On Fire at the Barber Shop

Today I came down from my vacation refuge in the mountains, for one more day of respite before I head back to work in Naryn. Because I had forgotten to pack my beard trimmer almost three weeks ago when I left my home, I was looking even more unkempt than I usually do, so one of the first things on my to-do list was to visit Mr. Nice, my Bishkek barber shop.

Of course, I was assigned the one barber who couldn't speak English, so I communicated as best I could by using Google Translate on my phone to get my wishes known: medium cut, not too short, parted on the left, trim the beard, not too short either, shave the hair in my ears, shave my neck.
 

Forty minutes into my haircut, eyes closed as I always have them when getting my hair trimmed, mind drifting toward pleasant thoughts of sublime moments, I suddenly felt a blast of scorching heat in my ear. In a flash, my eyes opened as wide a saucers to witness my barber waving a stick of burning flame inside my left ear.

When someone sets your ear on fire unexpectedly, there's not much to do, except hope the damage isn't permanent. One thing I did do, was notice that the aroma of burning ear hair is not a scent that inspires gladness or nostalgia for anything at all. Although the surprise had diminished by the time my barber set my right ear ablaze, a small sense of horror remained, the kind of fear possibly experienced by early Neanderthal tenders of fire, when they realized they had something slightly frightening at their disposal.

It turns out that my barber was not a sadistic sort, but instead was engaging in a practice that began in Turkey hundreds of years ago called singeing. Turkish barbers, for various antiquated reasons, used fire to cut people's hair. And over time, the practice remained in place for removing hair from sensitive places like ears that can bleed like geysers when accidentally cut.

After I left Mr. Nice, still smelling a bit charred and smoky, I considered the peculiarities of men and their hair. Whatever enterprising chemist figures out the chemical process that suddenly causes hair to grow in men's ears and applies it to growing it on their heads--that chemist will win a Nobel Prize and earn billions. And me--I have another story of an unnerving visit to the barber to add to my collection.

My barber at Mr. Nice demonstrating the art of singeing after my visit.

 

The view from my "yurt" at Supara Chunkurchak

The Breakfast of Manas

Here at Supara Chunkurchak, breakfast is served at 9:30, which seemed a little bit late to me, but hey, l am usually a pretty flexible person. I was a little bit worried when I arrived at the dining room at the appointed time to find it completely empty and abandoned.

Finally, though, a man wearing a Kalpak served me, bringing me a plate fruit and a cup of tea. A little sparse, I thought to myself, but I am always happy in the land of endless meat, to ...receive a bounty of fresh fruit. Then he brought me another plate of food. Then another. Then five more. And then more. And three other beverages.

Did someone mistakenly tell the kitchen that I was about to embark on a 50 kilometer hike and that I required 10000 calories to start my day? Did they see my last name was Krauss and think I was from Germany and would insist upon this gigantic meal? Was it the Yale cap I was wearing? Maybe the wait staff had knowledge of the high standards Yale alums expect from a meal and served me this feast, not realizing the hat was only a gift and I'm not from Yale?

Then I realized what had happened. In this Kyrgyz-themed restaurant I was simply receiving a historical re-enactment of the massive breakfasts the great mythical figure Manas would receive before he would go about the strenuous business of uniting the 40 Kyrgyz tribes. Glad I got that figured out.

By the way, the picture in the post is my Breakfast of Manas AFTER I had finished eating it.

 

Under a Canopy of Stars

I am now staying in a cabin high in the mountains above Bishkek in the last phase of my vacation. Though it is nice, I didn't come here for the brisk, refreshing mountain air. While it is a wonderful feature, the solitude of a private cabin in a near-empty resort isn't the reason either. The chances to go horseback riding or careen about on an all-terrain vehicle are actually disincentives for me. And I certainly didn't come here for the endless supply of mare's milk I've been offered.

Last night, lying in a field of wildflowers, atop a hill, above the resort village is when I remembered the reason I was drawn here. Something in my soul was craving the exhilaration that comes from lying under a canopy of stars. Encountering the vast, night sky fills me with a sense of wonderment, combined with awe and humility, that I seldom experience in my daily routine. Perhaps for those of us not attuned to rote religious practice, it serves as a form of the spiritual.

