Kulan

Dear Reader,

The time had come to meet the family. Both families, that is. Day one would consist of meeting my mother in-laws family, and the second my father in-laws family. This kind of event usually has a fair amount of anticipation with it, especially if both people are from the same culture. I can’t say what everyone on the receiving end of meeting me were feeling, but I was feeling unusually calm for the whole experience. Perhaps because I knew I’d be with Asela, my translator and cultural interpreter, and maybe because I knew I’d be getting something like a free pass because I was a foreigner and spoke virtually no local language, so any cultural gaffes would (hopefully) come off and more memorable and entertaining then offensive and disrespectful.

That being said, as an outsider marring into a family, there’s always the slight concern that you might step on someones tail and cause some sort of problem. Common human respectfulness and graciousness are essential in any situation, but made sure to keep any Americanesque informalities relegated to myself.

Kulan is situated against the Kyrgyz Altau mountain range; a stunning mountain range that also serves as the border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.

This part of the world is provincial, rural, and seems far away from the hustle and bustle of Taraz, or any other part of the world for that matter.

After my usual “Do we have everything?” and her usual “Don’t worry!”, we departed for the staging area just outside Taraz where minivans, martrushkas, and private car operators waited for fares going in the same direction they were. After a quick negotiation, we piled into the back of a cramped minivan and I thought I might have a claustrophobic panic attack. We settled into a bumpy ride for the first 20% of the journey, and then reached a brand new American-style highway that went all the way to Almaty. The great thing about a nice road is that it’s much more comfortable and faster to get from point A to point B. The downside is that it also affords shitty drivers (which most Kazakh drivers are) all sorts of new and exciting ways to kill themselves and their fellow drivers.

I do not recommend getting in a four-wheeled vehicle in Central Asia, unless you don’t mind arriving at your destination in a body bag. Go by train. Please.

We we progressed towards the birth place of my wife, the mountains became closer and more and more brilliant. Not only did the mountains become more brilliant, but the entire steppe started to erupt and absolutely explode with huge swaths of land covered by the brightest of red poppies fields, punctuated with equally huge stretches of lavender and purple flower fields. That coupled with the mountains looming large, old, wise in the background makes for one of the most amazing sights I’ve ever seen; truly a photographers dream.

Mile after mile, we sped through the steppe and those vast expanses of color and flowers and the mountains seemed to surge ever upward, reaching until they disappeared into the wispy clouds thousands of feet above. I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.

I could not believe what it would be like to grow up with such natural beauty around you. Acually that’s not quite true; I DID grow up in a different kind of natural beauty in the Pacific Northwest, where sea, ocean, forest, and equally beautiful but very different mountain ranges are found in abundance.

Perhaps it was the fact that I’d never seen such fields of wildflowers or seen such mountains that seemed like they had been there since the beginning of the Earth itself, but it really made me stare in slack-jawed agog at the immensity and supreme beauty of this land. Right before my eyes the ignorant stereotypes of boring steppe land and bum-fuck nowheres-ville (as so popularly professed by some from back home) were shattered, just as these mountains had shattered the earth covering them up before they reached for the heavens, eons ago.

Just as soon as we had set out, we arrived. It was Victory Day; a national holiday of celebration of victory over the Nazi army in World War II. The main boulevard was packed with people, cars, children, families, farm animals off on the sides of the road, you name it, it was a big party.

But we weren’t there to party, at least, not with them. We marched out, everyone staring at me [I’ve gotten pretty used to it by now] and walked about five minutes to Aselas parents house.

Down a dusty road and through an open gate we approached the terrace where the entrance to the house was, and through a white, see-through curtain I could hear the sounds of cooking and family.

Then a squeal of delight as we approached and Asela called, “Mamma!”

All at once we were embraced, smothered, jumped upon, laughing and smiling, Aselas two sisters, with her mother and father as they came to greet us in what can only be described as a grand departure from typical Kazkah shyness. It was good to be in a real home again.

Asela had coached me in how to best greet her father, who seemed decidedly more traditional then his daughter. I was to greet him with the formal man-to-man greeting, “A salam moleko, Kokea,” which is English is, “Hello, Sir,”.

I’d never called a father in-law figure “Sir” before, as in the USA this indicates an rigid formality reserved only for the most traditional of families, or at least, indicates habits of a bygone era.

But of course, being in Kazakhstan is very much like being in a bygone era; the Brave New World of the USSR now serves as the current crumbling infrastructure that most citizens inhabit, where consumerism is only just becoming possible with current wages on the rise, where the used cars of Europe are sold on the cheap to former Soviet Republics, where second-hand is the norm and first-hand is the novelty.

