The Hot Dog Contest

I've always wanted to enter an eating contest. Well, not always. For a long time, I had no idea competitive eating could bring fame, money, and prestige. (Think it doesn't, Google "Joey Chestnut" and see how many pages come up.) But once I realized you could eat for sport, I wanted to try it. I love competing and I love eating. (Sure, the first time someone says you remind them of a T-rex when you eat may be disconcerting, but eventually you get used to the comparison.) 

I eat well. Usually faster than everyone else around me and usually finishing all my food. And your food if you don't. (I have strict internal rules about when I can ask if I can eat your food.) It wasn't always like this though. When I was younger, I pretty much lived on a diet of chicken fingers, mac and cheese, and noodles. I was a strange child who liked fish sticks but not fish and ketchup but not tomato sauce. That ended in my teenage years when I began eating anything and everything and was greatly bolstered by J. Michael Floyd's policy of unlimited food at the UGA dining halls. (Let the Big Dawg eat!)

Back to Kazakhstan though. My co-workers were the first to tell me about the hot dog eating contest. But by the end of the day, the signs were posted all around town. "Hot dog eating contest. Sholpan night club. April 12 10:00. First prize: $100." Quickly, everyone was encouraging me to enter the competition. For those of you that only live in America and have never been to Kazakhstan, you may not know that hot dogs are our national food. I had to enter the competition. It wasn't an issue of eating prowess, but protecting the pride of an entire nation.

I figured I would be able to sign up the day of the competition, but Aidos and Asela were wiser. They went by the Friday before the competition to learn what was what. They found out they had to sign up, but there were only two spots left. Even though Asela wanted to compete herself (why, I don't really know. No one would ever compare her eating to a dinosaur.) she decided to sign me up instead. Aidos and I were registered. Now I had less than a week to train. 

But I didn't train. I read somewhere once (or rather saw on MTV's real life, I'm a Professional Eater) that the pros eat a lot of lettuce to expand their stomachs. I figured I could do the same with cabbage. I thought a lot about that, but in the end it was just thinking. I also ate no hot dogs because hot dogs here are actually really disgusting. 

This brings me to my primary concern prior to the compeition. I had no idea what they meant when they said "hot dog." Much like "Chinese food" in America is not real Chinese food, hot dogs in Kazakhstan are not real hot dogs. The problem begins with the sausage. It's very soft, kind of like a log of bologna. Then the bun is hardly ever a bun but a lipeowka cut in half. (That's a round bread popular here.) Way too much bread for the amount of meat. But they compensate by smothering it with ketchup, mayonnaise, and vinegar soaked carrots. Mustard? Ha! Way way too spicy for people here. (Side note: there is one place that serves almost American hot dogs in Taraz. The sausage is better and they put mustard on it. Ironically though, they call it "The French Hot Dog.")

The second concern were the rules to the contest. Would there be water? Was dipping the hot dog allowed? How many minutes would it be? Was it just one round of competition? I guess I could have gone by and asked, but I didn't. They remained questions until the day of the competition.

Wednesday came and I implemented my preparation strategy. Starving myself before the competition would be no good. My stomach would shrink and I'd get no where close to my maximum number. I ate a small breakfast, a full lunch, and one stick of shoshlik at dinner. I set a goal of eleven hot dogs at English club. I was ready.

At ten, Aidos and I arrived at the club. Mark, Jessica, and Courtney came along to cheer us on. It was my first time at this particular club. I had avoided it for some time because of its reputation, but I was there for hot dogs not for dancing. I figured it would be okay. Jessica said it reminded her of a frat house she went to once. The dance floor was in the middle of a octagonal room. The top floor was open allowing a balcony to look down at the dance floor. There were neon lights and strobe lights flashing. But the music was really good. 

So we got there punctually at 10, but in local tradition we had to wait two hours for anything to start. Eventually they called all the competitors together to explain the rules. Eyeing the competition, I saw about three girls, a few big guys that seemed like threats, but mostly regular sized guys (also threats though.) The rules were laid out. Because the room was small, there would be three ten-minute round with six eaters. But we were all in competition against each other. They'd give us a liter of water (without gas) to help. They'd put fifteen hot dogs in front of us but they'd give us more if we finished them. I asked Aidos if we could dunk (despite Krishenya, I still don't know that word in Russian). Yes. We could dunk. Excellent. 

