Kazakhstan

PART 1: ARRIVING

On Monday July the 3rd, our plane soared over a vast expanse of fertile grassland, the likes of which Genghis Khan would have once ridden across, and landed in the Kazakhi city of Almaty. Arriving at the airport in Kazakhstan was a slightly strange experience for me, because most people looked Asian - which they are - but were speaking in Russian. Everything was now in Cyrillic, and enthusiastic Slavic conversations filled my ears. Leh suddenly seemed very, very far away, as we were confronted with a Brave New World.

After cancelling the flight to Bishkek that our old itinerary had us taking, we looked around for the bus that would take us into the city. Immediately, my rudimentary baby-Russian came into play. It quickly became clear to both my mum and me that we would gain little purchase here with the English language, when bystanders did not understand even basic questions like 'Where is the bus to the city' or 'How much does it cost?' I fell back on the scraps of the Language of the Bear I had picked up from a year's worth of intermittent study. I'd had little to no practice using the tongue, and had scant idea whether what I was saying made any syntactical sense. But I found myself blundering through in it, as it appeared it was the only way.

We eventually made it onto the bus, which was jam-packed full of solemn Kazakhi commuters, and was not really ideal for our multiple large pieces of luggage. The bus trip was made no better by the fact that we had no idea where we were going, and nobody spoke any English to explain to us where we were. I managed to glean enough information through my hackneyed Russian to land us within a few kilometres of the hostel we'd booked. From there we ended up needing the help of a Kazakhi woman who could speak English to hail us a taxi to take us the rest of the way.

The hostel was about the most discreetly-located establishment imaginable to have made it onto Bookings.com. When we finally arrived at number 151 Kabanbai Batyr, we were confronted with a towering, grim-looking apartment block that looked more Soviet than Shostakovich in a gulag. After reconnoitering the perimeter, we were on the verge of giving up and finding another place to stay when we chanced upon a woman who happened to know the code to the building keypad. This was a start, at least. We got through the door, then she told us we were on the fourth floor of the building, which meant we had to lug our suitcases and packs up a dozen flights of stairs. We did not find the correct floor before accidentally summoning some random Kazakhi tenant to his doorway, and apologising profusely. Fortunately, when we did find the hostel, it turned out to be a nice place, and perfectly fit for staying in.

Impressions of Almaty

PART 2: STALKED AND SADDENED

The following day, we roundaboutly found our way into the city to do some touristy stuff. Before that, though, we went to a 'Supermarket' near our hostel.

I put the word supermarket in inverted commas because I don't feel entirely comfortable gracing it with that status. We walked into the store, and were immediately instructed in Russian to lock up our packs in the safes up the front. After doing so, we were allowed in to browse for our groceries. Immediately, we acquired a diffuse but extremely conspicuous band of surveiller-helpers, who either watched our every move for no good reason at all, or offered us unnecessary assistance to find every single grocery item we were after. Most spoke only Russian and Kazakh - some knew a few words of English. One young man was doggedly determined to help us find our desired supplies, as the other seventeen idle supermarket workers stood around and stared at us.

Besides the totalitarian vibe of this small-time grocery store, the offerings were meagre and bizarre. The joint lacked basic items such as bread and potato chips, yet it seemed to offer more cuts of meat than a Hungarian butchery. As well, half the store was not devoted to foodstuffs at all, but rather clothing, and other consumer products. It was impossible to make a comfortable escape from the store, as several staff members insisted on telling me where I might find a SIM card, and it was only by uttering multiple dismissive remarks in Russian, combined with physically walking down the street, that we were at last able to put an end to the creepy experience.

Alas, we had not escaped the unsettling feeling of post-Soviet totalitarianism yet. Our first tourist stop for the day was the city art museum, which apparently boasted an impressive collection of Kazakhi and Russian artwork. This was certainly true; the collection was more expansive than any I'd ever seen anywhere, and the paintings were gorgeous. However, the museum came with an unfortunate downside. In every single room of the museum, late-middle-aged stony-faced Kazakhi women stood sentinel, casting a baleful eye over every electrical impulse of our nervous systems, and periodically snapping at us in Russian when we broke some arbitrarily imposed museum rule. Once, as I admired a large, enrapturing Kazakhi painting, I took my drink bottle out to quench my thirst. I was promptly accosted by one of the self-appointed cultural policewomen, and ordered to put my bottle away. Another time, we attempted to enter a room from a direction that didn't precisely align with the labyrinth schematic internalised in the women's heads. Again, we were dished a telling-off in Russian, and pointed in the 'correct' direction. Fortunately, the band of menopausal post-KGB painting defenders was not offensive enough to totally spoil our visit. The artwork was superb, and we were glad to see it.

Work them cotton fields!

So much Kazakhstan, so little time

Our last stop for the day was the Kok Tobe, a hill in the central city that offers hard-to-beat panoramas from the summit. After catching a cable car up the verdant mound, we arrived at the top, where an attempt at a theme park is laid out across the hill. Indeed, the Kok Tobe is known for offering a number of carnival-style rides or game booths, where Kazakhi children can live out their Disneyland dreams, all against the leafy backdrop of Almaty city. What we experienced, however, was not enchanting, but rather sad.

