Tim & Tigon, page 21
When I rode out from Szabolcs and waved goodbye to Geyser, I was still only four days’ ride into my Hungarian journey. Ahead lay a further five weeks of encounters with people too numerous to recount here. The entourage – arranged by János – included everyone from wealthy businessmen to academics, stud farm owners and simple farmers. There was even a meeting with Kassai Lajos – a Hungarian of great renown who had resurrected the art of horseback archery and turned it into an international sport. Watching him galloping and shooting off an arrow every two seconds, hitting the target every time, one could only imagine the intimidating sight of a group of Mongols, or Magyars for that matter, charging into Europe.
Among these people, however, one man in particular, Peter Kun, stood out.
The morning before meeting Peter, János led me out under the glare of the sun onto a vast golden plain. We had reached the Hortobágy – the last great remnant of wild grasslands in Hungary. Squinting hard, I could make out cattle and sheep inching across the horizon, cutting in and out of focus in the heat mirage. The Hortobágy was home to the Csikós people – the only remaining mounted herdsmen of Hungary. They were renowned as skilled horsemen who, among many tricks, can make their horses lie down on command – a tactic the Mongol army was famed to have used in order to remain unseen.
Just as we idled up to a well and Tigon returned to his old trick of bathing in the drinking trough, Peter Kun came cantering in. Sitting straight-backed astride an Arab horse, his long hair neatly tied in a ponytail, the thirty-five-year-old cast his gaze to my horses, then to Tigon.
‘Your dog is tazi! And your horses are dzhabe!’
I nodded in disbelief. Not a soul had recognised the Kazakh breeds of my animals since I had left their homeland more than eighteen months earlier.
It was not a lucky guess. Peter had been fascinated by everything nomadic since he was a child. As a university student he had excelled in ancient Turkic history, learnt to speak Mongolian and Kazakh, and at the age of seventeen spent a year living in Mongolia. Peter had now chosen to follow what he called a ‘true Hungarian life’. He had bought cattle, sheep and horses and moved to a traditional Hungarian homestead on the Hortobágy, and now split his time between lecturing at a university and tending his herds.
With no paths, roads, or fences, we rode five abreast – János, his son Marti, Peter, myself and Ogonyok, who had decided to join us at the front. As we galloped, János veered over next to me and shouted: ‘The day there are fences in Hungary is the day that this is not my country. I will leave.’
An hour or two brought us to Peter’s ranch. It was a huddle of horse and sheep yards, with a barn and house like an island in the middle. A Kazakh yurt stood out the front. I spotted what appeared to be a pile of old matted sheepskins lying in the shade of its northern wall, but they soon rose and transformed into the figures of two indignant-looking dogs the size of small bears. Tigon got a fright, and scurried in behind Taskonir. The dogs before us were a breed known as komondor, and their trademark long white dreadlocked coat was so thick, it was rumoured that even wolves were unable to penetrate to the flesh.
After János and his son had loaded their horses into a waiting trailer and departed, Peter brought me a piece of rope, slung it over my forearm, and began to tie a knot. I knew in advance what his special demonstration was going to be. On the very first night of my journey, now more than three years ago, the Mongolian herder Damba had spent an hour teaching me a knot that he assured me I had to know. It was a knot that could be tied with lightning speed, always held fast, and could be quickly and easily untied. It was a knot I had used for everything from tethering horses to tying improvised reins and fastening pack loads.
During my first winter on the steppe I had begun to realise the importance of this knot. In Kazakhstan, herders had looked on with astonishment. Where had I learnt it? It was, after all, a ‘Kazakh knot’. In Kalmykia, more than a year later, I encountered the same reaction from a Kalmyk craftsman, who termed it a ‘Kalmyk knot’. Now, just as I predicted, Peter tied the very same knot and claimed it for his own people: ‘You know, we say that if you don’t know this knot, then you are not a horseman . . . In western Hungary, beyond the Danube and the Great Eurasian Steppe, no one knows this knot. We call it the Hungarian knot.’