Then about twenty minutes later, they started the competition. The asked for six of the registered participants to volunteer for the first set of six. And they asked again. And again. No one wanted to be in the first six, including myself. The final six are at a distinct advantage of knowing how many hot dogs need to be consumed. They can also pick up strategy tips from the other competitors. Finally, though, the nerves and waiting just got too much. I stepped up as competitor number four. 

The dance floor was transformed into a hot dog eating stage. There were six round table placed in a circle around the floor. On each table, there was a tray with fifteen hot dogs, one mug of water, and a bottle with extra water. They also placed a stack of napkins there. On the floor next to each table was a bucket in case we had to… well, you can figure it out. In addition to these items, I placed my cell phone on the table so I could monitor the ten minutes myself and filled up my mug to optimize dunking. None of my competitors seemed as serious. 

Then it started. I reached for hot dog number one. The bread was not a lipeoshka, and was only slightly bigger than an American bun. There were also no carrots, but it was slathered in ketchup and mayonnaise. I grabbed the meat out of the first dog and crammed it in my mouth. Chew chew chew. Swallow. The meat is the easy part. Then the bun. Dunk. Chew chew chew. It takes a long time to get the bread down. Dunk. Chew. Dunk. Chew. I finished the first dog in about 40 seconds. Dog two took about the same time. And so on. 

At about minute five, I was about four and a half dogs in. I started noticing my competition. Two guys were keeping pace, but were not dunking. Major mistake. I seemed to be slowing down but never stopped. Pacing myself to the cheers from my fans. No one else seemed to have fans, but my blasties did a good job with the "Michael, Michael, Michael." And I even appreciated Mark's "Do it for Uncle Sam." 

I finished another hot dog and looked down at the clock. One minute left. I had no idea how many I had eaten. But I said, one more. Get it down. Dunk. Chew. Dunk. Chew. It almost came up a couple times, but finally the last bite of bread was in my mouth. 

Time!

By the official rules, that dog shouldn't count, but they had counted it. At the end of the first round, I'd put down eight. The two guys I had been concerned about had put down six and seven. But I knew the major threats were still to come. The pros would wait until round 3. And maybe even there would be some major eaters in Round 2, which was scheduled to take place in fifteen minutes. 

The biggest surprise was that I felt fine. My stomach was full, but was by no means bursting. The strangest sensation was around the throat. It did feel like if I put anything else down, it'd all come up. But I was able to dance and boogie when they played Lady Gaga. I was confident but nervous. How would the eight hold up for the rest of the night?

To be continued…

Concert update

So apparently, someone posted the concert on youtube. You can check out Bi-2 live: http://www.youtube.com/user/tarazmahmud

Quick Update

First, thanks for Brad for guest blogging. I'll respond to some of his posts soon. But I'm at the internet, and I have some things to add.

This week was busy. It's my second week of teaching a night course at my organization. I really enjoy "Business English" but its tough to finish the day at 8:30 to 9:00 four days a week. This week was made even longer by the fact that it was our Spring Week of Kindness. Traditionally, we do tons of volunteer events during this week. And we did, but just on a smaller scale than usual. I really wish I could get more focus on our volunteer activites. They were doing so good two months ago, but then they have fallen apart again. But yeah, I was at work every day around 9 or 9:30 and going until 8:30ish. Long days for me. But good days. For the most parts.

Other news, I saw the group Bi 2 live last night. Apparently they are one of the coolest Russian rock bands ever. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bi-2 They played for two hours, which I was impressed with. And the setting of Navigator (still the best club in town - www.navigatortaraz.kz/ although web site is usually down) is great for rock concerts. Or has potential to be. I don't understand how some people can chill out in the VIP sections just eating and talking while there is a rock concert going on. But Bi 2 was great.

Soon, I'll be posting a heroic story of when I entered a hot dog eating contest a couple weeks ago. Hopefully that will start Monday. Happy belated Earth Day to all!

Day Six: Astana (guest blog)

This is my last guest blog post for "The Adventures of Hotard." It's a day late, but given that my final day in Kazakhstan also included a 32 hour travel period, I feel justified. I was flying over the Atlantic two weeks ago.