As I relaxed in quiet bliss, I suddenly heard a trample of forceful footsteps rapidly approaching. It would be my fate, I thought to myself, to have my star gazing interspersed with a robbery. I turned to face my attackers only to find a striking white horse moving toward me, curious to see what strange creature was lying in the meadow in the dark of the night. Ah Kyrgyzstan. It is livestock, not robbers, with whom one must share the night sky. After the horse deemed me harmless as well, then we both quietly continued our business under the glittering and expansive Kyrgyz heavens.

Schedules

Here's the suggested daily program at the place in the mountains where I am staying. Have been here less than a day and I have already fallen hopelessly behind schedule with my Mare's Milk Intake.

The pleasure of unexpected meetings and understanding my calling

Again, in the World's Smallest Big City I run into people I know. This time I didn't run into one person, but I came across about ten at one time, as I was wandering back to my hotel room. This time it was almost the entire group of UCA Camp Counselors I happened upon after I finished my dinner. They had just completed camp yesterday and had arrived today in Bishkek after a job well done.

I have been enjoying my vacation and have relished time alone, expansive moments of silence, and being the master of my time. There were days when I was staying on Lake Issyk-kul when I didn't utter more than 15 words between the time I got up in the morning and when I returned to bed at night. And that's a very happy fact I'm reciting.

Yet, after meeting the counselors this evening and hanging out with some of them in Bishkek Park for awhile, I also experienced the same level of joy that I had received from my recent days of silence. And I felt a pang of regret that I had not had the chance to work with this fine group because, though I am an introvert at heart, I also feel a strong pull to the work I have engaged in much of my life--the difficult, but intensely rewarding, job of helping young adults learn and grow. And perhaps the part of the job I enjoy the most is collaborating and teaming up with other like-minded people to get this work done, in a spirit of mirth and light-heartedness, whenever one can manage such things. What a paradoxical person I am living simultaneously on such opposite poles.

After our hanging out was completed and they headed toward their dinners, I returned to my silent hotel room, where I will savor that quiet while also considering the joys of interacting with those who make up my life's calling.

Being Left-Handed

I was finishing my lunch today in one of my favorite new spots in Bishkek, Murakami, when I had to sign the bank card receipt. The moment I did this the wait staff person smiled and said, "Oh, you're left-handed. So am I." A gentle glow radiated across her and we shared a few warm moments discussing our common fate.

It's something right-handed people can't understand, but whenever those of us who use our left hands notice each other, it is almost as though we are members of a secret, underground society who have found a lost fellow traveler in whom we can confide. It is because being left-handed is an experience that shapes us as profoundly as being right-handed is something "righties" barely contemplate.

When I was a child being left-handed was something I hated because it caused me nothing but misery. Everything in the world was set up for right-handed people. Scissors, pencil-sharpeners, spiral notebooks, and even pens (with ink that smeared across the paper when left hands went over it) were all fiendish inventions of some evil being cruelly obsessed with making the lives of left-handers more difficult to endure. Even buying a baseball glove when I joined my first youth baseball team was an almost impossible endeavor as none of the three stores that sold sporting goods in our small town thought it might be useful to sell a glove that a left-handed boy could use.

It wasn't only the items one used that were a problem, but learning simple tasks could also be a challenge. I remember my poor parents trying day after day for months at a time in their hopeless efforts to teach me to tie my shoes. The frustration level of parents and child reached a terrible level, until my parents came up with the brilliant idea to find someone left-handed to teach me. I remember my first shoe-tying lesson with my left-handed tutor. The unorthodox way he tied shoes worked perfectly for me and within minutes I was tying shoes as well as anyone else. I still remember my tutor's name all these years later because at the time he felt like such a savior to me. That's why we notice fellow members of our underground left-handed society. (And don't get me started on being left-handed and learning to drive a stick shift.)

Then there are the stupid things "righties" have told me over the years in reference to my being left-handed:
*You're just doing that to be different/difficult
*If you really wanted to you could be right-handed
*Try writing with your right hand; you'll get used to it after awhile
*Have you ever tried turning the scissors around the other way, maybe that would help?
*Did you know that the Devil is also left-handed?
*You should move to England. They do everything backward there too.

