Sunday, 3 August 2003
You can go anywhere in the world and get drunk, and the following day’s hangover is always the same. So it is that I spent most of today, actually all of today, recovering from one of the more popular pastimes here in Kyrgyzstan … getting piss drunk. Last night started out innocently enough with me preparing one of my favorite western dishes for my family … fajitas. Mama always does the cooking in the house, usually with a little prep help from the brothers, so I thought it would be nice gesture to take the task off her hands for the evening and let her relax. I probably fractured some major local custom by doing so, but Aza assured me that it was a nice gesture. After spending an hour in the Beta Store (local large grocery chain) and walking down every aisle three or four times, I managed to find a few of the ingredients necessary for my feast. Meat, of some sort, cheese, red and green peppers, onions and tomatoes rounded out the menu. Of course, I failed to find most of the major components, such as tortillas, avocados and sour cream, though I did find a few jars of hot and mild salsa. A funny thing happened when I order the meat as well, as I had to order 3 kilograms of meat, which amounts to about 6.6 pounds. The lady looked at me funny and probably suspected that I had either miscalculated the conversion or mispronounced my Russian “three”. I assured her that I indeed needed 3kg, and after receiving my payload, I too began to doubt my calculations. As it turned out, I had just the right amount of meat for seven hearty Kyrgyz eaters.
The food came out fine, though the presentation was far inferior to what I had anticipated. What started out as fajitas turned into a beef stew with salsa. Of course, with no benchmark to compare the dinner to, the family ranted and raved about the meal. For all I know, it was the kind of praise that is usually followed by spitting the mouthful into a napkin. If nothing else, I introduced this family to salsa, which none had ever had before. Granted, it was jarred salsa, but salsa nonetheless. They did seem genuinely happy, however, and mama even asked for the recipe. How do you say “bring to simmer and saut?” in Russian?
During dinner, the bottle of vodka was tapped and so began my night of nefarious intoxication. The Kyrgyz love to drink their vodka, and one of the traditions here is to make toasts and drink during dinners. During family dinners, fathers and brothers who are married (as a 31 year old, I am categorized as the “older brother”) are usually the only ones to drink, but when with friends, everyone partakes. If there are 8 people at dinner, it usually follows that you will most likely have at least 8 shots of vodka as each person usually gives a toast. And these toasts are in no way short on fervent, and some can even last up to five minutes. I learned during one of my first dinners here not to hold up my glass as a toast is being made, not because of a cultural gaffe, but because I found myself in need of switching hands in the middle of the toast due to a tiring and trembling arm. The toasts usually will be to life, love, happiness, peace, the weather, praise that the car started, or whatever they can think of. As the nights go on and the drinks continue to flow, the toasts get longer, louder and inevitably wilder. We were told from the onset of our assignment that if we do not drink, it is important to immediately set the tone by telling our families or dining partners that we are allergic to alcohol or are on medication. Telling them we are sick or have a brain tumor usually will not do the trick, as the Kyrgyz believe that a few strong vodka shots will heal anything.
Papa gave a couple of toasts last night and included “delicious dinner” in one of them, so to me, that is quite the compliment. In fact, all of the toasts were quite flattering, and the fact that I understood about 10% of what he was saying was quite encouraging as well. The meat and bread helped to soak up the four shots we had at dinner, but nothing helped with the two bottles we went through that evening at the pub and the dance club. We danced, drank and danced some more, and in the end, the evening turned out pretty nice. Luckily, we were drinking a Central Asian brand of vodka that boasts “No Hangover” on the bottle’s label. To be honest, what I felt this morning was not so much a hangover as just sheer exhaustion. Indeed, I woke up at 1pm, fell back to sleep at 2pm, and spent the remainder of the day reading and playing chess with Oormat. No, I’m not saying who won.
I’ll end this note by saying that we have had some extraordinary weather here recently. The first week was quite scorching, hovering in the mid 30’s C (90’s F) and painfully humid. Almost everyone in Bishkek wears pants and some kind of collared shirt, regardless of how hot it is, and though I have really tried to fit in, I broke out the shorts during this first week. About two weeks ago, however, the weather broke and we have had nothing short of beautiful weather, in the mid 20’s C (70’s F) during the day and around 15 C (60-65 F) in the evenings. When we met with our country director, we were assured that come January we would be cursing the cold and wishing for hot summer days again.
This evening’s weather was no different, and as I was walking back from the internet caf? I frequent, the setting sun cast a pink and gray illumination through the clouds. Streaky gray clouds that hinted at rain were far in the distance, and the white-capped peaks of the Tian Shan Mountains could be seen majestically hovering above the low-lying glowing clouds. A cool refreshing breeze blew and the usually stuffy air seemed cleaner at that second. I stood in front of Victory Square and watched the droves of people who had gathered and were taking in the wonderful weather while sitting outside and talking politics, relaxing and smoking American cigarettes. The whole scene made me think … damn, life is good.