We finally arrived in Astana after a seemingly endless train adventure. I spent the evening and night sleeping with fish, wandering the train, hanging my head out the window, and smiling at people I couldn't understand. Michael slept like a baby.

When we reached Astana, Michael's Kazakh friend Berik was waiting to meet us. He graciously offered to spend the day with us and let us crash/store stuff at his place. He lived in a wonderfully quirky apartment in a very Soviet apartment building near the city center.

Immediately after dropping off our stuff, we visited a grocery store and then made breakfast. It was another chance for me to try disgusting traditional beverages of Kazakhstan. (The previous beverages experiences didn't make the blog, but they included fermented cow's milk and many cheap vodkas.) Up for taste test this morning was fermented horse milk and Kvas, neither of which I can really describe. Like all other traditional drinks in Kazakhstan, they are very sour.

We had a full day of sightseeing ahead of us, so we wasted little time. First on our list was the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation, which is a pyramid.

Before I continue, I must explain a bit about Astana and the history of Kazakhstan. Wikipedia explains this more thoroughly, but here goes. In the 19th century, Kazakhstan was inhabited by nomadic herders. Then the USSR happened and suddenly Russians and all kinds of other ethnic groups were being resettled by a centralized government that had a big agenda and little information about its newly incorporated territory. Because Kazakhs were nomads, there were very few cities and, to the USSR, the country looked empty. So they started resettling people there. Gradually, a largely "Soviet" culture developed in Kazakhstan, which was at conflict with the values of 19th century nomads.

Then, suddenly, in 1991, Kazakhstan became an independent country. They were independent for the first time since the turn of the century, and the world was very different now. That being said, Kazakh identity was very important for ethnic Kazakhs living in Kazakhstan. In part, this ethnic identity led to rifts between Kazakhs and Russians living in Kazakhstan. Since 1991, Kazakhstan has sought to distance itself from Russian culture and assert its own national identity. However, this identity is largely derived from a totally different place and time.

Astana is part of this redefinition of culture. Before becoming the capital in 1994, Astana was a tiny place in the vast northern steppe. Suddenly massive government investment was focused on creating a Kazakh city to serve as a center of national identity. Monuments were erected. Wildly bizarre architecture was commissioned. Buses with plasma TVs and strict schedules were instituted.

In the end, this new Kazakh culture succeeds in being "not Russian," but in many ways it is also "not Kazakh." Translating 19th century nomadic Kazakh culture into 21st century post-Soviet culture is a work in progress, and more art than science.

Back to Astana- and the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation. The building is full of symbolism, from the height to the number of floors to the colors of the walls to the stones used in the walkways. Doves are painted on the top floor. The first floor is the "underworld." The building holds periodic summits of all world religions, seeking to facilitate cross-cultural dialogue. Our tour guide acted like a robot- his mannerisms were incredible as he delivered various lessons in Kazakh history and the vision of President Nazarbayev for the monuments of Astana. The pyramid was a funny experience.

Then it was time for Bayterek, the most famous monument of Astana.

You'll notice a tower in the center of the picture with a golden egg on top. That's Bayterek. It's supposed to be a poplar tree. On top of Bayterek, there is a large golden egg (which you can visit via elevator - and I did). There is another monument with a golden bird on top. This golden bird laid this golden eggs.

I could go on and on about architecture and symbolism in Astana, but it's better if you experience it for yourself. The last 20 or so pictures in my Kazakhstan photo album capture just a small part of this identity-defining architecture prevalent throughout Astana.

http://picasaweb.google.com/blindell/Kazakhstan

The rest of the day, I kicked around the city with Michael and Berik. We later met up with Ken, another PCV, for dinner and dancing at this high-fashion restaurant called Fusion. Fusion cracked me up, mainly because it was part American steakhouse, part sushi bar, and 100% ridiculous Americana. There was a Harley-Davidson under spotlights by the hostess table and picture of George Washington on the wall.

It made for a wonderful final evening in Kazakhstan. Kazakh food, good music, old and new friends. There was a house singer who performed glorified karaoke all night with classic American tunes popular in Kazakhstan, which are few in number and not particularly popular in the US.

