, was just understood.
Immediately, some of the men went to lift it into the trailer, but my Dad called them off. Then we sat around, stood around, and otherwise spent some time together, talking about things I couldn’t understand, walking around the carcass, sometimes the leader man saying things that made everyone laugh. After things began to feel more comfortable, my Dad and the leader man shook hands.
Then a guy stepped forward with a very sharp, but curiously small knife for the job. He had on a white fedora, an old black and white knit sweater, Adidas running pants and black loafers. He had come on horseback, with a child. He cut all of the legs off at the knees, and then cut off the horse’s head. That little knife did a great job on the joints, but he still had to break them in the end. After everyone got together to lift the body into the trailer, the fedora man and Ulan lifted some of the entrails, liver and heart, I think, into a plastic bag, put it in the trailer, and then we backed out of the yard.
So we drove back out to the street corner, and the men helped us secure our tarp with rocks and string over the trailer, we paid the leader man, and headed back home.
But just outside of At Bashy, we stopped for the second part of the trip: to buy Kymys, or lightly fermented mare’s milk, the national drink. We pulled into a little compound of houses off the side of the road a little ways, got out and headed into a little building. Inside there was a young girl grinding away on some kind of machine. The machine had a large tub type thing on top with a cloth over it. But they kept pouring milk onto the cloth, which I imagine worked as some kind of filter.
And this girl just sat in front of it grinding away. On one side came a lot of a regular liquid, and the other small drips of a very thick one. They pulled some well boiled lamb out of a pot for us, and we ate it with knives off the bone.
Then we walked out of place and headed towards the hills. There were mares here and fouls, and we were going to watch them milk the horses. So Ryspek and I sat around with 9 people from this family and watched as one woman milked the mare. We drank some of the milk right there, it was warm and sweet, and otherwise just sat around. Everyone wanted to know who I was, and Ryspek told them all.
Sometimes it seems right for me to talk, and sometimes I just let other people do the talking. In this situation, it was him telling them about his friend, and it seemed unnecessary for me to come in. I supposed I could have offered my language, and in some way improved it, fielded their questions, perhaps deepened my experienced, perhaps strained it. But often times I am content just to be in a place, just to absorb, to try my best to fit in.
Originally Written June 14th, 2009
Clustr Map
Kyrgy Carl, Making Waves!
