‘Good?' he shouted from the seat of his horse in front of me. He didn't turn around to see the panic on my face and the whiteness of my knuckles as I held on for my life.
‘No,' I wanted to yell. ‘I'm not good.
My neck was burning from the sun, I was dehydrated and trying hard with one hand to stop my hat blowing off my head. My horse stank and the saddle was so uncomfortable that my rear ached in places I didn't even know it could.
I tried to look at my watch through the constant bouncing up and down –
three hours to go.
There was no use complaining to him, he could hardly speak English, so instead I gritted my teeth and fought hard to stay on the skinny Mongolian horse.
‘Yes' I shouted, wanting to get this ride over with.
Why didn't I choose the camel??
n.b Mongolian's don't have names for their horses. When I asked what the one I was riding was called, he replied ‘brown horse,' and the name of his: ‘white horse!'