The Rape of the Sheep Head and Other Tales
It's been a while, friends, since I regaled you with a story of gastronomic delicacy,and now I think the time has come to revisit this beloved topic. The following incident occurred on January 4, 2009 at about 6:00 in the evening. It is now 7:00 on said night; the events are still very, very clear in my mind and, as a result, I'm still feeling a bit, um, grossed out.
This afternoon, my host father was telling me about the wonderful dish he would be helping to prepare for dinner tonight: liver, kidneys, and lungs. While it sounded fabulous, I informed my family that I would gladly cook my own meal because organs just aren't my fav. I watched as my host sister and mother cleaned said body parts. And then I saw them again as they were brought out from the kitchen: carefully wrapped and sewn up in fat. And to think I turned my nose up at this.
6:00 rolls around, the smell of cooking sheep organ begins to waft into my room and it's time to eat. Much to my initial chagrin, one of my host sisters had gone ahead and cooked for me. I had been looking for making some yummy food of my own with my private olive oil stash, but alas. Thing is, I know she did it because she wanted to be nice and she likes me and blah, blah, but I was still a little bummed. Next time…next time. Anyhoo, they have a pot of stuff boiling on the electric griddle in our eating area, and my host pop, Gapur, fetches a slotted spoon and begins extracting various sheep parts. While I knew of the bound organs, I was wholly unaware of the sheep head and sheep hoofs also in the pot. Yum!
He places all the food on a plate and they begin to eat. And Gapur, man, he is really digging in. He tackles the head first – the poor, sad sheep head that still looks like a little sheep with its seemingly empty eye sockets, little nose and nostrils still intact, and sheepy smooth ears still there but no longer sheepy smooth. And, oh, the littlepatas. Small and sweet and you can just imagine a sheep prancing happily on its stewed hoofs. Sigh. The next thing I notice, after wistfully looking at the still cute sheep snout, is that one of the ears is missing. What? Oh, wait, no. It's being chewed on. Yes, Gapur has sawed off the ear, which I can only imagine is entirely cartilage, and is rapturously chewing away.
I'm eating my milky rice dinner (rice cooked in milk served with a few pats of butter too many for my taste: basically tapioca with rice instead of whatever tapioca is) and thinking that it's rather fortunate that I'm not eating what they are, when Gapur puts one of the organ bundles on a plate for my sister Bägul (pronounced "baaah" [like a sheep] ghoul – it means "rose." It you accidentally mispronounce it like "bagel" they don't understand for some reason. ß Just kidding. Not about the bagel part, though, I really did that). Bägul then proceeds to cut open the packet of yummy and extracts whatever organ is inside. I don't know if she ate the fat casing or not. It mysteriously wasn't there at meal's end. The boiled organ reminded me a lot of Murcia in texture – that's what I thought anyway, just looking at it. Then, THEN they say, "Jess! Iý! It's healthy! People eat this for health!" Oh, my least favorite Turkmen word: Eat! Eat! But, if I'm not here to challenge and stretch myself, then I don't know why on earth I'm here, so I very carefully put a tiny, tiny, miniscule bit on my spoon, hope I don't die, and eat. And it tastes like organ. Or, what I imagine organ would taste like. Very earthy and rich (but not a rich that I particularly like). There's a perfect adjective for earthy and rich that I can't think of at the moment (liverish?) …anyway, not to my liking. I satisfy myself by eating my milky rice and watching the destruction of this poor sheep continue.
After Gapur satisfies himself with the ear, he picks up a hoof. And eats the hoof. And probably the foreleg, too, I missed that part of the show. Lest you begin to think it's all over, oh no, the best part is yet to be consumed: the head. Gapur grabs a knife and starts gnawing at the nose. I worry that he's going to cut it off and eat the nose! Except, then he changes course and begins to cut elsewhere, the objective being just removing the skin from the skull. Once achieved, it's a free for all. Every piece of available meat is searched out and eaten. Fingers and knives are used to push and prod and pull. Those "seemingly" empty eye sockets? My mistake. He locates an eyeball, tries to get it out of the socket. This proves to be a little difficult and he has to poke from a variety of angles. Finally, the eye is freed. He gingerly removes the pupil and the iris and some of the nerves in the back. He pops the white and a few remaining nerves into his mouth and chews. And swallows. And appears to be enjoying the taste explosions in his mouth.
