A Recent(ish) Adventure
Horse Tour in Kyrgyzstan
Hello all,
Here I would like to “briefly” recount one of the wonderful travel opportunities that I experienced before leaving Kazakhstan. In late July, I was able to journey through the southern mountains of Kyrgyzstan on horseback with my roommate August, her sister Severine, and their mother Dahlia. The trip was like a good day of skiing: smooth on the way down, full of unexpected turns, and the more you think about it the more you want to do it again. Come along, then!
On the evening of the 19th of July, our humble party of four made our way via AirAstana to the Kyrgyz capital of Bishkek, just an hour West as the gigantic-steel-reinforced-mechanical-bird flies. By noon the next day we were off in a Kyrgyz village, I know not where, polishing a graciously provided local lunch of soup, salad, and plov. From this moment onward I knew it would be a great trip; the men came and went as if we were going on a hunt. Grunts, quick eats, and lots of vague darting around “getting things ready” reminded me of a cowboy movie before the big fight scene. If the men would’ve had Stetsons and flannels I might just have believed they were from yonder Texas. This scene, another sliver of evidence pointing towards my thesis that the world is actually much smaller than we think. I’m currently doing the calculations, but preliminary estimates suggest that life is actually just my neighborhood with lots of mirrors and fake walls painted to look like other places.
After lunch we —myself, ladies, guides— saddled up, ready to make our nomad's journey to the great lake Song-Kul. Leading us were Kuban “The Horseman” (not a word of English but with a golden voice and smile) and Zhentai “Supreme Leader” (young, fun-loving, consummate cutie patootie). It should be noted that I completely fabricated those callsigns as I was penning this story. In addition to those two who joined us on horse, we also had a driver who’s name will go down in history as “The One I Can’t Recall”. Our steeds were some noble Kyrgyz breeds of varying sizes and demeanors, all without names. My own was a chestnut spitfire. He loved to eat, fart, and never complained nor lost a race. A chip off the old block, naturally.
Along the way to our first destination, now on horseback, we received some small cultural treasures: nomad songs from Kuban, the Kyrgyz insider scoop from Zhentai, and horse wrestling lessons from the both of them. They showed August and Severine in a baptism by fire ten ways to pull someone out of their saddle. It was not long before August and Severine joined their wrestling prowess together, forming the Women's United Matriarchate of Equine Knavery (WUMEN— the k is silent). As the logical victims of this power bloc, Zhentai and myself were left with no option but to partner up our own grappling skills for the remainder of the riding. Kuban “Horseman” was quite alright on his own. Dahlia was a helpless victim.
way was beautiful and mountainous. Our horses were quick to form a caravaning line along the dusty trail which we broke and reformed at least a million times. We sloshed through streams, nipped honey-sweet purple wildflowers chanced from the riverside (salvia, as it turns out), plodded and trotted along dirt paths, and watched keenly for each others’ friendly ambushes (a lifted heel here, a sweatshirt tug there). After four to five hours of solid riding and wanton frolicking, we spent a lovely evening and night in a mountainside yurt camp huddled under the bright new moon.
The next morning, 8am sharp, with Drew still on the grass— sorry, with dew still on the grass and le Fwench peepul (separate tour) complaining about how their legs hurt, we pressed onward (mine hurt too, but I didn’t complain... as much!). Another full day of riding was ahead of us: three hours up Tian Shan switchbacks, a picnic break overlooking Lake Song-Kul, and three hours back down the other side. Incredible views abounded that day, met well by equally great company and food: in the distance lay our pristine and enormous lake, wholly unbothered with the world out there. She carried a soft spoken tide and a deep blue wisdom about her. Up close, our g(r)aze was met with idle stares from cadres of horses and cows. With slow interest they watched us pass, munching on wildflowers and mountain grasses, heedless of the perilous inclines they traipsed. I must also thank the good lord for those horses. The incline was fucking intense! The constant threat of ambush by my companions kept me sharp throughout, and after some hours we were down.
