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 food
Weight Weight, Don’t Tell Me (or My Mother)
15 Volunteers, Two Pies, and Three Live Turkeys
Before Thanksgiving dinner, my friends, I was hungry. My home here in Sunny Naryn had been absent responsible, adult supervision for nearly three weeks. Between the eating habits of my 14, 13 and 6 year old host sisters, food was thin and Kyrgy Carl was getting grumpy.
Come ol’ Turkey Day, however, that all changed. In a feat of organizational prowess, 15 of us descended on the village home of just one volunteer. This boy, Travis, with his legendary humor, gained notoriety as being the first volunteer to have to explain to his host family that his need for a toilet had trumped his ability to reach one (if you catch my drift.)
Travis arranged not only for accomodations for this tribe of hungry Americans, but also for an event far more fun than football: he bought three turkeys, and we took turns in the slaughter.
My friends, it is surprising how hard one needs to swing in order to completely sever the neck of a turkey with one swing of an ax. It is amazing how easily those feathers come off in hot water. And it was a real wonder how bad the inside smells, even when you’ve spilled no poop. But, between the girl named Yoder, who grew up on a chicken farm, and some other volunteers well versed in the art of cooking, we turned those birds into real, live, food.
Saturday night turned into a feast like none other. All 15 of us sat around a table, we made toasts, told stories, and ate lots of food. We had stuffing and mashed potatoes with lots of gravy. We had salads and soups, and topped everything off with apple and pumpkin pie. Needless to say, by the end of the weekend, my hunger had abated.
But that wasn’t all. When I got home on Sunday, I found my host-mom. “Carl,” she said, “I’m sorry we’ve been gone for so long. We were in Bishkek. We bought an apartment.” It is a small place, but I can’t help feel like my years of rent helped foot the bill. It is an investment. “the girls will stay there when they go to college,” she said, and I beamed.
Everyone got their dues, it seems, and everyone made it home happy. Wishing a happy Thanksgiving, to all of you, and all of yours.
The Last Big Candy
Even the wizened gristle that was Kyrgy Carl not but a few months ago knew little of the saw of the Last Big Candy. But I have grown with age and with experience, and today, my deep and dear friends, I will tell this story to you.
See, in my humble dwelling on our backstreet of Sunny Naryn, whether it be in the grey days of springtime or the wrapped in the grim tentacles of winter cold, candy in the bread basket is ever present. Sometimes, while there may lay nothing but stale and gnawed rinds of flat bread, or the hard, oily remains of borsok; candy, inevitably, rests among the scrum.
This candy is seldom bought; instead, it comes in thin plastic bags; the sweets collected along with boiled meat and fried dough, brought home from parties, the modern update of the Kyrgyz tradition of ustukan.
Our plastic China-made bread-basket is the candy’s last stop, originally from Ukrainian factories that cater to our spot on the globe. They come as hard candies, chocolates of various fillings, wafers, and the assorted soft fruities.
When these bags first arrive, often in the hours long after the sun has set, a frenzy sets in. As everyone is called in to glean tempting delights from amongst the goodies, knives appear to cut apart fatty hunks of mutton, and tea to wash it all down.
As for the candy, it is the largest pieces that attract attention first. Caught like a bird’s eye to their shiny wrappers, members of the table quickly become experts to their various flavors: the fillings of the chocolates, and the coatings on the wafers. Curiously, however, in the waning moments of this delirium, food always remains, sometimes out of simple preference and sometimes out of politeness for those who’ve yet to share.
But these quaint pleasantries can mask a horrible, and inevitable truth: some of this food remains because, plainly, it is horrible.
That’s right, folks, I said it. Now, it’s not the meat that is horrible, nor the fried bread. The mornings and afternoons that I find these last bits of ustukan left on the table, it is the crime of politeness that inevitably does me in. I’ll taste the end of the mutton, and thank my host-family for their consideration. I’ll chew through still soft nuggets of fried dough, the stalwart borsok, and sing praises to their names. And then I’ll look to the few candies remaining. That, my friends, is when I’ll see the Last Big Candy, and thank my lucky stars. “Still!” I’ll say, “there is one last grand piece, left by satiated desires!”
But this, folks, is never the case, and that is the law of the Last Big Candy. This final morsel is, and always will be, a horror. It was left because it tasted bad, and everyone knew it. It was confectioner’s Frankenstein, a creation he marveled in, but knew no one would want. While some poor sap was tricked into buying it, only this last one had to eat it. And that last man, invariably, has been me.
I asked my host sisters about this phenomenon recently, and they just laughed. “Oh, if there is just one piece left, it’s always bad. Sometimes mom will leave good candy there,” they said, “just because she knows we’ll never eat it.”
