Be that as it may, on this December, end of the week local people and pariahs alike have rushed to this detached plain to praise the Kyrgyz horse. Brilliant Russian Ladas and testy Mitsubishi Pajeros line up one next to the other to frame a characteristic door access to the headliner. The ladies hold up their scarves as the dust storm approaches, the emerald green handkerchiefs of the horsemen scarcely noticeable through it. The At Chabysh Festival, additionally alluded to as the Murghab Horse Festival has initiated.
Sorted out yearly by the French Embassy, the Christensen Fund and the Foundation Kyrgyz Ate, the social occasion observes Kyrgyz horsemanship and conventional games. Six steeds surge towards the back of an adjacent slope and vanish for what feels like quite a while, inciting my doubts that they are choosing who the champ ought to be. Maybe a little cay break while we settle the match.
It gets more sweltering as the sun rises and everybody rearranges around, situating themselves for the best perspective of the victor. In the skyline, a spot consistently ricochets, as everybody attempts to make out the number on the green shirt. Amusingly number one arrives in the first place, the dark stallion prevailing over the rest.