Siberia Bound

Tonight I board an 8pm flight to the Kazakhstan capital of Astana where I’ll find a comfy bench  and spend the night before my Monday morning flight to Novosibirsk, Russia.

To Russia…

I’m going to be perfectly honest and say that Russia intimidates the hell out of me in a way no other country has. I expect those I interact with to be remarkably unforgiving of my lack of communication skills, and as a result I expect more hardship (financially and stress related) than in any other country I’ve visited.

My time in Russia will be brief. Following my arrival into Novosibirsk I intend to travel south into the Altai Republic before acquiring the necessary paperwork to cross into western Mongolia. Russia will be far and away the most expensive country of my journey and as such I intend to travel through it expeditiously. Given my research thus far I’m optimistic that an exit into Mongolia is feasible as early as the 10^th of May. From there it’s through the empty expanse of western Mongolia to the central capital of Ulaanbaatar, before hitching a train to Beijing. I have no doubt this final leg will be nothing short of mind blowing.

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A very short Russian visit indeed, but a necessary one sure to be riddled with adversity, blood red carpets, & the occasional vodka toast. Final Exam Week begins tomorrow. I think I’m ready. I hope I’m ready. Russia, here goes…

Central Asia

This is it. This is the region. This is the place. From Turkey to Tehran to Turkmenistan. This is the future and I can say without hesitation I shall return to central Asia. From my brief time in Kazakhstan and through lengthy conversations with Marc and now Eddie (another traveler over-landing from Europe to Pakistan) I’ve come to realize that central Asia truly is the ticket.

The travelers you come across are a different breed than those of Southeast Asia or the subcontinent. They’re older, more sophisticated, and in search of something entirely unique from their travels. But hell let’s face it, you have to be wired just a tad different from the rest to choose Turkmenistan as your holiday destination. But in reality most travelers to the region aren’t here for a cushy and packaged adventure holiday. They’re here as part of something greater, be it a solo overland journey from Europe or a month long tour of headline grabbing countries that would fall into the ‘evil’ bucket in the eyes of the West. Any way you cut it these are my kind of people and my kind of travelers: the well organized, calculating risk taker eager to explore the tough to access and remote corners of exotic central Asia. This region and those that visit it fit me like a glove.

Tonight is my second to last night in central Asia. When it’s all said and done I will have spent eighteen wonderful days in southern Kazakhstan and will be truly sad to leave. The people, the land, the culture, and the hospitality have far exceeded my expectations, yet I leave knowing I’ve only just scratched the surface of central Asia’s brilliance. If time allowed I’d be crossing into Uzbekistan and Tajikistan with Marc Fletcher just as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.

Central Asia is a whole other project for a whole other time, yet the spark of interest will always trace back to my introduction and the glorious nation of Kazakhstan. I can’t emphasize enough what an absolute pleasure it’s been to experience the people of this fine nation and to develop the meaningful relationships I have with the likeminded travelers who are drawn to it.

Take my word, nothing will disappoint you about a visit to the Glooorious Naaation of Kazakhstan.

Small Details, Large Consequences

After retrieving our packs from the InterContinental (“Look out people! Luggage guests coming through! Make way!”), we retreated to our all too familiar dorm accommodations where I checked in for the third time. It was during this process that I noticed a round stamp on Marc’s immigration card which I did not possess. Long story short I had unknowingly neglected to register my passport with the Migration Police within five days of arrival in Kazakhstan. Doooooh!

Usually I’m on my A-game with these types of Bureaucratic Time Wasters, but this one had completely escaped me. Entirely my fault. I was all set to pick up my Russian visa the following Friday morning and enjoy a stress free last two days in KZ and suddenly curve balls were coming at me left, right, and center. I had to get to the bottom of this torpedo and get to it fast.

I found a nearby travel agent who said (through Marc’s translation) they could handle my registration the following day, but for a significant fee. After confirming through the State Department website that a lack of registration could indeed cause significant problems upon exit, I concluded my best play was to visit the Migration Police the following morning and address things personally. I figured by dealing directly with the source, I’d reduce the Dumb Tax penalty amount to the absolute minimum. I didn’t sleep well….

Friday April 30^th – Day 232

By 7:15am I was seated in front of a computer terminal leafing through travel forums to gather additional info on my registration dilemma in case things went sideways. My flight to Russia was scheduled for Sunday evening, so there were all sorts of disastrous ramifications just waiting to snowball should registration take more than one business day. It all waited in the wings…

By 8:00am I was standing shoulder to shoulder alongside morning commuters in a crowded west bound bus heading down on Satpaev. When the bus stopped opposite the Russian consulate I drew a nervous breath. Please go smoothly. By 9:00m the queue outside the steel gate was already a dozen deep. As I played out the various worse case scenarios in my head a pit developed in my stomach. How could I have dropped the ball so hard on the registration? Nobody to blame but me. At 9:30am sharp the intercom crackled with one word: visas. I alone pushed open the heavy steel gate and walked into the security lock. Within a minute I was sitting opposite a familiar red-haired female. I presented her my passport and she returned with a small envelope, from which the following beautiful sticker emerged…