It is not just our personal issues that define our left-handedness, but society still reflects a perspective about the "left," especially in language. I have often been called "lefty" but no one uses the term "righty." I am a "southpaw," but no one from the other side is called a "northpaw." When someone can't dance they are said to have "two left feet," because, after all, having one left foot is bad enough. A "left-handed compliment" is another name for an insult. It's a universal notion that transcends all cultures: Polish, German, Hungarian, Dutch, and Czech all use the expression "having two left hands" to refer to someone who is completely clumsy or useless. Even words with bad meanings like "sinister" (meaning evil or wicked) come from the Latin for "from the left hand side." It is no wonder, therefore, that Jesus sits on the right hand of God. And it's not surprising that, in light of this biblical concept, there are still some Fundamentalist Christian schools that force left-handed children to switch to the other side despite the fact that this barbarous practice has largely been abandoned.

Over the years, I have come to accept being left-handed. Having no alternative except learning to do some tasks with my right hand, I have become slightly more versatile. I have also become friends with many left-handed people and have appreciated our certain way of being and perceiving. I also think that being left-handed has helped me be more empathetic and understanding as I know what it is like to struggle outside the mainstream.

As I left the restaurant today, I made a mental note of my fellow left-hander as we said good-bye. One more member of my secret society to greet and engage with next time I eat there: because we share much more than those from the other side can imagine.

In the World's Smallest Big City

Sometimes I think Bishkek is the world's smallest city with a metropolitan area of over a million people. This is because when I visit the Kek, my affectionate nickname for the place, I seem to always come across people I know in greater measure than if I were living in a tiny hamlet. Take the last 24 hours for example.

Last night I had dinner at a brand new, elegant Italian restaurant that's just opened in the Kek. Of course, the young woman who was serving us knew me because she had been a participant in UCA's summer camp last year. Then, after midnight, as I was wandering back to my hotel I stumbled across two of my UCA Naryn colleagues on Toktogul Street after they had just finished a midnight snack at a local eatery. We stood on the sidewalk talking until one in the morning.

Today, I needed to get cash at an ATM in Bishkek Park and run an errand there. After I finished my transaction a stranger who knew me stopped me to talk to me because, though I didn't know him, he recognized me from a recent unplanned appearance of mine on national television. It turns out he had worked for various AKDN agencies and wanted to chat with me about my UCA experiences. Now I have a new Facebook friend and Bishkek acquaintance, originally from Khorog, who I am sure I will run across frequently now that we have met.

While standing next to the ATM conversing with my new friend, a wonderful colleague from my days in the Bishkek office, happened by to use the ATM herself. After my new friend excused himself, my colleague and I had a pleasant chat about what she was up to. And as we were talking, another kind colleague, he from the Finance Office, joined in with his two young sons as he too needed the ATM. I joked that I might spend the rest of the day standing next to the ATM as eventually, I speculated, I might just meet everyone I knew in Bishkek before sundown.

After finishing nice conversations, I completed my errands in Bishkek Park and, just as I was leaving, I ran into the former assistant to the dean, from my days in the Central UCA Office. Interestingly enough, we ran into each other about 20 meters from the exact spot we had run into each other several months before. I joked as we departed that, in a few months, we would most certainly run into each other another 20 meters further down the corridor.

I then ran an errand at the Golden Tulip Hotel front desk. Of course the clerk remembered me by name, as I've stayed there a few times before, and he inquired about how things were in Naryn as he had been following campus events.

Finally, late in the afternoon, as I zipped to the pharmacy to purchase an item I kept forgetting to buy, who should I run into but another summer camp student from last year. How nice it was to hear of his plans for college and the future. (And, of course, he was curious about Naryn as he too was aware of campus events.)

Now the day is completed and I am safely locked inside my hotel room in the World's Smallest Big City. I think I will not meet anyone else whom I know, but it wouldn't astonish me if a representative from housekeeping will knock on my door to check something and suddenly discover she knows me and will decide to start a conversation I never dreamed I would have.

