Tysoo Keshuu – Cutting the binds
On Saturday, I was invited to a birthday party … not just any old birthday party, a Tushoo Kyrgkuu, a party to celebrate a child’s first birthday.
Amongst the Kyrgyz this is a an important rite of passage for a child growing up, and I felt very honoured and privileged to have been invited to this traditional family celebration.
The toi, or party, was due to start at three o’clock and so, just before three, I left my desk and headed out of the office to find a taxi, (as it was the weekend, I didn’t have a driver at the office). Typically, there was a dearth of taxis just because I needed one … on most days they are lined up at the corner eager for business, but this obviously doesn’t apply to Saturday afternoons. Fortunately, managed to flag one down, and climbing into the passenger seat, said where I wanted to go only to be greeted with a “Where?”. Now, the street that I had named is quite small, in one of the suburbs, so I wasn’t that surprised and replied: “Just past Alamedin”. The driver nodded and pulled away from the kerb.
Now I know that my accent is not that good … but on this occasion this wasn’t the cause of the problem. Apparently, I learned in the conversation as we drove along, the driver was not local, that is, not from Bishkek but from Talas, a town about 370 kilometers away, and at one point he got out his street atlas of Bishkek to check the route. This was after I pointed out that when I said, “Just past Alamedin”, I had meant Alamedin Bazaar, not suburb Alamedin Odeen.
He was a pleasant enough young man, learning English and eager to grab a little practice as the opportunity had presented itself, but I felt a little frustrated as I saw the seconds ticking away, and I realized that I was going to be late.
I needn’t have worried, however. Even though I rolled up about ten minutes late after our little detour, I was by no means the last to arrive. “We are, after all, in Kyrgyzstan,” I reminded myself as we sat chatting outside the cafe where the party was to be held. Good timekeeping is not exactly a national trait. Although Dad was taking the delay calmly in his stride, Mum and Grandma were getting more and het up as time passed, especially as the dilettantes were members of the immediate family and all the other guests, like me, had already arrived.
Some of the children used the time wisely getting in some practicing running – which was going to play an important roll in the event.
Finally, however, when nearly everyone had turned up, we filed into the cafe and took our seats at the table. There were two tables set. One for the adults and another for the children. It was quite a big gathering, and lots of children.
The table was heavily laden with salads and as well as plates of bread, the tablecloth was covered with Boorsok, a traditional, deep fried packet of dough, which is very tasty and filling. Having been to these tois before, I knew what was to come and so was careful not to pile up too much salad onto my plate … this was only the first of four courses … there were still soup, cutlets and Beshbarmak to follow.
There were also toasts … which, inevitably, meant drinking vodka. There was some wine and also some beer available … but vodka was really de rigueur. I was called upon to deliver my toast fairly early on in the proceedings – a sign of respect, as an honoured guest. I appreciated that, for several reasons … one, of course, was for the honour that was being paid to me, but another, more practical reason, was that if you are called upon later, then it is difficult to find something to say which is new … you end up simply repeating the same “Health, wealth and happiness” formula which several people before you have already said. I thanked my hosts for the invitation and made sure to refer in my speech to the earlier toasts that had gone before, then said how glad I was that, as a family, they were maintaining the ages old traditions of the Kyrgyz, and I hoped that their son would grow up strong and healthy and also respect the traditions of his people. Everyone seemed to appreciate my contribution, but it failed in one respect, however … the length of the speech is a rough guide to the importance of the person giving it … the more important the person, the longer the toast. My speech was quite short, for one of the honoured guests, but as I am a foreigner, they were forgiving and understanding on this point.
For most of the toasts I was able to down the vodka in what I term “Kyrgyz style”. I have often had to explain to locals that back home a measure of vodka is quite small – about 25ml, and we tend not to drink it straight but to mix something with it … and then sip it. I call that the “English style” of drinking vodka. The “Russian style”, in contrast, is quite simple … a measure is at least 50 grams – twice as much – and quite often, more – which is then “downed in one”. “Kyrgyz style” on the other hand, involves drinking about half the measure, or possibly less, which means that a refill involves merely “topping up” the glass. It also saves you from insulting the honour of the host – by having an empty glass.
One of the advantages of dinking “Kyrgyz style” is that you consume less alcohol during the course of the evening … as toast follows toast, follows toast. Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t always possible as there were a few guests who took the view that not downing the whole measure was an affront to their dignity and show a lack of respect to their toast … I didn’t feel that I could lecture them on the dilemma that I was faced with: affront their dignity, or that of our host. I drank the additional vodka.