After asking a series of procedural questions (“Let’s go over registration in your country one more time…”) I walked out the front gate by 9:40am. Damn, that was easy. One down. I legged the 3km to the Migration Police office and walked into a minor nightmare. The oddly shaped ground floor of the building was packed with paper-waving nationals from every country this side of the Mediterranean. My immediate reaction was panic. This was not going to be anywhere as straightforward as I’d hoped. I found the first open window and thrust my passport and immigration card forward. The man’s hand reconfigured into three fingers. With that I cocked my head around to find a free for all doing down at counter #3. The concept of an orderly single file line hasn’t caught on yet in the region, so I used my size and patiently muscled my way to the window. The silver haired Kazak immigration officer I found appeared to enjoy his job about as much as an American DMV employee might. When we finally conversed he said to wait until an English speaking agent come around. For the next forty minutes I stood point blank and watched as passports from Belarus to Israel to China (and everywhere in between) were aggressively waved in the air like they were winning lotto tickets.

My saving grace finally arrived in the form of a motherly Kazak travel agent who took pity on me. In short time Cyrillic lettered forms were filled out, photocopies were made, and cashiers were paid. I dropped my documents off and was told to return at 6pm. They would try to process my registration the same day but no promises. The agony! I spent the balance of the day fretting an outcome that was completely my fault and completely out of my hands.

By 5:00pm Marc and I were on foot through the leafy streets of Almaty to face the music. Marc generously agreed to accompany me in case his linguistic skills were needed. We arrived to a near empty room at 5:30pm. By 6:00pm however we were packed tighter than a tin of sardines.

“Small details, large consequences,” I quietly said to Marc. “You may have just defined bureaucracy,” his reply.

At 6:10pm two shopping carts containing a rainbow of passports emerged from the side door behind the glass wall. With that the mob surged forward. I breathed an initial sigh of relief at the sight of the familiar silver haired officer. Minutes later I breathed a huge sigh when I spotted the distinct purple sticker on the back of my passport. In the end I retrieved not only my passport but a freshly minted registration card bearing my name. I had my visa. I had my stamp. I was going to Russia. Talk about travel highs.

With that we rounded a street corner where Marc ducked into an internet shop to learn his Uzbek letter of invitation (a common visa requirement in central Asia) had finally arrived via email. I was going to Russia, he was going to Uzbekistan, and we were both ecstatic. Being Friday evening around 6:30pm…sun still shining on the warm spring day…weekend faces hanging on the Almaty corporate set…a great vibe in the air…you can probably guess what happened next. We found beer and beer found us. With no open container policy in KZ we wandered cross town clutching cold bottles of Kazak beer, chatting away nonstop at the day’s good fortunes. We found another round and another round found us. A celebratory Friday night in Kazakhstan’s number one city was quickly taking shape.

By 8:00ish we had scored an outside table at a trendy bar that would have fit in well in any major western city. Inexpensive glasses of Georgian house wine complemented the increasingly attractive clientele as the hours rolled by. The novelty of being in a posh environment surrounded by attractive members of the opposite sex wasn’t lost on Marc or I. A truly rare experience for two budget backpackers in a strange corner of the world.

In Da Club @ Da Freak

By 11:00pm we made the executive decision and hailed a taxi. Our destination was Almaty’s top nightclub: Da Freak. We’d been jokingly tossing the name around for days, but there was no hesitation from my end when Marc threw the idea out. Wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a brown pocket-heavy Steve Irwin button down shirt, we both looked equally out of place standing in line outside the two story dance club. The clincher…we both had are cameras. It was a laugh. I wonder how security at Avalon would react to a camcorder.

Da Freak delivered da goods in fine form. Mixing together three music rooms each with a separate DJ, a killer outdoor balcony overlooking the city’s park, the usual smoke & light show nonsense, and an assemblage of Kazakhstan’s hottest clientele, you had all the ingredients of an ‘epic’ night. Marc’s massive camera and my American accent brought us minor celebrity status and many a priceless conversation. We danced and enjoyed ourselves to the absolute fullest. A day that began at 7:15am with many questions ended at 4:30am with many answers. The right answers.

I slept well….

Flirting with Kyrgyzstan

I saw the name Marc Fletcher on the lady’s computer screen in the box under Room #45. She must have thought we’d get along because when she handed me my key it read forty-five. Marc and I met about noon on April 26^th and hit it off immediately. Hit it off due in no small part to the fact Marc was the first English-speaking person I’d engaged in over a week. Kind of sad but that’s life over here. I hadn’t had a substantial conversation that amounted to more than (i) are you married, (ii) what’s your nationality, (iii) do you have any kids since the 18^th, so when I ran into a thirty year old English speaking Australian from Sydney who had just spent two months traveling overland from Austria through Serbia, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Turkmenistan, I was needless to say rather excited…and verbose.

