Eating a horse

Yurts give an odd contrast of the temporary and the permanent. We ducked down to negotiate the solid wooden door set in the canvas and felt structure and I took off my boots to protect the thick richly patterned carpet. A group of people attired in intricately embroidered costumes invited us to squat down at a large polished table full of food, the shape of which echoed that of the yurt, with its latticework frame supporting the ribs of the structure soaring to the top where it was open to let in light and air.

More than a dozen yurts had appeared overnight on the playing field at Nazarbayev Intellectual School in Pavlodar where Liz works. A stage had been erected for performances of singing and dancing and all the teachers were in traditional dress. Nauryz is the spring celebration in Kazakhstan which dates back 3,000 years, but then our festival of rebirth is named after the ancient pagan goddess Eostre, who surprisingly was more concerned with fertility and rabbits than with chocolate.

Before the USSR Kazakhstan was part of the Russian Empire and before that home to a nomadic people who moved their stock around the vast steppe. They had no interest in international boundaries, but this is the only culture that the country has to draw upon to provide a national identity. The festival on the school playing field acted out the old traditions, but they can still be found in reality away from the cities. Last year I stayed in a yurt half way up a mountain in neighbouring Kyrgyzstan and, although my hosts told me that they only used them in the summer months, when they moved their flock up to the higher pastures, it seemed to me that little had changed over several centuries.

Inside the yurt each table was laden with food and I was given a larger helping than I really wanted of beshmarak. This is the national dish of chunks of horsemeat served on a bed of pasta. With the usual cutlery of just a spoon and fork I struggled to separate a piece of flesh from a lump of fat but the horse was quite tasty. Less so was the kumys, fermented mares’ milk. I was handed a bowl and, after gingerly taking a sip, I had to fight to control my features as they tried to screw into an expression of disgust.

The scene was splendid with the yurt decorated with tapestries and animal skins and even a live eagle adding to the atmosphere, but I was feeling awkward about the food and drink in front of me. I tried to ignore it and pretend that it wasn’t mine but I was a little relieved when the group we had found ourselves with suddenly got up and bade their goodbyes. It was at that point I was informed that we were with the judges who were assessing the standards of hospitality. We went straight to the next yurt where I was immediately presented with a large plate of beshmarak and a deep bowl of kumys.