Once all the meat has been excavated from the surface of the skull, it's time to smash that mother open. Knife in hand, a few good bashes are sufficient to break open the skull. Then, the knife is inserted in the cranial cavity, and the brain is scraped out into Bägul's plate. It looks like chunky paté I think, looking at it and again thanking my lucky stars that I don't have to eat it. I am met with expectant stares and again they say, "Eat!" I hold up my hand and say, "No," because I had learned my lesson the first time. But he says, "Try, try!" and I think, well, what kind of story teller would I be if I didn't at least try the brain? Trying it gives me more credibility and I'm all about being an informative and factual journalist. They say it needs salt; they add salt. I again take a very, very miniscule amount onto my spoon and pop that sucker into my mouth. I can tell you that in fact, it is the texture of chunky paté (I think I've eaten paté?). I consider the brain and take another very small piece onto my spoon and eat that, too (I may have eaten a quarter of a teaspoon total. I know, I know, I strive to be adventuresome, but I'm a long way from hosting Bizarre Foods). The brain, I decide, tastes like wet cat food. And yes, I know what wet cat food tastes like. Or rather, I did some 19 years ago and frankly, the brain brought those memories flooding back. Feeding the cats, helping myself to a bit of their food…it happens.
Seeing that I am not overwhelmingly put off by the salty cat foodesque brain, they encourage me to take another spoonful, and a big one this time! However, I decline because I've had about all the brain I can stomach for one evening. In fact, I can't rid my palate of the brain taste and I grab an apple for some taste bud cleansing. The raping and pillaging of the head continues; scraping and scratching all remaining dregs of meat/fat/cartilage available. Gapur sucks the bones like a straw in order to get the marrow out. And finally, there's nothing left to eat. The organs are gone, the head is naked of meat. All that's left is bone. Job well done, really. Gapur orders more water boiled for tea. They are sated. I am thinking how wonderful it is that I'm virtually a vegetarian here – I rarely eat meat anymore and this is why. Now, if only they'd serve fish more often…
Gapur invites me to have another käse of tea, but I'd been guzzling them down during the whole dinner event and I decline. Instead, I jump up, eager to write down all the thoughts about this meal whizzing about my head which, thankfully, will (most likely) never be tossed in a pot to cook.
The thing is, I have to respect them for eating parts of animals that I wouldn't dream of eating even in the most desperate situations. In some cultures, they eat and/or use everything out of respect for the animal (Eskimos, right?). I doubt that's why Turkmen scavenge their animals so. Rather, I speculate that it's related to a tradition of scarcity many, many years ago. People had to eat everything or they wouldn't eat. And so the taste preference is learned generation after generation. I mean, I don't even know if there was scarcity of meat but most of Turkmenistan is desert. I think it's a pretty safe assumption. I've also heard that meat is expensive so maybe it's just a matter of getting the most bang for your buck. Or, in our case, the sheep that we slaughtered was ours. So perhaps we're just getting the most out of the labor that went into raising that sheep. Whatever the case is, there is no waste.
I mean, it really takes simple living to a whole new level, doesn't it? I don't know though…I'm all for being as sustainably minded as I can but I'm not an organ eater. And I'm neither a brain eater nor a marrow sucker.
Meanwhile, the house still smells of boiled sheep matter.
In other news…
I shouldn't complain; I'm healthy and have been since I moved to Lebap. That is a definite plus. And they have caught on to the fact that I don't like fat – I don't eat butter on my bread (because it tastes sour), I pick fat off my meat, and I try like hell to avoid eating all the grease in soup. As a result, my food's been less fatty and greasy. And I am running again! I feel healthier and skinnier already! Amazing! Now, if they'd only let me cook for myself sometimes, life would almost be perfect.
I have, by the by, gotten over the whole outhouse thing. Now every time I have to pee, which is frequently due to the large amounts of tea I imbibe, regardless of time of day/night and/or weather, it's off to the outhouse I go! And the only hitch in the otherwise normal event of voiding one's bladder is the talkative sheep. I read in National Geographic that sheep can recognize faces and so maybe this is a sweet sheep and he just knows my face and wants to be friendly. But this sheep, he is a wily sheep. The sheep pen abuts the outhouse and this sheep likes to squeeze in the small space between a stack of hay and the outhouse. And so there I go merrily inside to conduct business and all of a sudden I hear, "blaaaaah." It has on more than one occasion made me jump, as much as a person can jump whilst squatting. Nearly every time I go to the outhouse now it says hello, "blaaaah." Maybe it knows they just ate a friend – it does remind me an awful lot of that stewed head. Silly sheep, I think it gets a kick out of bleating when I least expect it.
On January 3, we had an earthquake! My host father was spending the night at school (guard duty) and the shaking of his bed woke him up. The next morning they asked me if I felt anything during the night, but I slept right through. My first earthquake and I totally missed it.
Someone told me that many of the cars in Turkmenistan are stolen cars from other countries. This may or may not be true, but I have seen a number of cars with American university stickers on the windows/bumpers. The other day I saw a car with a Brown sticker. I've seen scuba diving symbols, honors student stickers… So cars definitely make their way here from the U.S. Maybe they're just used car lot rejects? Turkmenistan is where cars that no one wants go to die.
