One Night in ... Izola - KAP Jasa

“I don’t know how to January!”
– Marczin

So … when it became clear that after so many years we’d have to spend the great holiday of Uttarayan not in India, but in Slovenia – and not just Uttarayan, the whole bloody January! – we promptly went through all six stages of grief.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, organizing a kite festival – and establishing a new religion.

At first it was meant to be more of a kite meet than a true kite festival; a small get-together of friends who were also not going to India this year, a Uttarayana in Ljubljana for a selected few who also weren’t invited.

But do you know the definition of the phrase international kite festival, IKF? There have to be at least two people from at least two countries (international), there have to be kites in the air (kite), and there must be at least two people watching them (festival).

We had 10 people form 4 countries – more than enough for an IKF.

Phase I: denial

“No.”
– the wind

The whole affair began before first light … well, at least István started in the thick of the dark, because he was smart and took the night bus, arriving in Ljubljana at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. Luckily, it wasn’t just pitch black, but also freezing, so he happily went around doing the sort of things people do at this hour and in this city, like climbing mountains and sniffing out good spots for kite aerial photography.

We intercepted the weary wanderer at eight, and while downing a couple of cold ones we waited for the lucky girl to arrive – lucky being exactly the right word, since she was coming back from prison. Or so the banner we unfurled at the station claimed.

Amidst hugs and kisses, the Croatian expedition arrived, so it was time to freshen up, because dinner was waiting. We prepared some proper Slovenian food: čevapčiči burned on the fire outside in the freezing evening.

Just before the combined forces of pálinka, Becherovka, Dr. Agon’s homemade rum and gin, and beer overtook us, we told them about the plans for the next day. Plan A: Slovenia is a Karst country, so if it rained, we’d go to a giant cave and fly zero-wind kites underground. Plan B: Slovenia is a Mediterranean country, so if it didn’t rain, we’d go to the seaside and fly kites in the gentle – and very forecasted! – breeze.

Saturday came early. It didn’t rain. Let’s gooooooooo!

Phase II: anger

“Bloody lying meteorologists!!!”
– everyone

Not only did it not rain – there was glorious warm sun at the seaside! Situated on a lovely peninsula, Izola is probably the best town on the Slovenian Adriatic: unpretentious, cool, low-key beautiful, very pleasant. And it has just enough open space by the little lighthouse to lift a kite – or ten. A perfect place for a nice little IKF.

It was 14 degrees and the sky was as clear as it gets: a veritable January miracle. The weather forecast nailed the temperature, but it also promised a 15 kph wind – and more!

Which would be correct – if math had suddenly decided that zero equals fifteen.

We were enjoying our second coffee at the lovely Cappuccino bar, basking in the warm January sun. Sergeja and Ivor offered some charcuterie, and then the ladies went for a pleasant stroll through the old Venetian town.

Not a leaf moved, not a blade of grass trembled, not one sailboat on the horizon. The sea was a giant mirror, its surface broken only by seagulls hunting, the crazy locals swimming – and the István’s dopero dipping in it.

Had a band of merry weathermen passed by, we’d have thrown them straight into the perfectly still Adriatic.

Phase III: bargaining

“There will be wind, just wait … at eleven … no, it will start at one PM … at two … half past three, … five …”
– Žare

As we lounged in the sun, we suddenly remembered the immortal quip of the announcer at the Statue of Unity during IKF Gujarat a few years back: “We respectfully ask the international kite flyers to show more enthusiasm for flying kites.”

Sure. Enthusiasm. That’ll do it! If the dopero is somehow up, other kites can be too. In the end, it’s all about relative airspeed: either the air moves, or the kite flyer does.

The air did not move.

We finished our fourth (or fifth) coffee and sprung into action. First out: the zero wind kites.

The gods of wind noticed our enthusiasm and, in their infinite mercy, made the air move just enough for us idiots to start running around and pulling a big bag of fabric.

The kids saw the (barely) flying monster and came closer.

Then we started for real.

Žare tried his Revolution. Ivor hauled out the heavy Rukfaš and dared the gods. Janez assembled the Astral glider.

And the kids were losing it.

Especially when we handed them the lines and told them they were pilots now.

Child labour is good.

Someone – we know exactly who – even had the audacity to hang the trilobite on a street lamp … to the great amusement of the audience.

But …

Phase IV: depression

“This is pointless, let’s go home and turn into Garfields.”
– Ivor

All that running drained whatever energy we had left. Even another coffee couldn’t resurrect us, and we felt a bit guilty: we’d invited all these cool people for nice kite flying, but the wind – and the bloody lying meteorologists – betrayed us once again.

