Bishkek Bulletin #3 - Paragliding
Dear Readers,
Paragliding is not what comes to mind when one envisions an average Sunday afternoon in Muslim Central Asia. But alas, these valleys through which the dark terror of Genghis Khan's hordes once swept have also been overrun by a more recent unstoppable global phenomenon: extreme sporting. Who would have guessed that even in Kyrgyzstan the adrenaline junkie can find everything from skydiving to rafting to paintball? As always, your fearless correspondent jumped at the chance to put himself squarely in harm's way with no goal other than satiating your appetites for pulp non-fiction from faraway lands. Enjoy with all due caution.
Our guide for this adventure was a sharp-featured, bouncy guy named Sergei who had spent several years as a paratrooper in the Russian army. On Sunday morning we loaded into his dust-caked VW Golf and left Bishkek, heading towards the rolling green hills to the south. The view in this direction is quite inspiring. Between the hills rise the dramatic white peaks of the distant Tian Shan range, forming the border with western China and holding some of the most treacherous alpine passes in all of Asia. With the wind in our faces and the radio pumping out Shit-FM, the spirit of adventure was thick the air.
The extremeness started earlier that I'd expected, however. Sergei perhaps failed to mention that he also enjoys high-speed rally car driving when he's not dangling from a parachute. Fists clenched white on the wheel, he drive at over 70 mph down the winding dirt road. Several times we slid sideways through gravel patches and made jerky corrections to avoid a pothole or farm animal. Trying to stay cool, I turned to gaze out the window, and noticed that the Golf had a billowing trail of dust behind it. I let my mind wander and imagined the Golf as a dust-caked meteor with a long blazing tail, forcing its way through the atmosphere.
This distracting thought was comforting for a brief moment. Then this meteor image, which would suggest our bodies plummeting towards an obliterating impact with the Earth's surface, seemed inappropriate. We were, after all, about to hurl ourselves off the top of a mountain. I turned my attention back to the radio.
Switchbacking our way up the steep grassy slopes, we finally arrived at the high hilltop that would be our take-off point. It was obvious why this was the choice spot. Strong gusts of wind swept up from the valley below, and the round crest of the hill dropped off quickly to a steep incline, creating the perfect conditions for a leap into the great wide open. We unfurled the gear and consulted the windsock. It flapped limply on the metal pole, meaning we would need to wait a bit.
Your correspondent thought it wise to ask, in advance, for translation of the key phrases that were likely to be shouted at me once we were airborne. Let's call this "Survival Russian" of the most distilled variety. There were suspiciously few: Run, Jump, and Land. My brow furrowed. Run, Jump, and Land. Could it really be that simple? I felt like Bill Murray at the photo shoot in Lost in Translation. "Are you sure that's all he said?"
We strapped on snug body harnesses and helmets, and then clipped ourselves to the parachute's cables. I felt the wind pick up, and looked to Sergei for the first command. Not yet, he motioned with a flat hand. Then, the chute whipped open with a fresh burst of wind. Sergei hunched down, turned back to look at the inflating parachute, and shouted – RUN! Like thoroughbreds out of the gate at Gulfstream, we were off, charging forward against the incredible drag of the chute and towards the drop-off ahead. High school physics lessons raced through my mind and settled on a single phrase: terminal velocity. But before I could think too hard, the second command came – JUMP!
Then suddenly, we were floating. I looked down to see my legs dangling and my New Balances brushing through the top of the high grass. Cheers came from the group on the hill as we pulled away, gaining altitude and soaring off into the open air. "Atlichna, ochen atlichna!" I screamed, which I think means "very excellent", and was the only thing I could think to say to Sergei. His hand shot forward over my shoulder with a big thumbs-up, the international symbol for total awesomeness. "Da, atlichna", he chuckled.
From there on out, it was pure bliss. Most of the flight was smooth, but sometimes a sudden burst of wind would grab us, sending our digital altimeter into a beeping fit as we rocketed upwards. Below I could see grazing cattle and farmers loading hay bales, all of whom seemed indifferent to the utter extremeness happening just above their heads. I settled back into the canvas seat pouch to enjoy the ride, wishing I'd thought to bring my iPod. Some Hendrix or Floyd would have been perfect.
After nearly half an hour of gliding, and me humming "Pigs on the Wing" over the altimeter's spastic rhythm, I could feel Sergei begin to bring us down. He guided us towards a long, flat field where the pickup vehicle already waiting. Slowly at first, the endless blue which surrounded us gave way to brown and green as the ground rose up to meet us. Now we were dropping fast. I grabbed hold of the webbing on each side and put a slight bend my knees. Passengers, please insure that your tray tables are stowed and locked and your seatbacks are in their most upright position.
The final command did not really need saying, as there wasn't really another choice at that moment. But to complete this Holy Trinity of paragliding, Sergei yelled it anyway – LAND – and for the hell of it, I screamed it back – LAND! Our feet hit the hard dirt, and we ran to keep from tumbling forward with the momentum we still carried. Behind us, the blue chute crumpled to the ground with a long, soft wheeze. We had landed.
Sergei and I high-fived and started to pack up the gear. The adventure was over. Or so I thought. Sergei had one secret English phrase up his sleeve. He flipped up the visor on his helmet, cracked a wide smile, and said, "Bonus ride?"
