LOCALadk Magazine

Winter 2016 LOCALadk Magazine 38 LOCALadk The plane lands. The only thing that I know is that I don't know what to expect. It has been 14 hours of contin- uous travel. But for a single ten minute sprint through the Moscow Airport, I have been sitting, crammed elbow to elbow with complete strangers. The plane drifts low over snow-dust- ed fields, and I realize that I am the farthest from home I've ever been: quite literally, on the other side of the world. Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, makes me feel as if I have been jarred from a dream that has lasted my entire life. The streets of Boston had not prepared me for this. Cars speed through the city's streets with little regard for pedestrians or traffic laws. Pedestrians stop and stare at the westerners. A walk through the bazaar yields row upon crooked row of al- leyways lined with bread, knock-off Rolexes, gymnasium sized vaults of different meats, and beautifully woven fabrics. Im- pressive soviet architecture serves as a backdrop to Bishkek's intensity and chaos, and as a reminder of a different time. The next day, we embark on the 12 hour drive to our first stop: Arslanbob. The small bus leaves the city behind and vaults us into the countryside. After a while, we have to pull over and present "a gift" to a policeman by the roadside. The bribe equals about $3 US. The bus climbs into the mountains, and in no time, everyone's faces are glued to the window, ogling the stunning stone spires rising from the scree flanks above the little river by the road. Higher we climb, until the bus reaches the top of the pass. We pass through a tunnel at what seems like the roof of the world to the next valley, and are greeted by a seemingly endless pure white abyss, an ethereal dream in the mind of the eight skiers on board. The sun sets, and I fall asleep. I awake again and again to absolutely incredible scenery, but nothing quite makes the same impression on my tired, jetlagged mind as that first pass. Finally, I am jostled awake one last time by the bus lurching to a halt and our guide, Hiyat, leering back at our exhaustion with a grin. "Welcome to Arslanbob" he says. We spend five days skiing above the village of Arslanbob, a sporadic collection of concrete and wood framed houses nes- tled beneath the magnificent Babash Ata range. We are guid- ed by the local Community Based Tourism leaders, a grass- roots organization created to bring skiers to an area in which winter unemployment is high. The first morning, the guides give a quick presentation on their operation, and while it is a modest affair, it is easy to detect the pride they hold in their work. All the skiers in Arslanbob are self taught, and most have never seen a chairlift. I cannot help but feel great admi- ration for these people, and for what they are doing to help their community. Several days later, we find ourselves atop the 2600m (8530') Green Hill, staring down the barrel of a 30 degree, knee deep powder run. Jerry sets the right-hand line. One by one, we de- scend to flats below, each looking for his own blank spot on the page upon which to carve his mark. My turn comes, and I am floating! The skis seem to steer them- selves, churning through the powder like a hot knife to form long, graceful arcs. Before I am ready, I reach the bottom. Wild laughs of joy suddenly spread through the air, "those were some of the best turns I've ever had" I hear a few people say. I can only agree, and we eat our lunch of potatoes, bread, and red sauce as we bask in the sun's glow and admire our tracks on the slope above. On our final morning in Arslanbob, I step outside around 5am to use the bathroom, only to find our host family's 10 year old daughter splitting wood. In this moment I realize that there are billions of different people in the world, and all are living a life just as vivid and complex as my own.

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