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.

I guess I had forgotten how much snow we got over the winter, and how, in most places, it was never removed, but simply packed down. Aside from the heaps of snow piled in the limited green space along (and in) the roads, many of those roads and sidewalks sport ice or heavily packed snow as much as 6 inches thick!

This all means the amount of slushy water that has infiltrated the city is beyond the pale. I have never seen puddles this big in my entire life. They’ll occupy entire an intersection at the end of an alley, and submerge your foot to the ankle, like after a big rain in Chicago. But these puddles have no plans of going anywhere. Furthermore, they’re filled with snow and slushy ice, and bear an uncanny resemblance to the regular snow and ice we’ve had since October. That means, unless the guy in front of you just made waves, you’re unlikely to be able to tell the wet from the dry.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the melting icicles on the eaves of tall buildings are big like lightning bolts, and scare even the savviest of men. People can be seen marching around on their roofs, shoveling off big sheets of snow. I’m just waiting for another cold snap though, when these giant puddles turn our fair city into the largest urban skating rink the world has ever seen.

But, like all good cold-weather people, this nonsense hasn’t put a damper on a thing, and its business as usual. At work, our handicraft business course, which was originally supposed to start today, has been delayed, for a second time, to the 15th. Something about money, overlapping skill-sets, and an inkling suspicion that this same thing has been done before…

And at home with my lovely family, my homestay mom has just celebrated her 40th birthday. No one told me about this until I got home from work, but that was okay, as the whole celebration was decidedly subdued. We had cake. My dad gave silly, yet meaningful toasts. Aijamal, the six year old, presented a book half filled with pictures she drew of horses and mermaids, put it in a bag, and tied it all up with a scarf.

In fact, it was Aijamal, the Christmas whisperer, who really stole the show. She’d been a bundle of energy all day, just laughing and saying anything that’d come into her head. And one of those things, she said, while standing on her chair at the dinner table, after taking a bite of her rice with carrot shreds and boiled beef, was simply, “meat with rice is good, huh,” as if she was having it for the first time.

This makes snow removal an issue, to say the least. The one main street in town, Lenin, is one of the very few that are paved, and the only one that is plowed, though only rarely. On days when the snow is fresh, the cars that don’t have chains on their tires make sliding stops as regular practice. When the snow is tough and packed, the only real concern is slipping while you cross.

The side streets show no hope of plowing, and the thick snow does wonders to fill the pot holes. When kids aren’t sledding on the hills, or sliding, for fun, on every possibly decline, they’re grabbing onto cars as they slow down to round corners, and then sliding down the street attached to them (a practice I’ve heard is also common in Detroit.)

Now shoveling, as we think of it, is a bit different out here, if for no other reason than the curious layout of the standard home. Kyrgyz houses don’t generally have a front door. Instead, facing the street is just the plane side of the house, and next to it, a tall, metal gate. This gate will generally have one entrance for people and one for cars. Once inside, there will be a driveway, at the end of which features a garage. Before that garage, however, will be a turn off, sending you to what we would consider the back door of the house. This does not occupy all of the space in yard, however. Generally one can also find some yard space, an outhouse, maybe a fruit tree, and a large dog cage. Sometimes there will even be two buildings for different uses depending on the season.

Take note here: Long driveway, little lawn. Good for cars in the summer, bad for your back in the winter.

At my house, this all means starting from the gate and pushing all of the snow towards the back where there is a little strip of green. We filled that up about a month ago. Next was the same procedure, just a little farther back, to another green spot, until we filled that up too. The last timed it snowed we went way back, to a far corner. But for this maneuver, my family had a system. We’d shovel out a path, and then lay a fleece blanket down. We’d pile a mountain of snow on the blanket and then drag it to the back corner, where we’d shovel it again.

That was cool, but we’re the lucky ones. Up and down the streets here in Sunny Naryn, both big and small, there are huge mounds of snow, some 4 feet high, and the average American would assume them to be from the giant shovel of the plows. But no, not here. Here, it is the concerted labor of countless men, bearing one load after another of snow, carried in wheelbarrows, on blankets, pieces of siding and sleds. All of this sound pretty reasonable? Now, imagine that instead of an ergonomically correct, light plastic shovel, you’re doing this with a piece of plywood fitted between the teeth of a picthfork. But thats just life, folks, and I love it.

While that means it will be warming, it doesn’t mean other things, like fresh vegetables, will be returning. For the last two months or so, we have been living the high life with winter Mandarins, those tiny little oranges I remember from America. While at home they only seemed to be in abundance for two weeks or so, they’ve been a saving grace for what seems like all winter so far. Mostly from China and Pakistan, we’re starting to see their quality wane, and its clear the time of the Mandarins will soon come to pass.

Our diet these days is almost entirely dough based starches, like bread or noodles with frozen beef or fatty mutton, onions and potatoes. Top that off with the simple delights of honey, home made jam, and salads made last fall of tomatoes, garlic and onions, or red beets, and along with tea and fermented milk, that pretty much sums things up here in Sunny Naryn. Its amazing how much you can make with so few ingredients.

But life here is by no means as limited as our diet might suggest. While the instability (and the recently doubled rate) of our electricity keeps everyone on their toes (and their oil lamps on hand), there’s plenty of fun to be had in this hilly land of snow. Namely, in the suburb of Internat (not to be confused with Al Gore’s Internet) there is what used to be a ski-lift. I had heard the stories of this thing, and seen the ghostly apparatus trailing into the mountains, but didn’t believe it still worked.