Over break, I was carted off to a teachers' conference in our regional center. Boooring, but they asked me questions about our American educational system and what I thought about the Turkmen education system. I was quite diplomatic in my response, not wanting to offend anyone (when I was really thinking, um, yeah, I'm so glad I didn't go to school here). Anyhow, a man approached me during a break and said, "My friend's car is showing this and we don't know what it means. Can you tell me?" He had written, "MAINT REQ'D" on a piece of paper. I said, "It means something is wrong with the car and it needs to be fixed." And then it occurred to me that I don't even know if there are auto-body shops here. I mean, I would assumethere are by the simple fact that there are cars here and sometimes cars need to be fixed. And then I wondered if the guys working in said hypothetical shops would know how to fix whatever maintenance bug the car has. But I guess a car's a car, right? All the same stuff more or less under the hood. Might just need oil.
During my little speech, a man asked me how many days a week we study in the U.S. When I reiterated that we have a 5 day work week (I had already mentioned it), he got really ticked and started telling our methodologist (the region's head of English teachers) that he wanted another free day. I hadn't meant to incite a protest; I was merely telling the truth. I have two free days here because I'm no dummy. A six day work week sucks! And I need a business day free to run errands. But then I started adding up the hours: Turkmen teachers don't have to be at school unless they're teaching and that's a perk we don't have. And really, they give maybe 10 minutes of homework a night which means they don't have to spend a lot of time grading. Furthermore, the tests are a joke. In English class I've seen tests that are only about 5 questions and the teachers practically walk the students through the whole thing. They don't assign papers; there are no worksheets to correct. So, one can only assume that they don't have a lot of outside grading to do. In which case Turkmen teachers probably work far fewer hours than American teachers despite only having one day off. If only he knew…
One of the teachers expressed her frustration to me that some students just aren't interested in school. Of course this is a universal problem, but if you sat in on a Turkmen class, you wouldn't blame the students. The teaching straight from the book style is dry and dull. Even I, miss "I love school!" would be bored. I get bored observing classes. But how do you say that to a room full of teachers? It's best to show by example and that's why I'm here. It was nice that this woman showed such concern. In fact, I got a little jealous on our way home from the conference because it seems like she would be very receptive to new teaching styles – were she my counterpart, I'm sure she'd be all about co-planning, co-teaching and trying new things in class. My counterpart has never expressed an interest in co-planning with me. Her idea of co-planning is telling me that I'm supposed to coach the Olympiad (like Quiz Bowl) students tomorrow. On what? "Grammar." What grammar? "Just grammar." Oh, right. On the bright side, I have two years with her – with a little patience we should be co-planning by the time I leave.
New Year's! How could I forget! The anticipation leading up to New Year's Eve was tremendous – everyone antsy and talking about how they can't wait for "täze ýyl" (that's New Year in Turkmen). And New Year's Eve roll around and I'm gearing up for a huge celebration and it turns out they celebrate New Year's just like every other Turkmen holiday of importance. What a let-down. Here's what we did: We went to people's houses and ate food. Now this is slightly different because for Gurbanchylyk, the holiday we had in the beginning of December when I first got here, it seemed like only a few people had parties. For New Year's, everyone had food out in case people stopped by. And that's just what you do, drop in on people and they feed you. Gulaýlek and I went to her friend Jemal's house where we sat and ate. Jemal is kind of annoying. She kept making me take pictures with her and would place my arms where she wanted them. Ugh. I need to stop hanging out with 14 year olds. She practically begged me to go to her party though and she gave me a present, too, so I felt obliged.
After Jemal's I went with my other sister Bägul to yet another house where we sat and ate some more. And whether it be a birthday party, New Year's, a wedding, or other big events, the food is largely predictable. A Turkmen party spread consists of homemade pickles, peanuts, rasins, candy, vanilla wafers and chocolate covered tea cookies, homemade juice, soda, tea, tomatoes if in season, palow (rice, carrots, meat), and cake. Cake in Lebap, while not nearly as good as what yours truly can make, is oodles better than cake in Ahal. New Year's, being the most important holiday of the year, had a few culinary surprises. In addition to the food above, we also ate fish! From the Amu Darya! And it was huge! And delicious! In fact, the first house I went to baked the fish in a skillet with diced tomatoes and onions and other yummy stuff. It was probably the best food I've eaten in Turkmenistan thus far. My family fried our fish, which was also tasty. And we also barbequed! They made a fire out of sticks, skewered the meat, and then set the skewers on bricks over the fire. We had barbecued pork and gazelle. Really. Both were also very tasty. I didn't think Turkmen ate pork but my family does. I asked my family if they eat fish a lot and they said yes. However, this was the first time I'd been served fish here, so I remain skeptical. I would LOVE to eat fish more often. We'll see.
