Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan

by Monica Neboli

  Sadie snooped around her house with the boldness of a three-year-old and managed to find the stuffed toy animals that once belonged to Natasha’s now grown up daughters. She brought them all into the kitchen and lined them up on the floor to put them to sleep. I tried to explain to Natasha that after she leaves our house in the afternoon, Sadie rearranges her toys resentfully back on the floor where they were sleeping before Natasha cleaned them up. I wished I knew enough Russian to tell that her even though Sadie won’t talk to her while she is at our house, she waits until she is sure she is gone, then opens the door and yells down the stairwell, “Bye Natasha, I still love you!”

  Later, Sadie found some marbles in a bowl of shells. The shells were cleaned and arranged lovingly in a pattern. I thought about all the shells I’ve collected and forgotten about, realizing that her shells were probably from a hard-earned and treasured beach holiday. I wondered if I had appreciated my beach holidays enough, if I had really earned them. Sadie hid the marbles in her living room while we covered our eyes and counted, a trick she had just learned this year during Easter. We did that several times and then decided to go pet the cat one more time before we left. As we were getting ready, Natasha gave me a small houseplant to take home. She walked us down the road until she was sure we knew how to get home, even though I would have easily managed alone, then said goodbye.

  I wondered why she had invited us. Does she feel the same connection to us that I feel towards her? Did she want me to see the extent of her full and rich life, to see her as more than a housekeeper, to understand her strength and capability? Did she think I didn’t already know?

  I wonder if she’ll ever know how much it meant to me to be invited into her home. As an expat I often feel like an outsider trying to see in, but only able to see through the tinted lens of cultural assumptions. Does she feel this way when she comes to our home? Does she know this isn’t really me? Overseas I live in borrowed apartments, never fully committed to people or places. After the thrill of a new country wears off, I find myself searching for the comfort and regularity of a normal life, which often means I stop trying to understand or belong. Seeing her home brought up that feeling in me again, the desire to settle, to find a less transient life, to know a community for many years. It made me want to grow my garden and put up my pictures and invite her to see my quiet life. But it also reawakened the desire to look deeper again, to understand different people and try harder to belong to this temporary life. In all my years overseas, this small, simple gesture was one of the more intimate and special occasions I’ve experienced. Walking into her kitchen, I realized, had felt like going home.

  Birthdays and Beshbarmak

  by Raquel Taravilla Pujado

  The European project I was working on had been relocated to Atyrau and my family and I were looking forward to living in one of Kazakhstan’s largest cities in the southwest of the country, very close to the Caspian Sea.

  The company set us up in a hotel apartment in the city centre where we met lots of interesting people, including Zhanar, a friendly Kazakh woman, with long dark hair. In her mid-twenties Zhanar spoke perfect English and was studying for a chemistry degree in the United States. She was back in Kazakhstan to see family during her summer vacation. We had first started chatting to her in the hotel gym and she clearly felt comfortable in the company of Western expatriates. We got along so well that she invited us to her forthcoming birthday celebrations with her family and friends. We were slightly nervous about what to expect at a traditional Kazakh birthday party, but she was eager for us to join her and we were delighted to be invited, so we accepted immediately.

  On the evening of the party our driver arrived to collect us and we travelled through the city centre to an old brown building, where Zhanar was waiting to greet us. We stepped inside a dark and dingy hallway and climbed up three flights of stairs to her apartment, where we removed our shoes in keeping with Muslim tradition (it is considered impolite to enter a clean home wearing outdoor shoes).

  After introducing us to her family and friends, Zhanar invited us to sit around a table laden with exotic-looking food and adorned with golden decorations. Looking back, I can’t remember everything we ate because there was so much to choose from. I do remember the main course though: beshbarmak, a traditional Kazakh dish meaning ‘five fingers’ because it is eaten by hand. Beshbarmak is prepared with sliced boiled meat and onion, infused with spices and accompanied by noodles or pasta. Originally it would have been made with horsemeat but nowadays it can be made with different kinds of meats including camel, fish and chicken. Presented in a big round dish, large chunks of meat are dished up in bowls called kese and served with shorpo, a broth made from mutton.

