Balkhash legends, Wife stealing, and bloody cold…(21/12/04)

(Click here to view the complete list of diary entries) Well, just ‘feeling exhausted’ is a common phrase that appears in the first line of my diary entries, and it comes to mind now. I have just had a so-called day off, but as usual it was a day off for the horses and a day for me to do everything that I can’t do on the steppe. Its been a week or so of vivid experiences, of things coming together, crystalising and starting to make sense; a wife stealing event, a farm, and finally extreme cold out on the steppe. The great thing about being on horseback is that you become more of a participant in the lives of locals, rather than an observer. On the street it is now about –28 degrees. Winter has hit hard. My coldest night yet in the tent passed a couple of nights ago it was about –25 and my tent had a new 40cm rip which was of huge concern in the event of a storm. In –25 the tent doesn’t help much to warm you up. Soon you are sleeping in a cocoon of ice crystals and keeping your head deep down in the sleeping bag. There is about 10cm of snow which gives me great freedom to roam away from water sources now, but the ground is just so bloody cold. At 7.30am it was still pitch black and I was jogging around the camp between sessions of saddling to warm my toes. The dribbles out of my nose formed icicles and I could feel my nose hairs turning solid with each breath in. “Its not summer anymore Timmy!” The horses were Ok although their hooves were packed with ice and would need chipping out. The sun rose slowly, a warm yellow yoke feigning warmth. It was intensely still which was a relief. The previous day of riding had been hell. The wind had just been whipping up ice and cutting into my body. I spent the whole day looking at the world through the terribly distorting Russian ski goggles that I bought at the market for two dollars. Tigon has begun whimpering in the cold too which just exacerbates the feeling of loneliness and cold. His feet get cold when he stops running or chasing foxes and tries to jump all over me or my backpack…anything but the snow. I don’t blame him. Unfortunately I found myself following some huge ugly powerlines for two days. Hearing the wind blow through the wire and seeing the cold, ice encrusted steel made me somehow feel that much more colder and alone. I travelled three days without seeing a soul, and was finally forced to head to the village of ‘Qasqntengiz’ to repair my tent. The rip is serious because the whole tent could rip in a storm. The cold meant that my tape wouldn’t stick and needles to say needles and thread out in the extreme cold is just not a great mix. I was lucky to find a place to stay here and am grateful for the family who let me in. The days prior to the cold snap are somehow so separate for me. 70km south of Balkhash city I stumbled across a new farm that was built this summer. The owner’s ancestors had once lived in this same region of rolling grassland between lake Balkhash and the mountains. Now after the soviet union they were returning to the steppe in a way like never before……private land. Yep, that’s right you can basically buy chunks of steppe these days. I spent a day with the guys on the farm. They had a dream to plant some trees, build a banya, make a pond and bring in some geese, basically make a home out on this empty land. In the summer their herders would live in a yurt down on the lake shore. Only one hundred metres from the house was an old nomad grave. The steppe dictates a life of movement. It is timeless and it somehow reminds me of the transience of life. The optimism of these men about this ‘return to the steppe’ was heartening and fascinating. Two days later I found myself in the village of Tasaral. ‘Tas’ means ‘rock,’ and ‘aral’ means island. Off shore a few kilometres is the island which has been integral to the people of this region for hundreds of years. In spring when there is enough ice left they herd all their animals to the island to graze freely for six months or so. Then in December when the ice is thick enough again they take the animals back. Everyone was fervent about the legend of an ‘anaconda’ or ‘Dragon’ that used to live in the caves of the island. The local imam told me in all honesty that his father had shot the dragon and that it had been in the caves to protect a huge gold stash in the area. Since the killing of the snake the village has been blessed with good luck….except for an event 15 years ago. After six months of grazing by themselves the villagers returned to the island to find that 1000 sheep had died. Two wolves had migrated to the island it seemed the previous winter and had just had the summer of their lives. I happened to fall in with the youngest brother of the mayor of the village- Shashibek. A day and a half of celebrating ensued. First there was the opening of the local bar. It was just a room with some fairy lights, a cd player with one cd, and lots of terrible vodka and carrot salad. The next day was spent roaming around the steppe in a tiny moskvich car with a gun pointing out the window. Shasibek and his two friends took turns at firing rounds at flocks of poor little birds no bigger than sparrows. The real entertainment of the day was getting bogged and spending an hour or so getting us out of it. I thought they had been joking about ‘wife stealing’ all day but it turned out to be a real event. His friends joked: “Its time for him to get married. His mother needs someone to talk to in the evenings at least while he still lived at home!” Shasibek is 30 years old and as the youngest brother in the family he is bound by tradition to inherit the family home and look after his parents in their old age. Anyway, his poor girlfriend had no idea. The word of the steal was whispered to relatives and friends of Shasibek and people turned up in their droves. His friends went around to his girlfriend’s home and told her that Shasibek wanted to meet her. When she arrived and all the relatives rushed out from hiding pelting her with sweets, coins, and finally a white scarf she turned positively white and clammy. Eventually the girlfriend’s sister arrived crying along with her cousin. They had words with Shasibek’s oldest brother in a separate room and when it became clear that the girlfriend was willing to marry they agreed. And so the steal was made. The night became a confusion of drinking, eating, and many traditions I struggled to understand. For example pouring oil onto a flame in the outhouse. I am sure it will become clearer soon. There are just so many little traditions to learn….for example a baby will grow to look very similar to the person who circumcises them. The people who I am staying with chose their aunt to do the job. Many of these traditions come straight from the Yurt and life of the nomad but along the way have mingled with traditions of Russians and many other cultures. Well afraid I just have to sleep. Ahead is 200km or so of very open steppe. It will be the toughest part of the trip so far and I have butterflies in the stomach tonight. Cold is promised, and arrival at the next village on time is not. Saying goodbye to Lake Balkhash will be sad too. I have been following its shore for about 500-600km and it has become a good friends….even though it is now totally frozen over. Bloody horse ripped the skin off my knuckle tonight, took a bite. Must have been hungry. Hoping that I can find a good village for Christmas. Tim. PS Today was the shortest day of the year. It only gets lighter from here on! (Click here to view the complete list of diary entries)