Kirghizstan is a country in central Asia. Anyone attempting to get to know it up close must be overwhelmed by the natural riches to be found there. In the South is Pamir with its seven-thousand meter high peaks, mountain shepherds living in tents and poor villagers. In the North is Biskek, the capital and from it off to the East begins another mountain range, the Tan-San. Even its peaks are in the seven-thousands, but only in the northeast tip of the country, near the border with Kazachstan and China. Also in the northeast part of the country, at an elevation of 1600 meters the 270km long and 80km wide lake of Issyk-kul shimmers. It is the second deepest lake in the world. And there are countless other beautiful and interesting places that tell of the history and customs of the people of Kirghizstan.

    I am certainly not the only one to get antsy after sitting at home for an extended period of time. It was this travel fever of mine which once again this year pulled me to Kirghizstan. And because this fever is contagious, I did not travel alone. With my girlfriend Blanka and my friend Libor we were three altogether who packed up our paragliding parachutes and only the most necessary things for travel in central Asia and set out.

    Parachutes? "Where can you fly in a country like that?", you may ask. Everywhere you can carry your parachute and your morale lets you. The hills are virtually bare and the opportunities countless. In this made-for-flying country there are only about 30 active pilots, though the numbers of flyers are growing rapidly, the enthusiasm spreading by word of mouth. But if we're talking about ambition and toughness of flyers, then there are no limits here. Specifically in Biskek, the capital, formerly Frunze, we find the only flying club in Kirghizstan, "Savitar", whose president is Alex Skorovarov. He is a good friend of mine who always took the best possible care of me.

    Our expedition got off to an altogether slow start since, thanks to the kick-off celebration, we missed our night train to Warsaw at a Polish train station. And as we were sleeping it off in a compartment of the first morning train, the stealthy hand of a Polish pickpocket borrowed Libor's cell phone. God grant me a small bill. Libor bore it courageously, but inside, it was eating away at all of us. From Warsaw we continued through Brest and all the way to Moscow. The train chugged along and we gazed out the window at the flat lands of grand Russia. It took twenty long hours before we stopped at the White Russian station in Moscow.

    Grey. That is the mood that seeps through you at this station. We've been here several times before, but have never left with a good feeling. Maybe its because this is the first place, from the time you board the train heading East, where you meet with the typical Russian system and the eternally frowning faces of important Russians. We quickly find out the price of train tickets to Biskek for my friends and rush to the airfield to get away as fast as possible.

    The question of wether the capital of Kirghizstan is closer to a Russain or an Asian city turns in my head. It is a strange mixture. Noise in the streets, chaos on the roads, where it doesn't matter how you drive, just so long as you swerve in time, small, low restaurants and stalls on every corner selling cigarettes, sunflower seeds and nuts, all of these are aspects of Asia. Commemorating the recent Soviet, "aid" are the typical panel high rise housing projects, statues of Lenin and the Russain speaking Khirghizstanis.



    Immediately upon our arrival I called Alex, who was already waiting for us. We were able to use his apartment in the center of town as we needed, which was a great comfort. We arrived just in time for Vovka, who spent last New Year's with us in Moravia, was just celebrating the christening of his daughter and his own birhthday.

     At home he was like a fish in water. The lamb, which just an hour ago had been sadly bleating, tied to a tree behind the house, was was already cooking, portioned, in the "kazan", a huge cast-iron pot, and resting in marinade.



    In a short while the table was covered with "sorpo", (a distinctive soup whose main ingredient is suet), boiled lamb, a meat, potato and onion goulash, various salads and of course, vodka. We exchanged stories over food and vodka and shared an enjoyable time. Vovka reminisced how one time his friends, going to work in Prague, took along their kazan, fearing that if they didn't, they'd have no way to prepare their favorite sorpo. Even this funny story shows how important the kazan is to the Kirghizstanis. Only Libor was dissappointed when no one laughed at his brilliant jokes, delivered in his own devilish Czech-Russian. We even had a Russian song, played on a dusty guitar. Fortunately, the guitar was missing a string and the player was sufficiently tired and this stopped the impending avalanche of Russian sentimentality. This was good, because getting drunk in a somber mood didn't appeal to us. So we survived the welcome party, just got a little tipsy, and now could dedicate ourselves to flying and everything we'd come here for.

    About 35 kilmeters to the east of Biskek lies the village of Con-tas. A short distance above it begins the crest of a mountain range which lines the approximately 170km long route from Biskek to Issyk-kul. The height difference between peaks of the range and the road are between 1000 to 1700 meters. We only flew in the vicinity of Con-tas, however. There are three possible starting grounds there. The first is at 200 meters, the second at 600 meters and the third at 1000 meters. With a little caution the first can be reached by car along a dirt road. Practically all flyers gather at this starting ground, as well as pretty girls who like to show off. Flyers lounge on the grass and roast "sasliky" while waiting for good wind.

    With an off-road vehicle, you can get half-way to the second starting ground, but the rest of the way must be made on foot through prickly shrubbery and irritant plants. On one take-off from this six-hundred meter start, an eagle began to attack my tandem Sharon. Eagle, well, I saw about 2 and half meters of wingspan and said to myself, "that's enough". The eagle then drew them in and crashed into my parachute, again and again. Last year I had some good flying with eagles, but this time I decided to clear the field and find another riser, which strengthened beautifully with altitude and carried us one kilometer above the start. Blanka was smiling, and I was wondering if the eagle had made a hole in my parachute. But it flew and that's what I needed. Finally we climbed up. Local pilots, picnics in the grass, bottles of vodka and endless questions all remained below and it was wonderful. Peace, thermals, a beautiful girl in front of me, what more is there to ask for! It was a shame we couldn't fly a little further. I had tried that last year - flying further out without a walkie-talkie, cell phone and clear agreement. There really is nothing to hitchike out there. Maybe hitchiking a horse or stealing a cow was possible, but last year I was not so lucky. We landed down on the 200 meter start and went for some sasliky. I found one hole when I checked, but it was nothing serious. Libor flew as well. But his nose got him - when he was high above the 200, he smelled the sasliky and landed by the fire. Yep, hunger is a bitch.