Thursday 8th September
The smell of bacon waffles and
scrambled eggs for breakfast lured us from our deep slumber in the yurt. We had
saved the best breakfast meal on the trip so far for our last full day in
Mongolia. One of the agreed experiences on the rally’s bucket list was riding
Mongolian horses across the steppe. Much to our delight, this wish was about to
come true as the local residents herded up every last horse in the national
park so that all 10 of us could ride.
Dreams of galloping through the valley ensnaring unsuspecting Ibex goats with swinging lassoes flashed through our minds as we mounted our steeds. Rich and Alf were brought straight back down to Earth when they were handed untrustworthy timid horses that had to be walked along by a guide. Meanwhile Caleb, the horse whisperer, was given free reign to wander off as a lone rider.
Dreams of galloping through the valley ensnaring unsuspecting Ibex goats with swinging lassoes flashed through our minds as we mounted our steeds. Rich and Alf were brought straight back down to Earth when they were handed untrustworthy timid horses that had to be walked along by a guide. Meanwhile Caleb, the horse whisperer, was given free reign to wander off as a lone rider.
After about an hour we switched horses
and were finally let free to canter through the valley alone. At the call of
“choo” we were out of the saddle and picking up speed. As the horses’ hooves
glided effortlessly over the grassy landscape and the air rushed past our faces
we were transported back to the time of the steppe warriors in 200 BC. High on
a wave of adrenaline, we jumped back into a more familiar mode of transport and
headed for the final border crossing before the finish line.
On the way we encountered the upsetting sight of yet another policeman waving us over with his toy baton. It was fate. Luckily, the moment Alf opened his mouth and blurted out hello in his thick southern raa-raa accent, the policeman simply shrugged, couldn’t be bothered to translate and just waved us on. No worries pal, we were only driving without insurance and carrying a yak skull that wasn’t meant to leave Tajikistan.
On the way we encountered the upsetting sight of yet another policeman waving us over with his toy baton. It was fate. Luckily, the moment Alf opened his mouth and blurted out hello in his thick southern raa-raa accent, the policeman simply shrugged, couldn’t be bothered to translate and just waved us on. No worries pal, we were only driving without insurance and carrying a yak skull that wasn’t meant to leave Tajikistan.
Posted by: Rich