7. 

GOLDEN GIRL OF THE JAILOO

part 2

Another delay. Would our ride ever happen? Dyadushka had to bring the sheep in and needed the horse. As he neared the wagon, I walked down to meet him. My route took me by the stacked dung bricks used as fuel. The smell was overpowering, but not nearly as awful as the smell of the sheep themselves. God, those animals stink! Their fleece was shaggy, clumpy, matted and muddy. To encourage and direct them, Dyadushka, who rode in a pinstriped suit coat, a homburg and soft-soled leather boots slid into plastic sandals, rattled a plastic water bottle with pebbles in it.

With the sheep moved, Kristin and I could finally have our ride. Except that our dreams of each mounting a horse and racing up and down the jailoo together were thwarted by there being only one horse. We had to settle for taking a turn riding the horse up and down a path that skirted the edge of the hills behind the wagon. The Jainakovs had dozens of horses, but it seemed that only one was gentled. A second horse was promised for the next day (it never materialized). 

Having sat around all morning and a good part of the afternoon, I decided to take a hike up into the hills. After walking about twenty minutes I came upon another wagon. The two children sitting out in front waved for me to come over. I was invited inside where I discovered the mother and an older daughter making borsok. There were already large pancakes of dough rolled out and set aside on a sheet on the floor. Unlike the Jainakovs’ wagon, their wagon had a stove set up inside and it was cozy and warm. The sun filtering in through a small window behind the stove mixed with the smoke to cast about a hazy light. Children’s clothes hung from a rope tied between two roof supports. Tacked to one wall was a plastic cloth decorated with bananas, mangos, papayas and melons.

The stove was no more than a metal cylinder with two doors near the bottom. The lower was for removing the ashes and the upper for feeding in the dung fuel. Set into the opening at the top was a kazan filled with hot oil.

Bending over a low table, the mother and daughter re-rolled the dough and sliced it into small squares. Each pancake yielded about twenty-eight borsok and there were at least ten pancakes. The squares were dumped into the hot oil for no more than thirty seconds. Right out of the kazan borsok is very tasty, soft and warm; several days later it’s better with butter and jam.

✢

Assambek had nine children. Gulbaira was his second wife, and not much older than his oldest child. His first wife had died of a misdiagnosed illness six or seven years ago. He had met Gulbaira, who lived in another village near Döng Alysh, through mutual friends and they had been married five years.

“At first,” Gulbaira said, “his children wanted nothing to do with me. I was not their mother. But little by little, they have come to accept me.” It was obvious that Elmira loved Gulbaira very much. 

Gulbaira had been widowed at forty. She had married her first husband when she was eighteen. Their first child, a girl, died very young. Their second child, a boy, died in infancy. And their third child, another son, was tragically drowned in Issyk Köl when he was eighteen. Her husband died of grief a few months later.

“I am very happy with Assambek. He treats me very well,” Gulbaira said, and patted her husband’s hand.

It had been a long day and we were all tired and ready for bed. Kristin, Alina, and I were to sleep in the eating room. The table was pushed to one end and our beds were laid out for us: first sheepskins, then floral cotton mattresses, and then quilts and pillows.

The light bulb in the larger room had burned out so Dyadushka sat on a low stool holding a pen light that gave a penny’s worth of light for Babushka and Elmira to lay out their bedding by.

 ✢

“Let’s go ride a horse,” Alina said to me. She actually just meant me. Alina gave lie to the idea that all Kyrgyz are horse people. She didn’t really like to ride and was a bit afraid of horses. She didn’t like dogs much either. To be honest, there wasn’t much to like about the Jainakovs’ dogs; they snarled and barked at everyone and everything.

Swinging myself into the saddle, I announced to Alina and Elmira that I was going to take the horse over the creek and run it across the meadows. No sooner had I crossed the creek than Alina called out to me.

“Babushka wants you to move those cows.” She pointed to a group of five or six cows grazing near the Jainakovs’ horses. “They’re not theirs and need to be moved farther to the right.”

“But I’ve never herded cows before!” I shouted.

“Try, if you can.”

Why not?  If I messed up Elmira could fix it.

In Moscow, desperate to find traveling companions, Ella had lied about her ability, saying she was an experienced rider who could last twelve hours in the saddle if need be when, in truth, her total equestrian experience was thirty minutes. Just days before heading up into the mountains on her two-month trek, her attempt to leap into a saddle ended up with her doing, as she called it, “a slow motion dive” and finding herself lying on the ground. I had a bit more experience than that.

Off I went, encouraging the horse to run with “Cha! Cha! Cha!” and slapping its rump with the whip. The cows didn’t demonstrate the herd mentality I was hoping for. Instead of grouping together as the horse and I circled them, they scattered, not far, but far enough that I had to be constantly maneuvering them back together and in the direction I wanted them to go. I’d get one going and move onto the next, only to have the first cow stop and start munching. Slowly but surely, though, I got those obstinate, trespassing ruminates on their way. I followed them until I saw, sitting on top of a hill, a very large, very tough looking black bull. The cows could make it home on their own.