In Bishkek: Square outside the National Philharmonic

The last remaining members of a vanishing tribe

As I sat in the shade on the beach at Lake Issyk-kul reading my book I noticed a few people giving me strange looks. At first I thought it was because my physical appearance was glaringly non-Kyrgyz, but then I realized that there were a whole bunch of other pale folks on the beach in the personage of ethnic Russians and a few of them even paler than me, so my bleached skin and the zillions of freckles developing on my arms weren't the problem.

It wasn't until a girl around the age of six came up to me to ask me something in Russian that I realized what the problem was. Of course, I had no idea what the girl was asking, but luckily her mother was there and able to translate. "She's asking why you are reading a book on the beach when you should be out swimming, having fun." I tried to convince the girl, through her mother's translation, that I was indeed having fun, more fun than she could imagine, but the little girl would have none of that explanation. Embarrassed by her daughter's boldness, the mother hurriedly returned them to their beach chairs, but I realized suddenly that I was as out of place as if I were wearing a parka and snow skis on this hot summer's day. And I realized also that I was very much alone, reading a book on the beach.

I remember when I was a teenager, my family and I would go up to a retreat center deep in the Cascade Mountains of Washington for our vacations each summer. Yes, we played volleyball, hiked and fished, sat in the village sauna, and gazed at the brilliant evening sky from our spot in the gigantic outdoor village jacuzzi. But many of the guests could also be found throughout the day sitting on benches and chairs on the dormitory porches reading books. The center even had a village library where many of us would hang out reading, during some of our spare time. It was how we vacationed: relaxation and renewal through activities and leisurely reading. But it wasn't just at the retreat center: through most of my adult life I have spent time on beaches or in mountain lodges where many of my fellow guests were leisure readers too.

After being lectured by the small girl about my strange habits, I got out of my beach chair just to check to see that there surely must be someone else on the shores of Issyk-kul exactly like me. I started at the west end of the beach and continued 400 meters to the far east end to see if there was another reader to be found. I even stealthily snuck up behind those on tablets and phones: certainly one of these relaxed tourists must have a book on their electronic devices. No, only games and videos could I find--and annoyed glances at the pale, freckled man coming too close to their personal spaces. No, not a book in sight among the hundreds of sun-bathers. The best I could do was almost trip over an elderly man lying on a towel, doing a crossword puzzle.

Discouraged, I wondered if I should just surrender my obsolete ways, dodo bird of a person I had become. Maybe I would be better off taking up the pastimes of my fellow beach dwellers: commandeer a jet ski, buy several cups of beer and smoke cigarettes, do belly flops off the pier, or have several children bury me in sand up to my neck. Or better yet, I should engage in the activity the majority of the beach goers under the age of five were doing all day long: I could try crying and screaming at the top of my lungs, in the hope that I too would receive the endless supply of ice cream and the earnest pleas of young mothers in bikinis that these toddlers were getting.

But, if nothing else, I am stubborn, as much as an unconsoled four-year-old, and I returned to my beach chair to read my book, an astonishing novel by Shusaku Endo, entitled Silence. If I am one of the last members of a vanishing tribe, then so be it.

Just before leaving the lake today for the very last time, I walked toward the beach to take one final look at the stunning blue waters of Issyk-kul. Just as I reached the sand, a woman in her 20s walked by. She was reading a book, lost in the text as she strolled quietly toward the residences. I wanted to stop her and ask her what she was reading and if she was having a wonderful time with her book on the beach. But, I knew I would startle her, even frighten her, with the odd questions coming from some pale, white-bearded stranger. So, I said nothing and watched her walk by. But I was filled with joy knowing that my vanishing tribe had at least one more member on that Issyk-kul beach to take my place.

Taking up contact sports: The Breakfast Buffet

The lake resort at which I am staying is excellent in that it sets up a wealth of sports and activities for its guests. I'm not into that sort of thing, but I have been participating in one fierce representative of the martial arts while staying here: The Breakfast Buffet.

When the doors open at 8:30 combat begins. Little did I know before my first breakfast buffet that I would have to evade sharp elbows when making the effort to position myself in close proximity to the platter of fried eggs. Nor did I realize the zeal for which guests here savor raw cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast. I didn't even want these vegetables when I made the mistake of blocking the plate that housed them, causing a Russian octogenarian to shove her way in front of me to ladel a heaping scoopful onto her plate. If only I had the linguistic skill to tell her I had no use for cucumbers for breakfast: I was simply waiting patiently for the scuffle around the pancake platter to subside.

