elleflies | A change from the norm

For most of my trips, I generally post abbreviated versions of what went on and keep it mainly to pictures. Although I've been sadly slacking off on that the past few months (sorry!) I do a longer write up for people on my Travel mailing list- mostly family and friends who start getting bitchy and gripey when I don't give them all the dirty details of where I've been and what I've been doing. Posting this on my livejournal is a bit of a change for me, but I've spent so much time editing it and tweaking it and it is a favorite travel story of mine, they I figured, why the hell not?

So folks, even though this is fairly long as all my travel write ups tend to be, but this is how I want to tell my story, so here goes.

This trip, my journey into the heart of Central Asia, has ended up being one of my favorites – and not for normal, sane reasons. Mainly because the story I got out of it tends to make people sit up and go “what?!” and that is vastly entertaining to me. This is why - when people ask what I did for my Thanksgiving this past year, my answer is: I went to Central Asia and a horse fell on me.

Yes, that is right, a horse fell on me, and me being me, this has turned into one of my favorite travel stories.

Before I go into the nitty gritty details I know ya’ll are just dying to hear, I think a bit of a geography lesson is in store because when I say “Central Asia” I really mean the country of Kyrgyzstan, which was formerly a part of the U.S.S.R; and generally whenever I say Kyrgyzstan that is invariably followed up by “where?” Apparently if I don’t add in the parts about Central Asia and the former U.S.S.R. thing people just get hopelessly lost (Considering the average American's knowledge of geography, this does not surprise me too much). Also, when going to Kyrgyzstan we always stay in the capital city of Bishkek in the northern part of the country – just for geographical reference and all that jazz.

Anyhow, in order for our troops to actually get to Afghanistan they board our comfy (relatively speaking) commercial jets and enjoy over a day of being crammed into their “roomy” interior with a hundred-something other guys toting around M-16’s (there used to be a time in my life when dealing with weapons on board an aircraft was unheard of – now I feel like a broken record: “butt to the aisle, barrel to the wall. No weapons in the overhead bins”. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat) since no company in their right mind actually wants to fly into Afghanistan (or Iraq for that matter, although there's a rumor going around that we have the landing permits for it if we actually wanted to) the main troop staging ground for those just entering the region is Kyrgyzstan. From Kyrgyzstan (which is west of China, south of Kazakhstan, east of Uzbekistan and north of Tajikistan. Afghanistan is south of Tajikistan by the way). Anyhow, from Kyrgyzstan the troops board cargo planes which take them over Tajikistan and into Afghanistan where they undergo the wildest landing of their lives which they usually prepare for by stealing all of our barf bags since landings like that don’t involve a nice stately decent. You usually just go straight down and try not to blow chunks. Or so I’ve been told.

The best part of this trip, besides almost being crushed by a horse, was the fact that I did it completely sick as a dog. I would have made a good zombie movie extra way before the horse went and added in a limp for good measure.

So yes, there we were in the wonderful country of Kyrgyzstan after flying thirteen and a half hours to get there on an empty 767 (having your own personal 767 is really the only way to travel. Seriously). We greeted the cleaners as they came aboard with a hearty round of hellos and the one flight attendant who tried to greet them in Russian ended up telling them “I’m a pedophile” or something along those lines as someone had told her that was actually how to say hello in Russian. She was quite wrong and the cleaners looked quite horrified – which she was too after she found out. And no, I’m not telling anyone how to say that phrase, which sadly is the only bit of Russian I now know.

Anyhow, we got in and I dragged my sorry carcass off to my hotel room and decided that I was not budging. Nosireebob. No way was I leaving that room. Then the plane got delayed. It can get notoriously foggy in Bishkek, the nights and mornings will be stunningly clear, but fog can roll in that obscures everything. The Kirgizskiy Mountains loom over the city causing pilots to entertain a certain degree of caution. With our plane out and about somewhere and nothing to do, one of the flight attendants (not me) had the idea that ‘hey, we should go horse back riding!’ and there I was in my hotel room determined not to move, but alas, the magic words had been spoken and if anything will get me out of bed while sick and croaking along like a frog it’s the words “horse” and “riding.”

As the weather was, well, bad. We didn’t go trail riding; we rented two horses for an hour (renting two horses for an hour in Bishkek is cheaper then buying a meal for five people. Just FYI) and stuck to the arena – probably an exceedingly good idea regardless of the fact that I almost got crushed. Out of the five of us that went, I was the only with any experience with horses whatsoever. One guy had never ridden and the others had been up on horses a few times but not enough to really do them any good skill-wise and oh boy did those horses figure out real fast who knew what they were doing and who didn’t.

Personally, I think that those two horses were shameless in how they took advantage of the other four people in my group and did exactly as they pleased regardless of all the fuss the two legged annoyance on their back was making. They plodded around the arena at their own pace, nibbled at some grass, stopped when they wanted – it was like taking candy from a baby.

I, on the other hand, had a great time. Apparently all those lessons I took when I was younger paid off (imagine that!) Typhoon, the black, was a dream to ride, he could get kinda shifty around the turns, but all in all, he responded beautifully and had quite a bit of get up and go. I mainly stuck with him when riding since I think the others quickly determined that he had a little too much get up and go as they’d take him for a spin around the arena and would not waste much time getting off once said spin was done: which worked fine for me, because hey, more riding for me and less waiting to ride! Mikhail on the other hand was a bit steadier but also the one horse taking complete and total advantage of those who didn’t have the benefit of riding lessons. I did try to give them some pointers, but none of my pointers did any good. I should have stuck with Typhoon, I really, really should have, but Mikhail was a challenge and I knew that I could get him to do what I wanted - which was to not take advantage of me and to move faster then an amble. And hey, I was right! All was well with my world as that stubborn animal finally lugged himself into a rather bumpy canter.