I left around 2am to head to the airport and begin my journey home. There is more to the story, but I'm actually traveling again right now and need to leave for the airport to begin my journey home once again, and so I must truncate my blog post. Please check out the photos, and stay tuned while we return to your regularly scheduled blogger.

-Brad Lindell

Day Five: The train to Astana (guest blog)

Friday morning I said my goodbyes to Acela and the city of Taraz to embark on the last leg of my journey - a 21 hour train ride to the Kazakh capital of Astana. The long haul from southern Kazakhstan to the middle of Siberia was an odd choice for my final day in Kazakhstan, but I really felt that it was important to visit the capital if I wanted to understand Kazakhstan post-independence from the USSR.

The other perk of a visit to Astana was a long-haul train ride on Soviet rails in a Soviet train. I've always had a dream of traveling the length of the trans-Siberian railroad from Moscow to Vladivostok, and I decided that 21 hours to Astana would be a good "trial run" of my ultimate train adventure.

You may remember that my original Kazakh train trip from Almaty to Taraz was in the luxurious 4-bunk-per-room Chinese train. Now on my fifth day in country, it was time for a "real" Kazakh train experience: platscart. Instead of sleeping in a room with built-in bunk beds and a door, I was now traveling in a train car packed floor-to-ceiling with beds and Kazakh families. Six beds now occupied the space of four. There were no doors, no hallway, just beds and spaces between beds almost large enough for you to stand up in. Pictures really explain it better than I ever could.

The train was full, cramped, and blazingly hot. It was also a place where bizarre things seemed to happen with no explanation nearly all the time.

Michael and I had a set of bunk beds, and the other bunks near us were occupied by a young family traveling with a six month old boy. Shortly after we departed Taraz, the entire family took turns changing out of their street clothes and into "train clothes," which Michael explained was normal and to be expected for such a long trip. Then the family had lunch together. Inexplicably, they had packed full, elaborate meals of chicken, bread, and endless side dishes. Entire bags I had assumed to be full of luggage were stuffed like sophisticated picnic baskets. There were drinks, there was vodka, there was Raxhat candy. Once they finished eating there were snacks. Then came another meal.

Food also abounded at the various stops that the train made throughout the night. Michael explained that each stop was "famous" for a certain type of food. Sometimes it was fruit or bread, sometimes kebabs, sometimes I couldn't even start to figure out. Then we reached the smoked fish stop.

I would have taken a picture but it was the middle of the night and the sight of fish was already too much for me to bear. Women entered the train cars holding dozens of smoked fish strung up by the gills. The fish were huge (easily 24 inches) and completely disgusting. They were brown and looked half-preserved, half-dried in the sun for weeks. They were fat and flat and people were buying them with reckless abandon. The family sharing our bunk area bought four or five, much to my disappointment. Michael later asked and they said they always brought them to relatives in Astana. It seems the smoked fish are a sensation throughout the country. This fascination with fish is particularly bizarre because Kazakhstan is about as landlocked as a country could possibly be.

After buying the fish, the family folded the fish in half (cue the cracking noise of fish scales and bones) and stuffed them in a bag. If that wasn't bad enough, they stuck the bag of folded fish on the luggage rack about four feet from my head. That's when I knew it would be a real Kazakh platscart experience.

By this point, it was dark outside, I was hot, and the fish were smelly. Michael wanted to take a nap and I decided to escape in search for fresh air. I found respite next to an open window at the back of the train car next to the bathroom. This location was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because the window existed, but a curse because the combination of terrible bathroom facilities and a constantly rocking train care meant that the smell of bathroom pervaded the area.

I coped by hanging my head out the window and looking out over the steppe. The near-full moon and near-empty landscape were a welcome change from the relative chaos of the train.

Day Four: The Talas River (guest blog)

Several things happened today that I will not be writing about. Specifically, I had a wonderful Dungan lunch, a delicious Russian dinner, visited several important monuments in Taraz, and spent several hours at a techno dance club that had no power and was operating by candlelight. Each of those could warrant a blog post, but today I only have time for one topic: tubing.

It all started at Tektor Mas, a monument outside of Taraz that sits on a stately hill overlooking the Talas River. We visited Tektor Mas because it's one of those "must-do's" that people with books like Lonely Planet and Rough Guide tramp around the city looking for and taking pictures of. I do a fair amount of traditional tourism, and so I wanted to check it out, too.

