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TITLE: Summer Camp in Kazakhstan By Linda Crow 03/31/06 |
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Exotic, spicy aromas emanating from the makeshift cafeteria evoked both anticipation and dread during English camp near Bauerjahn Mumshula, Kazakhstan, a former republic of the Soviet Union. We America teachers, on a two-week humanitarian aid/teaching trip, were never certain of the menu until our pupils, Kazakh children, would joyfully inform and then serve us. Those who travel abroad, especially to third world countries, know that mealtime is often both a blessing and a curse depending on the current condition of the visitor’s gastrologic state. The addition of mid-summer heat to our weakened stomachs made us linger at the door until escorted in by our pupils, who wrapped their arms around our waists as we walked to our tables.
"Today, is a sheep’s fat and noodles," announced Aygul with a complementary beaming a smile. I tried to mask my repulsion with a reciprocating smile. I took the steaming fish from her outstretched arms, simultaneously noticing the embedded dirt in the creases of her hands. Her bony fingers and hands remained steady as she handed off the plate with pride and confidence that comes from much practice. She was nine years old.
The pungency of the meal was assaulting. The white chunks and liquid iridescent fat were swirling on my plate, daring my queasy stomach to try them. All hopes of a soothing, agreeable meal were lost. I picked up my spoon and tasted.
Aygul stood a foot away and supervised the moment of truth. I smiled and nodded. "Good!" I blurted too readily. "Thank you so much!"
Smiled squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and walked efficiently back to the kitchen. I watched the others communicate with their hosts and hostesses in the same way, with much nodding, smiling, concealed apprehension, and two-way unarticulated love.
Later, Aygul returned with a small tray of plums, one of the Kazakhstan’s best fruits. Her asian eyes flitted up and down from tray to teacher as she brought my dessert.
From four feet away, I saw water on the plums, which caused my spirit to rise. "They’ve been washed!" I thought. How I had been longing for clean, familiar, healthy food! Eagerly now I waited for her to offer one of those glistening gems.
At two feet away, perhaps in response to my genuinely enthusiastic expression, Aygul lost her balance, and the plums went rolling.
Seized with compassion for her and remorse for the loss of the plums, I jumped to help gather them. We composed ourselves and resumed our roles. Aygul stepped back from me and timidly offered a single plum covered in various species of dirt.
My heart sank. Aygul’s heart sank. My heart broke. I ate the plum while she watched. The juice ran down my chin, and I had no napkin except my sleeve. She laughed, covering her mouth with her coarse little hand. It was the best plum I have ever eaten.
In my journal that night, I wrote, "What is dirt, anyway? I have simply ingested what I am made of. There are indeed various kinds of dirt, such as the dust and debris of earth, the hypocritical repulsion of dirt on another’s hands, the remonstrance of a pampered palate, the neurotic defense of one’s own personal space, cultural hyper-pride, fear of the slightest contamination, egomania, addiction to comfort, and the perceived right to a minimum of wealth—all dirt."
I closed and laid the journal aside. I shut my stinging eyes. My thoughts swirled like the fat on that plate. Amidst my soupy thoughts, a gentle reminder emerged: "Nothing that enters a man can make him unclean…What comes out of man makes him unclean. For from within, out of men’s hearts come evil thoughts…greed, malice, deceit…arrogance and folly. All these vile things come from within and make you unclean…You are like a white mausoleum which looks beautiful on the outside but on the inside is full of foulness. In the same way…you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness."
"Oh, Lord," I cried, like the leper declared unclean, "If you are willing, you can make me clean!"
"I am willing," he said, "Be clean!"
I slept that night like a child just removed from his warm evening bath—changed, nurtured, and wrapped in a soft blanket.
Summer camp memories are often indelible our whole lives. Sometimes those lessons are hard to swallow, like a bowl of grease. And some are bittersweet, like a juicy plum on a hot summer day in the outstretched hand of a child.
Copyright 2003 by Linda Crow
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