After a meal of mutton I lay down to rest in Peter’s yurt. Outside, the wind gently pushed against the felt walls. A horse somewhere cleared its nose, and a bleating sheep stirred. Through a narrow gap in the felt of the ceiling, glimmers of moonlight filtered down, illuminating a wolf skin, horsewhip and bow that hung from the wall. Next to me, his head resting on an old stirrup, Tigon was fast asleep and in a dream, paws twitching.
There were many connections that I had learnt of between the modern-day nations and cultures of the steppe, yet I had never dreamed that among them would be something I had carried with me from day one.
I joined Peter at sunrise as he saw off his herd of long-haired Hungarian sheep and grey cattle. Then we opened the gates of the horse yard and watched as Peter’s herd thundered off, leaving a cloud of dust suspended in the morning light.
By nine am everything had settled, and the sun brought such stifling heat it had quashed the spirits of even the most exuberant young horses.
‘It’s too hot to step outside,’ said Peter mischievously. ‘In fact, it is so hot the only reason to step outside today is to see the takhi.’
Peter had arranged a visit to a rare reserve where herds of Przewalskii horses (known in Mongolian as takhi) live – the only surviving wild horse of Eurasia. Access to the takhi reserve was usually restricted to scientists, but Peter had used his connections to get permission.
After following hoofprints for half an hour or so, the crest of a slight rise fell away to a series of reedy waterholes and marshes. There, mingling by the water, were around sixty or seventy takhi, with zebra-striped legs, short manes, and dun-coloured coats.
Peter pointed to a commotion on the far side of the waterhole. A stallion had set upon a younger competitor, who now galloped off. The younger horse darted right and left before plunging headlong into the water. The pursuing stallion crashed in behind, nipping at its quarry. On our side of the waterhole the pursuit continued. The stallions shot past a mare who was leading her foals along the water’s edge and careered out into the steppe. My attention returned to the waterhole. The water’s surface was shattered by a frenzy of hooves as the herd pulsated through the water, then out onto hard ground.
The takhi’s barrel-like chests and thick necks were a feature of my own horses, Taskonir and Ogonyok, symbolising the endurance and hardiness that had carried me safely to Hungary. The speed of the stallions was a reminder of the horses’ ability to take flight and reach as much as 70 kph in seconds. There had certainly been many a time when, scared by the tiniest thing, I had seen my horses do just that. Even the way the takhi opportunistically took bites at reeds on the move was reminiscent of the greedy Ogonyok. At heart, horses were nomadic, and their ability to travel long distances enabled them to roam far and wide for feed and water, eating on the move.
I stayed at Peter’s place for several more days. When finally I saddled up to leave, he plucked hair from each of my horses, gifted me with a Mongolian sweat stick, and told me: ‘I am so happy to have met you, and I hope we have strong connections in the future. In your mind, your head, you think and act like a nomad even though you are from Australia.’
I rode on with my sails filled.
For seven days my caravan travelled south along the Tisza River, covering as much as 50 kilometres from one host to the next. Tigon was a rod of muscle and could sustain long sprints at over 40 kph. A quick dip in any number of oases along the way – river, trough, drain, or puddle – and it was as if he had been recharged. At night the horses were spoiled with hay and grain, and in the mornings they routinely broke into frolic.
In the evenings, I took Taskonir out without a saddle or even a halter. It had taken me a year to feel confident enough to gallop, and another year before we reached the kind of fattening grass where I was tempted to try it. Here, though, the issues of water, grass and distance had fallen behind us. Holding on to Taskonir’s mane, with my bare toes tucked into the fur on his belly, I took him for long, exhilarating gallops. As he leant forward and the earth began to rush beneath us, I was overcome by the uncanny sensation that time was slowing down. I sat straight and still, legs wrapped around Taskonir’s chest, my rear not lifting an inch from his spine. These same animals that I had been terrified of at the beginning, I could no longer imagine living without.