Marc and I hit it off though for much more than our shared dialect. He had recently left his corporate job after a decade to fulfill a long time dream of touring central Asia, and doing so solo. We quickly discovered many shared views on a number of both travel and non-travel related topics, and the conversations ran like rivers. It had been a good while since I’d met someone on the road like Marc and he reminded me that great friendships (albeit brief) can indeed be born out here on the road. He also helped to reinforce my observation that central Asian travelers are a pretty unique breed. Unlike the global frat dogs that descend upon Bali and Thailand or the hippies to India, the central Asian countries draw a mixed bag of those travelers looking for the road less (and sometimes yet) traveled.

While I was on one side of our four person dorm room waiting for my Russian visa and researching Mongolia, Marc was on the other waiting for his Uzbek and reading of Tajikistan. With days to kill and our patience for urban Almaty running thin, we hatched a plan to explore the nearby mountain range of snowcapped 4000m peaks that separate Kazakhstan from Kyrgyzstan. We didn’t know much about where we’d stay or the conditions we’d find, but we knew another day in Almaty would be the end of us.

Wednesday April 28^th – Day 230

We checked out of room #45 on the fourth floor of our Soviet era dorm building and lugged our bags down to reception. We figured we’d be allowed to stow our bags with the hotel while we over-nighted in the mountains and pick them up upon our return in 48 hours. Surprise quickly turned to frustration when the reception beasts informed us they did not hold luggage. So here we are holding our day packs and big bags, just itching to get on bus #63 for the mountains and suddenly we’re sidelined. We went into problem solving mode but our best option looked like bussing forty minutes in the wrong direction to use the city bus station lockers. I suddenly had a flash and told Marc to toss me his guide book. My solution was simple. Call the nicest hotel in town and fish for the answer you want.

Hello, Almaty Intercontinental Hotel.

SBO: Concierge desk please.

Hello, guest services. How may I assist you?

SBO: Is it possible to store luggage?

Of course.

SBO: I may not be checking in for several days though.

Not a problem.

SBO: Hey Marc, we’re in business.

We marched over to the InterContinental to find extra security in place and a lobby overflowing  with suits. The hotel was hosting a two day media conference and we couldn’t have looked more out of place with our bags, boots, and shorts. Thankfully our western facial features and accents meant we received the full treatment of courteous four-star InterContinental service one would expect. We found a few chairs and Marc slung his professional Canon camera around his neck for credibility. We figured if we played our cards right we’d be able to score not only free luggage storage but media passes as well. After laying a few pleasantries on the concierge desk, a bellboy was sent over and our bags disappeared. Shortly after, we disappeared. Seven times out of ten, a respectable hotel is the solution to every problem out there.

The city of Almaty sits at the foot of the Alatau Range which marks the boundary between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, its mountainous (and politically unstable) neighbor to the south. After two bus connections we arrived at a dirt road that snaked its way up into those very mountains. At 12:30pm we set off on foot armed with a rough map, a set of warm clothes, and two bottles of water. We didn’t know what we’d find in the way of weather conditions, trail conditions, or lodging conditions, but whatever information we lacked was made up for by a shared optimistic belief that all things would work out at the generous hands of the Kazak people.

After an hour the dirt road terminated at a Soviet era hydro-electric station at which point the trail’s gradient increased along with the snow accumulation. We sludged our way through the timber dotted landscape for two hard hours until finally arriving at the still frozen Bolshoe Almatinskoe

Lake. Talk about contrast. A week earlier it had been the warm grassy steppe of Aksu Zhabagly Reserve, and now the spectacular winter landscape of the Alatau Range.

We continued on the trail south as it hugged the lake. A number of avalanche shoots blocked the trail in sections which made for some interesting and slippery crossings. Our attention quickly turned to a cluster of shacks which came into view on the lake’s southern bank. Upon arrival we discovered four ram-shackled houses all bearing the signature of a Homer Simpson construction project. The grounds were enclosed by a flimsy fence with a clear Do Not Enter sign written in Russian hanging from the front. With not another soul in sight we weighed our options for a few minutes. The settlement appeared completely empty from all signs and when our Russian cries of PRIVYET! (Hello!) were met with silence, we cautiously swung the fence open.

We slowly poked around and half inspected the grounds before Marc pointed to a towel hanging from a porch and pair of boots beneath it, which we took as our sign to hightail it out of there. Thus the Boot People were born.

(Marc from inside the Boot People’s sauna).

With the day getting away we retraced our steps back around the lake to the only accommodations we were aware of: the Tian Shan Astronomical Observatory…or better known by its Soviet tag Gaish. We when arrived we were greeted by the meanest guard dog I’ve ever seen and a mishmash of rusting Cold War era structures. The snowy setting reminded me immediately of the rebel base on Hoth. Marc knew exactly what I was getting at when I dropped: You’re ton-ton will freeze before it reaches the first marker….then I’ll see you in hell! Heeya!