In a way, being in Kazakhstan is like being in the past and peering into the rapidly changing future, all hurtling towards an outcome that has already been realized by some countries. Although, given its unique geographical location, perhaps the end of this ‘Stan’s story has not yet been written.

Before we set out to meet the family, we sat and drank tea, Asela acting as interpreter, bombarded with three languages at once (how she does it is beyond me). We were to go meet the family of my mother in-law.

Zaoreyesh is the fifth of six children and part of a large extended family (most of whom will attend our wedding), and we piled into the car, my camera snapping images as we went along to meet her parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, neighbors, and friends.

A short drive down the main strip and we arrived at her brothers house. At once the introductions began, “A salam maleko, Kokea,” for the older men. “Salam,” for the women. We were quickly ushered inside, shoes off and into a humble house, full of traditional looking items; family heirlooms, Kazakh horse whips, beautiful rugs hung on walls, pillows, curtains with intricate designs and so on.

The proximity to the mountains moderates Kulans temperature, and instead of the blazing heat that is typically expected in Southern Kazkhstan, we experienced moderately cool weather, with an intensely bright hoary-white sky, which made me squint and appear as if I was either A.) stoned or B.) in a state of constant “blink”, which the pictures of that day attest to:

(Honestly it's not blinking)

In direct opposition to the standoffish nature of Kazakh people who didn’t know who I was, I was smothered with familial affection here; people shaking my hand, hugging me, talking to me in Kazakh and Russian, and I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. All I said was, “Beautiful mountains, beautiful, good good, yes, thank you!”.

I was then introduced to Asela’s maternal grandparents, ancient but healthy and spry. Her grandfather seemed to be a deep and quiet man; one arm missing from the Second World War, he sat unfazed in a wheelchair, observing us all, taking in every moment with a serene and stoic composure.

After giving my best attempt of respect, we were ushered into what can only be described as “The Kids Table”, where myself, Asela, her sisters and cousins sat and ate, as it seemed the older folks had little space at the larger table in the official dining room.

Salads, breads, Russian pastries and kumiss was served. Forgetting that kumiss is slightly alcoholic, I tried to show my bravery by downing several bowls in quick succession, which only resulted in my nose making an involuntary spasm every time I swallowed and a sturdy buzz when I got up from the table.

The next course to come was a plate of sheep. When I say sheep, I mean sheep; this particular traditional recipe involves slaughtering a sheep and putting all (all) the bits of it into a huge pot and cooking it under an open fire.

I knew fat is very popular in many parts of Asia, and despite my adventurousness and ambitions to not offend any cultural sensibilities, I still to this day cannot break my American conditioning of avoiding gristle and fat on meat. But, it worked out just fine; they got what they like (fat) and I got what I like (meat).

We proceeded to walk around the property a bit, me squinting through the bright silver light at the mountains and Asela describing to me what everything was, stories behind the place, etc.

By the time we made our way back to the house, all the cousins were buzzing with excitement, beers in hand and cars at the ready.

“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Steppe!” Was the answer.

A cousins adventure.

We piled into two vehicles, music blaring, all the cousins, from tiny child to married and expecting children cousins, and started to drive South on a well-loved dirt road, towards those stunning geological features.

All at once my memories of similar experiences came washing over me; when trust was higher in the states, my cousins and I would go on these types of excursions. We were friends, but we were also family, which made it even a deeper bonding experience. I remember as a child, hiking into deep rock ravines, canoeing, fishing on Puget Sound, sailing...

And now, tearing through the steppe and crimson poppy fields, I felt deeply at home with these people, in such opposition to the push-back I felt when I’d arrived in Kazakhstan.

We drove until we reached a huge gouge in the land, a place where stone had been harvested in order to build the modern highway that brought us to Kulan in the first place, and proceeded to disembark.

At once, the kids tore down the rocky slope, taking great strides, racing to reach the other end first. All around us was the bright green of the steppe, those bright red poppies and the sound of nothing but air and the occasional bleat of a sheep off in the distance. It was a place of deep peace that I’d been looking for since leaving the states.

This was exactly what I was looking for, nature, calm, nice people, something that resembled a vacation rather then a survival show. For once, it started to feel like a vacation.

