July 30, 2008
I want to write about the life of the average non-urban
Kyrgyz family, but if I may digress for a minute...today was a scorcher. It had
to be at least 100 degrees and dry heat or not, that is flippin' hot. When I
arrived home from my all day session with all the other volunteers, I was beat.
I went to my room to lay down and escape the sweltering heat (and this is 5pm I'm talking about). I wasn't there
five minutes when a knock on my door brought me an ice cream bar. Was my family
reading my mind?! I tore open the package and saw chocolate-coated vanilla ice
cream. And the chocolate coating had what looked like crispy bits in it. Until
I took a closer look. Sesame seeds. Interesting. I bit into the bar and saw
what looked like small dots of a vanilla bean scattered throughout the ice
cream. Nope. Poppy seeds. Neither of these surprise ingredients altered the
taste too much and I enjoyed every last drip of my unexpected treat.
Okay, like I said, I want to tell you about life at my family's house. (I know they are not my real family, but I have been so totally accepted by them, that I call them my family. I already know that I will cry the day I leave for my permanent site.) We live in a village of about 7,000 people. There are 22 nationalities represented here. (Per PC rules regarding safety, I can't tell you exactly where I live.) Many of my family's relatives also live in the village. Family comes first in this culture. Three and four generations living together under one roof is the rule, not the exception. Elders are given the utmost respect. Everybody keeps an eye on everybody's children and will discipline them, if necessary. This is the guiding principle of a collective society. People will share even if they don't have anything to spare. It's truly an eye-opening experience. Yeah, Americans are generous, giving people, but not in the way it exists here. We're more after-the-fact generous. We write checks after a disaster. We volunteer if there's any time left in our schedule. We take our parents in if the assisted living complex is full or unaffordable. I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a senior citizens home in the entire country.
Okay, about my family. First of all, almost everything we eat is grown in the big garden out back. Tomatoes, onions, eggplant, corn, peppers and other things I'm probably missing. Milk comes from the two cows; eggs from the chickens who prance around the yard freely; the chickens eventually find their way to our dinner plates, like tonight for example. I'm glad I haven't witnessed an execution, although I have seen a slaughtered cow being divvied up in someone's back yard. The beef we eat, well, you know...
In addition to working his small farm, my ata (ah-tah, father) is some sort of policeman or military security guy. All I know is when he leaves for work he's wearing a uniform and packin' heat. My apa (ah-pah, mother), in addition to milking the cows by hand and selling it for extra cash (35 som/dollar, in case you're wondering), is the seamstress for the village women. Money is hard to come by, which is why almost every house has a garden and many have some sort of animal as well. It’s is said that everyone in Kyrgyzstan, no matter what other job they may have, is a farmer. Last week I helped my host brother braid a length of rope to secure one of the calves for grazing. Actually, I just held the finished end of the rope while he did all the braiding. Yeah, I know, I'm a real cowboy, right? And like many American moms, my apa also has a house to manage, although Aijan, eighteen and the only daughter, is a big help in that regard, just as Aibeck, sixteen and the oldest son, is a tremendous help to his father. Nurbek, eight, is deaf. He's not asked to do much yet, but he does have one very important job. He calls me to meals.
Things are changing in the country, though. As Kyrgyzstan struggles to develop a successful market-based economy, this generation of teenagers are more likely to attend university than previous ones. The Harvard of Central Asia is located in the capitol city of Bishkek. It's called American University of Central Asia, stocked with American professors, and the graduates secure jobs with international corporations. Both Aijan and Ibeck will be college students, studying finance and engineering, respectively. They will not be at AUCA, but will still have a brighter future than their parents had at the same age. It's a weird mix, this agrarian/urban mixture that's propelling Kyrgyzstan into the 21st century, but very interesting, too.
Okay, like I said, I want to tell you about life at my family's house. (I know they are not my real family, but I have been so totally accepted by them, that I call them my family. I already know that I will cry the day I leave for my permanent site.) We live in a village of about 7,000 people. There are 22 nationalities represented here. (Per PC rules regarding safety, I can't tell you exactly where I live.) Many of my family's relatives also live in the village. Family comes first in this culture. Three and four generations living together under one roof is the rule, not the exception. Elders are given the utmost respect. Everybody keeps an eye on everybody's children and will discipline them, if necessary. This is the guiding principle of a collective society. People will share even if they don't have anything to spare. It's truly an eye-opening experience. Yeah, Americans are generous, giving people, but not in the way it exists here. We're more after-the-fact generous. We write checks after a disaster. We volunteer if there's any time left in our schedule. We take our parents in if the assisted living complex is full or unaffordable. I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a senior citizens home in the entire country.
Okay, about my family. First of all, almost everything we eat is grown in the big garden out back. Tomatoes, onions, eggplant, corn, peppers and other things I'm probably missing. Milk comes from the two cows; eggs from the chickens who prance around the yard freely; the chickens eventually find their way to our dinner plates, like tonight for example. I'm glad I haven't witnessed an execution, although I have seen a slaughtered cow being divvied up in someone's back yard. The beef we eat, well, you know...
In addition to working his small farm, my ata (ah-tah, father) is some sort of policeman or military security guy. All I know is when he leaves for work he's wearing a uniform and packin' heat. My apa (ah-pah, mother), in addition to milking the cows by hand and selling it for extra cash (35 som/dollar, in case you're wondering), is the seamstress for the village women. Money is hard to come by, which is why almost every house has a garden and many have some sort of animal as well. It’s is said that everyone in Kyrgyzstan, no matter what other job they may have, is a farmer. Last week I helped my host brother braid a length of rope to secure one of the calves for grazing. Actually, I just held the finished end of the rope while he did all the braiding. Yeah, I know, I'm a real cowboy, right? And like many American moms, my apa also has a house to manage, although Aijan, eighteen and the only daughter, is a big help in that regard, just as Aibeck, sixteen and the oldest son, is a tremendous help to his father. Nurbek, eight, is deaf. He's not asked to do much yet, but he does have one very important job. He calls me to meals.
Things are changing in the country, though. As Kyrgyzstan struggles to develop a successful market-based economy, this generation of teenagers are more likely to attend university than previous ones. The Harvard of Central Asia is located in the capitol city of Bishkek. It's called American University of Central Asia, stocked with American professors, and the graduates secure jobs with international corporations. Both Aijan and Ibeck will be college students, studying finance and engineering, respectively. They will not be at AUCA, but will still have a brighter future than their parents had at the same age. It's a weird mix, this agrarian/urban mixture that's propelling Kyrgyzstan into the 21st century, but very interesting, too.
We were told that we’d be
calling our host parents mother and father, in Kyrgyz. When I first laid eyes
on my host family, I thought, ‘No way.’ They were ten years younger than me,
maybe more. I was wrong. It didn’t take me long to get in the habit of doing
so, because I quickly felt a part of the family.
Also in the book, an update on the lives of my host family. So much has changed for them since 2008, all good I'm pleased to say.