A day older and a day wiser. Here folks, happily, sharing it all with you.
Quiz and a Meal
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on August 18, 2010
These meetings seem to follow a similar pattern. They start with tough quizzing of the women on the group’s finances. Next, there are some fluffier questions about their plans for their collective future. Women seem to, in general, say they’d like to use the income garnered from their goats and their savings to move into other ventures, generally shyrdaks and other handicrafts.
The second portion of these meetings involves, invariable, food. Right now, we’re sitting before a magical table of bread, salads, home-made jams, watermellon, candies and tea. Soon, a giant metal platter will be covered in food, and everyone will fight to put some of that on everyone else’s plates. That is the moment I’m heading for at this glorious moment. We’re even heading into a new room.
Development Theory over Lunch
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on August 18, 2010
As I promised, we’ve another mountain of food resting before us. We’re all seated on the floor around a low table, with women bringing us milky tea as we talk and await the meal. We’re talking development and markets, with the resident Kiwi experts trying to figure out what the ceiling for bakery production might be here in the At Bashy rayon.
Before we arrived, Tony related to me a story that he said, “struck me right between the eyes.”
“When we first came to the sewing cooperative 2 years ago, the lead woman came out to thank me for the machines. ‘Don’t thank me,’ I said, ‘I want to thank you for doing so much with the resources we gave you.’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you for having the faith in me. Thank you for giving us the confidence to have a vision.’”
Besides Kyrgyzstan, these guys have worked all over the world. I’ve asked them to tell me about what development work is like in other places.
“In Kyrgyzstan, they have the experience of working with someone who had a vision. The Soviets told them of their grand plans, and the people remember those kinds of dreams. Much of the program here involves taking the ideas they had in the past, and scaling them down from giant collective sizes to individual sizes.
“Take silage, for example. In Soviet times, there were giant pits to provide silage for an entire cooperative farm. Today, we need to reteach silage techniques to the farmers, and show them that the process can be done on a much smaller scale.
“Also, in Kyrgyzstan, there are roads just about everywhere. Everyone is literate, and everyone is numerate. In places in Cambodia or Nepal, for example, records books will be a complete mess, because not everyone can understand them.”
From these conversations and others, I see a pretty bright picture for the people of Kyrgyzstan. As far as colonized countries are concerned, the post-Soviet nations have a certain leg up. As a former Peace Corps volunteer from Guinea recently pointed out to me, “Kyrgyzstan was colonized for long term occupation. The Russians intended to keep this land forever, and thus developed like it was a valued part of the empire. Guinea, on the other hand, and many other parts of Africa, were simply looted. The people were not educated to be an asset, but divided an kept ignorant while the colonial power plundered.”
Right now, I can hear dishes rattling in the kitchen, and can smell the boiled meat. Our table of bread, salads and sweets is about to start brimming over with food, and I had better get back in there.
The Kyrgyz Fattening Program
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on August 17, 2010
We are coming to the end of our meeting here at the dairy group in Ak Muz. The group is called “Ak Adilet,” which I think translates to “White Equality.” This sounds kind of strange in translation. It stems from “ak” or ‘white’ have a number of meanings. The best I can explain is in terms of the blessing, “may you have a white road,” which is like saying ‘happy travels.’ Does this give a better explanation for white “White Equality,” would mean? Try “Glorious Equality.”
Anyway, here we are with the concrete questions having been answered. The group told us all about how they buy milk at one price, and then improve it. On top of this, they save their product to sell during the winter, when prices are higher. With the numbers out of the way, we have broken into what we’ve been calling the “Great Fattening Program.”
This refers to how, being guests, we are treated to food at just about every meeting. Here, right now, I’m before a table featuring watermellon, kurut balls, bread from a nearby bakery (also part of the KNZRT program), cookies, fresh cream, some chocolate candies, and a curious brown mixture of condensed milk and sugar, that has been described to me as Kyrgyz Halva. In order to present this little snack, the ladies of this group nicely removed the intestine and organ sack that was holding some of their fresh butter. (Of this butter, they told us it sells much better than butter stored in western-style containers, as the flavor isn’t as good, and the storage less convenient.)
From here, we’ll visit the bakery that produced the wonderful bread we’ve just had. Most likely, the first hour of that meeting will once again involved the nuts and bolts financial figures that make up their business, and the second hour will be a gigantic meal. Never fear lack of detail, for rest assured, I’ll keep you posted.
Tamerlane and a Wave of Dumplings
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on January 18, 2010
So my old teacher, the saintly, scholarly Tamerlane the Hero King invites me to his home to visit everytime I’m in the vicinity. On this most recent trip, we all sat around the kitchen (a pleasent externality of having a cold house) and cooked together.
