I see my counterpart*, Kushtar, walking towards me on the
main road of Barskoon with a sack full of sweet iced tea (the Kyrgyz version of
iced tea is so sweet it tastes as if someone melted a popsicle into a plastic
bottle and called it tea...) and another sack containing 2 melons. “Ahhh
Amanda, I’m sorry for making you walk! My family is coming in the shrut now.” I
laugh and exclaim “Kushtar! I don’t mind walking! Let me help you with those
melons.”
Kushtar’s husband, Kumar, is one of the few marshrutka
drivers in charge of ferrying people on the route from Barskoon to Karakol city
and vice versa. For those of you who are wondering what a marshrutka is, allow
me to explain. Imagine a tall van/bus equipped with a few rows of seats and
some metal bars hanging from the ceiling from which people can hold on for dear
life. Marshrutka rides tend to be packed, hot, uncomfortable, and cheap to
boot, which is why most people prefer to ride the marshrutka versus the taxi,
the more expensive option. In proper marshrutka etiquite, seats must be made
available for older Kyrgyz people, women who are pregnant, and women with small
children.
The bright yellow shrut approaches us on the main road and I
can see Kumar flashing a big smile and waving us over. “Oh!” Kushtar begins,
“My family does not want you to think that we all live together in one house!
They are worried you will think this. Many people come to visit to take a rest
and go to lake. Not everyone live with me.” I nod in understanding and we
continue on and go aboard the marshrutka to find Kushtar’s large, bustling
family equipped with great smiles to meet me.
We take the bumpy road down to a private, serene stretch of
beach on the lake. Parking the shrut near the sand, we claim our territory for
the day. Immediately upon arrival, the women jump out of the shrut and begin
setting up camp- laying out tooshuks, setting up a grill, and digging holes for
the melons and the drinks in shallow water to keep them cool. The children quickly
strip their clothes and run full speed for the water. I take a seat near
Kushtar’s parents in law, the elderly Kyrgyz of our bunch.
We sit for hours- talking, eating, laughing, and
sporadically wading in the water to cool off from the blazing sun. Kumar is
manning the grill and providing a steady stream of “shashlik” (pieces of
marinated chicken grilled on skewers- much like the American model of a “shish
kabob”) with pieces of onion and bread. Kushtar occasionally makes rounds with
the melons- cutting off pieces of melon and handing them out to everyone. Kushtar’s
father in law takes a swig from a bottle of vodka and them shoves it in my
direction, motioning for me to take a drink. “No, thank you.” I tell him in
Kyrgyz, but he persists. “Just a little bit…?” He says, using his fingers to
squeeze the air in the universal sign for “little”. “No, no no.” I tell him
again, chuckling a little at his persistent attempt to get me to drink with
him.
When Kyrgyz people go to the beach, they tend to use up
every bit of warm sunlight available to them. This means staying at the beach
until the winds grows cool enough to cause them to replace layers once shed in
a prompt dash for the glistening water before them. The small children begin
crying, knowing that a departure from their beloved beach is soon to come.
I sit out of the last round of shashlik, feeling as though
my stomach was full enough to last 2 or 3 days at the least. Kushtar comes
around with a bag of candies and cookies signaling the children over so they
may dip their hands into the sugar filled bag of goodies. I take one chocolate
covered cookie and Kushtar swiftly hands me 2 more, true to pure Kyrgyz form.
Filing onto the marshrutka, we bid goodbye to our small
escape from village life on the shore on the lake. We take the bumpy road back
into Barskoon and I exchange kisses on the cheek with the women as I say
goodbye, disembark the bright yellow marshrutka, and open my gate leading into
my home as the last drops of sunlight escape behind the mountains.
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