We tried to postpone the inevitable, but you can’t really evade that. The sun sank, the temperature followed, and the almost-spring warmth suddenly remembered it was January and vanished. It was getting cold and dark, and the only light in this bleak, windless evening was the thought of the fantastic lasagna waiting for us at the Bogunić residence. Time to pack up.

We gathered our gear and started hauling it toward the parking lot when István whispered: “I’m glad your meteorologists are just as big liars as the ones in Hungary …” – and then everything changed.

Phase V: a kite festival.

“Wait. Is that … is that István’s dopero high up there?
“Oh bloody hell. Of course it is.”

Žare and Saša were just coming back from the first round of carrying the big bags of unused kites to the cars, when a strange bird high above Izola caught their eye.

It wasn’t a bird. And what they felt on the back of their necks was not the cold hand of despair anymore – it was wind.

For real.

Night fell, and things went from depressing to chaotic in under five minutes. The sea turned angry, the pines began to sway, and we hysterically dragged out every LED kite we had. As organized and meticulous as we are, we had too few batteries for all the creatures of the night, and in the dark at least some of us used the wrong lines.

“It’s stuck!”
“Where?”
“Watch out!”
“How the hell do I ‘watch out’?! I can’t see shit!”

Cries of “Pull! Pull!” were drowned by the raging sea. The wind grabbed the trilobites and toyed with them.

And then they rose magnificently, lighting up the night sky above Izola.

We flew one high so it could be seen from town centre, and kept the other low for the audience to marvel at.

And the audience came. In droves.

What would you do if a glowing, colourful UFO suddenly appeared in the sky above your town?

“No, you got it all wrong. This isn’t an IKF – it’s a NIKF!”
“What’s NIKF, L’ubica?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A Night International Kite Festival!”

The wind kept strengthening, and the poor line we’d grabbed in the initial panic made some of us uneasy.

It wasn’t just the line – the streetlight was doing its absolute best to stay anchored!

People stared at a scene they’d never seen before, necks bent skyward (we imagine chiropractors of Izola had a great day afterward), phones out, eyes wide open. A lovely old lady brought us a box of chocolates: “Thank you — it’s amazing!”

It was amazing. The first NIKF Izola!

Lasagna had to wait.

Phase VI: a new hope

“Release the inner wind, brother!”
– Saša the Evangelist

Of all the stunning, colourful, dramatic photos we took that weekend, this one might be the most poignant. It shows two kiters who’ve met maybe twice in their lives, from different countries, with different lifestyles, histories, aspirations, callings …

They’re talking about who-knows-what, and if you look closely, the clock behind them reads 2:05 AM.

*Devouring divine lasagna at the luxurious* Mramor residence

This. This is it. It was never about flying kites, making kites, kite festivals, or kite aerial photography. It has nothing to do with the wind (or its absence). What this beautiful, bizarre, unique hobby gives us is this: friends for life.

How extraordinary it is to travel the world, visit strange places, enter people’s homes and lives – and open your own home and heart for them. A kite line truly is a string that binds us all.

István quickly realized all this is somewhat spiritual – and promptly invented a new kite religion. A kite is an anchor to the heavens. A kite line is a 6G connection with the gals and guys up there. Ever heard a kite line sing? Those are messages, prayers, commandments traveling up and down. Kite flyers are our sisters and brothers. Every meadow is our temple. And beans are our sacred food, our host.

“Beans, István?”
“Yeah – they give you winds!”
“And a sacred drink?”
“Union, of course!”

A fantastic lasagna was nourishing our weary bodies…

Award-winning gin and rum – made by Janez, dr. Agon himself! – were warming our souls.

And L’ubica got a new kite!

The Original Blue Rokkaku, also made by Janez, dr. Agon. If it’s made by dr. Agon, either it flies, or you fly!

It was such a great weekend …

And it came to an end.

But wait! There was one last thing to do …

Epilogue

“That’s just insane …”
– Janez

Remember how István was sniffing out good KAP spots around Ljubljana at 5 AM on that freezing Friday? Well, after NIKF Izola, lasagna, pálinka, Becherovka, Dr. Agon’s rum and gin, and beer, Sunday broke out. We drove L’ubica to the bus station so she could return to her prison – and István grew restless.

“There is no wind, István.”
“Yes, there is!”
“There is no space, István.”
“Yes, there is!”

We stood on the Butchers’ Bridge; the wind was either nonexistent or blowing from all directions at once, and our master kite aerial photographer assembled his gear.

The first kite up: the fled.