Carrie goes to the village

Corryn and I got the unfortunate news this year that his dad has stage four cancer. It came as a great surprise, especially after recently having watched him dance enthusiastically for hours at our wedding reception. We made the difficult but necessary decision to have Corryn go home during our near month-long break. This left me in a position of being by myself over the holidays, which I don’t necessarily recommend; on the other hand, it was one I won’t forget and makes me more grateful for the holidays I do get to spend my family and friends.

Most of the Kazakh staff stayed in Atyrau during the break, some of whom even had to continue working. My coworker Sholpan and I got together a number of times and she was kind enough to invite me to her aunt’s village. We met up with her parents on December 23 in the muddy parking lot of the largest market in Atyrau and hired a taxi to take the four of us to Mohambet, a village 60 kilometers north of Atyrau.

Speed, rather than safety, seems to be on the forefront of most driver’s minds here, once they exit the city limits. The driver we’d hired was no different. What made the situation even worse was the fact that it had started raining and the temperature bordered on freezing. In spite of this, the driver passed everything in his way and accelerated to high speeds on the straight aways. After a while, I found the back of his seat more comforting to look at and made conversation with Sholpan. We talked about the services available in the village-- the small hospital, the schools. I asked her about a fire department. They come from Atyrau, she explained. But that’s 45 minutes drive, I thought to myself. “So if your house is burning down, no one will be there to help for at least 45 minutes?” I asked her. “No,” she calmly responded. And so I was going to the village.

When we arrived, I was greeted warmly by her aunt and uncle. I learned that while most Kazakhs in Atyrau speak both Russian and Kazakh, that is not the case in the village. Most villagers, at least older ones, speak only Kazakh. The little Russian that I had learned wasn’t going to do much good in my current situation. Nonetheless, the feelings of kindness and love and happiness I got from Sholpan’s relatives didn’t need translation.

The evening started and ended with food. There was a large spread when we arrived-- chicken Pavlov, bowls of canned foods like June berries in sauce and pickles, grated carrots in vinegar, sliced salami, tomato relishes, candies, and pastries with pumpkin inside. Sholpan’s aunt poured shots of sweet red wine for the ladies only but Sholpan refrained a bit, since her dad would disapprove if she indulged. Endless amounts of “shy” (tea), as it’s said in Kazakh, was also served. It’s lovely black tea with milk and sugar and I didn’t object as cup after cup was poured.

Everything was served family style-- there were little bowls of each dish. There weren’t any serving spoons and no one had plates to put food onto anyway, so I was initially perplexed as to how the whole eating logistics were going to proceed. I quickly noticed that each little bowl was to be thought of as everyone’s little bowl. They scooped up, put the bite into their mouths, and then scooped out of another shared bowl-- it was essentially acceptable double dipping. I didn’t care all that much, having had several unusual eating experiences in foreign countries. What perplexed me, though, was how it contradicted the care and concern that is put towards making sure no one catches the flu or a common cold. If there is a draft from an open window or air conditioner, there is great uproar. If the temperature dips below 40 degrees, children and often adults alike adorn snow pants, fur jackets, and other ridiculous amounts of winter gear. But who was I to try to explain that sharing saliva juices may spread illness?

Just as I took my last bite of pumpkin pastry and sipped the last bit of tea and that would fit in my belly, it was announced that the bishbarmick was almost ready. Bishbarmick is the most famous dish in Kazakhstan and it translates to “five finger food.” It’s a dish of wide flat noodles, potatoes, onions, and slow-cooked meat (horse or beef). I must’ve looked like I’d seen a ghost at that point, as I hadn’t been properly warned to save a little room in my stomach for a second course.

Luckily, the courses were broken up by a visit to the sauna, in a separate brick building behind the house, next to the guard dog. It was gas heated, a luxury that is fairly new to village life, but Sholpan’s cousin manages a gas installing operation, so they had connections. In the wonderfully hot room, we used willow-type branches to whack each other, a Russian style spa treatment. Most villages have a common sauna, but Sholpan’s aunt’s family was lucky to have one on their property. With no running water in the house, it’s the answer to a shower. An indoor toilet and readily available water pouring out of the tap is something I so often take for granted. Sholpan explained that most villages do not have those kinds of services and people must haul their own water every day into the house and do their business on a squat toilet.

Back in the house and you guessed it-- the Bishbarmick was ready for us to dive into. Before we could start on the large platter, we were each given a beef bone to finish cleaning off and I, being the token foreigner, got the largest bone they had. I’m one of those people who makes a concerted effort to stay from bones-- I generally buy boneless chicken breasts or pre-cut beef. I’d like to think that the animal I’m consuming never really had bones or joints or tendons, etc., but faced with the large bone that could very well have been a knee or other significant joint, I had no choice but to force a smile and start ripping off what was left of whatever part it was.

And then onto the platter it was. It was a really wonderful cultural experience and the dish was tasty-- the meat tender, the potatoes soft and the noodles creamy with butter. Just a few minutes into the meal, I chose to basically ruin the culinary experience by fixating on the sights and sounds of fingers squishing into the food. In my mind, even though most of the fat was cut off the meat, each white flat noodle and white cube of potato was instead a hunk of fat. I don’t know why I had to get that vision into my head (I blame it on being traumatized from the large bone), but it made getting through what should’ve been a delicious meal difficult.

After a restful sleep, the following day brought more food, tea, another wonderful sauna, a rainy walk along the Ural River, and a couple of family photos. The day was dreary and muddy but inside, the family was watching t.v. sitcoms, sharing gossip and teasing each other, just as so many families do. I felt a certain comfort in this.

Snow-vy M’go-dum to you all! (that’s the phonetic pronunciation as I hear it and have been saying it for “Happy New Year” in Russian).