My host brother, Azat, doesn't drink vodka, because he is a Muslim. He laughs when I tell him that I like vodka (″maga vodka jagat″), but that I don't like to get drunk off of it. The two of us are sitting at the table, where a basket of bread, a plate of butter and a bowl of raspberry jam, a plate full of meat and a salsa-like substance, a tea kettle and a pot of hot water, and a few empty shot glasses are on display before us. As expected, this type of lavish spread has been typical at every house I've visited so far.
″This is a beautiful life,″ he says. ″It is a beautiful world, yes? You understand?″ Azat is working on his English, so I told him the first night I stayed at his family's house that I would help him with his English, if he helps me with my Kyrgyz. The host families are instructed to speak Kyrgyz around us, even though, in Chui Oblast, where Novoprokovka is, 90 percent of the locals speak Russian.
″Yes, I understand,″ I say, nodding. I think he's telling me that life is good without alcohol. I had just drank vodka with his dad, Mederbek, who I call Mederbek-Baike (″older brother″), and his mom, Bermet, who I call Bermet-Eje (″older sister″), and two of their guests, Stalinbek and Jusu, a married couple who live in Bishkek, ten minutes away. I've been getting along really well with Azat, who is 26, and his beautiful wife, Gulya, and I don't want him to judge me.
″But your parents drink vodka,″ I tell him.
″Yes, they are Muslim, but they don't pray, and they drink,″ he replies. I've heard this about Kyrgyz people, how their laid-back, nomadic culture has never been conquored by conservative Islam. Maybe my host parents are examples of this.
My house at 38 Chklova Street sits on a rocky road in a relatively affluent neighborhood in the suburbs of Bishkek. The street is lined with trees that are still bare from the winter, and modest houses made of white brick and cement, with colorful trim around the windows and doors. Every house is enclosed by a gate, and usually there is a vicious dog on the other side. Dogs sleep outside here, and they have only one job, and that is to guard their homes. Still, there are children all over the place, and it feels friendly.
The newness of this place lends to something hilarious waiting around every turn, that comes out whenever I'm with the other trainees. We all have different stories to tell about our host families, but two things that we all share are not being able to understand anything our families are saying to us, and the aggressive hospitality they nonetheless impose on us. None of us can find time to study, for example, because we keep getting pulled away to drink more tea, or to eat more food. That is the Kyrgyz way. When it comes to feeding their guests, they don't ask, they insist.
Feels like in my country ��, eat ear drink drink more �� (Bosnia).
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