I have to admit I’m a bit of a fair weather skier in as much as I enjoy it, but only when conditions are good, and I get tired (and bored) easily and want to take a day off. I wish I could stop myself thinking like this – I ski quite well, but don’t like anything too steep (and we have been doing a lot of black runs) where I’m not in control. I much prefer going fast and elegantly down endless reds and blues; turning perfectly and not getting into any kind of danger. There is a huge mental barrier stopping me from enjoying anything more difficult than a red. This creates a bit of a problem.

N wants to ski with me, but I know he’s totally bored by what I like doing. To ski with him therefore means I have to get right outside my level of ability (or the level of skiing I enjoy). So, I’ve been skiing with him in the mornings and then coming in at about 3pm when he can join the others (who are all AMAZING skiers) and blast a few black runs that would probably have me in tears.

Today however, we had a plan to go into Karakol in the afternoon so I decided I wouldn’t bother skiing in the morning either. I don’t think N was terribly happy about this but I think the others are somewhat relieved! I definitely hold them back from doing the skiing they’d rather be doing, although they are all very kind about still including me.

Although just about everyone else seems happy to do so, I did not want to come all this way and see nothing of Kyrgyzstan except for the ski slopes, and to be fair to the others, most would be coming back to the area in the summer so they didn’t need to quit skiing early to sightsee.

The resort here is not typical Kyrgyz (catering mainly for rich Russians or Kazakhs) and therefore gives a rather false impression of the country and its people. F, N and I set off on the 15 minute journey into town. The road down was now clear of snow, however this meant that every lump, bump and pothole was keenly felt – and there were a lot! The partybus creaked and groaned all the way down.

As we neared Karakol we noticed huge numbers of people and horses gathered in a field just off the road. There were cars, trucks and wagons parked all along the roadside and before long we passed a couple of yurts at the edge of the field. Our curiosity was now well and truly piqued, and we didn’t need asking twice if we wanted to get out and have a look.

To get into the field, we first had to get over the pipe. Running alongside the edge of the field was a huge, rusty Soviet era gas pipe. With a mini gap underneath, up and over was the only way to go. As I was laid flat on it on my stomach, I wondered just how rusty the old thing was and at the chances of it continuing to hold my weight. Before the others joined me on the pipe, I quickly rolled off onto the other side and into the most amazing travel experience I am yet to have of my life.

There seemed to be horses trotting in a race around an unmarked track, with a line of spectators stretching the length of the field; some standing, and some on horseback. The atmosphere was charged with excitement even though the horses were making their way around the track at a trot rather than a gallop. At the back of the line of spectators, groups of men on horseback would suddenly start what looked like a jousting match where they seemed to be trying to dismount each other with their bare hands. Crowds built up around these mini fights and also around random pockets of children wrestling on the floor; shouting encouragement or simply laughing and clapping at the horse or wrestling antics.

The three of us were the only non Kyrgyz people amongst the hundreds in the field, and did attract some attention (note to self – pink ski jacket does not blend in!) and many strange looks from the locals who stared surreptitiously and the children who simply stared open mouthed at possibly the first westerners they had ever seen. As I stood there, a little girl of maybe 3 or 4 sidled up to me. I waved at her and said ‘hello’ (why don’t I know the Russian for ‘hello’?!). She broke into the biggest grin ever seen and tentatively waved back at the strange western woman who was probably grinning inanely at her too. As I smiled at the little girl, every part of me was completely alive and buzzing with the pleasure of experiencing this amazing afternoon; not just the connection with Kyrgyz people, but drinking in the atmosphere and the whole cultural experience so different from what ‘normal’ life is for me.

I was thrilled to be able to get up close to the yurts at the edge of the field. Yurts are traditional Kyrgyz houses made by assembling a circular frame which is covered by thick felt to keep the cold and rain out and the heat in. The insides of a yurt are often adorned with beautiful woven wall hangings, and are fully portable. I had been disappointed not to have seen any real yurts on the journey so far – these were real yurts, but they had been erected for the festival – they were not the real homes of people (or maybe they were – and had been moved to the field for the festival?). Had it been summer, then the fields and grazing pasture would have been dotted with yurts; real ones, not tourist ones.

We were curious about what was happening at this event, and why so many people were gathered on the fields. F greeted a young Kyrgyz man stood next to the yurts with a brief handshake and asked in Russian what was happening. We learned from the man that they were getting ready to hold a game of Kökbörü; where players compete to land a carcass of a headless goat into goals made from a circle of tyres. The game is rough and requires skill and dexterity on horseback to reach down and grab the carcass from the floor (or wrestle it from another player) and gallop towards your goal before being literally tackled by your opponents. We were too early for the game on our trip to the field, but the others managed to catch a glimpse and this is what they saw…

An amazing day in Karakol away from the ski slopes.