Our small group of International teachers in Nukus has two Peters. They both hail from Kenya, so saying ‘Kenyan Peter’ when talking about one of them is off the table unless you want to hear, “Ok, but which one?” Using their hair style as a distinguishing feature is a non-starter as well, since there’s so little to work with. To make it even harder on the rest of us, they are also both black and slim, so relying on the physical attributes would not work either. One of them could grow a mustache or a beard but, NO, they don’t want to make it any easier. They come around every day as smooth-faced as a baby. When I suggested some facial growth to one of them – don’t know which one – he gave me that inscrutable look that I had thought only Asians were capable of. We ended up calling them by their subjects. One teaches computer science, so he is Comp Peter. The other is Chem Peter, and it is easy to guess what he teaches.
I recently had an interesting discussion with Chem Peter on the topic of Nature vs Nurture. He is firmly entrenched in his belief that genes are more important than environment. “So how do you explain all the studies on identical twins separated at birth?” was his big argument. He was literally saved by the bell, warning us that our lunch break was almost over, otherwise I would have floored him with some real-life examples of how people can change dramatically, despite their genes, given the right circumstances. Maybe running out of time was a good thing. Who can talk about child soldiers – children molded into beasts – while savoring yet another pilaf? It would be so easy to lose your appetite. I am not understating the importance of genes, but people keep changing throughout their entire lives and I do believe that how they change is determined to an enormous degree by their environment.
Dadu and I are a good example. Dadu was born an extrovert. She could and would chat up any stranger willing to engage. I once left her alone on a street for five minutes, came back and found her knowing the complete family tree of a woman she had just met. When I was young, I was more of an introvert, perfectly capable of standing on that same street just observing. It would never have crossed my mind to start talking to some stranger. In my first year at the University of Toronto, the teaching assistant of our small tutorial group most likely thought that I was one of the newly admitted disability students. I was the mute girl who, for the entire semester, did not say one word. In truth, I was intimidated by all those bright young people sitting around the table, trying to impress our tutorial leader, expressing themselves in their seemingly flawless, native English.
Fast forward several decades and there I was, standing on a street, choosing my target to chat up. Dave and I were in Tashkent and needed to find a driver to take us into the mountains for a one-day trip. Luckily, there was an auto show set up in the neighborhood, with all the cars, their accessories and car-crazy guys milling around. However, my target had to speak English, which really sucked the water out of that pool.
“Look at this beauty,” I commented loudly to Dave, knowing full well that, if there was an English speaker in the vicinity, he would take the bait. And sure enough, after I said a couple of other complimentary things about the car on display, one of the men turned around and responded in very good English … hook, line and sinker! It works beautifully in any foreign country that does not get a lot of tourists. We started chatting and quickly moved between how the luxury car business was faring in Uzbekistan to where we were from. After briefly discussing the previous political leader Karimov and his contribution to Uzbek independence I finally made my pitch. Yes, Azamat knew just the right person, with a dependable car and dependable credentials. We talked about money and exchanged phone numbers. Our ride to the mountains was set up. Dadu could have done this when she was seven. It took me a lifetime. But that’s exactly my point. People change. “Way to go, mute girl,” I thought to myself as I walked away clutching my phone with our new driver’s contact number saved in it. Peter was right of course. Genes are a powerful starting point. But the final product is a result of the constant sculpting and polishing we all experience as we go through life.
I recalled the discussion Chem Peter and I had as I sat at the low table in Kate’s large living room, surrounded by a miniature United Nations. Kate, our hostess, is a young Canadian doing her PhD research on how the drying out of the Aral Sea affects the communities around it. Missing Thanksgiving proved too hard for her, so she decided to organize a potluck dinner in its place for some of Nukus’ small expat population. An excellent idea, as a dinner put together by representatives of ten different nationalities can never be boring.