  Tradition states that a sheep’s head is boiled in a kazan, a cauldron-style cooking pot, and then offered to the most distinguished or oldest guest, and in turn they carve the meat from the head, offering it to other guests around the table.

  Depending on age and gender, party guests are offered different parts of the animal’s carcass, with each bit being significant. The younger adults are usually given the leg and shoulder bones. Youths are given the sheep’s ear with wishes to be careful and girls get the palate, in the hope that they will become good homemakers. Special guests are treated to gammon and shank; a young bride would be offered the brisket, and married women receive the neck-bones. Children are given the kidneys and heart, with the message that they are not yet mature, while knuckle is never served to a young girl because of the belief that she might remain an old maid forever. It was with some relief that we learned that the brain is always discarded because it is considered unsuitable to eat. An ‘Amen’ is always said at the end of a meal to give thanks to God.

  On this occasion, we did not follow the beshbarmak ritual strictly to tradition and we were all given various parts of the sheep. We Westerners struggled to swallow, while trying to pretend it was delicious!

  After nearly three hours of non-stop eating, numerous speeches, and mingling with Zhanar’s relatives and friends, we were stuffed to bursting point, and naturally assumed the celebrations were drawing to a close when Zhanar’s mother and sister began clearing the table. But as we stood up to thank our hosts, Zhanar asked if we would like to hear some traditional Kazakh pop music. Not wanting to offend the birthday girl, we headed off to her pretty bedroom with its floral décor to listen to her favourite tunes.

  Half an hour later, Zhanar thanked us for coming to her party and said how pleased she was that we had been able to make it. We felt sure the celebrations were winding down as we began to make our way to the front door. But just as we started putting our shoes on, Zhanar’s mother and sister began laying out more food on the tables.

  Despite our protestations about feeling full-up and that we had to get up for work in the morning, Zhanar’s family cheerfully ignored our excuses and good-naturedly insisted we continue the celebrations and carry on eating! I desperately wished that I had paced myself earlier because I had no idea how I could possibly consume anything else.

  Finally, another hour and a half later, the party was drawing to a close and we thanked Zhanar and her family for their generous hospitality. As we waddled sleepily to our car, we reminisced about the wonderful evening we had had, and how fortunate we were to have experienced a traditional Kazakh birthday party.

  Drinking Camel’s Milk in the Yurt

  by Monica Neboli

  “My mother would be really happy to have you and the girls as our guests tomorrow for lunch.” Sholpan, our dear Kazakh friend, was calling to invite us to visit her parents in their village; my husband, unfortunately, was attending a conference on the other side of the world.

  We first met Sholpan when we arrived in Kazakhstan two years ago. At the time Sholpan was a teacher in the local school in Atyrau and she wanted to improve her English by working with an expat family, in the hopes of being hired by the QSI International School of Atyrau. Within two years, showing characteristic Kazakh deter
mination, Sholpan had passed from the role of nanny to my youngest daughter, Agata, to that of teacher’s assistant in the class of my eldest, Eleonora, at the international school.

  “Monica, are you still there?”

  I had been daydreaming about our visit.

  “Yes, sure, it will be our pleasure,” I replied.

  Sholpan had told us a lot about Damba, a fishing village of about 3,000 souls in the suburbs of Atyrau, and her birthplace. Her parents still lived there and it was an unfailing source of tales, anecdotes and superstitions, all of which Sholpan would describe to us in great detail.

  I remember in particular the stories she told us about the phantoms roaming her village. Nobody in the village had seen them, but everyone knew it was best not to encounter them.

  “The young guys of the village who had seen a phantom while coming home late at night had either disappeared forever or lost their minds,” she had told us with a serious expression. The tales always brought great excitement for our daughters, though the consequence was often a sleepless night for my husband and I, who were forced to share our bed with two kids who would take fright at the slightest noise.

