One evening in the center of Murgab village, as the sun dove toward the mountains, I came across three yaks recently slaughtered and being butchered for market. Once the feet and head had been removed, the belly was cut open and the skin splayed out so that it could serve as a clean work surface. The fat was rubbed off and kept; the stomachs (yaks, like cows, have four) rolled out carefully so they didn’t burst; the innards gently washed and set aside; the intestines slid into a bowl and rinsed out. Some use was found for every last bit of the animal, even the gall bladder, thrown to the dogs to keep them away. The ten men and sole woman buzzing around these three yak carcasses like worker bees, kept lit cigarettes hovering over the open beasts pretty much non-stop, but were otherwise efficient and professional and hygienic and humane. They were careful to wash pieces that touched unclean things and their own hands. It was a choreographed and elaborate dance around the animals that left them, after several fairly bloody hours, mostly bloodless. Their protocol respected common sense, not checklists, and before nightfall there was not a single trace of carnage. 

This is just a theory, but I spent a lot of time thinking about whether our culture’s extreme emphasis—dare I say obsession—with hygiene might not possibly slap us back with ropy immune systems quick to pick up allergies or intolerances. There certainly weren’t many of those on show in Central Asia, and to my amateurish eyes, it was because there actually are fewer intolerances, rather than due to the shoddy medical system. The children in Kyrgyzstan drink raw milk, eat naturally fermented yogurt, and meat that spends its summers roaming pastures, bursting with edelweiss, that put pampas to shame. 

What is food security, anyway? Is it HACCP plans and sterilized pipelines and irradiated meat?  Or is it trusting that the food you grow and raise is safe because you know exactly what went into it?