Fermented Mare's Milk Is Surprisingly Not Ghastly

19 June 2009

This place is beautiful—crumpled green mountains stepping up to steeper, chocolatey brown ones topped with sugary white snow (I like snow when I don't have to get into it), around a shallow bowl of a valley dotted with herds of horses and yurts. The clouds drift across the valley casting shadows that chase them along. And it's sunny. And warmish.

Four of us left in Kochkur for Bishkek, having taken all they could of the slightly chaotic search for goat polo. Understandable in the wake of the Virus and all the Moving About, but they've missed a wonderful two days. Acel and Mike arranged horses for us to ride around the valleys (I believe that my last time on a horse may have been at Camp Kettle Run, circa 1986), and polo for this morning. Am clearly a natural horsewoman. Louise and her “expert” advise be damned. David slouched around on a horse in flip-flops for a while, with Dennis barefoot on his. Go west, young man! Or east. Whichever way is Bishkek. Spent some time implementing my only useful skill on this trip--french braiding. Dirty hair isn't so intolerable if you can't see it.

Annnnnddddd......Goat Polo!! I know how you've been waiting for this bit. The national sport of Kyrgyzstan involves beheading and be-legging a goat, and two teams of horsemen who fight over the furry carcass, attempting to steal it away and drop it on a goal. It's difficult to convey how fantastically fun it is to watch—the goat was slaughtered prior to the game, from the local family's herd, and appeared at game time as an inoccuous white fluffy ball. The stupendous horsemen who look like they were born in the saddle took off with it onto the “field”...a flat bit of the valley near our camp. The concept of field is a fluid one, as the players rode pretty much directly into us repeatedly, causing much shrieking and giggling. A crowd of locals rocked up to cheer, and my logic was to hang behind the grannies. This is faulty logic. They appear to ride directly for their womenfolk. Some issues here.

Highlight of the game: Emma's tent strolled over by a pack of six rampaging horses bearing six Kyrgyz nomads, two of whom were fighting over a headless goat carcass. Not your every day shift in a Nottingham hospital (I don't think). And they did it twice. Hoofprint highlighted in following image. (David & Ausma: she was not inside!)

Afterwards, Acel took a few of us up to the local yurts just above us to have a look around. The sweet little grandma who looks about 97 turns out to be 73—nomad life doesn't include Oil of Olay. Her numerous grandkids swarmed about, apparently as intrigued by our truck as we were by their yurts. The family comes up here six months a year to graze their herds, and make the fermented mare's milk that they sell in the market. Which, rather surprisingly, is nowhere near as ghastly as one might expect. A bit like soupy yogurt that's gone off. Also gave us mare's milk straight from the, um, mare. Warm and foamy and sweet. Really quite nice, actually. Surreal to see someone milking a horse, though.

Tomorrow back to civilization, Bishkek for two nights. Am told there's a Fake North Face shop, which we're all very excited about, and statues. And not much else. Which will be a nice break—all this seeing and doing and lounging in the sun is draining on a girl.