  On the morning of our visit to Damba, there was a joyful atmosphere in our house. My daughters were eager to meet the parents of their friend. While I was dressing them, I tried to mentally recap the little information I had learnt in the past two years on Kazakh etiquette for guests: never arrive without a present; never use the left hand to eat; and at the end of the meal, always remember to thank your host with the amin, a Muslim gesture of thanks that involves cupping the hands and passing them down the face.

  The company’s minibus, which we were not allowed to drive ourselves, arrived to take us to the village and would wait there for our return. Leaving Atyrau city, which sits along the Ural River, my daughters became captivated by the landscape of the steppe. We entertained ourselves by attempting to spot the various animals grazing quietly along the riverside and on the plains: wild horses, camels and cows, and those small, funny brown animals, the souslik (or ground squirrel), which would appear unexpectedly here and there behind the bushes, before disappearing just as quickly a few seconds later. I was always the last to spot them in our games.

  Along the river I caught a glimpse of small, green open spaces, ideal for spring picnics, during which – as the Kazakh tradition dictates – shashlyk would be served: skewered pieces of meat cooked on the grill. These have become, for the expat community too, a delicious tradition.

  Along the road, the small houses, even if simple and still under construction, were on the whole more attractive than the buildings we had left behind in the city. Each dwelling was surrounded by a small garden, often with flowers and plants.

  When we arrived in Damba, Sholpan’s mother opened the minibus door and welcomed us with a beaming smile, making us feel immediately at home. Like Sholpan, both parents had Asiatic traits, with those beautiful black eyes common especially to Kazakhs. Sholpan’s father, who was more reserved, was waiting for us behind the fence. Neither of her parents spoke English so Sholpan was our official translator for the day.

  The family led us directly to see the new house that Sholpan, with the savings from her job at the international school, was building for her parents. Only the walls had been completed at this stage, but it was going to be beautiful: two floors, bedrooms for the whole family and a big, cheerful kitchen. The only flaw, alas, was the bathroom. Although toilets are generally found outside the Kazakh home, there was no sewer system in the village, so the family had to make do with what they had: a big hole dug in the garden, around which they had built a small concrete cabin.

  The little cabin, outwardly so nice, was a great source of interest for my daughters. They amused themselves by running around it while the adults explored the new house, until Agata called, “Mama, I need to pee.”

  When she saw the hole inside the “dolls’ house” she began to cry. After about 10 minutes of trying to convince her to use the toilet, we had to find a spot for her to pee in the garden.

  A step or two away was another house, smaller than the one under construction, which was the family’s home in the mean time. We moved towards the entrance, the neighbours curiously watching these expats visiting their village. At the entrance we took off our shoes. This was a habit that we had already become accustomed to in Egypt, our previous destination as expatriates. The house had a small entrance; there was a kitchen to the right and in front was a room with a low table in the centre. On the floor around the table were carpets traditionally used in yurts. Along two sides of the room were two modern kebezhe, small wooden pieces of furniture decorated with Kazakh symbols. On top of these, thick coloured quilts were piled high.

  Sholpan’s mother invited us to take a seat on the floor. It was devilishly hot and the rooms were full of gadflies. The house was in semi-darkness; on the windows were heavy, colourful curtains, slightly open so only a few glimmers could filter in. Sholpan’s father, sitting on the sofa in the living room next door, was watching television. My daughters began to run around the room, jumping up and down on the couch. It was unusual behaviour for them, but the man was laughing and playing with them, so I let it continue. Within a few seconds Agata was sitting in his lap, calling him nonno (Italian for grandpa) and stroking his face.