Sincerely,
Your Correspondent, Moskva St, 8th Micro-region, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
Paragliding is not what comes to mind when one envisions an average Sunday afternoon in Muslim Central Asia. But alas, these valleys through which the dark terror of Genghis Khan's hordes once swept have also been overrun by a more recent unstoppable global phenomenon: extreme sporting. Who would have guessed that even in Kyrgyzstan the adrenaline junkie can find everything from skydiving to rafting to paintball? As always, your fearless correspondent jumped at the chance to put himself squarely in harm's way with no goal other than satiating your appetites for pulp non-fiction from faraway lands. Enjoy with all due caution.
Our guide for this adventure was a sharp-featured, bouncy guy named Sergei who had spent several years as a paratrooper in the Russian army. On Sunday morning we loaded into his dust-caked VW Golf and left Bishkek, heading towards the rolling green hills to the south. The view in this direction is quite inspiring. Between the hills rise the dramatic white peaks of the distant Tian Shan range, forming the border with western China and holding some of the most treacherous alpine passes in all of Asia. With the wind in our faces and the radio pumping out Shit-FM, the spirit of adventure was thick the air.
The extremeness started earlier that I'd expected, however. Sergei perhaps failed to mention that he also enjoys high-speed rally car driving when he's not dangling from a parachute. Fists clenched white on the wheel, he drive at over 70 mph down the winding dirt road. Several times we slid sideways through gravel patches and made jerky corrections to avoid a pothole or farm animal. Trying to stay cool, I turned to gaze out the window, and noticed that the Golf had a billowing trail of dust behind it. I let my mind wander and imagined the Golf as a dust-caked meteor with a long blazing tail, forcing its way through the atmosphere.
This distracting thought was comforting for a brief moment. Then this meteor image, which would suggest our bodies plummeting towards an obliterating impact with the Earth's surface, seemed inappropriate. We were, after all, about to hurl ourselves off the top of a mountain. I turned my attention back to the radio.
Switchbacking our way up the steep grassy slopes, we finally arrived at the high hilltop that would be our take-off point. It was obvious why this was the choice spot. Strong gusts of wind swept up from the valley below, and the round crest of the hill dropped off quickly to a steep incline, creating the perfect conditions for a leap into the great wide open. We unfurled the gear and consulted the windsock. It flapped limply on the metal pole, meaning we would need to wait a bit.
Your correspondent thought it wise to ask, in advance, for translation of the key phrases that were likely to be shouted at me once we were airborne. Let's call this "Survival Russian" of the most distilled variety. There were suspiciously few: Run, Jump, and Land. My brow furrowed. Run, Jump, and Land. Could it really be that simple? I felt like Bill Murray at the photo shoot in Lost in Translation. "Are you sure that's all he said?"
We strapped on snug body harnesses and helmets, and then clipped ourselves to the parachute's cables. I felt the wind pick up, and looked to Sergei for the first command. Not yet, he motioned with a flat hand. Then, the chute whipped open with a fresh burst of wind. Sergei hunched down, turned back to look at the inflating parachute, and shouted – RUN! Like thoroughbreds out of the gate at Gulfstream, we were off, charging forward against the incredible drag of the chute and towards the drop-off ahead. High school physics lessons raced through my mind and settled on a single phrase: terminal velocity. But before I could think too hard, the second command came – JUMP!
Then suddenly, we were floating. I looked down to see my legs dangling and my New Balances brushing through the top of the high grass. Cheers came from the group on the hill as we pulled away, gaining altitude and soaring off into the open air. "Atlichna, ochen atlichna!" I screamed, which I think means "very excellent", and was the only thing I could think to say to Sergei. His hand shot forward over my shoulder with a big thumbs-up, the international symbol for total awesomeness. "Da, atlichna", he chuckled.
From there on out, it was pure bliss. Most of the flight was smooth, but sometimes a sudden burst of wind would grab us, sending our digital altimeter into a beeping fit as we rocketed upwards. Below I could see grazing cattle and farmers loading hay bales, all of whom seemed indifferent to the utter extremeness happening just above their heads. I settled back into the canvas seat pouch to enjoy the ride, wishing I'd thought to bring my iPod. Some Hendrix or Floyd would have been perfect.
After nearly half an hour of gliding, and me humming "Pigs on the Wing" over the altimeter's spastic rhythm, I could feel Sergei begin to bring us down. He guided us towards a long, flat field where the pickup vehicle already waiting. Slowly at first, the endless blue which surrounded us gave way to brown and green as the ground rose up to meet us. Now we were dropping fast. I grabbed hold of the webbing on each side and put a slight bend my knees. Passengers, please insure that your tray tables are stowed and locked and your seatbacks are in their most upright position.
The final command did not really need saying, as there wasn't really another choice at that moment. But to complete this Holy Trinity of paragliding, Sergei yelled it anyway – LAND – and for the hell of it, I screamed it back – LAND! Our feet hit the hard dirt, and we ran to keep from tumbling forward with the momentum we still carried. Behind us, the blue chute crumpled to the ground with a long, soft wheeze. We had landed.
Sergei and I high-fived and started to pack up the gear. The adventure was over. Or so I thought. Sergei had one secret English phrase up his sleeve. He flipped up the visor on his helmet, cracked a wide smile, and said, "Bonus ride?"
Sincerely,
Your Correspondent, Moskva St, 8th Micro-region, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
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