What first stood out to me at the Kok Tobe was the relative dearth of people. It was a weekday, to be sure, but such temporal trifles should not have left the hill looking so threadbare as it was that day. Sparse groups of locals wandered unjubilantly around the park, seldom availing themselves of the rides and games on offer, or exhibiting any signs that the Kok Tobe was contributing positively to their existence. In the meantime, mum and I sought out icecream, and were turned down two separate times by shops that sold it, once because the icecream machine was 'broken', and the second time because the person serving icecream was 'not there.' Thus, I gradually began to pity the park, and soon afterward laugh at the overwhelming sense of pathos it exuded. After snapping some pictures and eventually finding a café icecream, we said our goodbyes and caught the cable car back down.

PART 3: A TRIP TO THE KAZAKHI COUNTRYSIDE

A few days into our stay in Kazakhstan, we booked a trip to Turgen, a town some fifty kilometres from Almaty proper. Twenty kilometres further from Turgen was a campsite that served as a popular getaway for city-slickers, and was to be our accommodation for the night.

It took a taxi and a bus from the city, followed by another taxi from Turgen, to reach our destination. Our Turgen taxi driver was a gruff, very stocky, fifty-something Kazakhi man from the country. I plied him from the street as he shot me sympathetic glances from afar. It was just as well I spoke a bit of Russian, as he knew not a word of English. Deciphering his responses was difficult, as a foreign Slavic language and a rough rural accent combined to produce a perfect storm of incomprehensibility. Nevertheless, we made ourselves understood eventually, and soon mum and I were on our way to the Kazakhi countryside.

The campsite was situated in the midst of a truly bucolic landscape. Lush, grassy hills flanked us on both sides, and a crystal-clear river roared down the valley in an endless series of rapids. Butterflies and other heart-warming insects fluttered through the air, attracted to the flowers and pollens that filled the environment. Our accommodation for the night was a pre-pitched tent divided into a small vestibule and a bedroom with two surprisingly comfortable camp stretchers. Around the corner was a large dining tent, where meals were served thrice a day. Overall, the camp was very pleasant, and we were blessed with good weather to enjoy it.

On the day we arrived, I ventured out to get the lie of the land, and search for some trails to hike up. Regrettably, there were few established trails, with most being only vague quadbike tracks long since overgrown with grass. I tried a few of these, and in each instance was forced back by the excessive length and thickness of the vegetation around my legs. Still, they were enjoyable diversions, and it was nice to find myself in such poetic terrain.

The following day, mum and I set out to walk the site's main track, which leads to a giant waterfall. After the first hour, mum peeled off and went back, while I pressed on for the remaining hour and a half. When I arrived, I became absorbed in the awesome waterfall, and it in turn became absorbed in me, via the steady spray produced by the impact of the falling torrent against the lake at the bottom. I whipped out my phone camera and took some pictures as water droplets planted themselves on the screen. Looking at photos of the beast is not the same as experiencing it in person, but I had to create some record of the moment.

After the fanboying was done, I turned around and began walking back across the bridge that had led up to the viewing point. As I was walking, two young Kazakhi men who were sitting on the ground eating their lunch waved at me, and ushered me over to them. I was ever so slightly wary, on account of my poor Russian, but I complied nevertheless. When I reached them, I immediately asked whether they spoke English - to this they both replied 'not much', in Russian. So once again, it seemed that my beginner-level Russian would somehow, miraculously, come into its own.

My two new Kazakhi buddies were very friendly, and offered me some tea as well as biscuits and fruit. I sat down with them and partook of their lunch as we exchanged cursory information about ourselves. They were friends, here for the day. One of them had a wife and a son, the other was unattached. I made use of my offline English-Russian dictionary to fill in the seemingly infinite gaps in my lexicon, and used gestures wherever possible. My companions were very understanding, and we ended up spending a pleasurable three or so hours together as we hung out at the waterfall, and then wandered back down the track to the campsite.

Along the way, the younger man of twenty-four pointed out and explained several different plants to me, one of which was poisonous and itchy. My buddies collected some berries from the sides of the path, and offered me a few, insisting they were both safe and delicious. With some reluctance I acquiesced, and sure enough ended up enjoying the small fruits. Later, they filled their bottles with water from a small stream flowing beside the path, and bade me do the same. Again with some reluctance I agreed, and drank the water, which according to them was 100 per cent pure, untainted by the evils of the city. It tasted damned good, I concede.

Later it was time to part ways as I returned to camp, and they to their dwelling. It had been an enjoyable afternoon all said, and it was somewhat bittersweet saying goodbye to my Kazakhi buddies and the campsite all at once. Mum and I packed up and departed the area, having acquired a lift from a kindly couple who were also driving back to Almaty. Thus ended a memorable chapter of our time in Kazakhstan.

