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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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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

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

To be perfectly honest, the intestines were kinda like calamari, the testicles were flavorless, the little baby birds were pleasantly crunchy, the dog was incredibly well seasoned (and called “steak”), the Momos were so thick and hearty it felt good just knowing you were eating them (despite having to spit out the bones,) and I’m sure the Yak Butter Tea I had was only the sissy foreigner’s version.
See, the thing I’ve found traveling is that your experience with food can be telltale to the depth of your experience in general. In the country I’ve spent longest, China, It took months before I got some really bad Chinese food. But here in Kyrgyzstan I’ve had the great fortune of being offered food I don’t like after only 3 weeks!

But let’s take a step back for a minute. There are plenty of foods in the States I don’t like. I’m sure there are for all of us. But if you were just coming to America for a visit, you’d probably only stop at nice restaurants, and only at people’s houses who would feed you well. On such a visit, you’d be experiencing, by choice, a Disneyland of America, one that catered to your desires.
But that’s not really what I look for here in Kyrgyzstan, and that’s why yesterday was so wonderful.

So my little sister came home with a 2-inch piece of thick white sidewalk chalk. But it wasn’t chalk, you see, it was some sort of candy. I’d seen neighborhood kids eating it before; a treat they sell at my family’s little corner store. They’d break off little pieces of it and pop them while playing in the street.

This time my sister still had some when she got home, and offered me a bit. As soon as this thing entered my mouth, it was sensory overload. I imagine it is some sort of dairy product – it had the texture of wet chalk, and tasted like sweat. I coughed and gagged and my eyes started to water; my sister giggled, and feigned distress. As a courtesy, I hid the thing under my tongue while she inspected my mouth. Then we chased each other around the yard until we were both tired, when I snuck off somewhere quietly to spit the stuff out.

The fact that I have now had some food that really challenges my senses signifies to me that my Kyrgyzstan amusement park may be beginning to end. It tells me the people are connecting with me, trusting me, showing me their more curious delights. At this point, it isn’t about the flavor of the food, it’s about the flavor of the people – and it is with that flavor that I am agreeing quite well.

Originally Written April 22nd, 2009