Then this past Saturday, as I was shoveling out the driveway with my homestay father, he mentioned that we might attend, as a family, and I whole heartedly agreed. What we found was a happy collection of Naryners, perhaps 500 strong, just out and about, having fun standing around in the packed down snow, or climbing high to ski where it was still three feet of untouched fun.

While the old Soviet rope-tow wasn’t working, that didn’t stop the trailer/shack from renting skis and snowboards, nor the local kids from pushing their sleds on people at fifty cents for the day.

We came prepared with a thermos of tea, a dozen large fried dumplings, a little sled, and the rubber mat that is meant to protect the floor of our car from snow and mud. While the sled worked well, and kept its riders dry, I pioneered lying stomach down on the rubber pad, and cruising like a walrus through the crowds. More than once I heard, “Hey bro! Where are you from?”

We hiked and frolicked and hours later, landed home, cold, wet and happy. What more could ask from a Sunday?

In fact, we had our record low the other night, -35 C (that’s -31 F, not including wind chill, wink wink). Coming home in the cold with a frozen nose is bad enough. But knowing you’ll have to return to that cold, to do nothing but squat over an open hole in a small room is the icing on the cake.

As winter slowly approached, my growing habit had been to wait as long as possible to endure this tribulation. That might have put me at once every three days. Needless to say, my midsection was getting less and less comfortable.

Ironically, it was the vaguely offensive luxury of that hotel (see the video here!), however, that has got me aggressively adjusting to my icy outhouse. See, I got a little ill in the bowels at last week’s PDM, and of my fancy indoor toilet, I took full advantage. It was that little taste of the good life that reminded me how wonderful it is to be comfortable in the plumbing, and how a quick run outside is really worth the trouble.

So I’m working at it now, folks, rest assured. And truth be told, its never as bad as ya’ think it’s gonna be. Sure, I have to put on a hat, but I generally am already wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Plus, it’s also amazing how quickly you can go when you really need to.

Otherwise, this week is marked by some new “real” work I’m up to. Through some mean cajoling and pestering, I got the UNDP and local Aga Hun supported University of Central Asia to sponsor a course teaching rural handicraft cooperatives business skills. As a good community developer, however, I insisted the course syllabus not be drawn up until we conducted a needs assessment of the ladies we’d like to teach. What that means, really, is just more of the dream.

Thus far, we’ve been to 4 villages and met with 41 women. To date, these meetings have been entirely in Ak-Tala rayon, the poorest rayon here in Naryn, the poorest province of Kyrgyzstan. And for whatever reason, I feel like I have experienced the greatest honest luxury in recent memory.

We drive as many as two hours outside of the city, with the fingers of the mountains coming down to our left, covered in velvet snow. The women we meet with bear no signs of timidity. They tell us aggressively of their issues: they want accounting skills, to learn to harness capital, advanced felt production technology, guidelines for pricing, and most of all, more orders: no one’s askin’ for hand-outs here.

Then, inevitably, before we leave, they’ll show us their workshops, and with each visit, their work gets more and more impressive. For those details, tune in next week.

This has been my first time out of Sunny Naryn since the winter began, and in the rest of the country, its, different. The main road out of Naryn goes over the Dolan Pass into a region centered around the city of Kochkor (or, Ram). Kochkor is a windy place, and this combined with the surrounding mountains means Kochkor, very much unlike Naryn, was almost barren of snow.

The next stop on the route away from home is Balykchy (Fisherman). Balykchy is a dried up, formerly industrial Soviet city on the south west corner of the Lake. Once prosperous, like an American Rust Belt city, Balykchy has fallen on hard times. Its factories are largely closed, yet it still acts as a transportation hub. Maligned by travelers frequently mistreated by taxi drivers who know their customers have no choice but to come through, and no reason to stay, it exhibits a characteristic particularly reminiscent of home. Balykchy, not cold as Naryn, is nonetheless as windy as Chicago. Biting cold, but nostalgic nonetheless.

My next destination was at the fabled home of my old teacher, Tamerlane, the Hero King. The snow had recently fallen here. Upon arrival, there was no need to call my friend because, as a teacher in town, there isn’t a soul who doesn’t seem to know him, or know where he lives.

I found him hiding in his kitchen, cooking with his wife, watching the two six year olds cavort around like elephants, and his 2 year old take short, choppy steps. Over the next couple of days, we hid inside from the cold, eating, watching nature movies, and talking with his family. Dinner our first night was Kyrgyz dumplings, called monty, made of mutton, fat, onions and potatoes, with a side of pickled garlic and tomatoes. His mother, bedridden, always with something interesting and specific to tell me, was feeling passionate about how Hitler and WWII were terrible, and it was good that we live in peaceful times. Sometimes we’d do chores together, like chopping wood, or stoking his furnace.

And it was one ironic image that I thought would stick with me. My teacher, starting a coal fire, with the torn pages of a book entitled simply “Leninism.” But instead, it was the freshly fallen snow on the road out of town. Thick and unplowed, cars, vans and trucks competing with cows, sheep, and horse drawn wagons for space on the road.

From there, it was off to the Karakol volunteers, and their world of consumer goods, Russian influence, and skiing. Volunteers here do much of what we do in Naryn, though their material life a bit more advanced.

There seems to be nothing happier than visiting good people on cold nights. I wish you all, my friends, this same success.

Originally written Januay 11th, 2010