I Peed On My Shoes, and Other Tales from the Village
In December, my friend Mukhtar invited me to visit the village where he grew up, about two hours outside of Almaty. I'd been talking to him about wanting to experience some Kazakh culture, including some of the traditional sports such as kokpar (kind of like rugby, except the game is played on horseback and they use a decapitated goat or sheep instead of a ball). He's a big promoter of the culture, and he and his family only speak Kazakh at home and do whatever they can to follow tradition. He promised to organize a kokpar game for me in the village and show me some authentic culture, so I gladly accepted the invitation.
He picked me up from my hotel on a Saturday afternoon, and we headed first to the Central Museum in Almaty for a tour. We then drove to the outskirts of Almaty, to his wife's parents’ house, where they are currently staying. There I met his daughter Aisha, his wife Gulnaz ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?"), and her mother ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?"), and I was quickly led to a table full of home-cooked, traditional Kazakh food including kordak (sheep parts and potato), boursak (deep-fried rolls--very yummy), and several salads, including one made from sheep's stomach (very chewy; I don't recommend it). They kept piling the food on my plate, and we ate and talked for an hour or so, until I was more than stuffed. Unfortunately, Gulnaz’s brothers and father were not home; they are all accomplished musicians and play traditional Kazakh instruments, and would have put on a good show (I was honored to hear that one of her brothers stayed up all night reading his English books so he could speak with me when I arrived, only to end up having to work that afternoon).
After "lunch", we piled into the car for the two-hour drive to Mukhtar’s childhood home in the village, where his parents still live. We traveled in the dark, so I was unable to see much of the village on the way in, but I could tell it was off the beaten path. The village house was fairly large, with one central room that was heated by a coal-fueled stove in the corner (also used for cooking). There were two bedrooms, a living room, and sort of a kitchen/porch all connected to the central room. The place was very clean and well kept, and it seemed incongruous that they had two televisions, a DVD player, etc. but no indoor plumbing whatsoever (Mukhtar later told me that growing up, they took baths outside in the summer, and went to the village banya (sauna) once a week or so in the winter). The source of water for the household was a spigot on the ground near the barn outside.
Mukhtar’s parents were away at an anniversary party for their friends, but his mom and sister ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?") had prepared another massive table full of food, almost identical to the one I had left just two hours ago in Almaty. This time, they had bishbarmak (sheep parts and noodles) from a freshly slaughtered sheep instead of kordak; fortunately, the sheep's head was nowhere in sight. We again sat and talked and ate for a long time, and of course to my frustration they would never let my plate get empty (it's a way of showing hospitality to serve your guests more than they could possibly eat; Mukhtar and his family sat back and relaxed and ate normal portions, the cheaters). I again stuffed myself on mystery sheep parts, boursak, and salads. The drink was challenging --it was simply the broth from the cooked sheep, not exactly a refreshing palate cleanser after mystery sheep parts.
I finally convinced them that I couldn't eat any more, and Mukhtar invited me to sit by the stove and look at pictures on his laptop computer (which also seemed out of place here) while his wife and sister cleaned up the table (my offers to help were forcefully rejected-- "after a meal, men are like furniture" they said). We also played with his daughter and his sister's daughter. With two little kids in the house, I expected the place to be filled with toys and kids stuff, but they had only one or two toys and a couple of books. Yet the kids seemed very content and happy.
About an hour later, they invited us back in for dessert. It looked like they had barely cleared the table--many of the same things were still there, and they added some cookies and other sweets, and a big pot of tea. So we sat and ate and drank and enjoyed. There was less pressure to eat during this round, but the tea was refilled nonstop.
We again had our fill, and got up from the table. Mukhtar asked me if I "needed to go outside", which I correctly understood as his offer to show me the outhouse. I definitely needed to go outside at this point, after all that tea and sheep broth. He showed me the outhouse around the back of the house, and then went back inside. I knew I would be using an outhouse in the village, and it's really not a big deal to me--it's not too different than camping. The problem here was that it was pitch black, and I had no idea what I was peeing into. Is it just a hole in the ground? Did they build some kind of bench or seat? I couldn't tell, and I wasn't about to feel around. I finally decided to just pee into the void. It didn't sound like it was going into a hole, but I wasn't sure. The whole time, I was worrying that some family member would come in the morning light (or come later tonight and turn on a light I didn't know about) and see that I had peed all over their nice bench, and this village would be talking for the next 20 years about the American who came and befouled their outhouse.