The view from the bottom of our valley, at the edge of the lakefront, was simply gorgeous. A wide steppe-like meadow as far as the eye could see lay in front of us. Horses, cows, and sheep grazed in harmony. August and horse, resident free spirits, broke into a gallop as soon as we neared the flatter mountain’s base. Myself and Severine were not going to be upstaged, and so we rushed to meet her gait. A light heel to the side and a few cowboy “Hiyah!’s” sufficed to get my chestnut stallion up to top speed. The group of us raced along the pebbled beach and rolling grassland for several heavenly minutes, causing much disturbance to grazing residents as we thundered past. We raced until we came to a Kyrgyz hero’s monument, wherein layed horrors almost too difficult to mention…
A herd of mountain puppies! A tumble of pups waggled their way out of the mausoleum! Little patooties the sizes of footballs with snooflers and tongues set to overdrive! The five little ones welcomed us to Song-Kul, toppling over each other as they did. One pup, the thirstiest of the bunch, decided to taste-test the lemonade waterfall gushing from my horse's underside. His exploration went exactly as you would imagine, but the little fella didn’t seem to mind one bit, and carried his pee-stained head tall with an adventurer’s pride. At first sight of the fluffballs, Dahlia was overcome with puppylove. It was a sight and sound to behold; the worried glances from August and Severine told me that taking one home was a real possibility.
Upon arrival at our second yurt camp, it was time for dinner and a swim. Note on the lake: Song-Kul is a several kilometer wide and thirteen meter deep lake located at 3,000m above sea level... on the steppe… in a mountain valley… with no wind breakage. I don’t know how many mountain-steppe lakes you’ve swam in , but if you’re following my logic here, the word I want to propose is frigid. Even with the sun beaming down and without a cloud in the sky, the water was inches away from becoming ice.
The first time we swam in the lake, it was so cold as to be euphoric. Above, the water was picturesque. I recall watching a storm rumbling up ahead in the distance, far across the lake. Below, I was thrashing my limbs constantly to keep them alive. I remember rolling against small little waves, heedless of my own thrashing, thinking: I could be here forever. After I lost the ability to make a fist, common sense said otherwise, and it then was time for soccer.
Kicking the old ball around with stones for goals and local children for teammates, some of us tourists had a Walter Mitty moment in the mountains. It was not nearly as montaged nor as dramatic (until Alinur, 6 years old, stormed off after not receiving enough passes), but it was loads of fun. We were joined by several little cuties whose families hosted the yurt stays. We were also joined by two English speaking, American accented girls. This, not too unexpected until we learned that they were born and raised in Kyrgyzstan…and didn’t yet speak Kyrgyz!
Children are extraordinary parrots, and equally interesting story tellers. While passing the soccer ball, I learned that the girls had a cherry tree in their yard that went as high as a house, mountain, the sky, the “deepest darkest reaches of the universe”. Later, before bed, I was crowned entertainer supreme before drowning in a river of “pee and poo and all the disgusting things in the world”, trapped in the “land of pee and poo” by a wall “infinity high” that was made of —you guessed it— “pee and poo and vomit and grossness”. When I finally crawled out from my den of horrors, the ladies were being treated to a song about “love and nature and the voice inside all of us that loves ourselves… and mommy’s squishy milkers!” Then it was off to bed. Imagine our horror (delight?) when we met mom! Where the younger girl came up with that one… hard to say…
The next morning, after breakfast, we had our final ride with our posse. We raced back to the mausoleum (now pupless) at full gallop, where Kuban “The Horse Man” tied our steeds tip to tail and rode out back towards the village. After returning the horses and lunch, it was time for some nomad games! The One I Can’t Recall drove our party about fifteen minutes away to a nearby camp where several tour guides and local cowboys had arranged a meetup for some festivities. First was Kuz Kuu— girl chasing. I lined up next to a half-dozen race horses, confident that none of them needed the win as bad as me… just kidding. In Kuz Kuu a man chases a woman, both on horseback, and tries to steal a kiss. Historically, if he was successful, he may have been allowed to seek her hand in marriage. If he is unsuccessful, the real fun begins, and a second race is organized where the woman chases the same man with her horse whip, stealing flesh!