You can go anywhere in the world and get drunk, and the following day’s hangover is always the same. So it is that I spent most of today, actually all of today, recovering from one of the more popular pastimes here in Kyrgyzstan … getting piss drunk. Last night started out innocently enough with me preparing one of my favorite western dishes for my family … fajitas. Mama always does the cooking in the house, usually with a little prep help from the brothers, so I thought it would be nice gesture to take the task off her hands for the evening and let her relax. I probably fractured some major local custom by doing so, but Aza assured me that it was a nice gesture. After spending an hour in the Beta Store (local large grocery chain) and walking down every aisle three or four times, I managed to find a few of the ingredients necessary for my feast. Meat, of some sort, cheese, red and green peppers, onions and tomatoes rounded out the menu. Of course, I failed to find most of the major components, such as tortillas, avocados and sour cream, though I did find a few jars of hot and mild salsa. A funny thing happened when I order the meat as well, as I had to order 3 kilograms of meat, which amounts to about 6.6 pounds. The lady looked at me funny and probably suspected that I had either miscalculated the conversion or mispronounced my Russian “three”. I assured her that I indeed needed 3kg, and after receiving my payload, I too began to doubt my calculations. As it turned out, I had just the right amount of meat for seven hearty Kyrgyz eaters.
The food came out fine, though the presentation was far inferior to what I had anticipated. What started out as fajitas turned into a beef stew with salsa. Of course, with no benchmark to compare the dinner to, the family ranted and raved about the meal. For all I know, it was the kind of praise that is usually followed by spitting the mouthful into a napkin. If nothing else, I introduced this family to salsa, which none had ever had before. Granted, it was jarred salsa, but salsa nonetheless. They did seem genuinely happy, however, and mama even asked for the recipe. How do you say “bring to simmer and saut?” in Russian?
During dinner, the bottle of vodka was tapped and so began my night of nefarious intoxication. The Kyrgyz love to drink their vodka, and one of the traditions here is to make toasts and drink during dinners. During family dinners, fathers and brothers who are married (as a 31 year old, I am categorized as the “older brother”) are usually the only ones to drink, but when with friends, everyone partakes. If there are 8 people at dinner, it usually follows that you will most likely have at least 8 shots of vodka as each person usually gives a toast. And these toasts are in no way short on fervent, and some can even last up to five minutes. I learned during one of my first dinners here not to hold up my glass as a toast is being made, not because of a cultural gaffe, but because I found myself in need of switching hands in the middle of the toast due to a tiring and trembling arm. The toasts usually will be to life, love, happiness, peace, the weather, praise that the car started, or whatever they can think of. As the nights go on and the drinks continue to flow, the toasts get longer, louder and inevitably wilder. We were told from the onset of our assignment that if we do not drink, it is important to immediately set the tone by telling our families or dining partners that we are allergic to alcohol or are on medication. Telling them we are sick or have a brain tumor usually will not do the trick, as the Kyrgyz believe that a few strong vodka shots will heal anything.
Papa gave a couple of toasts last night and included “delicious dinner” in one of them, so to me, that is quite the compliment. In fact, all of the toasts were quite flattering, and the fact that I understood about 10% of what he was saying was quite encouraging as well. The meat and bread helped to soak up the four shots we had at dinner, but nothing helped with the two bottles we went through that evening at the pub and the dance club. We danced, drank and danced some more, and in the end, the evening turned out pretty nice. Luckily, we were drinking a Central Asian brand of vodka that boasts “No Hangover” on the bottle’s label. To be honest, what I felt this morning was not so much a hangover as just sheer exhaustion. Indeed, I woke up at 1pm, fell back to sleep at 2pm, and spent the remainder of the day reading and playing chess with Oormat. No, I’m not saying who won.
I’ll end this note by saying that we have had some extraordinary weather here recently. The first week was quite scorching, hovering in the mid 30’s C (90’s F) and painfully humid. Almost everyone in Bishkek wears pants and some kind of collared shirt, regardless of how hot it is, and though I have really tried to fit in, I broke out the shorts during this first week. About two weeks ago, however, the weather broke and we have had nothing short of beautiful weather, in the mid 20’s C (70’s F) during the day and around 15 C (60-65 F) in the evenings. When we met with our country director, we were assured that come January we would be cursing the cold and wishing for hot summer days again.
This evening’s weather was no different, and as I was walking back from the internet caf? I frequent, the setting sun cast a pink and gray illumination through the clouds. Streaky gray clouds that hinted at rain were far in the distance, and the white-capped peaks of the Tian Shan Mountains could be seen majestically hovering above the low-lying glowing clouds. A cool refreshing breeze blew and the usually stuffy air seemed cleaner at that second. I stood in front of Victory Square and watched the droves of people who had gathered and were taking in the wonderful weather while sitting outside and talking politics, relaxing and smoking American cigarettes. The whole scene made me think … damn, life is good.