After finishing, I returned to the front of the house, and in the porch light I notice that I had splattered pee all over my black leather shoes (it must have deflected off something). Unfortunately, I could do nothing about it, because at that very moment Mukhtar’s parents arrived at the gate, and I had to meet them, etc. ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?") We then all went in the house together. I left the pee on my shoes. We visited for a while, and I was offered more desserts that they brought home from their party. Everyone also got ready for bed, and I was graciously given my own room (the couch in the living room-- cold, but they gave me lots of blankets). I slept well, but thanks to the cruel trick of serving me 18 or so cups of tea before I went to bed, I had to repeat my outhouse experience in the middle of the night.
In the morning, I was finally able to look at the village in the daylight, and I could see the beautiful mountains nearby. Mukhtar and I went for a walk around the village, and he showed me their barn and their animals. The day before, he told me that he hadn't been able to organize the kokpar for this weekend, but there would be a big tournament next weekend. He did show me, though, which sheep he felt would make a good kokpar “ball”. Oh, and I made a stop in the outhouse again: no bench, but a very small, diamond-shaped hole on the ground (I think I mostly hit the floor or the back wall the night before; no harm done).
We rejoined the family for breakfast, which was basically everything we didn't finish the night before, with the welcome addition of some kefir, a creamy, yogurt-like drink, "fresh from yesterday's milk," they told me. Mukhtar wanted to show me some things on our way back to Almaty (I had a 4 p.m. flight), so I said my goodbyes and thank you’s to the family. His father came home just as we were leaving, having just returned from the Sunday market as the proud owner of three new horses. He promised to find me a wife in the village if I'd just stay another day or two.
I didn't get to see kokpar, and I narrowly missed a traditional Kazakh wedding, but I had a great cultural experience, and the trip was important to my understanding of the country. Many of the people I meet in Astana and Almaty, including those in professional circles, grew up in villages and regularly return to them to see their families. It was also refreshing to experience the renowned Kazakh hospitality; in Astana, I often question where this reputation comes from, particularly after a few minutes in traffic.
Over the years I've slowly gotten better at handling the stress and awkwardness of being a guest in a different culture. It still takes a concerted effort to humble myself and stop focusing on my own needs (How should I act? What should I do when they don't want me to help with anything? Will I be able to eat what they are serving me? What will the bathroom be like? Will I live through the night without having brushed my teeth?), and simply live in the moment, relaxing in the company of people who find great joy in having a guest. It is the difference between viewing the experience as something to survive or something to enjoy.
You can see photographs on my photo site (see previous posts for link).
He picked me up from my hotel on a Saturday afternoon, and we headed first to the Central Museum in Almaty for a tour. We then drove to the outskirts of Almaty, to his wife's parents’ house, where they are currently staying. There I met his daughter Aisha, his wife Gulnaz ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?"), and her mother ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?"), and I was quickly led to a table full of home-cooked, traditional Kazakh food including kordak (sheep parts and potato), boursak (deep-fried rolls--very yummy), and several salads, including one made from sheep's stomach (very chewy; I don't recommend it). They kept piling the food on my plate, and we ate and talked for an hour or so, until I was more than stuffed. Unfortunately, Gulnaz’s brothers and father were not home; they are all accomplished musicians and play traditional Kazakh instruments, and would have put on a good show (I was honored to hear that one of her brothers stayed up all night reading his English books so he could speak with me when I arrived, only to end up having to work that afternoon).
After "lunch", we piled into the car for the two-hour drive to Mukhtar’s childhood home in the village, where his parents still live. We traveled in the dark, so I was unable to see much of the village on the way in, but I could tell it was off the beaten path. The village house was fairly large, with one central room that was heated by a coal-fueled stove in the corner (also used for cooking). There were two bedrooms, a living room, and sort of a kitchen/porch all connected to the central room. The place was very clean and well kept, and it seemed incongruous that they had two televisions, a DVD player, etc. but no indoor plumbing whatsoever (Mukhtar later told me that growing up, they took baths outside in the summer, and went to the village banya (sauna) once a week or so in the winter). The source of water for the household was a spigot on the ground near the barn outside.
Mukhtar’s parents were away at an anniversary party for their friends, but his mom and sister ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?") had prepared another massive table full of food, almost identical to the one I had left just two hours ago in Almaty. This time, they had bishbarmak (sheep parts and noodles) from a freshly slaughtered sheep instead of kordak; fortunately, the sheep's head was nowhere in sight. We again sat and talked and ate for a long time, and of course to my frustration they would never let my plate get empty (it's a way of showing hospitality to serve your guests more than they could possibly eat; Mukhtar and his family sat back and relaxed and ate normal portions, the cheaters). I again stuffed myself on mystery sheep parts, boursak, and salads. The drink was challenging --it was simply the broth from the cooked sheep, not exactly a refreshing palate cleanser after mystery sheep parts.