We stood behind the monument overlooking a lazy bend in the river, catching up on life and enjoying the breeze and sunny weather. Today was the best day weather-wise I had in Kazakhstan. It was in the upper 60s and really quite comfortable, even with the wind. We scampered down the hill to the water to follow a path that we spotted.

For whatever reason, as we walked along the river for a few minutes, I really felt compelled to go tubing. Michael had never been tubing, so we talked through the logistics. Ideally, you need a fast-moving, relatively calm river, a bunch of buddies, and a cooler full of beer. (The beer is optional, but encouraged.) To my surprise, Michael got excited.

I have a history of bad ideas, especially when it comes to water sports. I was planning on Michael being my voice of reason speaking out against this terrible idea. Instead, I think he embraced the spontaneous in favor of more sightseeing. The next thing I knew, he was calling Kazakh people.

There were many immediate questions: Where does the river go? Is it safe? Do people do this? Where can we find large inner tubes? How much do they cost? Does anyone else want to go? Is it illegal? What's the worst that can happen?

We ended up heading to Michael's office to discuss with Acela and the others we found there. We needed a map, and some information. From there, with a strong warning from all Michael's colleagues, we were off to the bazaar. Soon enough we learned the word for inner tube (camara), then used hand gestures to find the large truck and tractor tire section of the bazaar. Soon we were the proud owners of two inner tubes and some rope. A quick trip to a mechanic and the tubes were inflated.

Back at Michael's apartment, we tied the rope haphazardly across the tubes to fashion a "bottom," which was designed to protect our butts and give us something to grab if we fell out and/or were swept away in a current. Next thing I knew, I was wearing spandex and hailing a taxi.

We put in just past the railroad bridge. In our preliminary scouting, we realized that this particular bridge was patrolled by angry appearing men sporting long rifles. It seemed prudent to avoid their line of sight.

Once on the water, things went remarkably well. The water was freezing, as the Talas River is fed by snow melt from the scenic mountains in Kyrgyzstan. But overall there were few obstacles to avoid.

We tackled two waterfalls (1 on purpose, 1 quite by accident as I was unable to stop) and avoided one which would have likely capsized the inner tubes. We floated past fishermen, farmers, and children playing on the banks and bridges. I waved at everyone, even though Michael said that Kazakh people don't wave. I think it made many people uncomfortable, but then again it could have been the fact that I was floating by in an inner tube on a snow melt river.

We took out after about an hour float, at an overpass that we had spotted on the map back at Michael's house. Sure enough, there was a bus stop nearby, and we had nearly drip dried when we got picked up for the ride home.

In the bus, we were quite a source of entertainment. I don't think Americans armed with inner tubes and still quite damp have ridden on a bus in Kazakhstan before. The adventure ended with a 15 minute walk through downtown Taraz with tubes in tow.

We had done the impossible - floated a river despite everyone telling us it was a terrible idea and that we would die. We had braved the freezing water to chase our dreams, or something like that. It was awesome.

Day Three: Asa (guest blog)

I would be lying if I said that I got a great night's sleep in the yurt. It was cold and the beds were pretty primitive. That being said, I had only been in Kazakhstan for two nights, and I had yet to sleep in a real bed, so I had no trouble getting some rest. I woke up in the morning to roosters crowing and watched my breath condensing in a tiny shaft of light coming through the woven panels of the yurt's outer shell. I felt pretty Kazakh.

Asa is a small town with one main paved road and a full spectrum of housing- from Soviet apartment blocks to single family homes and even some pretty primitive dwellings on the outskirts of town. It's a very pleasant place to be, and a place where it's much easier to feel connected to the roots of the country and its people. Cities like Almaty and Taraz have certain unique attributes, but in the end they are much more akin to American or European cities than to villages like Asa.

You will note in the above picture that two basic utilities are funneled into the homes of all Asa residents. The power lines should look familiar. But the bright yellow pipe suspended six feet above the ground and engineered to soar high above driveways and intersections is probably pretty foreign to you. It certainly was to me. I've heard two theories for the content of this pipe, though no one could tell me for certain in Asa. It either carries steam or natural gas, and either way it functions to provide heat for homes in the winter. As best I can tell, this practice of piping "heat" into peoples' homes began well before Kazakh independence and continues to this day, though no one really understands how it works.

