Wednesday, August 6, 2008

The Inside Scoop

Hello Everyone,

Right now as I write it is August 1st, the beginning of my second month as a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT) in Kyrgyzstan. Right now I and the other 59 volunteers are going through Pre Service Training (PST, Peace Corps uses tons of acronyms – we even got a list of important ones we should know by heart) which lasts until September 20th. On August 20th we will be told our permanent site placements, which is very exciting since it is there that we will be spending our two years as official Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs).

First I wanted to give a general idea of my schedule during PST. It changes week by week, but here are the basics of my weekdays:

6:30 AM: wake up, clean my water distiller and find water (if there is any) to prepare water for the next day. Study more Kyrgyz and eat breakfast (usually it’s either fried eggs with onions and sausage, Russian pancakes, or this delicious fried bread, which I and my language group members call funnel-cake-nan since it tastes just like what you find at county fairs, all served with my host family’s homemade apricot jam.).
7:45: I walk to my language instructors house and stare at the nearby mountains incredulous.
8:00-12:00: Kyrgyz language class. Some days we get a half an hour break, other days 10 minutes. It’s pretty intense.
12:00-1:30: I and my language group members eat at someone’s host family’s home. The Apas (host mothers) have a dueling lunch competition. If one Apa serves something one day that we really like, more than likely the next day’s Apa will try to outdo the day before’s. This definitely works to our advantage (who doesn’t like to be pampered from time to time?), and at one point we even had ice cream for dessert three days in a row.
1:30-3 or 4:00: Technical and Cross Culture Sessions. At these they teach us how to teach and how not to break social taboos and ruin your reputation in Kyrgyzstan.
4:00: I walk home, dragging my feet -- take a big lunch followed by 2 hour meetings on a 90 degree day and you’d be doing the same. When I get home I usually take a short nap, read, start working on Kyrgyz, talk with my host family, etc.
7, 8 or 9:00: Dinner time. I never know when it’s going to be, but usually by then I’m pretty hungry and it works out well since the food here is usually sumptuous.
10:30: Crash.

Like I said, this is a typical day. There are sometimes aberrations that can make my day more interesting. Take last Monday, for instance.

When I came out for breakfast (we eat outside under a canopy), my host family was hustling around, which is strange anytime of day (people aren’t in hurries here, usually). Turns out one of their dairy cows broke its leg, and they’re trying to figure out what to do with it. I headed off to class and on my way saw the cow looking quite unconcerned, sitting on the ground in her usual spot. Later that afternoon, before I walked in the door to my family’s compound after class, I heard a lot of people talking inside. Turns out I had to go around to the front door because the obstacle blocking my way to the house was the cow on it’s back with its chest cavity open and my host brother Maxsat up to his elbow in organs while my host mom and her brother are helping him scoop everything from poor Daisy into bowls and spare pails. This was at about 4:00. When I go in the front door I see my host brother’s wife chopping the liver and kidneys in the kitchen, and I assume we’ll have dinner on the way soon.

At 4:30 my host brother’s wife’s little brother, Kanibek, knocks on my door and tells me to come eat bread. I assumed it was the typical afternoon tea and bread snack, but when I came out there were 6 people, no one I knew except my Apa, sitting around the table chowing down on a plate containing about 7-8 pounds of fried cow liver and kidneys. Apparently my Apa was celebrating the cow’s death because though this put them out one dairy cow, they were really rolling in the cash by selling off parts of our freshly slaughtered friend. I sit down and introduce myself to all of the neighbors and family friends sitting next to me, and before I know it there’s a large glass of vodka being poured in front of me.