PART 4: RAIN AND REFLECTIONS

After one day back in Almaty where we visited such attractions as a park, a church, and a folk instrument museum, we departed the city once again for a nearby resort town called Medeu, with the resort itself named 'Shymbulak.' Ski resort by winter, hiking getaway by summer, we descended upon the little village in the latter season, and were greeted by pastoral, rollicking hills and still pretty-damned hot temperatures, with only a light mountain zephyr to stop the warmth from swallowing us whole.

Firstly, some preliminary exploration was in order. Once we had got set up in our rather small hotel room, we donned our sunglasses and hats and walked out into the resort village. On our way was a modest-sized swimming pool, where mostly Kazakhi men and women were dowsing themselves to escape the sun's wicked rays. Later, mum and I would do the same. We dodged children riding on rentable buggies, passed a chained-up raptor bird, and examined the ski-lifts/gondolas that ran up the mountainside. Tomorrow, we said, we would catch a gondola up to the next part of the mountain and do a hike up there.

Unfortunately, in the evening, it began to rain somewhat, and the following morning it rained again. These periods of rain in what had otherwise been an almost exclusively sunny holiday came as something of an existential shock to our systems, and reminded us that precipitation existed. I took the time to work on writing this blog post, which took far longer than you would care to imagine, as well as download the DuoLingo language app, which I've been very conflicted about in the past, but whose pervasive influence I have finally succumbed to. With the rain temporarily bringing our Kazakhi dreams to a screeching halt, this seems a good time to mention some aspects of Kazakhstan that have not yet come under examination in this post.

Firstly, the Kazakhi people. Mum commented soon after arrival that the Kazakhis did not exude the same overt contentment as the people of Leh did. Indeed, these Central Asians' countenances are not quite as tranquil as their Ladakhi counterparts', though this is the case in most of the world, and certainly applies to my own visage, so it is not entirely remarkable. Anyway, Kazakhi people are very willing to help you if they speak English, and sometimes even if they don't. Unsolicited assistance is surprisingly common here, and as the totalitarian supermarket attested, at times it can be too much. It might also be said of the Kazakhis that they can be rather direct and serious at first blush, a manner I had already encountered in Germany years before. At times I wonder whether it really counts as serious if eighty per cent of the world behaves the same - as Syndrome from the Incredibles says, "When everyone's super, no one will be." In sum, many Kazakhis have that head-down Russian flavour to them, but I haven't found it to be unpleasant, except in the case of the Orwellian art gallery.

Secondly, the confectionery. Nestle, Hersheys, Haribo - close up shop now. It's over. After a week of indulging in Kazakhi candy, I've determined that it is chemically impossible to trump its form and deliciousness. I knew it already on the flight over to Almaty; we were served airplane sweets that came in a delightful assortment of pure, gorgeous, fruity flavours that seduced the palate before steadily intensifying in taste and then finally, for the climax, exploding into a river of sweet goo. The lollies had a better narrative structure than a Christopher Nolan film. And this supreme sensory satisfaction was conferred not just by those particular candies, but by every single different sweet we tried in Kazakhstan. The world might have a lot of work to do on climate change, hunger, and attaining global peace, but on the confectionery front, it's game-set-match.

Thirdly, Westernisation. If Kazakhstan is a Eurasian country, then nowadays it seems much more European than Asian. Restaurants specialising in Western cuisine abound, with a Burger King, McDonalds or Pizzeria never being too far away. Kazakhis drive through town in nice imported cars and listen to English language electronic music on their radios, even as they have no clue what the singers are saying. And Kazakhi women walk around with more exposed flesh than a nudist at an abattoir. It is difficult to find a presence of traditional Kazakhi culture in the city, and as urbanisation continues, the level of Westernisation seems only likely to increase.

So much, then, for reflection. The rain cleared, and we were able to ride up the gondolas and do our hike in the bucolic mountainside. There, the air was thinner and the breeze icier, and we at last escaped properly from the heat of the Asian sun.

EPILOGUE: LEAVING

The following day we packed up and left Shymbulak, having mostly enjoyed our stay at the charming, if somewhat sleepy resort. We had a half-hour taxi ride back to Almaty, carried out by a fast-talking young Russian-looking man with an affinity for Western pop music, before checking in at a new hotel for our last night. Things were coming to a close for us in Kazakhstan, as the following day we would depart the fine republic for a different one. On our last afternoon, we went for a swim in the hotel pool, ate out at a restaurant with a 90-page menu, and lounged around in our unusually spacious room snacking on sweets and enjoying the Kazakhi air-conditioning.

Kazakhstan has not always been easy to love, with its vast intra-city distances, haphazard bus routes, 10 per cent surchages and clueless taxi drivers. But every time we bite into a candy, get unsolicited assistance from a kind passer-by, or look at the mountains, we realise it isn't so bad after all. As we leave the country and press onto our next destination - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan - I'll wistfully look out a bus window and remember all the quirks that made this republic a fine stop on our Central Asia tour.

До свидания