Thursday, October 29, 2009

6. 

VODKA AND KYMYZ

The driver raced the taxi along the unevenly paved road, coming right up to the bumper of a car before passing it into oncoming traffic. He raced past the totaled automobiles mounted on concrete pedestals by the side of the road, heedless of the warning they offered.

His speed and recklessness would have been scary on a fine day and that day it was raining hard. Heavy, gray clouds hung over the brown, bare, rocky walls as we plunged into the winding Chuy River Canyon. Kristin, saucer-eyed and white knuckled, begged him to slow down.

We arrived at the Wishing Tree just as there was a break in the storm. The story goes that long ago a group of travelers had been walking for many hours high up in the canyon and were very thirsty. At this spot they stumbled upon a spring and to mark the spot for others, tied a piece of cloth to a nearby tree. As the years passed the tree assumed the power to grant wishes, especially those of women who want to get pregnant. That was not the wish I made, however, when I tied my piece of fabric to the tree.

In Kochkor, we found another taxi to take us the rest of the way to the village of Döng Alysh where we would stay with a local family, the Jainakovs.

That afternoon the house was the most popular place in town. Nurbek and Aisulu Jainakov were celebrating the birth of their son seven months earlier and all afternoon well-wishers were coming and going into the yurt that was set up in the yard. According to Alina, the arrival of a child is not celebrated until months after the birth but not for superstitious or religious reasons. It is to give the mother time to recover, not out of for concern for her health but because she is the one who will be doing all the cooking.

The house was new, but had no indoor plumbing. We headed directly for the outhouse located beyond the walled yard and across two ariks (not the drinking water supply, we hoped). Alina shivered and looked around at the mud and the outhouse and declared, “I hate village life.”

We deposited our shoes at the front door of the house and were ushered into the living room, where on a long low table was a feast of borsok (Kyrgyz fried bread), cookies, raisins, candied peanuts, homemade jams, fresh butter, smetana (sour cream) tomatoes, cucumbers and tea; staples of the Kyrgyz diet.

A man, staggering slightly and holding a baby boy, entered the room.

“I’m sorry. A bit drunk. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Pointing to the baby and then to himself he said, “Same nose, same mouth, same eyes, same, same.” I assumed the man was Nurbek, who we hadn’t yet met and that the baby was his son. I could only hope that the boy’s mother was Aisulu, or in his inebriated state he was being extremely indiscreet.

 “All you’ll see is dirt,” groused Alina.  The rain had finally let up and the sky had begun to clear and I had just announced to her and Kristin that I was going out to explore. I left the two of them dozing on the couches and headed out accompanied by the Jainakovs’ oldest daughter, fifteen-year-old Gulima.

As we passed the house two doors away a drunken granny grabbed me and kissed me so fervently on each cheek that I thought her next kiss would be on my lips. She had obviously spent the day celebrating. She dragged me inside and asked me to take a photo of the group gathered around the plate- and food-strewn table. One of her daughters put on my hat and sashayed around the room while the granny stuffed my pockets with candy.

A stream meandered along the village’s main road, which was pot-holed in the parts that still were paved. Horses were preferred over cars as the mode of transport.

The pitched-roofed houses of either plastered adobe or raw brick were set far apart, each with a large walled or fenced in yard, and backed onto open meadows. The spaces under the roofs were open so that foodstuffs and hay could be stored there. In preparation for autumn and winter feeding, hay was already being piled up in the yards of many of the houses. At least outwardly little had changed in the nearly eighty years since Ella’s trip; her description of houses was the same. 

A group of children swarmed around me, mugging for my camera and pushing each other out of the way to be in the center of the picture.

When Gulima and I returned to her parents’ house I was invited into the yurt. Only Aisulu and two or three other guests were present, but the table bore the remains of a feast. My arrival signaled the partying to begin anew. Fresh tea was brewed, the sugar dishes were refilled, borsok was scooped from a large plastic bag and dumped on the table, grapes were laid out, cookies and candy were brought in on a three-tiered dish. And then came the vodka. All eyes were on me as I threw back my first shot. Big smiles and a few claps followed my slamming the empty shot glass down on the table. I was encouraged to eat a few grapes to cut the fire in my throat, but there was no fire, it had gone down smoothly. ”Huh, it must not be very strong,” I foolishly told myself. A few minutes later two other people arrived and another shot was called for.

