On my first day off in Kyrgyzstan, a Sunday, my host family took me into the mountains, to a village called Sasbullock, where Bermet-Eje was born. They gave me shotgun in Mederbek-Baike's mini SUV, while Bermet-Eje, Emir (two years old), Azat and Gulya all sat comfortably in the back. We drove on a two lane highway for about two hours before hanging a left onto a dirt road, crossing a set of train tracks, and pulling into the driveway of what looked like a farm. It had been raining on and off, prompting Mederbek-Baike to comment to me about the weather. I didn't understand what he was saying, so I looked up ''rain'' in my dictionary, found a suitable phrase, and replied in Kyrgyz, ''It is raining cats and dogs.'' This made everyone in the car laugh.
Azat was excited to show me the mountains, which were shrouded in rain clouds, and very green. After meeting Bermet-Eje's older brother, Ishem, and his family, over tea, bread, a couple shots of vodka, and an assortment of baked goods, Azat let me borrow a hat, and took me on a hike. We walked up a rocky hill where mountain goats were grazing until we reached the top of a ridge, snapping pictures along the way and talking about life.
Azat has learned about America through hip-hop, it turns out. He mentioned Barack Obama, and I told him that I liked Obama (''maga Obama jagat'') and that I didn't like George Bush (''maga Bush jakpai''). I told him that on the East coast and West coast of the country, people like Obama, and in the middle of the country, people like Bush.
''The middle,'' he replied, thinking. ''Like Tay-has?''
''Yes,'' I said. ''Texas.''
Then he started in on what he knew about. ''East Coast, West Side,'' he said. ''West Side—Tupac. East coast, Notorous B.I.G, yes?'' He hasn't mastered the word ''notorious.''
''You like Tupac?'' he continued.
''Yeah, I like Tupac.''
''He was killed, yes? By Biggie Smalls, yes?''
''That's right,'' I said, laughing to myself.
We continued hiking along the ridge, stopping every now and then so Azat could show me the little things people miss when they walk too fast. He said that in Kyrgyzstan, we hike slowly, so we can appreciate the beauty of the natural world. He showed me a black slug, commented on the colors of the rocks, and we shared the words for stone, rock, and boulder in English and Kyrgyz. It was windy, so he told me the word for ''wind,'' (''shamal'') and I told him about Mammoth. He noticed a China Rose, and stopped to touch it, and admire it. He pointed to the green mountains in front of us, and asked me about snowboarding, making gestures with his lands like someone ripping turns.
''In the winter, you come here, for snowboarding?''
Next we climbed up the ridge to the top of a hill overlooking a graveyard, where Azat said his grandmother was buried. As a Muslim, he explained, he is required to read from the Koran whenever he sees a grave, so he and I sat down on the rocks, and he recited a verse from the Koran, by memory, with his legs crossed, his hands palms-up in front of him, and his eyes closed. I stole a few glances of him, acutely aware that I was in another part of the world, and that, so early in my adventure, I was lucky to have made a friend like Azat.
We made our way back down to the house, drank more tea, then played some volleyball, which was really just hitting the ball around without a net, while the older men played Asian poker, the women worked in the kitchen, and the children played outside in their scrap heap of a yard, precariously close to many random shards of sharp metal, which no one, except for me, was concerned about. Beside us were a few cows and a horse, tied up in an open stable. Every once in a while the ball would land in some cow shit, and we would have to rub it through some prairie grass before resuming play. A couple of the older men came out, and our game of volleyball morphed into some version of ''monkey in the middle,'' before it abruptly came to an end. It was time to eat.
Inside, there were more of my host family's relatives, and their boisterous conversation halted immediately when I walked into the room, like a jukebox getting unplugged when someone who doesn't belong walks into a cowboy bar. I greeted them (''salamatsysdarby—hello everyone''), introduced myself, and made my way around the room, hearing names I have never heard before.
I began to feel like I might be a guest of honor when they seated me at the head of the table. They poured shots of vodka, and insisted that I give a toast. I thanked my host parents and the hosts of our dinner, told everyone that I like Kyrgyzstan, and we drank.
The table was short, and we all sat on the floor around it, except for the eldest, who, as a result of their position in the family, have apparently earned the right to abstain from some traditions which might be hard on their backs. They sat on the couch, leaning over the table. On my plate in front of me was a rib bone with fat and a little bit of meat, that looked like the leftovers we throw to dogs in the States. Azat sat beside me.
''Do you know what meat this is?'' he asked. I did know, but he told me anyway. ''It is sheep.''
I looked around. Bermet-Eje had a leg bone in front of her that looked like what a caveman would eat in a cartoon, and there was a blackened sheep's head in the middle of the table, ceremoniously on display for one of the young men to enjoy. Beside my plate was a hot bowl of water and fat, and I noticed Azat drinking his, so I tried mine. It tasted like hot, unseasoned sheep's fat. I had a plate of noodles to eat with my rib, but no fork or spoon. Everyone around me was speaking rapid fire Kyrgyz, and I had no idea what was going on. We drank another shot of vodka, following a lengthy toast by Ishem, which I didn't understand. This was Besh Barmak.
Besh Barmak translates into ''five fingers,'' and is only eaten correctly with your hands. Most of the family had spoons, but I was the American guest, so the honor of consuming the sheep meat and noodles in the traditional way fell to me, and to Mederbek-Baike, who showed me how to do it. The room erupted with laughter when I stuffed the first handful into my mouth, and there were many faces looking at me and speaking Kyrgyz gibberish, giving me feedback. I took a few more bites, to their approval, drank some more hot fat water, and called it good. I kept repeating a mantra to myself—''Please don't get sick, please don't get sick…'' but I was quietly deciding whether or not I would eat the sheep's eye, should it be offered.
It was not, to my disappointment, nor was another drink of vodka. I was ready for another one, but, through Azat, I was told that because I was a young man, and I would not be able to keep up with the older guys anyway, I would now be cut off. At first I was offended, but I quickly resigned to feeling that it was for the best.
I think I will have another chance while I'm here to eat a sheep's eye, but hopefully the next time I have besh barmak, it will be in a yurt.
