The nine guests were all American's. Debra, a school teacher who worked with special needs kids in the worst part of Brooklyn, she was the type of woman who felt everything really deeply. On the bus ride from Ulaanbaator we'd stopped for lunch and seen a hoof attached to a bone with shreds of fur and skin still holding onto it. "Is that horse?" she'd asked. Than finding out that it was she wailed, "That is so sad! God that's sad," holding her hand over her heart, her eyes welling with tears. Debra was riding a white and tan spotted mare, who was old, slow and heavy.
Brian, who was living in Japan teaching English, was on a red horse who liked to run. He wore a traditional Mongolian deel, a cowboy hat, army boots and smoked a pipe. Brian had been in the army years ago but he still wore his dog tags around his neck along with a cross engraved with "Lord" and "Savior." He sat on his horse like he knew what he was doing, even though he didn't.
Derek wasn't actually American, he was born in China, raised in Singapore and now lived in Toronto. He was in the Canadian army and arranged travel security for important people. He, like Brian, wore a cowboy hat but instead of a deel he had on proper english jopers, half chaps and good riding boots. Derek was quite. He had a very nice camera with him and he rode well for someone with only a years worth of experience. When I asked him why he'd taken up riding, committing himself to two lessons a week he said "no reason." I pushed him but he refused to admit that there was any reason at all that he had decided to start riding. He just had.
Sherry, Sherry I will never forget. She arrived late to the trip having come from Iraq where she worked for Haliburton. The first thing she said was hello, the second was, "It's against my faith," when offered a shot of Vodka by a totally wasted Bagi. He insisted she take it and toast with him to the 800th anniversery of the Great Mongolia State. She did, but under duress. Sherry rode a black and white horse who was very pretty and round. She smoked constantly and smiled strangly whenever you asked her anything.
Jennifer, who was travelling with her nine year old son Morgan, was the most travelled person I've ever met. She'd lived in Venzula for ten year, Argentina the two years before that. She'd gone to some isolated islands off the coast of Panama to meet some natives who still used hollowed out boats to fish and had come to Mongolia straight from Tibet via China. She was casual, fun, easy to get along with and wore heavy eye make up. Her horse was thin, slow, and steady.
Morgan rode the oldest horse, his neck was long, his back sloped. Morgan said "chu" constantly which had no effect on his horse but caused the ones around him to break into a trot. Bolt held a lead shank attached to Morgan's horse.
