Horsing around

We got to the hills outside the city. The snow was copious and beautiful. The little valleys between the hills were strewn with cars and people all going about the business of sledging. And it’s serious business. There were far more people than I imagined would be there and it’s far more organised, in a chaotic Kazakh style of course. There are food stands and innertube rentals stalls, each run from the back of a private car by the Kazakh equivalent of a Del Boy entrepreneur. Except she is usually late 50s and drives a harder bargain. Everyone is equally enthusiastic, equally foolhardy whether they own a specially designed truck tyre inner tube with plastic casing for extra slip or just a piece of linoleum. With my finely tuned safety radar switched permanently to red alert here in Kazakhstan, I didn’t like the look of it. To be honest I didn’t like the sound of it when I was first asked to join the party. But in the name of making new Kazakh friends and experiencing life outside the Green Hills estate, I went.

As soon as we had negotiated our way through the hillside’s snowy trenches for roads in the Lada, following the other car load of people we knew, the anticipated plan changed. For sledging I was dressed in my snowboarding trousers, armoured motorcycle jacket and armoured boots. I figured I stood the best chance of returning home unscathed. As it turns out I was wrong, since the altered plan turned suddenly into hiring horses off some bloke who happened to be passing. Suddenly, in a whirlwind of negotiation 6 other horses were wrangled from somewhere and we were all getting on. Now, I have not ridden any kind of equine beast since the donkeys on Weymouth beach in about 1978. But these horses know what they are doing, right? Surely?

I stepped up, raised my leg, foot in stirrup and hoiked myself up, copying the other guys who had clearly been born on horseback. It felt wobbley and unstable from the outset but I think I managed to cover my total inexperience well. I’d seen it done. A gentle jab in the sides with my boots, and the slightly mangy young horse was away, slowly. Left right on the reins, no problem. Then I realised I didn’t really know how to stop the thing. Pulling back equally on the reins didn’t seem to work, like when I oiled the brake pads on my Raleigh Blazer bicycle when I was seven. I was pulling in all the right placed but was still gathering speed. I managed to turn us round and return to the guys who were still preparing to set up. “What do I do to stop it?” I asked. The answer was a sound effect, a long, loud purring noise with a ‘k’ in the throat. I mimicked it immediately and suddenly we had brakes.

I turned us round again and moved off but not entirely in the right direction. We were off on another tangent away from the group but I was happy enough. I stopped the horse with the stupid braking noise, which worked instantly. Sat on the horse by some parked cars at the edge of the road I began to zip my coat and replace my hat since it was chilly.

At that moment a kid on a sledge came zooming towards us, out of control, off the end of the hill, across the track and into the legs of my horse. The horse reared up and sidestepped left. I fell to the right, thud onto the snow. My left foot was caught in the left stirrup which came up over the saddle suspending my leg up towards the horse. Then it bolted. All this happened at once in a microsecond. I was yanked by my leg and dragged. Suddenly I was under the hooves, my right leg trampled, shin, knee, thigh then crotch, almost. A few more centimetres and it would have been excruciating. I had expected to slip out after the initial jolt but I stayed attached. On my back I tried to sit up and reach the trapped foot, but to no avail. I turned from my back to my front and arms to protect my head, then spun onto my back again as the drag continued. I had visions of the horse running far over the hills. This is it. I shouted for help manically, I was taken aback by the fear in my own voice. This is the end. What if the horse runs close round a parked car? I’ll get caught under the bumper. We seemed to be going round in a circle. Five seconds turned to ten. I prayed “Please God save me.” Then, another jolt and my foot came free.

I lay in the snow face down, not moving, checking through my body for serious injury. I knew I was ok but lay still, processing the shock. I heard some concerned shouts from locals then some people arrived on the scene and turned me over. That would have made a back injury worse. I communicated in Russian that I was fine, that it was just my leg and immediately put ice on the bruising. The top of the armoured shin of my right boot had absorbed the first stamping impact leaving an exact semicircle of a bruise.

After 30 minutes of nursing my leg, I was enticed on to a rubber ring thing. Injuries aside, I didn’t want to go from the top. People were hurtling down the slope, no steering to speak of, blasting past other people walking back up. There was a lip half way down which jolted sledgers into the air where it became a fifty fifty chance of landing on the spine. Then at the end of the hill the slope ran across the mud track road where cars were often seen trying handbrake turns or reverse spins in the snow. Complete chaos. At one point a combo of four riders on three rings spun out and separated just as they approached a 3 year old stood in the middle of the piste, missing him by mere inches. The parent of the toddler showed only momentary concern. As soon as the danger passed they were playing gleefully in the snow together again.

By the end of the day, one of our party had strained their back, another had sledged into a slowly moving Audi on the track at the bottom of the hill, hurting his kidneys. The driver was unimpressed, ranting that “This is a road, don’t you know?” which is as ludicrous as shouting at the sea as its pounding waves crash over the sea wall on your motor. “This isn’t a beach you know, this is the car park.”

As the light began to fade we piled into the Lada and tried to leave. Getting out of the little valley of snow trenches was harder than expected. Other cars were making it but we weren’t. A few run-ups and 10 strapping Kazakh lads to push and we were over the crest of the hill and away.

On the journey home, I began to think about whether or not I would follow the old adage of Get Back on the Horse. Just as I was counting my blessings and thinking how close I could have come to a much worse day out, to top it all off, we had a car crash. The roads back to town were treacherous and we began to pass cars stacked in the hedges, hazard lights everywhere. We slowed for the danger but the friend behind in the Passat hadn’t seen us brake and slammed into the back bumper. We pulled over, commiserated over the dented Lada and the still immaculate German tank and got back on the road. It was only then that I noticed minor whiplash but it could have been from the horse. I managed to get to school the next morning. I got stiffer as the week went on, but it made an excellent story for the class. They were enthralled.

I have to say this was not my best day in Kazakhstan. Should I get back on the horse? Not a chance. Would you?