Next up in the nomad game roster was Kok-Boru. Kok Boru is an incredible game of horse-polo, played by slinging around a hefty 20kg headless goat carcass. On this day, our martyr was a thick black billy goat. I lifted his corpse and can confirm: heavy as a stone and twice as awkward. The riders lined up into teams, wearing their normal day clothes, and the crowds picked their favorites. Immediately after the games commenced, the crowds lost track of their teams and began cheering based on vibes alone.
Riders thunder down the field, slamming their horses’ thick necks into each other to throw the opponent off the chase, buying time and space for their own rider to lug the carcass towards the goal. Dust stirs in great circles as the teams clash for possession, herding dogs nipping at the horses’ heels all the while. A rider dips, clutching up the carcass on his horses’ side. He stows it underneath his thigh, breaking away from the defenders towards the goal. He’s out and going fast! There’s a chase! They’re almost on him, but he’s close! He lobs the carcass, rounds the corner, a goal! Cheers from the tourist crowd!
*Short side note: The fifth annual World Nomad Games in Astana will be featuring an American cowboy team for Kokpar (Kok-boru)! Yeehaw!*
After kok-boru, wrestling on horseback was in store. Strapping young men, two at a time, took off their shirts, tightened their stirrups, and simply went at it. The younger boys were especially eager to please the foreign crowds. All were close matches, long winded and fraught with difficulty for both sides. But once a foot was lifted from the stirrups, it was only a matter of time, and a winner was soon crowned.
Finally, the moment we’ve all (unknowingly) been waiting for. The horses are put away and a call rung out among the nations. There will be wrestling matches, for the honor and glory of the steppe, forever and ever (amen). The champion, no taller than five six, fifty some years old, is built like an acrobat or elite gymnast. When he takes his shirt off, I note the understated, explosive musculature that comes dragging behind it unwilling decades of ‘getting it done’ (this, otherwise known as old-man strength). Who dare challenges the champion of the realm?
I am nudged, but I wait. The crowd is perused, and yet no one has the nerve, the balls, the bravado to step up to this challenge. I am nudged again. The match organizer turns to shrug at his champion: there is no one so bold as to brave your iron gauntlet. What’s this? Someone has stood up to take the challenge?!
It is I, Steve of Iowa, here to win glory for my people. I take my turn in front of the crowds (thank GOD no one else volunteered, I wanted to do this so much) and removed my shirt (jumpscare!). To the cheers and jeers of the spectators, I walk to shake the champion’s hand. He has a sly smile. Strong grip. Really strong. His arms hide powerful muscles (like the front half of the Trojan horse sawed-in-half hides Greeks— a little at first, then not at all). The match begins. We circle each other, backs hunched, matching step for step. He grips my wrist. Break the wrist, walk away. He grabs again with the strength of a horse. Again I slip out and try to grab his forearms. He easily breaks my grip. Then, all at once, he is on me. In one quick motion he shoots for my torso, catches my left leg and pulls hard. I’m in the air. My instincts tell me to turn, flip his weight onto the ground first, but I’m not nearly fast enough, nor close to as strong as this cowboy. My back is on the ground. I’ve lost, honor scattered to the wind. Hoo-wee boy, he whipped me faster than Grandma Betty and a bucket of cream…in her prime!
