In Kyrgyz, a common holiday greeting is the idiomatic “congratulations.” While this is standard, its direct translation into English never ceases to make me chuckle. With that in mind, we’ve just celebrated the traditional Muslim New Years, called Noruz here, marking the vernal equinox.
That would lead the reader to assume Spring was on its way, marching steadily towards Sunny Naryn. However, with mountains of snow still lining the streets, and a fresh three inches for the holiday, us locals are feeling otherwise.
With the lion’s share of my family in Bishkek, it was just my host father and Kalima, the oldest daughter left with me at home. Kalima and I went out to check out the festivities in the town center at noon, and found the take-down of a concert in progress, as well as some remaining hundreds of people eating, taking pictures, and just generally enjoying themselves outdoors.
Kalima and I walked around, and I bought some ice cream, on sale in the street for the first time all year. At this point, 
I’d love to show a wonderful picture of Kalima eating hers with a snowy, crowded Naryn in the background, but when I asked to stage such a thing, she said succinctly, “If I eat mine now, the boys will throw snowballs at me.” To be 14 here, it seems, is to be 14 anywhere on earth.
My host father showed no interest in celebrating. “I’m young,” he said, “now is the time for working, not partying.” Instead, he was happy to point out subtleties in the pictures I had taken during last week’s wedding.
“See these boys?” he said, “can you tell they are from Bishkek? They look more cultured. And these boys? They’re a little rougher. They’re all Naryners.”
“And what I about this boy?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s the worst of the bunch.” Naturally, we were talking about me.
Then, as the sun was setting on this, the last time the light won’t overwhelm the dark until Fall, I found myself watching a movie when my family got home. I was enjoying a Russian dubbed version of “Doomsday,” a tasteful film which follows the exploits of a small band of modern soldiers stranded in a post apocalyptic Scotland, as they run from tribes of equally barbaric urban punks and rural knights, all the while seeing advertisements at the bottom of the screen in Kyrgyz: “For a fat mare, call…” and “House for sale, city center, fruit tree, shop and banya on premises…”
My mother had left about a week ago, for a medical conference in the capital, and had brought the children with her. When she returned, the quiet house I had been growing accustomed to filled up again. The drying laundry ha been washed wrong, the 2 year old was spilling his tea on the table, and the shoes needed polishing.
All’s happy, well, and normal here in Naryn, folks. One day the snow will stop, but no one is quite sure when.
