The other day I visited
a Kalmyk kibitka (crisscross wattle, covered with white felt). The whole family
was preparing to have breakfast. In the center a cauldron was boiling, and the
smoke went out through an opening in the top of the kibitka. A young Kalmyk
girl, not bad-looking at all, was sewing and smoking a pipe. I sat down beside
her.
‘What’s your name? ’
— ‘***’ — ‘How old are you? ’
— ‘Ten and eight’
— ‘What
are you sewing? ’
— ‘Pant’ — ‘For whom? ’
— ‘For self’
— She handed me her pipe
and started on breakfast.
In the cauldron tea was boiling with mutton fat and
salt. She offered me her dipper. I did not want to refuse and took a sip,
trying to hold my breath. I do not think any other national cuisine could
produce anything more vile. I asked for something to follow it up. They gave me
a piece of dried mare’s meat; I was happy even for that. Kalmyk coquetry scared
me; I hastily got out of the kibitka and rode away from the Circle of the
Steppes.