The place looked absolutely abandoned so we started knocking on doors. Eventually a very pleasant and surprised Russian gentleman emerged and offered us lodging for the evening. It was clearly way early in the season and we felt good about ‘officially’ opening things up. An epic night in a truly outlandish setting:….up the long dirt trail…past the hydro station…along the steel pipe…past the Soviet telescope…and down the cold creepy hallway…

The Russian and his wife turned out to be lovely people and fed us dinner, breakfast, and packed us a bag lunch. Marc speaks enough Russian to get by and then some, so he was able to source information about the trail’s condition and the border pass to Kyrgyzstan. We were told of snow. Lots of snow.

At 9:30am the next day we set off to continue our Kourtship of Kyrgyzstan. The blue skies and warm temps from the previous day had been traded for a grim and cloudy grey morning. The word ‘epic’ was traded back and forth quite frequently throughout the day as nonstop banter accompanied every step of our climb to 10,000ft. By noon the ceiling of clouds had lowered and visibility was nil. The snow crossings which at first measured ankle deep began to reach the knee and beyond. Both my shoes and socks were completely saturated and squished with every step. Add in a periodic rain shower and you had all the makings of a lovely afternoon in the Scottish Highlands.

By 1:30pm we reached a river crossing, where all remnants of brown earth on our side gave way to an unbroken blanket of snow on the other. Blocked by impassable thigh-high spring snow, we had reached the end of our line. There will come a day in the future when I properly visit Kyrgyzstan. Until that day comes though I’ll settle for knowing we came within a mile and a half of its border.

Epic indeed.

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Green & Blue

I’m in the deep end of the writer’s block pool right now and my water wings are losing air. In other words I have no idea what I feel like writing about or how I even feel like writing it, I just know I feel like writing so I can move on.

…fifteen minutes later…

Screw it. My last ten days in a jumbled soupy mess:

Goodbye Dirk. Taxi to train station. Techno out the bed speakers. Cold beer. Police detainment. Overpriced hotel check in. Lunch with an Uzbek. Overpriced hotel check out. Unexpected shenanigans. Couch wakeup. Local bus. Taxi to edge of town. Hitching to Skymkent. Zero water pressure. Fashion Channel in English. All day writing session. Minivan window seat next to a fat woman. A Russian innkeeper. An evening walk in the grass. A day of relaxation. Inglorious Basterds yet again. Bread, water, apricots, peanuts, & ice cream. Horseback into the mountains. A sunset to die for. A van to a Mercedes to a bus to a Turkistan. Filthy overpriced accommodations. Dry desert oasis. Kebabs deep in the market. Afternoon apricots on a train platform. CCCP circa 1983. PDFs. Russian ruble concerns. Incredible Islamic beauty. Eager English speakers. Horse milk. A clothing purchase for the HoF. The way point. Heavenly train trip. Familiar Almaty. Hello Marc from Oz.

This one sucked. I know. Sorry, you caught me on an off night. Thank God for visuals. From Almaty to Taraz to Shymkent to Akzu Zhabagly to Turkistan to Almaty, southern central Kazakhstan in late April will always mean two things to me: green & blue. Green & blue…

So maybe it’s green, blue, and hint of red…

In All Its Glory

Something very special is taking place here in Kazakhstan. It’s becoming my happy place. We all have that location or setting which gives us the reassuring warm & fuzzies. It could be the tee box from your favorite back-nine hole, a familiar runway at Nantucket or LAX, or aisle #4 at Wegman’s. We all have them. Places that make us feel safe, comfortable, and happy. For me, more than any other place I’ve visited in Asia, Southern Kazakhstan has become that. My happy place.

It starts with the scenery…

Emerging from what I’m told is a quite hostile winter, southern KZ is in full bloom. Tree leafs and tulips out in full force, the springtime natural beauty astounding. Southern KZ is what I’ve pictured in my mind Mongolia to look like: empty rolling treeless steppe stretching to the horizon carpeted by new spring grass so green you’d think it was chemically engineered. And empty it is. With the population a mere 15,000,000 there is no shortage of privacy and human-less panoramas. And to the southern horizon, the western end of the magnificent snowcapped Tian Shan range reminds you where KZ ends and the other ‘stans begin.

Following my departure from the boys of Sarykemer I made my way to Shymkent, a quaint city of leafy boulevards and lush parks. For two days under a warm cloudless sky, I strolled leisurely the avenues and drank in a familiar feeling: springtime rejuvenation. The afternoon streets, barring great resemblance to a Nolita, Federal Hill, or Georgetown spring day, pleasantly reminded me what I was soon to return home to. The only thing missing to complete this central Asian fantasy were the sundresses.