After the soup came the main event of the celebration. In the nomadic past the child would have been kept in swaddling clothes and, having reached their first birthday would be released from them … their “binds” would be cut and they would be free to take their first steps. In practice, most children have already started to walk, but that is the basis of the tradition. To mark the occasion, a race is organized and the winner is give the honour of “cutting the binds”. We actually had three races – one for the children, one for the women, and one for the men. It was only over a short course – about 40m – but the competitors all took part with gusto, especially the children. When it came to the Ladies race, it was a “close run thing”, literally. I was very glad that I wasn’t the judge that had to decide and declare who was the winner. It looked to me like this was the sort of thing that, in the past, might have started a family feud … but, as it happened, everyone took it in good humour. When it came to my turn to run in the Men’s race, everyone was very concerned because on the last two occasions I have participated in one of the events, I have managed to fall over … and come in last. I used to joke that it was deliberate … a tactic to cover my poor performance and the fact that I wasn’t going to win. At first it had been announced that there wasn’t going to be a Men’s race … and I had a suspicion that it might have been because the favourite to win, a young athletic member of the family, had hurt his foot playing football and was hobbling around so couldn’t take part. He himself protested, however, and so the race was staged. I was given a head start in deference to my advanced years … although there were others just as old as me taking part as well. There were obviously fitter than me, however, and streaked past me. This time, however, I did manage to complete the course without falling over … which was just as well because the road was strewn with stones and I could have done myself an injury.
The races run … winner declared and prizes distributed … along with presents for everyone, not just the winners … we broke for an interval before the next course. Although everyone gave presents for the boy whose birthday it was, it’s also traditional here for the hosts to make sure that everyone is given a present and no-one goes away empty handed.
Some sat and chatted, whilst others started to dance to music blaring out of the hi-fi system and others walked into the Billiard room and took up cues.
The billiard room was a cavernous room with four tables set out. They were all in good condition and well lit. There seem to be several different versions of Billiards played here. My father, who enjoyed both Billiards and Snooker, wouldn’t have recognized any of them. They don’t resemble Pool either. These tables had sixteen balls – fifteen white balls in a triangle and one red ball – which serves as a cue ball. On one the tables, however, I saw they were playing any ball … red or white, it didn’t seem to matter. Billiards is a popular game here and most people can play it after a fashion. However, the game I was watching seemed to go on and on – more like a game of chess, and I became convinced that our host, the younger player, was holding back so as not to beat his elder, who in turn was also holding himself back, trying not to embarrass the father of the boy whose birthday we were celebrating.
Whilst this was going on, I contrived to miss the cutlet course … a sort of burger served with mashed potato. As I said, I have been to these festivals before, and I know that in order to make sure that no-one goes away hungry, there is usually a surfeit of food … and no risk at all that anyone would actually do so.
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The seemingly endless sequence of toasts continued.
The highlight was probably the contribution by one of the uncles of the birthday boy, Asylbek Nasirdinov. A talented musician, Asylbek is also the manager of a folklore ensemble, “Saamal”, and performs both here and abroad. He has given us invaluable and multifaceted assistance in preparation of website www.sounds.kg about traditional Kyrgyz music. For example, he provided the collection of MP3 files in the archive section of the site. Although a talented performer on the Komuz, his specialty is wind instruments … and, as well as a performance of Lennon and McCartney’s Yesterday, he also performed a classic piece on my favourite Kyrgyz instrument the Chopo Choor … which he had made himself when a student and which he then donated to me.
The final course was the great traditional dish, Beshbarmak. Now, Beshbarmak is not exactly one of my favourite dishes … I prefer roast Lamb to boiled mutton … and to my horror I saw the waitress bring forth a tray with the sheep’s head on it. By tradition, this is carved by the head of the table and parts distributed to honoured guests according to a strict hierarchy. So far, I have always managed to avoid having the most honoured part – the eye – given to me and fortunately my luck held out once again. I was able to nibble away at an indeterminate piece of real meat and didn’t ask what part of the animal it had originally constituted.
That brought the festivities to a close and after we said the traditional “Omen” which rounds off every meal as a “grace” or Benediction, we were presented with plastic bags in which to place bread, boorsok, meat, fruit … anything that was left on the table to take home with us.
The one thing that was missing … a round of “Happy Birthday”.
Bishkek