After romping around the steppe for a while, we made our way back to the family homestead and proceeded to head back to Aselas parents place, but not before making a pitstop at Aselas fathers relatives house. They weren’t there at the time, but we did meet the dirtiest puppy I’ve ever seen. The poor thing was tied up to a fence post by a small piece of rope, and I could tell it was dying for socialization and affection, but damn... he was so dirty! Who knows where he’d been, but by the looks of it, it looked like he’d been absolutely... EVERYWHERE.

In the end I broke down and gave him some really aggressive, intense, crazy-time-style dog pets and he seemed to love that, almost as much as I loved the feeling of washing my hands afterwards.

Family is more important in Kazakhstan then in other parts of the developed world. The relationship to family and community is much more developed then in the non-community oriented reality of the USA. Time spent with family, talking, playing cards, drinking tea, snacking is time well spent here, and to be honest, much more akin to what human evolutionary biology programmed us to do.

And that was how the rest of the evening was spent, light dinner of soup, pastries, nuts, dried fruit and I also got to show off my Durak skills. Durak is a popular Russian card game that Asela is notorious for being supremely excellent at. When I was learning it, it got to the point that a conversation regarding Durak might go something like this:

Eric: Do you want to play Durak?
Asela: Oh, Eric... why you want to lose again??

Or something like this:
Eric: Let’s play Durak!
Asela: ... You get so grumpy when you lose, maybe we can play next time?

This round, however, I held my ground of survived, losing only one round (a big success in my own eyes, if I do say so myself).

Asela had warned me that people in this part of the world were likely to try and cheat as much as possible; fair play means doing whatever it takes to survive here, and cheating simply as a strategy is completely acceptable (this is also true in schools here; all the students in my English class are the biggest bunch of cheaters I’ve ever encountered! And a lot of the most accomplished cheaters are usually under 10).

Nauri [sister of Asela] and Zayresh [mother] teamed up as a tean, Zayresh being a very competent Durak player.

“Mom, why are you cheating? Don’t cheat!” Exclaimed Nauri at one point during the game. The whole table erupted with laughter at catching her redhanded, and even she cracked a smile.

Smiling, she replied, “I will."

Even I tried my luck and fooling Asela by playing a card which was not allowed to be played, but no one caught it and I proceeded to not lose. “When in Kazakhstan...”


Kulan, Day 2

“We’re going to the mountains today,” were the words I first heard from Asela when I woke up to the sound of a cuckoo bird and a brisk, sunny morning.
“My father is about to slaughter a sheep, I think. You should check it out.” This was an event I didn’t want to miss.

I’d grown up with animals slaughters, and in my life as an adult in Seattle, I’d also had the opportunity to raise and slaughter my own meat for consumption. But it had been limited to poultry of various species (chickens, various duck breeds, turkeys) and more recently, rabbits.

Never had a participated in the slaughter of a large animal. I was curious though, and if Kazakhstan had one great thing going for it, it was that the food was a lot more local, and a lot better tended then the massive food-machine that ran/runs North America.

I leaped out of bed and grabbed my camera, eager to try out it’s filming capabilities.

What follows is a the process of slaughtering a sheep, from beginning to end:
(A word to the queasy; very graphic. This video also has all the video taken the day of the mountain picnic.)



I was struck by the compassion and tenderness that came with the dirty deed of killing this animal; in my experience, I never actually liked taking a life. But I eat meat and I enjoy it, so it only seems right that one should be able to raise, kill and eat the food that you’re providing for your family.

There’s a calmness to Murat’s face as he goes through these motions, motions that no doubt he has performed countless times before in his life. If I was a sheep born for food, I’d want to go out of this life early in the morning, quickly and easily, lying down on the grass in a quiet sunbeam-strewn yard.

And it is pretty interesting, to see an animal go from kicking and struggling, and then in a matter of hours later, see the same animal broken down into it’s component parts. And what’s even more interesting, is that every single edible part of the animal is used and eaten; such a departure from American treatment of meat.

As the cool morning waned and the heat of the day started to come through with the rising sun, more family members and friends started to arrive and immediately start helping with the processing and preparation of the sheep.

We were to take several vehicles, deep into the valleys of those grand mountains to the South and have a picnic. But it was to be like no picnic that I’d ever been to...

This was turning into a real production; cars being loaded up, not with easily disposable plates but full sets of china, silverware, cloth napkins, blankets, cases of beer, vodka, pots, pans, and incredible wood-fired hot water maker, one of those massive pots used for cooking a whole sheep, a shashliek maker (large, heavy metal thing to make kebab like things), gallons of water, a bunch of whole, roast chickens, breads, pastries, snacks, candies, and so on... it was shaping up to be quite an incredible picnic.

