...Kyrgyzstan (Horses for Courses)

Our regal living room in our homestay

Due to a short visa and the Chinese/Kyrgyz border about to shut for 10 days, we sadly had to race through Kyrgyzstan. A real shame because from what we saw, it looked to be a really spectacular place with incredible scenery. It also means we only sampled a little of Kyrgyz cuisine. But fear not, I have two experiences to relate to you. 

First ever sighting of Finn on a horse. This has not been photoshopped. The horse really was that small.

I last sat on a horse when I was ten years old. I remember it distinctly because I couldn't feel my feet and felt rather humiliated sat on this beast. I swore there and then I would never get on a horse again. Twenty-one years later, I find myself atop a horse and three hours into a day's trek. And I've had enough. I'm mentally commending my ten year old self on her wisdom and maturity and deriding my thirty-one year old self for ignoring this wisdom. Finally we stop for lunch and our cook threads chunks of marinated beef onto stripped twigs to cook over hot coals.  The shaslyk tastes amazing. The marinade is made from chilli flakes, cumin and coriander seeds, salt and garlic.

Big happy face

Best enjoyed next to a waterfall. On leaving a restaurant the next day, I noticed it had a sign outside with photos of meat dishes and a big horse's face next to them. I don't know what meat I had eaten there but let's just say revenge is best served on a skewer. With onions.

Racing to catch the border before it closed, we broke up our journey in Saray-Tash, a snowy village where goats outnumber people. It is an important stop as there is a fork in the road where in one direction you can go to Tajikistan and in the other, China. We searched for somewhere to eat and eventually happened upon an old lady and a shop. She beckoned us into her kitchen and removed a lid to reveal a bubbling pot of mutton and potato stew. "Soupy soupy lovely soupy" she cackled while churning lumps of gristle with a ladle. We noticed another pot. "What's in there?" we asked, using the international language of pointing. She reluctantly removed a lid to show huge pieces of chicken swimming in a thick gravy.
 
No need to tell you which we chose. We devoured the stew with bread and endless cups of tea and left just us the Tajik lorry drivers were breaking up their journeys. We declined their offers of beer in case it might effect our ability to choose the correct fork to hitch from the next day and, heaven forbid, end up in the wrong country.