My job complete, I slapped the horse to a gallop. We flew across the jailoo, scattering sheep and goats, the vast, cloudless, blue sky over our heads, I losing my hat. I thought I could be a cowgirl for a while. When I pulled the horse to a stop at the wagon, Babushka and Alina were waiting for me. Babushka clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Fine job! Stay. I will find you a Kyrgyz husband.”

 ✢

A farewell meal of delicious steaming bowls of borscht, and of course, some farewell shots of vodka. Dyadushka and Babushka each made a toast and each shot was followed by what I hoped was a once in a lifetime experience: goat fat chasers. No taste, just soft, squishy texture. Yuck!

After two bowls of borscht and two shots of vodka I was ready for a nap. No such luck. Nurbek’s car couldn’t make it up the dirt track to the wagon; we would have to meet him by the river.

“Please,” Babushka said to me as we got ready to leave, “publish your photographs of 

Kyrgyzstan in a magazine or newspaper. Tell everybody about our country.” The Kyrgyz people are very proud of their culture and country.

“I would love to publish them, but unfortunately that’s not my decision to make.”  

After taking some group photos, including some neighbors who had come to check out the foreigners, and heartfelt thank yous to our hosts, we set out with Dyadushka leading the way on horseback. For two kilometers I dragged my suitcase, which had suddenly become so heavy I thought Babushka had hidden herself inside, over grass, mud, stones, carried it over puddles, and then across a creek on a six-inch wide plank.

 ✢

Nurbek and Aisulu drove us to the school in Döng Alysh where we were supposed to meet teachers and volunteers who had participated in the United Nations Population Fund’s (UNFPA) Stronger Voices program. Interviewing the participants was the main reason Kristin had come to the village. We had been assured before going to the jailoo that they would be at the school that afternoon, but when we arrived the only person there was the curator of a funny zoological museum located on the second floor of the school. The teachers and volunteers were “on the jailoo.”

Kristin was convinced that Aisulu, who was to have made the arrangements, hadn’t done anything about it. Aizhan, the former principal of the school, had arranged our stay with Aisulu, her best friend. She had moved to Karakol the day after we arrived in Döng Alysh, and Kristin said, and she was probably right considering what happened on the ride back to Kochkor, that once Aizhon was gone, Aisulu felt no obligation to fulfill her friend’s promises.

Hookan Kokobaev was the son of a revered Soviet era biologist, pedagogue and founder of the school, Nukan Kokobaev. Nukan died in the early 1970s, a hero of another age, but his image was everywhere, from a memorial stele at the school’s entrance to a large portrait hanging in a stairwell. The first room of the museum was filled with his diplomas, awards and commemorations; photographs of him with politician and students; even one of his suits was on display in a glass case.

Three poorly lit rooms housed the museum’s collection of scary stuffed goats, sheep, birds, badgers, foxes, wolves and other wildlife indigenous to Kyrgyzstan. There were even a lamb with two heads and one with six legs. What made them so scary were the eyes. In place of glass eyes, which were probably too expensive, eyes had been painted on pieces of orange-ish leather and sewn into the sockets.

The habitats looked like 5^th grade art projects and many of the animals had seen better days, yet the pride that Kokobaev the Younger and the villagers took in the museum was touching. It was the only museum of its kind in the area we were told, and children from all over the Kochkor region came there on school trips.

The midwife that Kristin had hoped to talk to had also mysteriously disappeared onto the jailoo. We headed back to Kochkor.

Raised voices speaking in Kyrgyz in the backseat.

“Aisulu wants 1500 som for the ride to Kochkor,” Alina told Kristin.

Kristin balked. “She can’t be serious. We can’t pay that much. I have very little money left.”

Aisulu said something to Alina, who then turned to Kristin. “She says that’s what the taxis charge.”

“That’s three times what we were charged to get here.”

Aisulu repeated the price of 1500 som.

“We just took a taxi here three days ago. I think I can remember how much we paid.” Aisulu didn’t need Alina’s translation to understand that Kristin was not happy. She

was off and running, with Alina trying to keep up.

“You stayed two nights with Dyadushka. Did you pay him for that? Did you give him money for food? Did you?”

“Of course. We gave him the same per day as we gave you.”    

Nurbek didn’t involve himself in the negotiations, trusting Aisulu to look out for their interests. I was glad I was in the front seat and didn’t have to involve myself either. Upon hearing that we had paid Dyadushka, a fair price was suddenly offered and a fragile peace restored. 

Photos: (1) Making borsak, (2) Alina at a comfortable distance from the horses, (3) Checking out the foreigners, (4) Scary stuff