I finally convinced them that I couldn't eat any more, and Mukhtar invited me to sit by the stove and look at pictures on his laptop computer (which also seemed out of place here) while his wife and sister cleaned up the table (my offers to help were forcefully rejected-- "after a meal, men are like furniture" they said). We also played with his daughter and his sister's daughter. With two little kids in the house, I expected the place to be filled with toys and kids stuff, but they had only one or two toys and a couple of books. Yet the kids seemed very content and happy.
About an hour later, they invited us back in for dessert. It looked like they had barely cleared the table--many of the same things were still there, and they added some cookies and other sweets, and a big pot of tea. So we sat and ate and drank and enjoyed. There was less pressure to eat during this round, but the tea was refilled nonstop.
We again had our fill, and got up from the table. Mukhtar asked me if I "needed to go outside", which I correctly understood as his offer to show me the outhouse. I definitely needed to go outside at this point, after all that tea and sheep broth. He showed me the outhouse around the back of the house, and then went back inside. I knew I would be using an outhouse in the village, and it's really not a big deal to me--it's not too different than camping. The problem here was that it was pitch black, and I had no idea what I was peeing into. Is it just a hole in the ground? Did they build some kind of bench or seat? I couldn't tell, and I wasn't about to feel around. I finally decided to just pee into the void. It didn't sound like it was going into a hole, but I wasn't sure. The whole time, I was worrying that some family member would come in the morning light (or come later tonight and turn on a light I didn't know about) and see that I had peed all over their nice bench, and this village would be talking for the next 20 years about the American who came and befouled their outhouse.
After finishing, I returned to the front of the house, and in the porch light I notice that I had splattered pee all over my black leather shoes (it must have deflected off something). Unfortunately, I could do nothing about it, because at that very moment Mukhtar’s parents arrived at the gate, and I had to meet them, etc. ("Very nice to meet you. Are you married? Why not?") We then all went in the house together. I left the pee on my shoes. We visited for a while, and I was offered more desserts that they brought home from their party. Everyone also got ready for bed, and I was graciously given my own room (the couch in the living room-- cold, but they gave me lots of blankets). I slept well, but thanks to the cruel trick of serving me 18 or so cups of tea before I went to bed, I had to repeat my outhouse experience in the middle of the night.
In the morning, I was finally able to look at the village in the daylight, and I could see the beautiful mountains nearby. Mukhtar and I went for a walk around the village, and he showed me their barn and their animals. The day before, he told me that he hadn't been able to organize the kokpar for this weekend, but there would be a big tournament next weekend. He did show me, though, which sheep he felt would make a good kokpar “ball”. Oh, and I made a stop in the outhouse again: no bench, but a very small, diamond-shaped hole on the ground (I think I mostly hit the floor or the back wall the night before; no harm done).
We rejoined the family for breakfast, which was basically everything we didn't finish the night before, with the welcome addition of some kefir, a creamy, yogurt-like drink, "fresh from yesterday's milk," they told me. Mukhtar wanted to show me some things on our way back to Almaty (I had a 4 p.m. flight), so I said my goodbyes and thank you’s to the family. His father came home just as we were leaving, having just returned from the Sunday market as the proud owner of three new horses. He promised to find me a wife in the village if I'd just stay another day or two.
I didn't get to see kokpar, and I narrowly missed a traditional Kazakh wedding, but I had a great cultural experience, and the trip was important to my understanding of the country. Many of the people I meet in Astana and Almaty, including those in professional circles, grew up in villages and regularly return to them to see their families. It was also refreshing to experience the renowned Kazakh hospitality; in Astana, I often question where this reputation comes from, particularly after a few minutes in traffic.
Over the years I've slowly gotten better at handling the stress and awkwardness of being a guest in a different culture. It still takes a concerted effort to humble myself and stop focusing on my own needs (How should I act? What should I do when they don't want me to help with anything? Will I be able to eat what they are serving me? What will the bathroom be like? Will I live through the night without having brushed my teeth?), and simply live in the moment, relaxing in the company of people who find great joy in having a guest. It is the difference between viewing the experience as something to survive or something to enjoy.
You can see photographs on my photo site (see previous posts for link).
posted by Cosmic Stan at 2:11 PM