After Bägul's party we came back home. My host father poured me a shot of vodka and we took one shot together. Then I went to our uncle's house and ate some more food and took another shot of vodka. At home around 10:30 I fell asleep. Then some other relatives came over and I had to do another shot of vodka. Each time you drink, someone gives a toast and I ended up giving 3 or 4 toasts that night (in English). Everyone who's drinking takes a turn giving toasts. With each shot, someone else takes a turn. By the end of the night my host father was pretty drunk. I was just tired. At midnight we watched fireworks on TV and then at 12:30 I went to bed. More people came over the next night, but I didn't have to drink. My host father got drunk again. But he's just a sloppy drunk, not aggressive or mean or angry or whatever.
So that was New Year's. Yay! Happy New Year! I miss pork, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes.
My host sister made crepes! Not the prettiest crepes ever because she had to scrape them out of the skillet with a fork, but crepes nonetheless! In Turkmenistan! Who knew? As I was standing in the kitchen watching her make them, I couldn't for the life of me think of what we call them. It was frustrating; I'm too young for these senior moments. But, at last, it "crepe't" up on me. Haha, I had to tell that story just because of the pun J I thought of that myself, thanks.
January 15, 2009.
I learned how to make carpets! I was invited to a carpet making studio where four teenaged girls were squatting on pillows making a carpet. It's tedious work; they showed me how and let me weave a few strands. Let me tell you, those people do not sell those carpets for near enough money for the amount of work that goes into making just one carpet. It takes more than a month! And you weave each individual strand! Ay! A person wanting to set up a carpet export business to the U.S. would make a killing. The carpets sell in Turkmenistan for the equivalent of a couple hundred dollars but people in the States would pay at least $1,000 if not more, for the same carpet. I was, of course, appallingly slow but the girls assured me that with more practice, I'd be speedily weaving along, just as they did. They seemed to be having fun and it'd be a great bonding experience: spending hours in a dark studio, talking and making a carpet.
I spoke to my mom yesterday and she asked me, "Is running water the only modern convenience you don't have? Do you have electricity?" Well, I think Mommy KNEW that I have electricity, but she was just double checking. Her question was a wake-up call for me: as tough as I think I am living here without my favorite foods, hot showers every other day, and flush toilets, I realized that I'm not really roughing it as much as I imagined. I was taking my electricity for granted! In Turkmenistan! How dare I?
Now, according to other volunteers, the electricity can be unreliable and randomly go out for hours at a time. When I first visited Lebap, Elliott gave me a candle for these very situations (and for its good smell, too). But since I've been here I've only experienced outages a handful of times. And if it's dark, well, sleep is always a good past time. If the laptop is charged, watch a movie! Daytime – read! Play outside! It would be much more difficult living without electricity. I'd have to learn how to make solar cookers and rig a way to charge my laptop battery by bicycling or something. And though that could be pretty fun, I'm quite pleased with and thankful for my electricity.
My clubs started this week! This morning, 50 students showed up for the 6-10 grade club and another 50 came for the 4 and 5 grade club (some second and third graders snuck in). Now, 50 kids were manageable in the 12-16 age group, but 50 fourth and fifth graders was rather tiring. Not sure yet how I'm going to proceed with this "dilemma."
And finally, I absolutely adore my neighbor, Gözel. She's the school librarian; her husband is a Russian teacher. He speaks to me in a mix of Turkmen and Russian and then throws his hands up when I don't understand and admonishes me to learn RussianJ Anyway, whenever Gözel sees me, she gives me a great big hug. It's amazing. Being a person who enjoys frequent hugs, it's a relief from my otherwise hugless life. No other Turkmen hug me, except PC staff and my LCF Maisa (well, and Gözel's daughter in law). I bet the English teachers would if I initiated it, but the great thing about Gözel is that she hugs me first and she means it. She likes me a lot. I had dinner with her and her daughter-in-law last night (like I said, the daughter in law always hugs me and she gives me a kiss on the cheek, too!) Gözel told me to come to their house everyday – I don't know if she meant it or was just being nice. But, if she's sincere, I think dinner once a week would be lovely. I told her I liked her because she hugs me, and she told me she'd be my mother. Now, of course, no one, no matter how they endeavored, could ever replace my own mother to me, but it was sweet and I'll admit, it's nice to have a doting mother figure around.
I apologize for the length of this email; brevity is clearly not my strong suit. Writing these rambling entries is relaxing and therapeutic for me, so I thank you very much for reading J
I'll be back in Turkmenabat (or Charjew as its more commonly called [it means 4 roads in Farsi!!]) in two weeks (with, most likely, a much shorter email).
Hope you're all healthy and happy,
Love,
Jessica