The momentum of the ride from Peter’s farm carried me to the village of Tószeg. From there, I was escorted west for two days by a party of horsemen whom János had described as ‘cowboys’. He wasn’t exaggerating. They turned up with their lassos, long leather chaps, spurs, bulging belt buckles and broad cowboy hats. Leading them was a man they aptly called ‘Sheriff’. En route, we stayed in a horse-friendly hotel. While the horses overnighted in stables, I slept with Tigon in the luxury of my own chandelier-hung room. Impressed with Tigon’s exploits, the hotel’s owner decided that Tigon, in fact, could have his own bed. Tigon leapt up onto it immediately as if he had deserved it all along, and spread out on his side, his head on the pillow.
It was only as I rode on unescorted from Sheriff’s ranch that it hit me: I was just two days’ ride from the Danube.
I had dreamed about this time, when I was nearing the end. Mostly I imagined the day my horses would no longer have the burden of carrying me. After all they had done, I wanted to offer them a land where there would never be a shortage of grass. Many times it had seemed that my dream to give my horses a deserving retirement would remain just that, and some horses hadn’t made it at all. I was still haunted by Kok, whom I had left behind with an infected hoof more than a year ago in Kalmykia. I hadn’t had the nerve to find out his fate. Somehow, though, I’d brought the rest of my team through. Ogonyok and Taskonir had been with me for almost three years, but suddenly it felt all too soon, too quick.
After a gentle ride west from Sheriff’s farm through undulating sand hills and forest, I wanted to camp in the open steppe to take stock, but it wasn’t to be. My last night before the Danube was spent at a Western-style stud farm, the Bronco Ranch. My arrival happened to coincide with a gathering of Western horsemen, so instead of pulling into camp, I rode in among a throng of four-wheel-drive vehicles and loudspeakers blasting country and western music.
After unloading my gear I took Taskonir and Tigon on a ride into the forest, where I found a small, sandy meadow and lay with Taskonir’s rope lax in one hand, and Tigon’s paw in the other. I tried to focus on the sunset and let the steppe soothe me, as it had done so many times before, but the constant hum of distant motorcycles, cars and music was unending.
A legend about the makings of Hungary gripped me. At the end of the Magyars’ epic voyage from the East, it is said that they offered a white horse to the existing rulers of the land in return for a bundle of grass and a jug of Danubian water. Water and grass were the essential ingredients of life, and the land here offered both in vast quantities. But there was something about this legend that I was only now beginning to understand. The quest for better pasture had lured nomads to this land, which was not actually suited to a pure nomadic existence. By buying into a world of grass and water, the Magyars were trading away their white horse, their nomad way of life. Like nomads who had come before them, their saddles would be replaced with wagons, ploughs and scythes, their vast herds with cultivated fields, and their yurts with permanent homes. After all, in a land of such riches, there was no reason to keep moving.
I thought about this for some time – about what it meant for Hungary’s unique past, and what it spelled for my future.
The journey had changed me. I’d fulfilled my dream of riding from Mongolia to Europe, learning to see the world through nomads’ eyes. Yet if nomadism didn’t belong in Europe beyond the Danube, or indeed at home in Australia, what would become of me? I worried that people back home might not be able to relate to who I had become. Would they even believe my story? I had learnt that I loved being in places where the smallest of things meant the world. How would I cope in a world that had everything, but meant little?
From Bronco to the village of Solt on the Danube was a mere 25 kilometres. It was to be my last day of westward travel, and my last alone.
The steppe came in dribs and drabs. When open spaces appeared I went into a trot, but then a ditch, a road, or a cornfield would stop us. In the evening I passed through Solt, disturbing a few dogs, a cyclist and a pedestrian. From there it was a hop, skip and jump before we dropped down to lush green flats and arrived at the river. Before me lay a wide swathe of silty brown water stretching to the far bank. Beyond that lay the beginning of fences, walls, roads and cities. From the south, a tourist ferry was chugging up against the current. I resisted the pull of Taskonir’s head at first, but then let the reins go and watched as all the horses drank. Even Tigon carefully walked in and lapped it up.
