Postcard 3

Postcard 3: The Magical Walnut Forest

On Sunday, my family – all 12 of us, plus my host sister’s friend from Russia – took a day trip to Arslambob, a gem of a place nestled in the second largest walnut forest in the world. In the park are three waterfalls, huge mountains, lots of scenic outlooks, and, of course, lots of walnut trees. The Kyrgyz national television station uses footage of it in one of its look-at-how-beautiful-our-country-is television spots.
After a three hour long car trip (most of which I spent with a passed-out 4-year-old in my lap), we stopped at a pretty but unremarkable Soviet-era resort village. Underwhelmed, I remember thinking, “Right…so we’re here. There are some mountains and trees…and ooo! A disco!” After wandering around for a half-hour or so, though, my host dad called us over to a couple of ancient Jeep-like vehicles and tells us to get in. Apparently we were going on some sort of excursion…
The closest approximation that I can think of for what followed is something like a real-life Thunder Road, minus the seatbelts and reckless gangsters (for those of you from Tennessee, you’ll recognize this name as that of the 3-D attraction at Dollywood that simulates a wild ride down country roads in Prohibition-era America. Lots of jostling about in your seat with the occasional stomach-drop.). Our driver had a particular affinity for driving through streams of water whenever possible and ‘powering through’ steep banks (although his theatrics also necessitated that he stop and pour water over the overheated engine every 10 minutes or so). My 3 year-old host cousin performed quite an act of napping fortitude on the way – standing up, with her head and arms resting on my lap, she slept nearly the whole rough, bouncy way (even leaving a nice big spot of drool on my knee…).
Anyway, we eventually made it to the base of the hike to the 70-meter waterfall. To bolster our strength, we had fermented mare’s milk, hot tea, and fried bread first. Most of us – including the 3, 4, and 5 year olds – then began our ascent. The trail started out easily enough as a nice paved path. After about 5 minutes, though, the cement gave way to loose gravel and dirt. Kind of scary, actually, especially because, for most of the way, I was helping my 4-year-old host sister along. Hiking with a little girl is actually pretty fun because she got so excited so often – every 50 meters or so, she insisted on turning around and waving to her mom, who was about 100 meters behind us. I was quite proud of her for making it all the way up the increasingly steep hill.
After about an hour of hiking, we made it to the top. The view was spectacular; I was beginning to see why everyone raves about the place so much. And since the waterfall is considered a holy place, it is completely devoid of the tacky graffiti that covers many such sites in America and elsewhere. Just naturally beautiful.
Back at the base of the hill, we quenched our thirst with – what else? – hot tea. We then headed to the site of the other two waterfalls. This time, there wasn’t much of a hike at all, so my baby sister, pregnant sister, and bedazzled-high-heel-shod host mom could join us. And this place was freaking awesome. Two 30-meter waterfalls fell together in a pool at the base of the path, making a great place for wading and, of course, picture-taking. At one point, my host brother grabbed his 4 year-old daughter and sloshed into the middle of the pool so I could take their picture…the result was the definition of ‘Kodak moment’ (my sitemate dubbed it an ‘Anne Geddes wet dream’). Will try to post it later.
At the end of the day, I bought soft serve ice cream for everyone (how I’ve thanked my lucky stars this summer that Kyrgyzstan has soft serve…) and, after a pit stop for lagman (Kyrgyz spaghetti) at a café, we drove back home, exhausted but happy.

Postcard 3

Postcard 2

Postcard 2 -- Washing the Car

My host brother has just returned from a 5-month stint working in Russia and, to celebrate his success, has purchased a new car for the family. It's a brand-new Nissan with lovely things like air-conditioning, automatic gear-shift, automatic locks and windows, and a little sensor which tells you if you're about to back into something. In a land full of ancient Russian hunks of metal passed off as cars, this car is really something.
When Kyrgyz people get something new like a car or house or even a television, they invite their friends, family, and neighbors over to 'wash' the new item. This involves making enough food to feed a small army -- Kyrgyz specialities like ash (rice pilaf-esque dish with carrots and meat), boorsok (doughnut-like bits of fried bread), shorpo (can't say I'm a fan of this one -- a broth in which the newly-slaughtered sheep was boiled), and, since it's summer, a plethora of fruits and vegetables. And, of course, the requisite vodka to wash everything down. My host dad, who never drinks, got a little loopy and cornered me, insisting that I join him in a rather large shot. When I hesitated, he told me that I didn't need to worry about being shameful and drunk -- I could just sneak away and have a nice long nap. So he gave a toast to the car and we took our shots -- and, in typical Kyrgyz fashion, chased them with cucumbers. God bless new cars.

Postcard 1

Hi friends,
I've been crazy busy for the past month with trips and camps and family goings-on. I'm having trouble constructing it all into a cohesive narrative, so have decided to write a series of 'postcards' instead...