About midday, the troops were rounded up and the whole caravan started to make way down the main road of Kulan and east towards a dirt road that would lead us into the valleys of the mountains.

We passed a large number of honey sellers by the side of the road, their jars and buckets of honey nicely arranged on shelves, and since the main road heads due east, the late morning sunlight created a splendid display of golden-yellow hues that made my mouth water.

Onward we pressed, climbing steadily up through those vivid poppy fields and moving deeper into the bright green foothills of those ancient landscapes. At points the road seemed to become less of a road and more of a 4X4s dream challenge, but, with great skill and concentration, the drivers managed to bring us to a completely beautiful spot next to a river, nestled in one of those lovely valleys.

This was the most beautiful place I’d been in Kazakhstan; green hills, a group of horses across the river, wild flowers everywhere and the beautiful snowcapped mountains standing guard in the distance, and although our proximity to the snow made the air crisp, the sun continued to beamed down on us. It felt and looked like absolute heaven, and after being in Taraz, this place was like a draft of cold water in a hot desert.

As soon as we arrived, the family started unpacking everything and setting up the most amazing spread of food and drink I’ve ever seen outside a restaurant situation, while I (most unhelpfully) ran around snapping photos of the whole thing.

[these skewering pictures are much out of order, but hey; no one ever said blogger was an elegant solution]

After the fires were started and sheep set to cooking, we sat for our first course. It was all so amazing and overwhelmingly beautiful, I had to stop everyone and make a toast. Asela translated into Russak/Kazssian, and if I remember correctly, it went something like this:

“First I’d like to thank everyone who put effort into making this food, and preparing this amazing meal: I’ve never done anything like this in my life, and this is truly the best thing I’ve experienced since being in Kazakhstan. I also want to express my appreciation to this family, for accepting me and making me feel so welcome; moving to a new country is sometimes a difficult experience, but you should all know, that you make it so easy. I feel like I have known all of you for much longer then we actually have, and I hope that we continue to get to know each other for many years to come. Thank you so much!”

Then there was drinking, smiling, laughing, and eating-oh my god, eating... I'm still full. The food kept coming, the courses kept coming, and by the end of the day, I’d never felt so full in my entire life.

As the sheep was set to cooking, the shashliek was also started, and I’ll tell you, there’s nothing like the smell of a good, marinated shashliek to get you hungry. I was also given a lesson in how to properly skewer the pieces of meat and fat. After a few attempts, it seemed as if I started to get it

“Mmm. Mm, yes, yes...” My tutor nodded in approval. After I showed him my finished kebab he nodded, and proceeded to take off all the meat and do it again for me, saying, "No no! Not like that at all!" (all in Kazakh of course, not English).

We set to taking a hike and exploring the surrounding hills, all the young people and myself while the adults talked amongst themselves and monitored the progress of the various meats.
It was great to see Asela interacting with her family, and it was great to see how everyone trusted each other. Trust seems to be a big issue in Kazakhstan, mainly because in order to survive you can’t really trust anyone you don’t know, so this was a welcome change for me to see.

We decided to set off across the river and explore the hillside that the family of horses occupied. Upward we climbed, some of the children opting to stop halfway up as it got quite steep. From that vantage point we could see far and wide, probably all the way to Kyrgyzstan. It was later explained to me that the road we were on does indeed go all the way to Kyrgyzstan and that Asela’s grandfather used to travel it on horseback.

When we finally descended, the sheep, shashliek and main courses were ready. I’d eaten so much meat since arriving in Kazakhstan, I thought most of my diet to that point had been animal products, but it was all so different then in the states; these sheep, horses, cows, chickens were mainly raised by local farmers and sold in markets in the region where they were slaughtered. The sheep are allowed to roam the steppe and taste very similar in quality to the Icelandic sheep I tried in Reykjavik. For once, a diet of meat didn’t make me feel like shit!

It’s a tradition in Kazakhstan that an older member of the family give the various parts of the sheep head to other family members, which in turn endow them with the powers of the sheep (or at least, endow them with traditional knowledge and respect). I was given an eye and part of the brain. Since I had experience with eating all sorts of sheep parts in Iceland, brain was not too much of a problem for me, and it had the texture of warm oyster, but with less sea-flavor.

Afterwards I joined the men in drinking vodka and beer, laughing and having a great time. At first they were a little shy to let someone younger into their group, but I was determined to make a good impression, and to make some new friends. What fun.