Now I must digress in order to describe the ethics of Kyrgyz hospitality. My working hypothesis is that Kyrgyz hospitality originates from Silk Road culture. The ancient trade route did, in fact, run straight through this country, bringing many weary merchants through its villages asking for bread and lodging. As then, when you sit down as a guest at a family’s house these days, it’s a big deal. They will push food at you until you are stuffed, and after that they will bring out the main course. This has happened often to many of us trainees. As you sit there, sipping your tea and spreading homemade jam on your nan (bread), your host family will insist that you are not doing tending to your food correctly. “Chai ich, nan je!” they will repeat over and over again. This is not our American method of asking “Would you like some more tea/bread?,” but rather the verbs in the imperative mood – literally they are commanding you to “drink your tea! Eat your bread!” Older PCVs here call this Kyrgyz behavior “aggressive hospitality.” It’s really overwhelming sometimes. It’s okay to refuse more food, but even saying this takes courage since you know your refusal will be met with very concerned looks from your host family, as if you were just on the brink of starvation and you haven’t yet eaten enough to get you through the next ten minutes. As one Peace Corps staff member put it, “they’ll look at you like you just shot their dog.” I think my family has adjusted well, and they understand that I don’t need to eat a huge meal every night. I’m comfortable saying no, but it’s hard sometimes to get the timing right in order to minimize their reactions. That said, tea and food are not the only substances governed by this aggressive hospitality. Vodka is too. When it is only men drinking, do not get involved. Their drinking sessions turn into something reminiscent of what you see in Clint Eastwood films and the whole “cowboy approach” to drinking. I think you know what I mean. Plus, their tolerance of alcohol exceeds anything I’ve seen. I saw one of my Ata’s (host father’s) friends drink an eight ounce glass of vodka like it was water, then another, all the while still speaking to me in perfectly coherent Russian. Fortunately my Ata does not drink a lot of vodka often, so I’ve avoided the pressure, though there are definitely encounters on the street that are difficult to escape (in the late morning and afternoon, not just at night). Friendly foreigners will be offered vodka frequently, and it’s usually in a spirit of hospitality, not just in the spirit of spirits (if you know what I mean). In summary, Kyrgyz rules of hospitality apply to vodka as well.

Back to the story. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. I’m chewing on cow liver (even enjoying it). There’s a vodka glass (about 4 shots worth) sitting in front of me and my Apa begins to give a toast. I look at the half liter bottle and it says, in English, “Special Order Vodka.” After I drink it I’m wondering, “special order to where?” This stuff was not good. I chase it with some liver and feel a little bit better. But sure enough, ten minutes later it’s time for the next toast (it’s bad luck to drink without a toast). Thing is, once you open a bottle of vodka in Kyrgyzstan, the cap doesn’t go back on. Then I make one of the most embarrassing moves possible – I accidentally knock over my glass and spill my portion. I hung my head in shame and apologized. I really had not meant to do that, yet part of me was a little happy that I wouldn’t have to have more – I felt that I was doing just fine for 5:00 in the afternoon. But sure enough the others refill my glasses from theirs. Now there’s no way I can refuse it (my previous plan). These people are just too darn nice right at the point when I wished my Apa had sent me to my room without supper and without more vodka. We do our next toast, I load up on liver and kidney, say my “omin” (the customary “amen” you say at the end of a meal in this Islamic country where food seems as spiritual as it is dietary) and return to my room. I spend the next 4 hours reading Garcia Marquez and listening to Radiohead, hoping that #1 the liver and kidney was cooked well and won’t result in a midnight outhouse run (yes that’s a pun), and #2 that my stomach would stop churning from the vodka. I’ve had vodka in the states, but this was much rougher than anything I had had before.

Abnormal day #2 is not as abnormal as #1. Abnormal day #2 is more like abnormal meal #1 – cow stomach and intestines boiled and served with noodles, which is apparently a Kyrgyz delicacy. When I scoot up to the dinner table in Kyrgyzstan I have much reason to be excited. The main course is usually quite delicious, the vegetables are fresh from my family’s garden/small farm, and the omnipresent watermelon is unbelievable. This meal was a surprise. And it wasn’t even the fact that it was stomach and intestines that put me off, but the fact that there was no seasoning added, it was just straight up boiled, and so it tasted just like it smelled the day before when they slaughtered the cow and all of the innards were sitting in buckets and bowls in the kitchen. This meat wasn’t dressed up at all, and they looked exactly as you expect stomach and intestines to look (stomach lining, unless finely ground, still looks like stomach lining, and you can’t really confuse an intestine with anything else). After feeling bad that I couldn’t enjoy this Kyrgyz delicacy, I decided I needed to draw the line, say “I’m full” and “thank you.” I ate about a third of my heaping plate, and couldn’t go much further (the last couple bites required tea to wash them down with). Then I returned to my room, studied some Kyrgyz vocabulary, and had the fleeting idea that my stomach was feeling nervous and concerned for its own well being as it digested its bovine equivalent. I would like to know the rule in design that makes stomachs able to digest other stomachs.

Later that night when I went out to brush my teeth, my host brother Max was blasting the detached cow’s head, propped against a shed well, with a blow torch. When I finished brushing my teeth he was pouring hot water over it and scraping off the skin.

I didn’t even bother to ask.