As evening came we set up camp in the shelter of a small rocky hill in the centre of the Valley of the Goddess.
Here and there, among the rocks and stubby mountain grass were randomly scattered hundreds of animal bones, but no signs of herds.
The valley lay empty, swept by wind and the dying sunlight streaming between the clouds.
In the truck Maya cooked ‘five fingers’, a traditional dish of boiled horsemeat and large, flat noodles that we all shared out of one bowl and ate with our fingers.
The mountain air was sharp and cool, and every now and then the crack of thunder resounded deafeningly over the mountain.
Our dry cow-dung fire belched thick, fragrant smoke but kept us warm as a few large drops begun to fall, pushed hard by the wind. We huddled closer to the fire as Agalash strummed his two-string Altai sitar, conjuring visions of galloping horses and cascading rivers.
Agalash could not have been more than fourteen years old, but his aplomb and virtuosity was arresting. His fingers rushed along the neck of the sitar without the slightest hesitation. Only two strings to the instrument but we were awed by the richness and diversity of the chords and melodies he played. His typically Altai features were set in an attentive mask, his gaze shifting from hand to hand and every so often to briefly gaze at his mother.
Agalash’s features, set well beyond his age were fascinating to observe. His quiet confidence and calm assessment of our motley crew was something typical of the Altai people.
The next morning, when two little Kazakh Nomads materialised seemingly out of nowhere next to the truck, riding a stout and gentle looking pony, I again found myself captivated by the serenity of their features. Riding saddle-less and with a hand-made bridle without a mouthpiece, the two little boys were one with their mount. The pony’s ears twitched to attention at their slightest movements, listening intently to the tone of their voices, as if the animal’s only concern was the safety and contentment of its mount. With the boys were two big dogs resembling a cross between a German Sheppard and a sheep. The dogs also seemed rapt in their role of protector, circling the boys and keeping a suspicious eye on anyone coming close to them.
Where had these boys come from? I wondered as I looked around. There were no signs of gers for kilometres. The valley was empty but for a large herd of about a hundred cows grazing peacefully across the river, slowly progressing north. These cows were probably the charge of these two little shepherds, who would not have been more than ten years old and who in spite of their obvious curiosity in our sponsors’ logos bedecked truck and our strange, dirty faces, did not forget for an instant to keep an eye on what was happening to the cows and their young, especially as some of them attempted to cross the dangerous, fast-flowing river.
Amoohr and Agailek were their names, Altai names they added with pride.
They dismounted and sat on their haunches in the hot sun, giggling at our earnest attempts at communicating with them in a mix of Ramsay’s hilariously inventive sign language and our few words of Russian. They pointed toward the deepening gorge, to the side of the mountain where we suddenly made out the shape of a ger, tiny in the distance.
‘Our family is living there’ they said. ‘You are welcome to go and meet them’.
Here and there, among the rocks and stubby mountain grass were randomly scattered hundreds of animal bones, but no signs of herds.
The valley lay empty, swept by wind and the dying sunlight streaming between the clouds.
In the truck Maya cooked ‘five fingers’, a traditional dish of boiled horsemeat and large, flat noodles that we all shared out of one bowl and ate with our fingers.
The mountain air was sharp and cool, and every now and then the crack of thunder resounded deafeningly over the mountain.
Our dry cow-dung fire belched thick, fragrant smoke but kept us warm as a few large drops begun to fall, pushed hard by the wind. We huddled closer to the fire as Agalash strummed his two-string Altai sitar, conjuring visions of galloping horses and cascading rivers.
Agalash could not have been more than fourteen years old, but his aplomb and virtuosity was arresting. His fingers rushed along the neck of the sitar without the slightest hesitation. Only two strings to the instrument but we were awed by the richness and diversity of the chords and melodies he played. His typically Altai features were set in an attentive mask, his gaze shifting from hand to hand and every so often to briefly gaze at his mother.
Agalash’s features, set well beyond his age were fascinating to observe. His quiet confidence and calm assessment of our motley crew was something typical of the Altai people.
The next morning, when two little Kazakh Nomads materialised seemingly out of nowhere next to the truck, riding a stout and gentle looking pony, I again found myself captivated by the serenity of their features. Riding saddle-less and with a hand-made bridle without a mouthpiece, the two little boys were one with their mount. The pony’s ears twitched to attention at their slightest movements, listening intently to the tone of their voices, as if the animal’s only concern was the safety and contentment of its mount. With the boys were two big dogs resembling a cross between a German Sheppard and a sheep. The dogs also seemed rapt in their role of protector, circling the boys and keeping a suspicious eye on anyone coming close to them.
Where had these boys come from? I wondered as I looked around. There were no signs of gers for kilometres. The valley was empty but for a large herd of about a hundred cows grazing peacefully across the river, slowly progressing north. These cows were probably the charge of these two little shepherds, who would not have been more than ten years old and who in spite of their obvious curiosity in our sponsors’ logos bedecked truck and our strange, dirty faces, did not forget for an instant to keep an eye on what was happening to the cows and their young, especially as some of them attempted to cross the dangerous, fast-flowing river.
Amoohr and Agailek were their names, Altai names they added with pride.
They dismounted and sat on their haunches in the hot sun, giggling at our earnest attempts at communicating with them in a mix of Ramsay’s hilariously inventive sign language and our few words of Russian. They pointed toward the deepening gorge, to the side of the mountain where we suddenly made out the shape of a ger, tiny in the distance.
‘Our family is living there’ they said. ‘You are welcome to go and meet them’.
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