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The Turkmen pride themselves on their cultural heritage, and at least two physical features do stand out. One is, of course, the gorgeous rugs that have been woven here for centuries – the Turkmen and, within that, the Teke designs are part of the standard repertoire of oriental rug shops worldwide. Usually a burgundy red colour, they feature individual, highly stylised ‘flowers’ (göl, pronounced like ‘girl’) that match the specific tribe and clan of the weaver and are said to communicate folkloric and other information.
The second, to my mind improbable-seeming feature of this desert land are the horses. Ahal-Teke horses have been bred here for up to six thousand years, or so it is claimed, and are considered the predecessors of the Arab racehorse – the Turkmen were renowned horsemen and have long given horses as gifts for diplomatic and trade purposes. The local breed are tall, powerful animals with huge shoulders and long graceful necks – which one owner likened to those of swans. They have oddly skinny legs, rather like a lot of Turkmen men, but are swift and agile (ditto).
For a Sunday treat a car-load of us drove out along the wide and anarchic westbound highway, halfway to the town of Geok-Depe (‘Green Hill’ or ‘Green Sky’), scene of the last stand between the ferocious Teke tribe and the Tsarist Russians at which the Turkmen were finallly overwhelmed. Turning left into a village, the road soon tucked itself into the line of mountains that flank the southern border of the country, the Kopet Dag (Dry Mountains). The horse farm sits squarely at the foot of the first foothill: step out of the yard in one direction and you stand on the plain, step out the other way and you are on a hillside. Recently forced to move to this site from the beauty spot of Firusi (these hills form the border with Iran and are full of Persian placenames), the site is unkempt and sits amid dilapidated Soviet-era kolkhoz buildings and rusting machinery.
We are shown the stables, a hurriedly converted cow shed, with stalls in which a dozen magnificent Ahal-Teke specimens are resting. Young men comb their hides and bring fodder. Though it is only February, the hides are rich; they will grow yet more generous with the onset of spring. Then a horse is saddled up and I am invited to mount. A chestnut mare – with a name that means ‘constant’. After a couple of circuits of the compound we are off, a group of five led by Batyr, the eldest of the young assistants and a consummate horseman who speaks urban Russian to us and rustic Turkmen to the shepherds in the hills. Out towards the uplands, ambling – still it is quite a climb, and the horses quickly work up a lather. The neck of my mare is palpably warm in what is already an English summer’s day.
Little to say of the ride – we are out for two hours – save that we are taken up and over, up and over, finally coming to a high grassy level from which a great sweeping view gives out over the desert to the north – the ultra-modern gigantic mosques of both Ashgabat and Geok-Tepe (25 miles apart) are visible – and backwards into the ruptured and crumbling foothills of the Kopet Dag, rising to distant snowy peaks that are already Iran. This is the edge of the Khorasan Plateau and geologically and even culturally, if one goes back far enough, was not Turkmen but Persian. The foothills are still green and moderately grassy, if dry; in two months they will be burnt a dull ochre – and well populated with poisonous snakes, by all accounts. (Warnings are plentiful of this fact.)
A revelation, this horse-riding. Unlike sitting in a car, the sitting is active, constantly shifting balance and poise, compensating for slopes. What is most extraordinary is that the horse has eyes, it knows its way, it sees; it is not a blind machine that must be steered. My mare tackles narrow paths along steep slopes without worry, and can ascend and descend steep, scree-covered slopes with astonishing control. A silent power – that accelerates uphill and comes down slowly – a sensation of muscular energy that is quite different from that of a machine.
Batyr has us cantering on level stretches, the constant rising up out of the saddle highly amusing and probably even more so for anybody watching. The precision of the animal’s movements, and the power she delivers, are awesome; as is the relationship between her and the rider, even an inexperienced one with little sense of control.
The return to the farm was sensed by the horses, who grew impatient and hungry. We passed shepherds (with large, vocal dogs) who were attending to the spring lambing – tiny black, long-haired lambs standing by their mothers, but already looking as though they have always been there. In the distance the sheep, mostly black, move on the hillsides like beetles.
This was a first time. There will be more, I am certain. Batyr says I rode well for a first timer, and that he will teach me to gallop. I am not about to refuse that.
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