…follows with the weather…

I left winter in that other country and entered spring here in KZ. I’m going to enjoy every minute because it’s back to winter when I depart for Russia. The last five days have been consistently perfect, like a Saturday afternoon on the Grand Lawn in May…

…continues with the food…

Whatever weight loss I underwent in that last country could well be wiped out by the time I leave Almaty. Bit of an exaggeration but the food in southern KZ is outstanding. Forget the flavorless pasta and rice monotony of old, KZ is a meat and potato kind of place. Doner kebab stalls, which pack on lbs and smiles, can be found every 5 blocks. Lamb, chicken, and beef skewers served with bottomless fresh bread cost a few dollars. And as for desert, there are enough readily available icing-covered pastries for thirty cents to overdose a small child. And of course the beer goes down easy…

…and ends with the people.

Kazakhstan is a massive country. If you were to drop it on Europe it would cover everything but Ukraine (I just made that up but it sounds about right). Within its borders and beneath its surface lie untold billions in oil reserves, but above its surface Kazakhstan’s greatest resource is undoubtedly its’ people. And like every frontier travel destination, the people make the experience what it is. My friendly bus companions who took me under their wing…the female hairstylists who couldn’t stop giggling at my very presence…Alla, the generous concierge attendant…the Taraz kebab carver who turned up the music and put on a show for my camera…the boys of Sarykemer…the bus stop ticket lady who escorted me to my minivan to ensure I was charged a fair rate…and the numerous additions of English-speaking Kazaks to my phone all offering assistance if needed. The glorious people of Kazakhstan are friendly, honest, generous, and fashionably sophisticated in its cities. In short, nothing like what Borat Sagdiyev would have you believe.

I’m hard pressed to think of another Asian place and people with which I’ve felt more confident that things will always work themselves out.

I’m concluding this at 10am on a sunny Thursday morning from the grassy backyard of a friendly Russian innkeeper’s house some 2km outside Aksu Zhabagly Nature Reserve, the most southern point in Kazakhstan you can reach before the nearby mountain morph into Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. I’ve arranged through the Russian for a guide and horse to take me into the mountain reserve tomorrow. If KZ is to be the only ‘stan I visit you can bet your last dollar I’m at least going to flirt with its neighbors, and what better way than on horseback? How could I not be in love with this country?

It Is Done (Again)

Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle:  40,000 Indian rupees

Steel luggage rack:  2,000 Indian rupees

Mechanical work:  2,080 Indian rupees

Assorted tools:  1,200 Indian rupees

Nepalese import permit:  2,250 Indian rupees

3,500km of fuel:  5,800 Indian rupees

Sales commission:  5,000 Nepalese rupees

The realization after receiving a wire transfer of sale proceeds that your entire motorcycle journey across India and Nepal cost $207 U.S. dollars: Priceless

In the Tiny Kazak Village of Sarykemer…

Fresh from my dawn arrival I was immediately detained by four stern faced Kazak police officers. They took me to their train station office and inspected my passport and immigration card. I had done no wrong and figured it was just a matter of time before they let me go. With no English exchanged and more frowns than smiles it was an all together unpleasant experience, but after fifteen minutes they let me walk out. With that I flagged a taxi and located the cheaper of the two hotel options in Taraz. Kazakhstan is far from the half-off fire sale that was most of Southeast Asia and certainly India and Nepal. Accommodations are absurdly overpriced considering what you get, but what can be done. After checking in I went to work on the essentials: laundry. I hand washed everything but my jeans and hung them where I could. I then walked outside to find breakfast and a story worth telling. I quickly found both.

I found the perfect kebab just outside the town’s bazaar, served complete with a smile, a laugh, and a mouth full of gold. With the camera in full play my new friend put on quite the carving display. Thankfully there are price tradeoffs in KZ. For every overpriced hotel there is a mouthwatering doner kebab that costs $1.50 on the street. This was one of them.

I found the perfect story deep in the heart of the bazaar’s labyrinth, or to be fair the perfect story found me. A twenty five year old Uzbekistan-born Kazak saw me sticking out like a sore thumb and invited me eat with him. OK. Jasoulan led us to a tiny hole in the wall where before I could say “Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan” skewers of meat, bread, rice, and tea materialized on our table. Jasoulan’s English was good enough that we could cover the basics: family and job. Before much time got away I pulled out the camera and set it up on an adjacent table, to the interest of most everyone else. Jasoulan played it cool and said not a word. He must be used to Americans filming his lunch.

As the meal was coming to a close I was more than half expecting to get it: the invitation. Like clockwork Jasoulan graciously invited me to visit his home and meet his wife. It didn’t take but ten minutes before I was sitting shotgun in his four-door Mazda heading out of town for parts and people unknown. In no time Jasoulan explained he played bass guitar in a college band and loved heavy metal. A Metallica CD quickly found its way onto the car stereo and before long the familiar open chords to Enter Sandman came out the speakers. I was not about to miss the Uzbek-American sing along that was sure to follow and pulled out the camera.