To its credit, The Breakfast Buffet is an egalitarian, pluralistic sport. All ages, genders, orientations, and nationalities join in with equal enthusiasm. Why just this morning a five-year-old girl stepped on my foot so that she could maneuver herself in front of me for better access to the Kyrgyz dumplings. But don't feel too sorry for me, I have devised a strategy or two of my own. I have come to realize that there is one item on the buffet nobody wants: the braised cabbage. Although, I don't really enjoy cabbage for breakfast either, I have a plate each morning simply because it is the best way to avoid physical contact and injury. Even better though, I have found that while standing unimpeded in front of the braised cabbage, I can actually extended my arms over the buffet table and scoop up all the hard boiled eggs and croissants my heart desires.

If the next time you see me, I appear a little more buffed and in a more impressive fighting trim, no need to ask me if I've been working out. You'll know I've been hardened and toughened up at the breakfast buffet.

 

Four Haikus of a Summer's Day on Lake Issyk-Kul

Resting on the beach,
whispering waves touch the shore
soft breeze soothes my soul.

Contemplating life
watching boys build sand castles--
time passes gently.

Storm on horizon
empties lake of swimmers.
I stay, seeking nerve.

Round pebbles stacked
upon each other on the lake floor
touching, yet unconnected.

Lake Issyk-Kul as a storm approaches

 

When Colonel Sanders Invades Your Country

A few days ago, when I was wandering through Bishkek, I found myself near the new shopping center that I heard would be housing a highly-anticipated new phenomenon: Kyrgyzstan’s first KFC. One of the features I appreciate most about Kyrgyzstan is its dearth of enormous fast food chains. When I arrived in Kyrgyzstan last year, there was not a single U.S.-based franchise in the country. One week later, Nathan’s Hot Dogs opened its first outlet, but they are such a small player on the franchise scene that their arrival didn’t bother me. Too much.

But, this is different; KFC is a mammoth operation sprawling across the globe and its entry into the Kyrgyz market just might be a game changer. When I arrived at the new KFC, stern countenance of the Colonel glowering down from various vantage points around the shopping center, I was astonished to find a mob of almost a hundred people lined up waiting to enter the store—at 4 p.m. in the afternoon. There was a security guard monitoring the entrance, making sure only a few people could enter at a time so that the KFC wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the crowd clamoring for the best fried chicken the state of Kentucky supposedly has to offer.

I had contemplated trying a thigh of the Colonel’s Original Recipe of secret herbs and spices and a small bucket of mashed potatoes the consistency of school glue, with brown gravy possessing the faint flavor of black pepper and instant coffee. However, a two-hour wait to savor such gourmet treats seemed slightly excessive to me and I wandered away to engage in more productive tasks. Still, I was troubled. Why were so many people so extraordinarily eager to dine with the Colonel? It’s not the food. It’s somehow the marketing. The Colonel and his loyal band of majors and lieutenants must know that they are selling the promise of the West and what it seems to offer those enchanted by the myths of faraway lands.

Clearly the Kyrgyz standing in line at the Bishkek KFC, don’t know KFC like I know KFC. When the novelty of the Colonel wears away, sometimes little remains. I say that because I vividly remember the KFC in the small Arkansas town in which I once lived. It was an elderly, bedraggled, poorly-maintained place. I only visited it a couple of times, so appalling was the service one would receive there. My order never was filled correctly—sometimes even the second or third time. The restrooms appeared to be seldom tended. The buffet: a dismal assortment of dried and mushy relics whose expiration dates seemed to have corresponded with the dates chronicled in the history books of the local school children. There were not a hundred people standing in line to enter that KFC, but rather a line of three or four unsuspecting travelers from the interstate hoping to flee the store, if only their orders would ever get filled. I wonder if the Kyrygz KFC customers know what they will be getting down the road?

So begins the slow, yet gradual, process of the erosion of local foodways and Kyrgyz ways of living. How amazing it is that it’s something for which everyone is standing in line and paying money gladly.

KFC Bishkek

Waiting in line for that "Finger Lickin' Good" Chicken