That night I camped for just the second time in Hungary. Deep into the early hours of morning I recalled every day of travel since I had set off three and a half years earlier. I could remember almost every step of the way. Rather than being a journey, it had become my life. And yet there was no escaping the reality that it was already fading. The hoofmarks of my horses in Kazakhstan would be long gone by now, the grass my horses had eaten regrown. Some of the people I had met had even passed away. Never again would the horses feel the packsaddle on their backs. Never again would Tigon know the freedom of running day in and day out.
Just as I had felt when I was leaving my life in Australia, I knew that a part of me was dying.
*
The rather anonymous stretch of Danube near Solt offered a personal finish, and symbolised the edge of the steppe, but now it was time to celebrate with others.
The day after reaching Solt and the Danube, I packed my things and made my way to Budapest’s international airport. There, stumbling out through immigration, was my brother Jon. During my journey there were times when he had wanted to join me but didn’t. Following Dad’s death, he had been determined to come for at least the finish.
For the four days it took to ride from the Danube southeast to Opusztaszer, he travelled with me. On the first day, he went by foot, running this way and that, snapping photos and taking in all the details. It was only his second time outside Australia, and his first in Europe. At dusk he approached me with a smile. ‘Look, there are so many frogs! I have one!’ He opened his hands to reveal a squirming, mud-coated little specimen. Standing there at my side, with his daypack on and face full of wonder, he was the spitting image of Dad – or at least the vision I’d had of my father walking by my side the day after he had died.
For the second day of riding János came to lead us on an epic 50-kilometre trail. We carried on well after darkness, and just as we approached an equine-friendly hotel for the night, there came a familiar voice.
‘Tigon! It’s really you!’
Ahead of us, Tigon was the first of our troupe to greet my mother. Also waiting there was Graeme Cook, a longtime family friend and neighbour who had been the first person to put me on a horse, four years earlier. My childhood mate Mark Wallace was there, too, with his partner, Nadia.
The next two days were something of a dream. To ride with family and friends by my side, with my caravan of horses still intact, gave me a feeling of togetherness that I knew would never be repeated.
My last camp was a mere 10 kilometres from the finish line. What I had hoped would be a night of reflection became one of drama. Earlier in the evening Tigon had rolled in something dead. I had visions of reaching the finishing line and hearing not just clapping and cheering, but groans as Tigon greeted the adoring crowd with the stench of death. Long into the night I attempted to wash him clean with shampoo and water from my bottle, but he escaped my grip and shook himself off, covering everything else of mine with the smell of death. It was as if he were reminding me that there had never been a day on this trip when everything went smoothly – and there would probably never be one in life going forwards, either. I could have prepared for this journey for forty years and still not been ready – I had to accept and embrace that things were going to go wrong, and in the end, it was those challenges that I remembered most fondly.
For the finale at the national heritage park in Opusztaszer the following day, the Kazakh and Mongolian embassies had sent representations, along with the deputy ambassador from the Australian mission in Budapest. Then there were also many others – some were friends from Europe, but mostly they were Hungarians who had hosted me along the way.
As the remaining distance of my journey dwindled, I felt carried forward on a wave of emotion. The last few steps were made through a guard of honour formed by Hungarian horsemen in traditional regalia.
When the formal side of the ceremony was over, the celebration moved to a yurt camp nearby, where the smell of goulash, the splash of pálinka, and the neighing of horses mingled till morning. Tigon was in his element – pats from every corner, followed by juicy pieces of steak.
At one stage, Attila, the owner of the yurt camp, pulled me aside with a gleam in his eye. ‘Tim Cook,’ he began, and continued before I could correct him, ‘first night of travel you sleep in yurt tent. Last night of travel you sleep in Hungary, yurt tent.’ He looked down at Tigon, then at me, almost ready to cry, but shook his head slowly. ‘Beautiful, it’s beautiful.’
Epilogue
The twenty-second of September, 2007, the day I rode into the national heritage park at Opusztaszer in Hungary was one of the most fulfilling of my life. More than three years after setting off from Mongolia I had achieved my dream to ride across the Eurasian steppe. Looking back, the measure of the trip was the many friends I had made along the way. I truly felt as wide and ‘big as the steppe’.