Postcard 1: Crowded beach at Lake Issyk-Kul
I helped out at a camp for Russian orphans in early August. We spent the mornings playing with the group of what might be the cutest kids in Central Asia (save my host siblings, of course) and the afternoons lazing around on the beach. Tough week...
Beaches, as we all know, are ideal spots for people watching. Issyk-Kul is the second biggest alpine lake in the world -- it has a slight salinity that means it never freezes (thus its name, which translates as "Hot Lake"). And come summer, it draws legions of sun-worshippers from Russia, China, and the rest of Central Asia. Generally conservative dress norms go flying out the window. Thongs are a particularly beloved swimwear choice; some choose to hike up their full-coverage bottoms so as to simulate the thong effect. Some beach-goers, however, continue to adhere to certain dress codes, even as they completely disregard others. My favorite example of this phenomenon involved portly middle-aged ladies frolicking about the beach in their bikinis -- and head-scarves.
Some other characters:
- Vendors wandering around the beach selling beer, cotton candy, chips, and smoked fish on sticks
- A so-tan-he's-burnt Russian we dubbed "Napoleon" who literally spent hours, chest puffed up and hands on hips, surveying his kingdom -- with a variety of Josephine-like figures by his side
- Naked children cavolling about
- Temporary tattoo artists, one of whom I, on a dare, contracted to put Monticello on my arm
- A very affectionate couple and their third-wheel friend, who occasionally amused himself by embracing his towel with naked-lady illustration

Life in this country just doesn't get old.

Just Call Me Owen Wilson

Remember that movie Wedding Crashers? Well, I certainly did this past weekend, when I became a sort of Kyrgyz Wedding Crasher myself. It all started last week, when I was riding in a shared taxi with a woman who turned out to be my neighbor. After I figured out that she was telling me about her son’s upcoming wedding (and not that she wanted me to marry her son), I told her that, if she wanted, I would come. She kind of nodded at me and I figured that would be the last I would hear of it.

Flash forward to Sunday, when my parents tell me that they want to take me to this wedding. It’s that evening in Osh city, so around 7 pm we bade the kids and daughter-in-law adieu and set out. The wedding is at this giant cafe – basically a big courtyard and even bigger indoor dance hall, complete with neon lights and singing DJ. When we sat down, my parents abandoned me, leaving me by myself at a table full of our middle-aged neighbors (I knew one of their names). Nevertheless, as is typical at Kyrgyz social functions, we quickly became friendly after several rounds of vodka shots and dance breaks. And holy hell, do Kyrgyz people like to dance. ESPECIALLY the middle-aged ones. I had three nice grey-haired men as partners for most of the night. And it was so fun – no creepy old man vibes at all. Dancing Kyrgyz-style involves a lot of wrist flipping and feet kicking – imagine some sort of Bollywood/Riverdance hybrid. I was cracking up watching the crazy dancers – especially my host mom, who was spinning around the dance floor like one of those fairy godmothers from Cinderella. I kept waiting for her to sprout wings and start turning pumpkins into horse-drawn carriages.

At weddings, Kyrgyz people also give many, many toasts to the happy couple and their parents. The parents of the bride and groom went first – after their toast, they did this dance where they stand in a circle in the middle of the room and guests come up and stuff money in their shirts and pockets. Later, the parents give some of this money away to guests that they think are doing a particularly good job at dancing (I won 20 som, thankyouverymuch). I figured that since I barely knew the parents and had never met the bride or groom, I’d be excused from giving a toast. This, of course, was an erroneous assumption. When my table got up to give our group toast, I found myself being pushed toward the microphone. I decided to explain very quickly who I was (because, I mean, I clearly wasn’t just some random Kyrgyz person who showed up) and then give a short toast to the bride and groom. Unfortunately, I was cut off by the emcee before I could get to my actual toast. So, what the crowd of 300 heard from this random red-headed girl was:
“Hello, I am Teresa. I come from America. Today is a very happy day for me because it is my first Kyrgyz wedding. I congratulaaa---....”
Then the emcee grabbed the mike and launched into a short speech about how I had come all the way from America to teach their children and even learned how to sing Kyrgyz songs. I was mortified. And then, of course, various people came up to me to ‘speak English.’ At one point, the mother of the groom dragged me across the room to meet a guy who graduated from the English faculty at university two years ago. He turned out to be a really nice guy who spoke English fairly well. I’m sure we started some rumors about Teresa finally getting a Kyrgyz boyfriend. My host mom keeps asking me about him with things like, “Soooo, where was that boy from again? Does he work?” Sigh.

As dinner’s 7th course was finally served at 12:30 am, my host dad decided he’d had enough and that we should head home. As we drove through the dark valley home, I had this sense of belonging to this place – a feeling that doesn’t happen very often. I was the only American in a room full of partying Kyrgyz people and I had a fantastic time. If Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn ever decide to do “Wedding Crashers – Kyrgyzstan,” they should give me a call.