Horseback riding in Chatkal nature reserve

Cowboys and their macho culture are alive and well, and I’m not talking about Wild West retro in New Mexico, but the real thing - in the Wild East. Caught red-handed violating the sacrosanctity of the Chattel nature reserve a few weeks back on a mountain hike, I was fined by a handsome Tajik ranger in his camouflage fatigues and his flashing black eyes on his brown stallion (they don’t believe in gelding the lily here) with his long black mane.

I took his parting words about a possible horseback hike seriously and cycled back a few weeks later. I found Zhora at a ‘toi’ for the neighbourhood hosted by Bakhodir, a friend from schooldays, a birthday party for his new-born daughter.

“Why such a big deal for the first birthday?” I asked Zh after enduring toasts and long speeches of gratitude.

“Bakhodir is a very generous guy. He was a teacher, but took advantage of commercial possibilities after independence in ’91 and became rich. He’s always helping people out with their weddings and funerals, circumcision ceremonies and whatever. But for seven years, he and his wife had no children. That is a terrible thing for young people, and when his wife finally gave birth, he decided to celebrate by inviting all his neighbours and friends.”

It was in fact quite a do, with endless food and drink. I ended up at the table with bachelors and heavy drinkers, who tried to get me tipsy, but after a hard 4-hour bike ride in 30 degree heat, I craved only tea and the succulent watermelon and early grapes, which I gathered from abandoned tables nearby. The drinkers lost interest in me. In fact, one was soon hanging his head in an unsightly stupor, and one of his cohorts quickly ushered him out. Knowing your limit is very important in a Tajik village, where everyone knows everyone and there is little news other than neighbourhood scandals.

It struck me that this village dynamic harks back to old traditions - it certainly was not something that was introduced when Uzbekistan embraced capitalism at its independence in 1991. It seemed like a combination of the North American native tradition, where it was the duty of their well-off tribal members to blow their surplus on big parties, plus a dose of Muslim paternalism: “Praise Allah for your blessings.”

In any case, though many in Nevich may envy Bakhodir his successes, he seems to be unanimously admired and respected, and is playing a vital role in distributing some of the wealth among direly poor neighbours. For example, Zhora has a respectable job as reserve inspector, but takes home about $8 a month, with which he must feed his wife and four young children, not to mention build a house and save for the inevitable ‘toi’s. In addition, there is the danger which he must now from day to day. Last year several inspectors were killed by bandits and there are militia currently patrolling the area.

We went for a much-needed swim afterwards, meeting up with the more vital drinkers from B’s toi, one of whom showed off his Korean language skills (2 years working in Korea in a textiles factory). Everyone else was interested only in learning English, and I had to discourage them (“I hate teaching English,” “You could never afford it,” etc.). We then went to Zh’s father’s place to get another horse for our mountain adventure. Zh has six brothers and four sisters, three of whom are still at the family home. Zh’s mother is a hero of the Soviet Union, though that doesn’t hold much water these days. Zh’s father was inspector at the nature reserve for 40 years, so he comes by his job almost by inheritance, certainly love of nature is in his blood. His grandfather lived in the territory of the reserve until the 1930s and part of the reserve is actually named after him - the Iranov valley and river.

After the ‘toi’, I said in a respectful jest to Zh’s father: “You are probably the richest person in Nevich. After all, children are wealth, and you have 11 healthy children and countless grandchildren.” He laughed and said: “Not true. I’m still trying to marry off my three youngest sons. Have you any idea how much work they have been?” But I think he was rather more proud than frustrated, and if I could judge the rest from Zh and his younger brother who brought us the horse for our trip, there would be little problem in finding eager partners for the remaining unmarried ones. The horse was unshod and much shorter than Almaz, who was shod and lorded over his younger, rather nondescript rival. In fact, Zh had no idea what his name was, so he became Nameless for our trip.

The next day we got up at 5:00 am and set out. I spent two days clutching rather precariously to his stallion, Almaz (diamond), crashing along precipitous paths up and down ravines. We stayed at Zhora’s secret holiday spot, a tiny mountain meadow along the crystal-clear river. On the way, I lost my hat to playful tree branches 3 times until I rammed it on and held it tight when the going got tough. The serious danger of a tree branch stump ripping open my designer jeans didn’t enter my mind till after the fact, giving me a nasty scrape and sprinkling the path with the pocket contents, including my keys. Fortunately I found them, but we had no needle and thread (along with bandages an absolute essential - remember), so Zhora later used his cowboy wiles, found a bit of electrical wire in his bag, stripped out some filaments, and showed my how to use a match stick as a needle and the metal filaments as thread until we got home.

The stones for the campfire clearly hadn’t been touched this year, and while Zhora caught six trout (a 1000 soum fine for each one!) I prepared the fire and some tea. We spent a lazy day, gorging on fish and tippling on vodka, swimming in a pool in the river and lounging on hot rocks, specially worn down for us by Mother N.

We never even considered the possibility of rain: after all, this is Uzbekistan and we were well into the 40 day chilla when temperatures can reach 40 degrees Celsius, and it never, never rains. It was, however, chilly in the mountains. Zh kindly let me use his sheepskin sleeping bag, which though in shreds, was quite cozy. I woke up, surprised at a sudden warm breeze, which was soon followed by … rain! Unheard of, but then Mother N was watching over us and could be counted on the play the odd trick. Zh told me to go back to sleep, as my sleeping bag was quite waterproof. He huddled under a tree, but then the rain soon stopped and we both slept till a decadent 5:30 am.

Three hours of lurching and thrashing about back to the village. The second day of learning a new technique is always the worst. ‘The terrible twos’ goes for this as well as its other better-known referent. I was now on the lookout for wicked tree branches at pant-level, and rammed my hat on and prepared to duck as required. But even the best intentions lead you-know-where. Going down a particularly dense and steep incline, a nasty mass of dead branches was suddenly staring me in the face. Ducking just seemed to make things worse and Almaz seemed quite oblivious to my torment (was he playing a bit of a trick in this obvious greenhorn?). I howled and pulled on the reins, but either not in time, or Almaz was having some fun. Hat and glassed disappeared. I’m afraid I was a bit brusque with Zh, though he was hardly to blame.

“You should stop when you see such a problem,” I said angrily. “I’m a half a meter taller than you on Almaz.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find your glasses.” And as I crawled, blind along the dusty path, sure enough Zh found them after a frantic 10 minutes, minus one arm. I was ready to give up and be thankful for small mercies, but Zh insisted on continuing the search. Sure enough again, Zh found the arm and used the remnants of the sewing wire to attach the arm. I was back in business, with only a ripped shirt and more scratches to show.