17km outside of Taraz we arrived at Jasoulan’s home in the tiny village of Sarykemer. His home was modest with the crown jewel clearly being the rectangular dining room table surrounded by twenty-four chairs. I asked for the bathroom and was directed towards the backyard and an outhouse. A simple wooden shack overtop a deep (and smelly) hole in the ground. Oh glorious Kazakhstan. When I returned to the couch a bottle of champagne was out along with a guitar, but who couldn’t see that coming? While he played and I filmed phone calls continuously interrupted. Each excited conversation inevitably including the word “Americana,” which I took to mean he was informing his posse of his surprise acquisition.

Within minutes his friend Vicesa, also twenty five, arrived. The three of us soon drove down the street and picked up the improbably fourth member of our crew. James, a fragile twenty five year old Afghani ‘computer hacker’ with a heart of gold. James spoke a good deal of English and was instrumental at the occasional communication roadblock. We crisscrossed the village streets for what seemed like an hour, constantly stopping to shake hands through the windows. The continuous stream of “Steve, this is our _______ (park/school/supermarket/you-name-it)” was unintentionally clichéd yet incredibly genuine. They were just so damn proud and excited about everything in their village. The boys hatched a plan to show me their local river and we made a slight detour along the way. Beers on me without question.

Drinking Kazak beer alongside a Kazak river with three local Kazak fellas on a lazy Kazak Sunday. EXACTLY the Kazak day I was searching for. The Alice in Wonderland Rabbit Hole Day. How far down the hole I’d go was anyone’s guess. It was all pure gold. The magic lay in the fact that despite the vastly different worlds we called home, we all got along beautifully from the very start. Laughs were shared and commonalities quickly discovered. By the time we were to leave the river I had been invited to dinner and spent the night at Jasoulan’s home. And the rabbit hole continues…

We soon returned to the village and picked up the fifth and final member of our crew, Vladimir, a twenty-two year old Kazak of Russian parents. If Vladimir and I laughed once that evening we laughed a hundred times. With the five of us piled into the tight four-door Mazda we headed back to Taraz to gather my things and check me out. When I returned to the car I felt liberated. A bag full of wet clothes in the trunk and a Kazak, an Afghani, an Uzbek, a Russian, and a Yank inside. Christ, it’s like the start of a bad joke, only it wasn’t.

Following our return to Sarykemer, with both group chemistry and camera sizzling, the antics continued fantastically. A bottle of Kazak vodka, orange juice, bread, and a sausage link materialized after some run around and we drove to an empty field. Hell, we might as well been going to UB Fields or Robert E. Lee Park. I suppose some things are universal among fellas.

As the day wore on and following an hour session at the local pool hall we made our way back to Jasoulan’s house. My first order of business was hanging up my wet clothes. The local boxing champ came over to have a look. The ensuing video was priceless.

(Afghani left, Ruski center, Yank right)

When I finally entered the house I was greeted by a sea of new faces. Wives and mothers had seemingly come out of the woodwork. James, Vicesa, Jasoulan, Vladimir and I quickly retreated to the dining room where the champagne and vodka continued to flow. There is a great scene in the Long Way Round series where Charlie and Ewan are invited to dine and sleep at the home of a local Kazak heavy. The feast of food, alcohol, and song that unfolds is one of the unplanned highlights of the series. Seated at the head of the long table and overlooking a sea of delicious homemade food, I raised a vodka toast to my new doss (friends in Kazak). I was having my moment and it was all miraculously getting caught on film. It was beyond brilliant. Budem boys. Budem (cheers).

I awoke on the couch the next morning at 7:30am to find Jasoulan pointing my camera in my face. The hangover was not going to be pleasant. I expressed my great appreciation for all his generosity and promised to phone if my return took me through Taraz. Before I left Jasoulan presented me with a long rectangular box. On the outside was one word: Present. In addition Jasoulan’s wife presented me an authentic Kazak head scarf for Meghan. You simply can’t make this stuff up.

(I look forward to proudly rocking my Kazak tie at all upcoming weddings.)

James and Jasoulan walked me out to the local bus stop where I caught the local back to Taraz. The bus filled to capacity, I stood the entire ride reflecting on the previous day’s events. How fortunate I had been to meet such incredible people and enjoy such a richly unique experience. How fortunate I had been to film it all.

Oh glorious nation of Kazakhstan, how I’m falling in love with thy…

Steve-O: Cultural Learnings of Kazakhstan for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of America

The last time I sat down to type was a week ago Tuesday from a comfortable 10^th floor hotel room in the Xijiang city of Urumqi. My ducks were lined up and house in order to exit China the next day for the great unknown of central Asia. All I needed was my Kazak visa…

The Night Bus to Kazakhstan

I woke up last Wednesday morning (April 14^th/Day 216) with the feeling you have as an eight year old on Christmas morning. A flood of uncontrollable excitement mixed with nervous fear and suspense. Will Santa bring me the Lego pirate ship I asked for? Will there be less? Will there be more? At 9am I rode the elevator up to the 18^th floor for my final breakfast on the house. The glass elevator overlooking the city’s main square was filled with people and teeming with activity. Apparently the locals were eager to embrace the near perfect spring day we’d been gifted. Not a cloud in the sky, my view crystal clear all the way to the distant snowcapped mountains as the elevator rose. A gem of a day to escape China.

