For those of you who may have been caught unawares, this past Monday, March the 8^th celebrated International Women’s Day. This holiday, once a domestic affair in the Soviet Union, has, since it’s fall, burst with excitement onto the international stage. (That last line was a blatantly sensationalized way of reporting that this holiday is still celebrated in the former USSR countries…)

That being said, it really is a wonderful affair. Where some women complain that it serves as just another excuse for their husbands to take them out to eat, and then get drunk themselves, all the while patting themselves on the back, this was not my experience (not exactly, any way.)

On Women’s Day Eve, my dad made dinner, all by himself, and the family girls all received it to high acclaim. The dish, a winter time variant of dimdama: beef, onions and potatoes cooked together in oil, was tasty. Unfortunately, by no fault of my father’s, we had to eat carefully, as we’re getting down to some of the rougher cuts of the winter cow, and little bone fragments are becoming more frequent.

The next day, Women’s Day proper, was a bona fide feast. After being called to dress a slim 30 minutes before the guests would arrive, I found myself in the dining room with 5, only one of whom I’d met. Four were women, and the fifth was a short, happy little Kyrgyz guy with a round face. When I introduced myself, as I do, as Kanibek, he laughed aloud and told me his was Michael.

Lunch was defined by salads, fruit, and the famous Kyrgyz boiled meat and noodles, the national dish we callbesh barkmak. Plus, of course, booze. Usually I refrain, but I had a headache, so matched Mike shot for shot. We shared toasts all around, and he had fun with me, among other things, admiring my golden, curly hair, and the high quality of my shoes, which he insisted I open a business importing.

At the end of the meal, after many toasts to the women among us, conversation took a turn towards the most recent hot topic, democracy.

“Kanibek,” Michael said, “which country that you’ve visited has the best democracy, China, Vietnam or India?” Then there was some stifled laughter, “or here?”

I thought about Chinese censorship, and the travel restrictions I found in Vietnam. I thought about Kyrgyzstan, and then said, “India.”

“But Kanibek,” one woman with a row of gold teeth asked, “there is so much difference between rich and poor there, how can their democracy be real?”

I had to think for a second. “Every country has this problem,” I said, “but India is on the right path.”

It hadn’t been my intention, but this last comment silenced the room. We just sat then, thoughtful, wondering, before my parents, the excellent hosts, gathered everyone up for an “omin,” the traditional finishing of a meal, and we moved on.

The day wasn’t over yet, though. My sisters, having seen me down shots, wanted to, among other things, play chess with me. Needless to say, they were delighted with the results.

Crossposted from my blog