We left the yurt and walked a few streets over to the home of Salavat, a resident of Asa (and former friend of Dave) who Michael knows well. He greeted us cordially and served us a wonderful breakfast.

This picture captures so many things about meals in Kazakhstan: the table cloths, the way food is served, the fact that bowls are used as tea cups, the constant supply of chocolate candies made by Rahat, the absence of traditional breakfast foods except for fried eggs. I could go on and on about the things on this table and the setting in general, but it's better if you just take some time and examine. Breakfast was delicious.

After breakfast, Salavat offered to let us ride his horses. Salavat's family owns a miniature herd of horses, probably more than a dozen, and they participate in a "cowboy cooperative" of sorts. Each day, one person from the cooperative takes the group's horses outside of Asa to the pastures where they can graze. We would visit these pastures with Salavat and his trusty steed Tony.

Tony was a relatively large, relatively ill-tempered horse who liked to gallop and behave in unpredictable ways. I ended up riding Tony for some time. Here are some highlights:

I felt pretty much like a rockstar.

We rode into the distance - Salavat, Tony, and I. But not so far into the distance that we reached those mountains, which are some 25km away.

At one point, I decided that it would be awesome if Tony would pose with me on some railroad tracks. It seemed like the perfect manly picture. I would be riding a horse, standing firmly in the way of the inhuman force represented by the railroad, a bastion of tradition for hard, grizzled men everywhere. Unfortunately, Tony would not oblige.

I also met a cowboy while out on the range. He was looking after the horse cooperative for the day. He let me hold his whip and pose with his (much smaller) horse. I think it's pretty clear that I have no idea what I'm doing here.

When we returned to town, Salavat invited us to his sister's apartment for beshbarmark, a very traditional Kazakh dish made from homemade noodles, boiled potatoes and carrots, fresh onions, and stewed horse. You eat it with your hands from a communal platter and chase it with funny looking bread.

The food itself was fine, if a bit salty, and eating horse did not give me pause. It was, however, baffling to my hosts that we do not eat horse in the US. I explained that in the US we ride horses instead of eating them, and that horses here are expensive, but I didn't really convince anyone. Funny enough, the day I got home from Kazakhstan, the Tennessee legislature was considering a bill to allow slaughter of horse for meat. The measure was vocally opposed by Willie Nelson.

We left Asa after lunch, and I thought about how many traditional Kazakh things I had been able to do during a 24 hour period: ride in overcrowded minibuses, build a yurt, sleep in a yurt, ride horses on the steppe, and eat beshbarmark with horse meat. It had been action-packed.

That afternoon I went to Michael's English conversation group, where I was the main topic of conversation and I tried to obtain some additional information about my recent Kazakh experiences. I learned that few people in Kazakhstan build yurts, almost no one sleeps in them, and beshbarmark is very popular. It was great to see the kind of work that Michael has been doing recently, and his students spoke very highly of him. A number came up to me after class to tell me that they really only come to English club to hang out with Michael. I told them that's why I had come, too.

English conversation group in Taraz was where I first met Acela, Michael's girlfriend. Having heard so much about her, I was eager to finally meet. We spent some time together before English club, and afterwards she invited me and Michael over to her apartment for dinner. He had to wrap up some work at the office, and so Acela and I headed over to her house to begin preparations.

The plan was to make manti, which is basically a steamed bun made with homemade dough (without yeast) and a meat filling. She rolled out the dough and cut it into pieces, and I was charged with filling the dough and tying the manti into little packages of meat.

When they were all prepared, we steamed them in a funny looking pot.

The dinner was great and reminded me of a Chinese recipe which Karen and I make frequently. I also got to sample several Kazakh beers over dinner, which were largely of the full-bodied lager variety. There are not many IPAs available in Kazakhstan.

After dinner, Michael and Acela tried to teach me a Russian card game called Durak, but I promptly passed out on the floor. My nonstop activities and travel had finally caught up with me, and I caught up on some much needed sleep.

-Brad Lindell