This was fun. “What’s that?” I asked pointing to a bowl filled with a white liquid. “Is it kymyz?”. Kymyz is fermented mare’s milk and a staple of the Turkic-Mongol diet.

Aisulu nodded, and before I knew it a cup of it was set in front of me. I was only going to take a sip, but it was good. It tickled my tongue and had a smoky flavor.* I took sip after sip drinking more of it than I should have considering I was not finished with the vodka.

Nurbek’s parents, Gulbaira and Assambek Jainakov, arrived and another round of shots was poured. “Adin, dva, tre!” and down the hatch. It began to dawn on me that every time a guest arrived shots were poured. How many shots had I had? Three? Four? The yurt was starting to spin. I had to get out of there, and before any more guests showed up.

I awoke very early to clear, lavender skies and a full moon hanging over the snow-dusted mountains. I had not slept well. I had been fighting a cold since I got off the train and during the night a grapefruit-sized lump in my throat had kept me awake for a few hours. I prayed that I wouldn’t get really sick. The last thing I wanted was to be lying in my sleeping bag on some strangers’ floor, moaning for my mother. (Coincidentally, Ella had developed a bad cold when she got to Bishkek. She also had lice.)

I didn’t want to leave my sleeping bag, but I could put off a trip to the outhouse no longer. It was the middle of August and the sun was rising in the sky, but it was chilly. I was wearing a parka and long underwear and I was still cold.

Aisulu was hustling a cow out of the yard like she was pushing a lazy child out to play, prodding it to get a move on with whacks on its hindquarters as the cow dawdled along.

I quickly washed my face in a sink set up on the front stoop. It was a porcelain basin set in a metal stand with a mirror and a small tank on top for the water, icy water at that hour. I dashed back into the house and into my sleeping bag. I lay there hoping either to fall asleep or for Alina and Kristin to stir.

Voices out in the hall.

“We are being discussed,” Alina said sleepily. “When we will go out to the jailoo.” We had been invited to spend a few days at Assambek and Gulbira’s summer pasture. It was decided that we would leave at ten.

We were drinking tea when Aisulu bounced excitedly into the room.

“Come, come,” she said to me, indicating that I should follow her outside.

In the yard was a freshly slaughtered sheep and knowing that I liked to take pictures, Aisulu thought I would like to photograph the butchering process.

It was a group effort. The sheep had already been stripped of its skin and two men were cutting up the meat and bones while a couple of other men looked on. A neighbor woman washed the stomach and heart in a metal bowl of bloody water. When the butchering was complete, the head was cut off the hide and placed on a large stone. Nurbek held a lit match to a blowtorch. The torch emitted a pathetic flame and went out. A second attempt had the same result. He banged the fuel can around a bit then lit a third match. Flames engulfed the head. Within minutes the skin was charred black and the ears were burned off. 

I wandered out back to where a group of women was washing the intestines in the arik. While one woman poured water into a length of intestine another pushed the water through. Others stretched and stretched again long sections then knotted them by dexterously pulling one loop through another.

Ten o’clock came and went without us leaving. When we were served some food it was clear to 

us that we would not be leaving at eleven either. The battered Russian military jeep would not leave for the jailoo until almost noon. In Central Asia it is useless to be in a hurry to get anywhere, or to get frustrated with changes and amendments to one’s itinerary. Plans are fluid, not fixed. 


* Like any alcohol, the flavor of kymyz depends on how it is made and some tastes better than others, or, rather the taste is particularized. For me, this would the best kymyz of the trip.

Photos: (1) Dinner, (2) Local boys, (3) Everybody jump!, (4) Little Bear, (5) Kristin and I


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