On the menu was Kyrgyz duymplings called Monty. They are made of shredded sheep meat and shredded sheep fat with bits of potato and onion. The way they are bound together is very important.
Kyrgyz Food! Chicago! Hot Dog!
Posted by KyrgyCarl in Bonus Content! on January 8, 2010
While I don’t think the deep fried hot dogs in the bazaar here in Naryn are on their menu, this spot has just opened up in Chicago, not one single mile from my boyhood home! Can you Believe it?
Right. Anyway, they’re getting rave reviews from both the Chicago Reader and the Yelp!. And they’ve also got a facebook page. They don’t seem to be serving the organ meat that I see so much of at home here, but thats probably all the better for you guys.
Anyway, for those of you in Chicago who want a real taste of what I’m doing out here (no pun intended), check them out!
Fun fun Language Tips:
Man on Man: greet with a hearty “Salam alaykum!” (“I wish peace upon you,” the traditional Muslim greeting). Then insist on going in for a handshake. If you haven’t totally blown their collective minds, you’ll be returned with an “alaykum asalam!”
When Greeting with a Woman (Man on Woman, Woman on Woman): Salamatizbi? (How are you?) Ideally they’ll break through their shock and respond “Salamachilik!”
With these formalities out of the way, given that their overwhelming friendliness will surely make you comfortable, regardless of gender, throw in a quick “kandaisiz?” (another “How are you,” often asked in rapid fire succession with the more formal greetings.) By this time, they’ll recognize your worldliness, and respond with a jovial “Jakshi!” (Good!)
Then, for kicks, if they sock you back with another “kandaisiz,” just give ‘em “jakshi.” But, if you’re a man, especially a young man, and they happen lob out the more casual, “kandai,” really knock their socks off with an “aigirdai!” and really roll that rrr! This is literally, “like a stallion!” It’s a little bit of casual, young man bravado, and would go over well between men.
Now, don’t get too comfortable. Flip back into English for the rest of your meal, but once your server comes out to see how everything is, really get ‘em smiling with the great compliment, “damdoo ecken!” (Full of Flavor!, So tasty!) Then, once its all over, throw a happy little “chong rakmat” (thanks a lot!) their way, and your reputation will be secured.
Oooh! You’re gonna have such a good time!
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
Jaramazan and the Festival of Ait
So here in the Sunny capital of Naryn Oblast, we’ve just wrapped up the Muslim holiday of Ramadan. As many of you surely know, this is about as much of a ‘holiday’ as is the Christian Lent. However, just like Lent, the 40 days of fasting during Ramadan are capped with a big Christmasy celebration at the end.
During Ramadan, folks don’t traditionally put anything in their mouths from sunrise to sunset. Kyrgyzstan, however, is a notoriously lax Muslim country, and I have seen only a small percentage of people following these strictures.
What I have luckily been able to witness more of is the Kyrgyz tradition of Jaramazan. A couple of times per week this last month, neighborhood boys have come around to our house and others singing the folk song of the same name, on the subject of down from the mountains, on horseback in the first verse, and on an ox in the second. After hearing the song, residents are suppose to give out some of their dinner, or candy, or money to the boys, much like our Halloween. However, true to their relaxed nature on these traditions, I seldom heard the song sung to completion, nor did we always answer the bell.
Now the finale celebration of Ait, or Eid, here in Kyrgyzstan is defined not by gift giving, but by boatloads of guesting.
Traditionally, one goes to an odd number of houses. The reigning champion volunteer went to thirteen in one day. I clocked in at a paltry 3, but I still slept well on a full belly of Plov, Kymyz and Dim-da-ma (my personal favorite Kyrgyz dish, effectively a thick, down home stew without the broth.)
Most of my time this year was spent on a narrow, neighboring street where a previous volunteer lived, and made such an impression that the folks have taken me in with loving arms. So much so, in fact, that I have just about completed the delicate balancing act of moving from one house to another, namely, my current house, to one of these neighbors.
See, the family that I am living with is absolutely delightful, but the traveler in me is getting restless again. “Its not that I don’t like you, quite the opposite in fact,” I told my current family. “The fact is, if I am to learn about all of Kyrgyzstan, the troubles and successes, the good jobs and the bad, if I am to truly get to know this community, I can’t just live in one place, with just one family.”
“Okay, we understand. But, will you come and visit often?” They asked.
“You had better believe it.” I said.
That means, at the beginning of October, the auspicious calendrical lunacular of my birth, yours truly, Kyrgy Carl, will be moving from my little room among this big Kyrgyz family to a littler room among an even bigger Kyrgyz family. That means no more carcasses when I come home. But rest assured, the more people I have to visit, the better my letters will become.
Originally Written September 22nd, 2009
Clustr Map
Kyrgy Carl, Making Waves!
