Culture

Now doesn’t necessarily mean now

In Kyrgyz there’s this simple, small word whose translation is completely meaningless. If you ask for a translation, and worse yet, believe what you’re told, you are in for a world of hurt. But, since I’m now too far down the rabbit trail, I’ll let you in on what’s been tumbling past me in wonderland: the word in English means now.

In Kyrgyz, however, now could mean now; later; in a little bit; later this afternoon; tomorrow; this summer; sometime in the next few years; or some other indefinite and indefinable future date.

I was at a conference hosted at a hotel several months ago. Since we had computer equipment stored in a meeting room, one of the organizers asked me to tell the front desk to please lock the door after we left. Noticing the door was still unlocked, I notified the person at the desk asking in Kyrgyz, “Could you please lock the door now?” She smiled, said yes, and returned to the magazine she was reading. I waited a few moments and asked again, “Ah, could you please lock the door now? We’re leaving.” She smiled, nodded her head and struck up a conversation with her co-worker. I guess I should have included the definition of now I was after: “Could you please lock the door at 6:02pm and 39 seconds? Oh – would you look at the time.” But instead I just motioned for her to follow me. I was headed to the door, and she was coming, now.

This little word lends itself to all kinds of frustrations, and even more so when it comes as a response. “When is the concert starting?” “Now.” “So…should I hang around or go take a quick vacation and then come back?” Hours spent standing around just waiting for things to happen makes a volunteer go crazy.

As frustrating as it is to hear “Now,” when asking when such-and-such is going to begin, the word can be quite useful when wielded to one’s advantage. Like with this little project my vice-principal’s been asking me to do. I think I’ll start now.

People like the things they grow up with

There’s no law of nature that says a medium rare steak is high culinary art. (Though this author happens to agree.) Likewise, there’s no law of nature that says a blow-torched and boiled sheep is the pinnacle of all dining experiences. (Thank God.) Yet in a country where a sheep rib will serve as a pacifier, it’s hard to find someone who will bend to the opinion that people living elsewhere may, perhaps, prefer different options.

The US Embassy in Bishkek funds and supports several different programs for sending Kyrgyz people to the United States for a period of time, like FLEX for high school students or TEA for teachers. One such program is more of a mini tour/vacation for directors of schools to get a picture of what the American education system is like. One such director received an all expense paid trip this past year to wine and dine in the fancier restaurants on the east coast while checking out schools from his limo. I’m not complaining about the lavishness; rather, I’m all for showing a Kyrgyz person a good time. But what absolutely destroyed me was the first comment out of his mouth: “The food was terrible. There was no boiled sheep.”

This comment has been corroborated by several other primary sources, which clearly proves that people are crazy.

imageWould you like your sheepskin burnt or charcoaled?

And by people, I mean all people. Why do we get so attached to particular ways of life? Why are we so ethno-, (culturo-, experio-) centric? I think we’re attached to what we grow up with, appreciate the familiar, or just can’t see over the trench that’s been dug by so many passes down the same path.

Someone who has had significant experiences in places other than where he or she is starts to see the grey around the edges that separate black and white. Maybe a fine cut of grilled beef doesn’t claim inherent goodness (shudder). And maybe, just maybe, boiled sheep could be traded for some roasted chicken or a nice cheesy potato bake at the next village gathering. That’s what I grew up with anyway.

Fables only sound ridiculous when they’re not your fables

The presumed father of all Kyrgyz people is this man called Manas. I wanted to write “legend” instead of man, but people here really believe he was a real person. And maybe he was, before the stories grew.

Manas is like what Paul Bunyan would be if he had founded a religion and was also the moral center of the government. The stories surrounding him are epic. I’ve even climbed a mountain he built with his bare hands.

image Newly-wed photo shoot under the watchful eye of Manas

There’s this million-line poem too about him called The Epic of Manas and some people devote their entire lives to memorizing huge stretches of it. It’s spoken in a kind of trance verging on the spiritual and indeed, the times of old must have been. Us foreigners chuckle in vindication when we read the history books that say much of what is known of Manas was compiled a hundred years ago and then systematically disseminated by the Soviets.

But the thing is, we have fables too, even if we don’t label them as such. Like self-esteem or six o’clock dinner. We just can’t see them because we’re so entrenched. And even if someone opens our eyes to our own absurdities we grow indignant and feel attacked.

Now sometimes I feel like I have the right to be defensive. I’ve given up a lot to be here and have adapted and changed so much I feel like a chameleon who’s forgotten his true color. I don’t want to abandon self-esteem or six o’clock dinner. I happen to know they’re cultural and that right there has a big deal to do with why I like them, thank you very much.

My host mother told me a few weeks ago, “You’re the one who came to Kyrgyzstan so you’re the one that needs to change. Get used to it.” While that’s not the most accommodating sentiment I’ve received since coming, it might be the most realistic. It allows me to see a little better what others go through when they reach our shores. “This ain’t ching-chong China, bud. We do things the right way here.” We think they should change – they must follow the rules. But unlike human rights, most rules pour from culture and don’t make sense to those who haven’t been steeped in it their whole lives.

So we hang on to our own and yet change and adapt. We see both sides and feel the pain as we twist and stretch to try and be in both places at once, both mindsets at once. I’ll never get used to eating at 10pm and then going to bed. Or my stomach won’t, anyway. But I might be able to listen to a story or two of Manas before I drift off to sleep. He was a pretty incredible man.

A donkey costs less than a bicycle

This is true. You can even get one for free if you catch one wandering the streets. It’s amazing that a horse is the pinnacle of all culinary options while its little brother the donkey is detested in almost every possible sense, not least of which is its meat. I mean, the Chinese eat donkey.

I asked my counterpart, Nazgul, one day how much a donkey cost – four, five hundred dollars? A horse costs twelve hundred at least and usually goes for two grand. She laughed at me and said, “Forty bucks. And if they try to sell it for more they’re ripping you off.” So then I started thinking transportation costs. Fifty dollars to ride a bike. Forty dollars to take a donkey.

I wasn’t the first volunteer to be thusly persuaded. A man asked me just the other week if I was going to ride a donkey to school since that’s what volunteers do who live in the villages. It was probably one guy like fifteen years ago, but our reputations outlive us so grandly. Ten years from now I doubt anyone in my village will remember my name, but they probably will remember me famously mispronouncing “horse fat sausage” for another word that only looks like horse fat sausage.

Nazgul and Ulan’s son got a young donkey recently. He’s keeping it in the feed pen so it won’t run away. He’s super excited. I asked if Ulan had got it for him and Nazgul said, “No, he found it on the road.” “But what if it belongs to someone?” I answered. “Well, no one’s called saying it’s theirs yet.” People often times just turn them loose since they are apparently less valuable than the grass they graze on, growing out in tuffs here and there in the yard.

Yet, despite all of this, the reason why I won’t end up getting a donkey is because I don’t want to wear one of those ridiculous Peace Corps issued bicycle helmets while riding one. I could get administratively separated (or, “fired from volunteering” – wait, is that semantically possible?) for riding anything without a helmet. Yes, I’d look ridiculous. But then again, I’d be riding a donkey.

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