Horses, broken backs, goddesses and coffee shop wankers
By
You knew it was going to happen, I knew it was going to happen, everyone knew it was going to happen. I’m staying in Bishkek. For the time being at least. As much as Chinese New Year was tempting, the distance to cover, the weather and the visa are not. Instead I’m languishing in the capital of Kyrgyzstan having a ball. Then it all goes literally arse-over-tit.
Two nights of the year that shouldn’t be allowed to be back to back are Burns Night and Australia Day. It’s just a recipe for disaster. I can remember where I was on each occasion since leaving home, and on each occasion it didn’t end well. This time I’m out with my partner in crime Marie, who just happens to be Aussie. So the two of us do our best to save each others souls over the course of the two days. Then we find ourselves getting a prayer by the roadside from a Christian taxi driver who drops us off at our regular haunt to continue the festivities.
A few hours and one sleep in the bar later (don’t ask) and I’m offered the chance to do “anything you want” to quite simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. In the last hour. Or ever. One of the two. Three sheets to the wind and I lose badly – although I swear I had her on the ropes – which obviously would have been used had I won. Winky face. Upon leaving to cry myself to sleep, I slip spectacularly on the ice outside, and crash down hard on the step with my lower back and right elbow. Two taxi drivers (or Jedi as I like to believe – for they saw the whole thing happening in slow motion before it began) sprint to my aid and bundle me home. So much for the power of prayer.
And then the curse continues. I’m bedridden for the weekend, pretty much in agony and barely able to walk. I’m advised to visit the hospital, but I’m confident I’m only bruised and no lasting damage has ensued. Missing out on a wild weekend (my rationale for constantly boozing is I suffer from major FOMO), Marie decides to cheer me up by offering an opportunity to ride a horse at her family stables. Perhaps I have the chance to redeem myself?
Not so. Now I’m currently sitting in the expat coffee-house being a coffee-house wanker on my hipster netbook, drinking a mocha mint latte and lamenting a spectacular fail riding the back of the beast. I’m surrounded by earring sporting, scarf wearing, Christmas jumper tragedy bastards with beards and smartphones, all pretending to read posh books and learn Russian. What the fuck am I doing in here? Well bollocks to it. At least I’ve got 20 matches on tinder.
Horses for courses
I digress. Marie’s family owns a stables outside of town, and she’s kind enough to allow me to join her to meet the horses and ride for the first time since my horse ranch shenanigans in Bulgaria, 2014. Alas, for one reason or another she has to sell up, and she’s struggling to find new owners for these gorgeous animals, as by and large they’re sporting (jumping) horses. They’d be unsuitable for the mountains or trekking in Kyrgyzstan, so finding a new home that treats them well isn’t easy. As horse is a national delicacy in culinary terms too, you can understand why staunchly vegetarian Marie is close to tears.
Look at that face! I need a home!
But today the sun is shining and following the failure of weekend only happy thoughts are allowed. After meeting the stable manager (the best show jumper in Kyrgyzstan) and the animals, I’m finally sitting in the saddle after nearly 2 years. And it immediately begins to show.
Yeah I totally know what I’m doing
Around the ring I initially give a decent account of myself under the watchful eye of such experts, and considering I’ve only ever had one lesson I’m feeling pretty good. Incidentally that lesson came circa 2005, when – prompted by a break up – I faced my long-standing fear of horse riding from childhood and forced myself to learn to ride. And also just in case I was ever cast in Pirates of the Caribbean or Lord of the Rings. Orlando Bloom you utter cunt.
Preparing to ride out. Here goes everything
One lesson in 2005 does not a rider make. Also I’ve never been thrown from a horse and I’ve been reliably told you’re only a rider when that happens. Reassuring. BUT I’VE DONE POLO!! I’VE DONE POLO DAMMIT! I GOT THIS!!
I don’t got this.
Within a minute out the gate, my steed turns and bolts back to the stables and I can’t make him stop. Try as I might he’s intent on going back, and the more I try to control him, the more he bucks. Now it’s not too violent, but there’s definitely a moment in my head and heart when I felt this was it. My time has come. Launched out the saddle, foot stuck in the stirrup, never to be seen again. I manage to stay on and calm him a little, but as we’re let back into the ring, he makes a beeline for the filly next to his stables. I’m still convinced he’s going to throw me, and I decide it’s definitely time to get off this ride. I’m doing my best not to visibly shake as I dismount, and the stable manager notices my right hand cut and bleeding moderately.
Seconds before disaster
The puny war wound does little to install confidence that I gave it my all to calm, subdue and control the animal, and I’m feeling utterly dejected as we leave the stables. Almost inconsolable. Pride well and truly dented. Any number of factors could come into play here, but I think he might have breathed in a heavy whiff of my apprehension. I could feel it myself too. For one reason or another, either the insecurity from my broken back slipping on ice, failing to land the girl of my dreams in a do or die chess match, still shaking from Burns Night and Australia Day, or that bastard curse the “Christian” taxi driver put on me, it’s just not been my weekend. So much for my “I love riding horses” bravado. Pride comes before a fall. I’ve just had two.
This is how I feel right now
Cleaning my cut hand and checking the bubbling neck rash from my allergy to horses (!), I discover the stress of the last few moments has also begun to sprout a mammoth cold sore. Ahhhh yes I wondered when this little arsehole was going to shine, and right on cue he arrives. There to remain for a long week with a paper bag over my head. But I’m always at my healthiest when I’m ill, so it’s time to sit back, take plenty of non-recreational drugs, drink my weight in water, and eat more than just four boiled eggs a day; because come Friday – literally – I’m going to get back on the horse.
But I’m probably still going out tonight for a drink aren’t I?
FML.
Tacking up
More homes needed!