  In the meantime, I headed with my friend to the kitchen, a small room with a fire stove and a table, and a refrigerator on the other side of the door. Washing up was done outside the house in water poured into big basins. Sholpan began to wash the glasses that were on the table and then passed them to me to set the table for lunch. While Sholpan’s mother was finishing the cooking, we then put the coloured quilts on the floor around the table in the dining room. The girls soon arrived, hungry and curious to try new flavours. A little later our minibus driver appeared; he had been invited for lunch by Sholpan’s parents. We sat down on the quilts and each diner received a cup of chai and a bowl of broth.

  Sholpan’s mother soon entered with a steaming dish of beshbarmak, the most famous and traditional of Kazakh meals. As we began to eat, I felt proud of my daughters, who were eating their meal with their hands without batting an eye. They were sharing in the joy and fun of lunch with our companions. They already felt part of this world, and part of this family who were hosting us so warmly.

  We finished the lunch with an amin and Sholpan suggested we visit the village. My daughters agreed immediately – they looked forward to running among the houses. The day was fantastic, warm and dry, and we headed towards the Ural River. The houses were positioned along parallel lines between the river and the main road. We were walking on hard mud, the same mud that, during the rainy days, sticks to your boots and is so difficult to remove when it has dried.

  On arrival at the river bank, we noticed a yurt in front of us. It was not the kind of yurt that we were used to seeing during Nauryz. (During this celebration, the main square of Atyrau is full of yurts covered by white sheets on which typical Kazakh symbols are painted in blue and red.) This yurt appeared more traditional: it was covered by felt carpets bound together with ropes whose ends were knotted around stones positioned around the yurt. The small wooden door, which in Kazakh tradition looks to the south, was inlaid with purple geometric drawings.

  Sholpan knocked at the door and said something in Kazakh. An old woman opened the door. She had on a sky blue hat and her face was a web of wrinkles on amber skin. She looked at us with a warm smile and I understood that she had been waiting for us. We left our shoes outside and entered the yurt.

  As we grew used to the dim light, we saw a cosy interior, which was surprisingly cool. We walked across felt carpets in red and white, while yet more carpets covered the walls and part of the ceiling. We sat down on a sofa near a low table. Eleonora and Agata, enchanted by the charm of this new kind of tent, were strangely calm as they sat by my side.

  After exchanging a few words with Sholpan, the old woman walked across to a beautiful kebe
zhe, above which a goatskin hung. She filled some glasses and offered them to us. Sholpan explained that the glasses held camel’s milk, a delicious, nutrient-rich drink considered important for the health of young and old in Kazakhstan. I overcame the temptation to guzzle it down when I saw my daughters and Sholpan sipping at it politely.

  While slowly drinking my milk, which was saltier than cow’s milk, my eyes were drawn to the blue sky, which peeped through the hole at the top of the yurt. I was surrounded by a feeling of peace and serenity. I felt completely in tune with this land, which had welcomed me for the past two years. I felt so happy to add this experience to my life’s memories and so lucky to have the opportunity to get to know the Kazakh traditions in a deeper way. Even today I carry that feeling with me, as I do the taste of that glass of camel’s milk, which I drank slowly to savour every last drop.

  Table of Unity

  by Gualtiero Bestetti

  It was a Friday evening in Atyrau. The outside temperature was –27° Celsius. Everything was frozen: the river, the trees… it was surreal. That night we had a dinner appointment with our landlord – our first invitation from a local since we had moved here.

  We had come to Atyrau a year ago with our little boy, who was nearly two years old at the time. We had decided not to live in a compound but in a Kazakh building, so we could live among locals and feel at home, rather than as if we were living in a hotel. It was difficult in the beginning because of the language barrier, but our location was fantastic. We were in a large building by the river and it had a playground in the courtyard, where children would play in summer (and sometimes in winter). We were the first foreigners to move into the building and our neighbours, who were polite and tried to speak a few words in English, seemed happy to have expatriates in the building. It was particularly special for us to see our son playing with Kazakh children in the playground, in spite of their cultural differences. Children speak a universal language; they don’t care about differences. There is a lot we can learn from them.