I return to my place in the crowd, a shell of a man. Next up is a lady match, August with her own body to overcome. A tall strawberry-haired startup from Germany has stepped up to the ring, looking for a contender. KICK HER ASS!!! America! USA!! The two girls go at it, Germany’s lithe limbs wrapping and tugging against August’s stalwart figure. One is lifted, no the other, no, they both have each other by the braids (figuratively)! A throw is made, they both go down, a photo-finish on the floor! Another round commences, August now flushed with bloodlust and rage (I like to imagine). It is all our German friend can do to stave off August “The Human Steamroller” Caldwell. Germany is on the ground in no-time, and it’s all tied up. Rather than a grudge match to break the tie, the bout is ruled a draw. We all know in our hearts who takes away the victory (USA! USA! USA! USA!).
In a bid to restore my honor (and have oodles more fun), I volunteered once more to have my ass whooped by a local. My contender now was a larger man, less ropey and more pudding-like, a more even matchup for my own buddha belly. We shook, smiled, circled, staying low and reaching for each other’s legs, trying to throw the other off balance. This time though, I was thus educated from my first bout, and was no longer lazy about my footwork. I kept my legs back and poised, out of harm's way. For several long moments we grabbed and pulled at each other, each being a match in size and strength. I was draining quickly, but he just a little more so. Soon I was on him–literally. When all was said and done, the match was called 1-1, but my honor had been successfully restored, and August handed me back my coolstrongbigmanlyman card that I had dropped when I was flattened the first time.
After wrestling, a final game of duck-duck-goose was played by all the tourists before heading back to our respective yurt camps. Then dinner and another swim. Curiously, by the time dinner rolled around—must’ve been the “mountain air”— I was feeling extra hungry and giggly. The dinner was extra good (meat dumplings) and my jokes were landing extra well (with myself). It was so strange…
When the sun had fallen, it was cards and a bonfire at camp. In a hilarious situation of trilingual telephone, one of our Korean camp-mates had all the guests guessing her age, occupation, and beauty secrets. She told her guide in Korean, who told Zhentai in Kyrgyz, who told the rest of us in English, that the secret to her 50-year-old-face-of-a-30-year-old beauty was simply fruit, vegetables, and lots of horse riding. While Zhentai translated back to Kyrgyz back to Korean our shock and disbelief, our mystery woman fished around in her bag for…cigarettes?! My eyebrows jumped over the moon. But then, until recently my facial care routine included a dish rag and some hand soap, so what do I know about beauty?
When the fire had been snuffed and the power outed for sleep, I ambled my way back to the shoreline. A final goodbye was said to the lady of the lake, with the moon illuminating the year behind me and the mountains hiding what lay in front. Wary horses brayed in the distance. A cool breeze filled my lungs and sent shivers down my spine. My year abroad was almost complete. The animals had gone to sleep, but I had not. I was there, awake and aware at the shore, trying in vain to take it all with me in a single breath. To inhale with two tiny lungs all the air that could fill an entire valley, that had existed for eons before me and would blow gently on after my footsteps had faded into the dust. My breaths were small and mighty, and they must have worked, for I’ve taken some of the valley with me and put it here!
In any case, the next day we drove back to the capital of Bishkek, where we said our goodbyes and had final eats. We bid Zhentai and The One I Can’t Recall well, ate some bussin’ chinese food, drank fermented milk from street vendors (Ayran), and perused the post-soviet city. The next afternoon we flew home. With next adventures around the corner, our mountain posse tipped our ten-gallons low and said so long, until next time, and that was it.
Woof! So much to say from such a short slice of living, and I didn’t even include everything I had wanted to! Heaven will be a rocking chair across from David Sedaris or Billy Collins, they chronicling my life as I sip orange juice sustainably sourced from Eden’s groves and reflect on all of my manifold accomplishments. The yet-to-be-realized part of my life’s story where I rescue the Earth from impending doom will be a fan favorite, but for now it is sufficient for me to chronicle an errant thought here and a trip there. Thank you for reading, and an extra large thank you to Dahlia, for taking me along on the trip and providing me the opportunity among other things (food, lodging, etc). I am eternally grateful.
Thank you,
Steven
