Hunters in the sky

In the vast grasslands of Kazakhstan in Central Asia, nomadic huntsmen (“Burkutchi”) still follow their passion for hunting with golden eagles. For many centuries, these huge birds of prey have been trained to protect sheep from wolves and foxes. The skins of the dead animals animals then used for furs. It is said that a trained eagle is worth twelve horses.

Kazakhstan was formerly part of what was, until 1991, the Soviet Union. In the 1950s hunting with eagles was banned by the Soviet authorities because it was thought to be “incompatible with communism”. Even worse, Soviet scientists said that the eagles were attacking sheep and lambs and had to be eliminated at all costs. Luckily the law was later changed just as the birds were facing extinction.

The fifty pure-bred eagles which remain in Kazakhstan have been trained to hunt by the skilled “burkitishi”. Female eagles are both larger and stronger than the male and can have a wingspan of up to two meters. A young female is taken from the nest just after it has learnt to fly. The bird is hooded to keep it calm and is kept on a lead which is gradually lengthened. It is taught to feed from the huntsman’s gloved hand. The eagle must be taught to hunt only the prey which has been identified by its master and to return to his cry “Kel! Kel! Kel!”. For this it is rewarded with all kinds of delicacies and special grooming for its feathers.Hunting is done from horseback with the hooded eagle riding on the burkutshi’s right forearm. When the burkitshi sights the prey, for instance a fox , the bird is unhooded and immediately takes off in pursuit. The fox is grabbed by the bird’s claws and held until the burkitshi catches up, leaps off his horse and kills the prey. A good hunting -eagle can catch up to fifty foxes in one season. A twelve-year-old bird is believed to have captured fourteen wolves in a single day many years ago.

*** She is Far from the Land

Thomas Moore
She is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

He had lov'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him,
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lov'd Island of sorrow!

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Charles Dickens	\|

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