Most action I’ve had for months
Snowy stables
The carrot went on the floor, my fingers went in his mouth. I should have read the signs
Horses, broken backs, goddesses and coffee shop wankers
You knew it was going to happen, I knew it was going to happen, everyone knew it was going to happen. I’m staying in Bishkek. For the time being at least. As much as Chinese New Year was tempting, the distance to cover, the weather and the visa are not. Instead I’m languishing in the capital of Kyrgyzstan having a ball. Then it all goes literally arse-over-tit.
Two nights of the year that shouldn’t be allowed to be back to back are Burns Night and Australia Day. It’s just a recipe for disaster. I can remember where I was on each occasion since leaving home, and on each occasion it didn’t end well. This time I’m out with my partner in crime Marie, who just happens to be Aussie. So the two of us do our best to save each others souls over the course of the two days. Then we find ourselves getting a prayer by the roadside from a Christian taxi driver who drops us off at our regular haunt to continue the festivities.
A few hours and one sleep in the bar later (don’t ask) and I’m offered the chance to do “anything you want” to quite simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. In the last hour. Or ever. One of the two. Three sheets to the wind and I lose badly – although I swear I had her on the ropes – which obviously would have been used had I won. Winky face. Upon leaving to cry myself to sleep, I slip spectacularly on the ice outside, and crash down hard on the step with my lower back and right elbow. Two taxi drivers (or Jedi as I like to believe – for they saw the whole thing happening in slow motion before it began) sprint to my aid and bundle me home. So much for the power of prayer.
And then the curse continues. I’m bedridden for the weekend, pretty much in agony and barely able to walk. I’m advised to visit the hospital, but I’m confident I’m only bruised and no lasting damage has ensued. Missing out on a wild weekend (my rationale for constantly boozing is I suffer from major FOMO), Marie decides to cheer me up by offering an opportunity to ride a horse at her family stables. Perhaps I have the chance to redeem myself?
Not so. Now I’m currently sitting in the expat coffee-house being a coffee-house wanker on my hipster netbook, drinking a mocha mint latte and lamenting a spectacular fail riding the back of the beast. I’m surrounded by earring sporting, scarf wearing, Christmas jumper tragedy bastards with beards and smartphones, all pretending to read posh books and learn Russian. What the fuck am I doing in here? Well bollocks to it. At least I’ve got 20 matches on tinder.
Horses for courses
I digress. Marie’s family owns a stables outside of town, and she’s kind enough to allow me to join her to meet the horses and ride for the first time since my horse ranch shenanigans in Bulgaria, 2014. Alas, for one reason or another she has to sell up, and she’s struggling to find new owners for these gorgeous animals, as by and large they’re sporting (jumping) horses. They’d be unsuitable for the mountains or trekking in Kyrgyzstan, so finding a new home that treats them well isn’t easy. As horse is a national delicacy in culinary terms too, you can understand why staunchly vegetarian Marie is close to tears.
Look at that face! I need a home!
But today the sun is shining and following the failure of weekend only happy thoughts are allowed. After meeting the stable manager (the best show jumper in Kyrgyzstan) and the animals, I’m finally sitting in the saddle after nearly 2 years. And it immediately begins to show.
Yeah I totally know what I’m doing
Around the ring I initially give a decent account of myself under the watchful eye of such experts, and considering I’ve only ever had one lesson I’m feeling pretty good. Incidentally that lesson came circa 2005, when – prompted by a break up – I faced my long-standing fear of horse riding from childhood and forced myself to learn to ride. And also just in case I was ever cast in Pirates of the Caribbean or Lord of the Rings. Orlando Bloom you utter cunt.
Preparing to ride out. Here goes everything
One lesson in 2005 does not a rider make. Also I’ve never been thrown from a horse and I’ve been reliably told you’re only a rider when that happens. Reassuring. BUT I’VE DONE POLO!! I’VE DONE POLO DAMMIT! I GOT THIS!!
I don’t got this.
Within a minute out the gate, my steed turns and bolts back to the stables and I can’t make him stop. Try as I might he’s intent on going back, and the more I try to control him, the more he bucks. Now it’s not too violent, but there’s definitely a moment in my head and heart when I felt this was it. My time has come. Launched out the saddle, foot stuck in the stirrup, never to be seen again. I manage to stay on and calm him a little, but as we’re let back into the ring, he makes a beeline for the filly next to his stables. I’m still convinced he’s going to throw me, and I decide it’s definitely time to get off this ride. I’m doing my best not to visibly shake as I dismount, and the stable manager notices my right hand cut and bleeding moderately.
Seconds before disaster
The puny war wound does little to install confidence that I gave it my all to calm, subdue and control the animal, and I’m feeling utterly dejected as we leave the stables. Almost inconsolable. Pride well and truly dented. Any number of factors could come into play here, but I think he might have breathed in a heavy whiff of my apprehension. I could feel it myself too. For one reason or another, either the insecurity from my broken back slipping on ice, failing to land the girl of my dreams in a do or die chess match, still shaking from Burns Night and Australia Day, or that bastard curse the “Christian” taxi driver put on me, it’s just not been my weekend. So much for my “I love riding horses” bravado. Pride comes before a fall. I’ve just had two.
This is how I feel right now
Cleaning my cut hand and checking the bubbling neck rash from my allergy to horses (!), I discover the stress of the last few moments has also begun to sprout a mammoth cold sore. Ahhhh yes I wondered when this little arsehole was going to shine, and right on cue he arrives. There to remain for a long week with a paper bag over my head. But I’m always at my healthiest when I’m ill, so it’s time to sit back, take plenty of non-recreational drugs, drink my weight in water, and eat more than just four boiled eggs a day; because come Friday – literally – I’m going to get back on the horse.
But I’m probably still going out tonight for a drink aren’t I?
FML.