Since I’ve always been around water, I consider myself to be a water person. When I was a child, I could be found in the water for long periods of time, and was extremely reluctant to leave it once I was in it. And since there was a river next to us, and since some of the guys wanted to take a swim, I decided it would be fun to join them. I can’t imagine peoples reaction seeing me run down to the edge of the water, clothes coming off down to underwear before taking a plunge in, pasty white foreigner and all. Again, what fun.

By the time I was out of the water, the last course was being served; a lovely soup course with potatoes, herbs, and parts of the sheep that was slaughtered just that morning. I was so completely stuffed.

The end of the day brought lovely golden light to the hillsides, making beautiful shadows spread across the land. The last movement of Beethoven’s 6th Symphony came to mind as we started to pack up the picnic materials, and soon enough, made our way back to the vehicles to get back on the road to home.

Looking back on that experience, I’ve never felt so at home and simultaneously been so far from home. I hope we will go there again soon.

That evening, after all the stimulus, was very quiet and calm. Kulan had started to grow on me in a big way; the slow pace of life, the small community, the friendliness of the people, and proximity to farming and nature.
The next day, we were due to head back to Taraz and get ready for the daily grind that was ahead of us. We gave Naurai a pair of rollerblades (rollers, in Russian) and she proceeded to practice with them all day. I regretted not being able to speak better Russian or Kazakh, as my English teaching schedule had me talking and thinking in English all the time and allowed little time to think in other languages.

And as departure times are ought to do, we left the family house in Kulan and found a shared car to take us back to Taraz.

What happened next was the craziest, scariest car ride I’ve ever been in.

Let me tell you about one of my favorite things to talk about, which is my opinions on life and the nature of the universe: I think that, because Kazakhstan is a so called developing nation, the cultural mentalities towards modern transport still lean towards modes of travel that are inherently slower the that of the modern car. In other words, most drivers think of their car as very fast a horse, and that it’s okay to operate this “horse” like a real horse; with little regard for those around you, because, in the worst case scenario, what happens if you “crash” your horse at a full tilt gallop? You might fly off, you might get kind of hurt, but in you’re in good enough health to ride a horse at a full tilt gallop, you’re probably in good enough health to stand back up and get back on that horse again.

However, a horse doesn’t run at 160kph. Nor does a horse weigh around 1 metric ton. Nor is a horse made of metal. And a horse doesn’t run on a road of concrete and asphalt.

The shittiest driver in the United States could be the head of the non-existent “Ministry of Vehicle Operation Education” of the Kazakh government, and would do incredibly well at that post, no doubt being revered as a safety Goddess.

As much as I want to say only good things on this blog, as a journalist, I am bound by a strict code of ethics that obeys only the truth, and I have to tell you, Gentle Reader, that the people operating gas powered vehicles here are the worst drivers in the universe. I defy you, I really, actually, truly defy you to find more horrible drivers anywhere on this big Earth other then here in Kazakhstan.

Our driver insisted on meddling with speeds that he couldn’t possibly understand, with physics that no driver here could ever understand and along the way back to Taraz on that modern, American-esque highway, we saw numerous other drivers who had challenged physics with their fast horse which only ended in collisions, homemade wrecks, car-vs-divider scenarios, and even a brand new looking SUV with one wheel missing. Even me, at this point in my life with a couple accidents under my belt (I’m not saying I’m the Jesus of Driving, okay??), even I could swear off driving for the rest of my life after seeing the kind of vehicular mayhem I see on a daily basis in Taraz.

Okay, okay, maybe I’m being a bit too harsh. I’m sure there’s a good driver other then my father in law, some where in Kazakhstan... most likely in a literary work of fiction or a pirated American DVD. What is it about the 3rd world and cars that equal complete havoc and lawlessness?

“Tell him to slow the fuck down or I’m not paying him!” I told Asela. “Tell him I want to arrive to Taraz in this vehicle, not a body-bag!” (Sometimes it’s better that she doesn’t translate everything I say). But in this case, I truly wished she would have; the speeds with which this guy was lackadaisically playing with the death of all of us would amount to instant eternal rest if he made one wrong move, which he did, and that luckily prompted him to slow down. About 10 kph.

Dear Reader, I implore you, never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever EVER get in a gas powered vehicle in Kazakhstan. (Unless of course, toying with death is your thing.) After that ride, train travel is the only way I’ll go anywhere from now on in this country. Amazingly, we arrived back at our house unscathed, apart from my delicate psyche.

The picnic in the mountains illustrates this amazing bond Kazakh people have with family and friends, how they care and how they create community. For a people that are so scarred by the past and so mistrusting of the future, they really know how to have a good party.