Skiing on the slopes of Kyrgyzstan
21.07.2023 - 08:01
/ roughguides.com
/ Kiki Deere
/ Caspian Sea
/ Les Menuires
In search of some adrenaline-filled activity in Central Asia, Rough Guides writer Kiki Deere makes a somewhat brave attempt at skiing in Kyrgyzstan.
A short stout man with oriental features hands me a timeworn snowboard that is clearly too short for my height. It just about reaches my chest. I know I can’t be too picky at this little Kyrgyz ski resort – this may be the only board there is. I am delighted there is even a ski rental shop, let alone a snowboard up for grabs.
“Razmer?” I am asked. He is after my shoe size. “39”, I mutter in clumsy Russian. A gruff attendant shoves a pair of lacy boots at my feet, in true Soviet fashion. Both are in pretty good shape – at least compared to the chipped board that casually rests against the wall, its unwaxed base screaming out for some motherly love.
I am at Karakol Ski Base in Kyrgyzstan, a former Soviet republic with beautiful mountainous scenery bordering China. The country’s main attraction is Lake Issyk Kul, a glittering expanse of water that is the world’s second largest saline lake after the Caspian Sea, surrounded by majestic alpine scenery.
During the USSR, the lake became a popular holiday resort and saw the construction of sanatoriums and country houses along its shores. On the lake’s eastern tip lies Karakol, a pleasant little town with pastel coloured wooden buildings. A twenty-minute drive from here is the Karakol Ski Camp, built during the Soviet Union as a training area for the country’s Olympic team.
As I wriggle my toes into my new footgear, I notice my friend has squeezed into a pair of squeaky boots that have already lent him a slight limp. A pair of vintage skis rests against his shoulder – the type I haven’t seen since I started skiing in the 80s. Now, it seems, is the time to really test our true skiing and snowboarding skills.
We trudge towards the chairlift, skis on shoulders and board tucked under arm, at times gently sinking in puddles of water that dot the semi melted dirt track. Spring has arrived, and a warm gentle sun gives the surrounding mountains a creamy hue. In this part of the world, awe-inspiring peaks reach heights of over 7000m, nearly twice the size of Mont Blanc. The Alps seem relatively insignificant by comparison.
Among the squelching sound of our boots I look up to see a rusty sign reading “Les Menuires, Slalom Olympique 1992”. Dazed and confused, I wonder if I am hallucinating in a moment of alpine excitement as I recollect a series of much-cherished childhood holidays in the French Alps. It soon transpires that I am not daydreaming at all – the sign is very much there, clumsily nailed above a Kygryz man who is kitted out in waterproof trousers and a woolly jumper, a large spade in hand. Intrigued at the sight of two