THE YURT LOCKER
The horse is tall and muscled. Its rider, not so much. Aibek is maybe 9 years old and his feet just touch the heavy stirrups. At home this would be like seating a 9-year-old at the wheel of a Maserati, sliding its seat forward and facing the consequences. But here Aibek manoeuvres his horse with the skill and confidence of a rider three times his age—and right now, I’m glad he can. Aibek’s horse is our taxi and my fate lies in his hands. I’m perched behind him on his horse, my bike sandwiched awkwardly between us, as we lurch over piles of loose gravel and torrents of churning meltwater. For Aibek, crossing this raging river would be nothing out of the ordinary were it not for the mountain biker nervously clinging to his back. Aibek doesn’t see many mountain bikers; in fact, we’re the first.
Safely deposited
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