Masha, the furry buddy we dog-sat on several occasions came, with Natalie and Dorian. They are both vegetarians and evidently also believe that nurture trumps nature. As far as I can tell, they feed Masha mostly vegetables, and she doesn’t seem to mind. I watched, bemused and amused, as Masha begged for another piece of carrot. The youngest person at our gathering was a French girl who recently graduated with an English degree and had eagerly accepted a teaching position at a Nukus language school. But she was not happy there. “The management is really messed up and I don’t think I will stay the whole year,” she shared with me. I sympathized, since our school’s higher Administration sitting in Tashkent is quite disorganized too, but at least our local management is still reasonable.
On my right sat Liz, who had only arrived in Nukus a week earlier. She works on contract basis for the British Council, working with local English teachers to improve their teaching methods. “At times it’s really grueling, but mostly I enjoy it,” she told me before she reached out to refill her plate with beet and carrot salad. Evidently age has not diminished her appetite. Liz shared with me earlier that, this year, the Thanksgiving coincided with her 71st birthday. When she told me that I looked at her with new interest. True, there were some sad lines on her face, but overall contentment reigned supreme. This is my future, I thought. And it’s not so bad.
My eyes rested on Hiroshi, sitting across the table next to the Iranian Hassan. They were engaged in an animated discussion about copyrights in Asia. I overheard Hiroshi, asking in his thick Japanese accent, “Did you notice some of the store names on that street leading from the market?” I was sure I knew what he was referring to because I get amused every time I walk there and see those storefronts. “Some”, Hassan nodded and had a sip of what could have been red wine or pomegranate juice. “Did you see the store name Nina Richi, spelled with ‘ch’?” Hiroshi wanted to know. Yes, that was one store of several I had in mind. I wanted to ask them if they had already spotted the ‘Azamon’ store using the same font for its name as the American giant but, just at that moment, Dorian called from the kitchen that the dumplings were ready. That triggered a mass migration to the kitchen. Dorian, as a true German, contributed real home-made dumplings to the Thanksgiving feast. A small mountain of doughy baseballs with chunks of parsley embedded in them sat on the counter still steaming.
“Is anything in them?” I wondered aloud.
“No, but there’s gravy,”, Dorian said, pointing to a dish brimming with dark brown sauce placed next to the mountain.
I was a bit disappointed. I consider myself somewhat of a dumpling expert since Czechs and Germans are both dumpling peoples. But the Czechs would have something inside these small baseballs.
Of course, it’s a vast exaggeration to insist that people are what they eat. But often it holds some grain of truth and sometimes it’s a whole sack of grain. The Czechs are living proof. A lot of Czech people have what I would kindly call a pasty complexion as opposed to, say, Indian or Latino people. And what do these distinctly featured people eat? Lots of colorful vegetables and fruits, and spicy food … while the Czechs maintain a steady diet of dumplings. As one of the dumpling people, I have to say on our behalf, they taste wonderful, but they are the reason why Czechia is a land of walking, talking dumplings.
The doughy dumplings come in all shapes and sizes but there are two more prominent ones. The ones shaped like wheels arrive into the world by cutting cross sections of a large roll of boiled dough with a diameter of about 5 cm. I myself feel replete, enjoying the sensation that the world is a good place and the future looks promising, after I’ve eaten three of these ‘wheels.’ But I know men capable of putting away 8 to 10 of these individual dumplings, with a large portion of roasted pork and sauerkraut. If I feel all is well with the world having eaten three, their world must be sensational after that feat. And then there are the ones that Dorian presented – the dumpling balls. They can be savory, filled with sauerkraut and pork. Or they can be sweet, filled with fruits and sprinkled with icing sugar and ground poppy seeds. Both versions are delicious.
Before I finished one of the giant dumplings, I snuck a piece of it to Masha, and she gobbled it up with gusto. There wasn’t even any gravy on it, just the dough. Dorian and Natalie are either starving her, or nurture really overrides nature. Too bad Peter wasn’t here to see her, I thought smugly.