Then we cut across the middle of the arena - which consisted of grass covered by snow and my world went tipping down and wrenched sideways. I found out a little too late that where Typhoon was fleet of foot and sure of step: Mikhail was the complete opposite.

He slipped. And I went down with him.

Fortunately for me, the stirrups were short and the way he went down had me landing on my knee in such a way that the horse rolled off my leg fast enough that I wasn’t severely injured and wasn’t underneath him when he got to his feet. Because, honestly, with the way that fall went, it could have gotten really bad really quick. From the sidelines it looked as if the horse had gone down on top of me rather then just mostly on my leg. The weight of it all wrenched my knee and I had a lovely coating of mud down my jeans, jacket and squelched up into my shoes (which is a fabulous feeling, let me tell you).

Personally, I think my companions were more frightened by me falling then I was. It looked worse from where they were then it looked from the back of the horse and the fact that Mikhail was wildly bucking his way across the arena (I told you it could have been a lot worse) with two grooms chasing after him… well, it kinda freaked them out a bit.

And sadly, they did not get the incident on video, as they were too busy freaking out: I would have killed to have a video of that fall (even though we seem to have video of everything else but).

As anyone who’s done any amount of riding will tell you, it’s bad form to end a ride on a low note. And a horse slipping, falling on you, and then bucking his way across the arena is most definitely a low note for horse and rider. Once the grooms had Mikhail under control I figured that my only course of action (once I had determined that yes, my knee was still connected to my body and that I could move it and that nothing was broken or sprained or bleeding) was to climb back on.

No funny business this time, just a leisurely walk around the arena – a kind of ‘no hard feelings’ sort of ride. I got off feeling more confident and I think Mikhail went back to the barn feeling a bit more confident as well. Of course my knee on the other hand was getting more and more disgruntled.

The grooms apparently thought me getting back on after that fall was awesome and the trainer was too busy freaking out and getting a “snow pack” ready for my knee. My knee was feeling just a bit stiff at first and I was still in good spirits afterwards and I was thinking "hey no biggie!" as I propelled myself into the restaurant on the premises for some hearty Russian food. They're big on hearty in that part of the world. I got to sit by the fire and every once in awhile get to my feet and toddle around the room to make sure that my knee was still on speaking terms with the rest of my leg (thankfully, it was, although if it could actually speak to my leg, I’m sure the words were bitter and angry).

Kyrgyzstan is a beautiful country, and leaving Bishkek proper to go out near the mountains for some riding was a great way to see it- except for the bit where I got up close and personal with the consistency of its mud. Of course, leaving the city means you don’t get stuck in normal traffic jams; you get stuck behind herds of sheep, plodding their way happily towards wherever.

So, knowing no Russian and not being able to tell the Russian sheep to move, we simply told them that we were pedophiles (that being the only Russian we knew) and hoped that would move them along their way a bit faster. Our driver was having a great time by this point – I’m thinking it was an interesting day for him. Those silly Americans…

But yes, we more or less dragged ourselves back to the hotel in one piece in order to make our flight that evening.

Of course, once said flight rolled about I had completely lost my voice (I wasn’t even capable of croaking along like a frog) my skin was looking a lovely shade of green-tinged yellow and I was dragging my leg behind me as only a gimpy person can (my knee was staging an all out rebellion by that point and threatening to pack up and leave).

There was many a time on that flight when all I wanted to do was lurch my way down the aisles mumbling “brains, braaaaaiiinnnsss.” Sadly, my voice was staging a rebellion of its own and I was only able to lurch my way down the aisles, no pleas for brains included. Although, I don’t know if lurch is the word for it – trying not to kill myself might be a more apt description for how I got down the aisles. Soldiers are the biggest contortionists known to man and can sleep in positions for long periods of time that would have lesser men (and women) bawling like babies, and it usually involves legs, arms and heads sticking out into the aisles that I was trying to lurch my way down. Oh, and there were guns everywhere and the guns were huge and they were also trying to trip me up. For some reason the guns coming out of Afghanistan always seem to be bigger then those coming out of Iraq. I don't know why this is. If anybody wants to know what a mute zombie looks like attempting to lurch down the aisle of a Boeing 767, well, look no further because I so did that.

Thankfully, because of our extended stay in Kyrgyzstan which resulted in a knee that was now twice the size a normal knee should be, Scheduling in all their beneficence cancelled the flight we were supposed to take out of Germany (we were supposed to fly to Germany from Ireland, where we had gone to from Kyrgyzstan and then fly back to JFK). Instead we got to spend a night in Ireland and fly home on Aer Lingus (Aer Fungus): on Thanksgiving of all days, on a plane full of Irish women on their way to celebrate Black Friday by blowing obscene amounts of money in New York. Good for the economy, slightly scary for those stuck in a plane with them.

That folks was my Thanksgiving. And I had a whole lot to be thankful for even though I couldn’t be at home with my family. Starting with the fact that I came out of that ride with a minor injury instead of the major one it could have so easily have been. And health care in that part of the world isn’t exactly up to snuff (a fact one of the pilots that was on that flight throws into my face every chance he gets. I think he loves telling the "A horse fell on Tarina" story more then I do).

Then I went home and the heavenly choir sang and light shown down, flowers rained from the sky and bunnies frolicked as soon as I set my eyes upon my glorious, wonderful bed. Because I was still sick and there’s nothing like your own bed in your own place to make you feel better.

And that ladies and gents is how I broke the horse’s fall in Central Asia and did a damn good zombie impersonation while I was at it.

I'm sticking these at the bottom because I don't particularly feel like breaking up the text.

All my Bishkek photos can be found at my Flickr account: here