By 9:30 I was northbound in what I’ll estimate to be my twentieth taxi in four days. I’m curious if any westerner has ever seen as much of Urumqi from a taxi shotgun as I have. We rolled up to the consulate to find an all too familiar disorganized queue assembling out front. I also found a familiar 6’4” German giant standing front and center. Dirk, somewhere in his early forties, hails from southern Germany and enjoys some tech job which allows him three months of travel a year. Basically the German version of Tom O’Neil. Dirk’s travel destination this year: the ‘Stans. Dirk and I met Monday morning while queuing to submit our applications. We hit it off immediately. Dirk’s original plan had been to travel from Kashgar (China) over the Tourgart Pass into Kyrgyzstan. He had successfully cleared immigration out of China the afternoon of Monday April 5^th, but since his bus was late the Kyrgyz border was closed by the time he reached it forcing him to spend another night in China. By the following morning, with the situation in the capital of Bishkek brewing full storm, the Kyrgyz border was closed to foreigners. Left no alternative Dirk had to backtrack to Urumqi to acquire a Kazak visa to enter the region. Talk about frustrating and a lot of bus travel.

About 9:45am the head guard opened the steel gate and the frenzy began with the entire crowd waving passports and applications in the air. The guard then selected about twenty people seemingly at random to enter the walled courtyard of the consulate. As for the rest…come back tomorrow and try your luck again. As you might imagine the two obvious tourists had no trouble finding their way in. By 10:30am the doors to the consulate building were opened and we filed from the courtyard to inside. Dirk and I made eye contact with our guy from Monday and he ushered us over. We were handed a bank slip with instructions to pay $20usd each at the local bank around the corner. We took this to be a positive sign. We returned and orderly presented him with two ‘paid’ receipts. He told us to come back at noon for pickup. Jackpot. With this green light we both grabbed separate cabs and dashed back to the city. His China visa set to expire the following day, Dirk headed to the airline office to book an immediate afternoon flight. I retraced my steps to the ticket office and confirmed my reservation on the 7pm Urumqi – Almaty overnight sleeper bus.

With bus ticket happily in hand I taxied back to the embassy for pickup. A marvelous feeling finally walking out of that consulate; passport in one hand, fresh thirty day Kazak visa sticker firmly in place, and a one-way bus ticket in the other. Back at the Islam Hotel the fine people were all too willing to extend me a 2pm check-out time. When it rains good fortune, it pours good fortune. Following checkout I casually strolled across the street to the warm sun-drenched park and found a bench to reflect on my China experience. Back in Shanghai when I first emerged from the underground metro station it was into a very green People’s Park. I propped up the camera and shared a few naive words of excitement. Here I was in another park on the other side of the country about to close a necessary chapter, so I thought it only fitting to prop up the camera for a few words…a few final choice words for China.

As I wrote last time the great challenge and thrill of traveling in the manner I’ve chosen is I get to keep score. Budget and time efficiency – two variables with which I can hold myself accountable for performance. While backpacking throughout Asia (or anywhere for that matter) budget and time really just equate to one thing: comfort. With a deep enough budget one can buy comfort anywhere on the globe, and if time is a limited resource a comfortable plane becomes the only option. However when the budget is finite but time is not, a world of uncomfortable options open up. It’s in this world that I’ve come to live for the majority of the past seven months. But like all relatively sane people I have a threshold, a threshold that’s constantly being reexamined and redefined. I swore after that hellish initial overnight bus down the Trans-Continental Highway in Sumatra that I’d never do it again. I did however…about a week later. Bus and train discomfort continued to reach new lows in Myanmar, India and China. But it’s all part of the tradeoff. Time versus money. Comfort versus discomfort. Despite having earned my hardship stripes numerous times before, I had zero idea what to expect when I started walking towards the Urumqi bus terminal that afternoon…

I’ll cut right to it. I’m no masochist, just a frugal and dirty traveler. The train from Urumqi to Almaty was not an option from a timing standpoint and the flight not an option from a budgetary standpoint. When the sleeper bus lurched forward that Wednesday evening in China I marked the time: 7:47pm. When it arrived in the outskirts of Almaty, Kazakhstan the next day I again marked the time: 11:20pm. Now this may sound completely ludicrous but it was the most surprisingly pleasant and enjoyable travel leg I’ve had in Asia.

