Of horses and men - Kyrgyzstan
“Foreigners can’t handle that. Don’t drink it,” our guide said, nodding at the bowl of fermented horse milk being passed around the yurt, “unless you want to spend tomorrow on the toilet.” Naturally, I took a gulp.
Sour, fizzy and faintly alarming, kumis tasted somewhere between yoghurt, cider and a lemon.
Around me, the nomads drank it as casually as tea. By some miracle, my digestive system accepted the cultural exchange and I lived to ride another day.
In summer, white yurts dot the vast jailoo, the high pastures where Kyrgyz families have moved with the seasons for generations. Here, horses are essential: transport, milk, meat and entertainment. Kyrgyz riders seem stitched to their saddles, showing off their skill in wild traditional games of speed, strength and balance that made me grateful to be watching from solid ground.