To start with the sleeper bus was not a typical bus. The layout consisted of two parallel rows of bunk beds. Five bottom and five top on each row. The rear of the bus contained two stacked bus-width size beds that could handle four people each. Fully loaded the transit hotel held twenty-eight guests. I was passenger 10B: my own bed, bottom bunk. Despite a bit of age the interior smelled fine, as did thankfully its passengers. My bed’s length was all of about 5’10” so I had to get creative to straighten my legs. The mattress and pillow were soft. All and all life was good. I love a good car ride and diverse scenery, and from the comfort of a bed I was about to enjoy a full days worth. Like I said, life was surprisingly good.

After the obligatory middle-of-nowhere dinner stop I inserted ear plugs and fixed eyes on the black Chinese desert. There was nothing to see but the occasional headlights of an oncoming vehicle, yet I was completely captivated by the dark world racing by outside. I was overcome by that familiar giddy sensation which accompanies such unique travel moments. Here I was on a dark and silent sleeper bus full of Kazaks heading into central Asia through the backdoor of a western China desert. I drifted to sleep that night a very satisfied eight year old who got everything he wanted from Santa…and was about to get much more.

One More Gripe with China

I opened my eyes sometime before 6am and from the faintest glow of dawn’s early light I could just make out the snow-covered mountainous terrain by which we were surrounded. To fall asleep in the deserts and awake in the mountains. I love this. Around 9am we pulled into a parking lot and the driver made an announcement. I’d become friendly with a number of the broken-English speaking Kazak passengers who’d taken a liking to me. After the announcement in Kazak they explained to me we’d be walking to the border from here and to bring my passport. Before heading off we enjoyed a Kazak breakfast of beef stew and bread. I was loving their country already. I changed Chinese yuan into Kazak tenge with a local guy holding a wad of bills, and my crew made sure I got a fair rate. Oh glorious people of Kazakhstan.

When breakfast was over we marched to the border. When the gates finally opened there was something of a Third World stampede. It was one of the many border moments I wish to God I could have filmed. A hundred people trying to squeeze through a five-foot wide entrance. Pushing and pulling like I’d not seen in Asia before. I wedged myself into the human wave and was swept away. The Chinese immigration center was, as expected, state of the art and staffed by rigid, emotionless, uniformed zombies. Surrounded by a sea of baby blue Tajik and Kazak passports I figured I’d be the easiest stamp in the building. Not exactly. China Can Suck It: Reason 418…

Next. I took four steps to the immigration desk and slide my open passport into the waiting hands of Zombie #1. She examined my Chinese and Kazak visas thoroughly before flipping to the first page and my picture. When my mug shot was taken in April 2008 I was logging fifty-five hours a week behind a desk and doing my best to offset the accompanying weight gain. Not to say I was fat but the edges on my face were a bit softer then than they are now. This weight discrepancy was apparently all they needed to suspect the worst. Zombie #1 called over her superior. With both Zombie #1 and #2 shifting their eyes from photo to my face and back, I couldn’t help but nervously smile and laugh a bit. I had just crisscrossed the better half of Asia with visas and stamps to prove it and here they were inferring I was doing so on the sly. When they asked for additional backup I gladly obliged and arrogantly emptied every credit and bank card on them along with my domestic and international driver’s license. Apparently still not enough. They called over Zombie #3 who ushered me to a waiting area and disappeared into the building’s bowels with my passport in hand. My heart rate climbed rapidly over the next twenty minutes while everyone from my bus passed me by. Finally Zombie #3 returned and huddled with #2. He finally returned and handed me my passport, a pen, a blank immigration card, and pointed to the signature line. I found a nearby flat surface and smoothly inked my John Hancock. I recon if I had opened my passport to inspect my own signature all hell would have broken loose. I handed it back and he stamped me out with no explanation or expression. China. Skip it.

With that I rejoined the masses outside waiting for our bus to clear. The ensuring wait turned into an hour during which I drank two beers (hey, they were selling) and enjoyed a great conversation with an English-speaking guy from Tajikistan. It was one of those timely conversations where I got answers to the basics. Central Asia 101. Religion, culture, language, ?como se dice?, safety, etc. (OK, I bought him a beer but he declined so I drank both).

During the wait I ran into a familiar face from a hotel lobby back in Urumqi, and a gold-toothed Kazak truck driver of twenty-five come over to say hello. “American!” We shook hands, had a conversation in comical sign language, and shared a few laughs at China’s expense (apparently no one in the region cares for it). He showed me pictures of his wife and baby girl. I was loving the warm and friendly vibe already. Oh glorious people of Kazakhstan. We eventually boarded the bus and made our way into the No-Man’s-Land buffer zone between nations. I had to snap a photo.

Seven ‘Stans

I could have cleared immigration on the Kazak side blindfolded. It was a piece of cake. I walked out of the building into the same grey overcast weather and rocky landscape I had just left in China, but everything felt different. Everything felt better. Optimistically better. I drew a deep breath through my nose. I was in standing in my first ‘Stan.

If a man were to approach you on the street this afternoon and offer you a suitcase full of money in exchange for naming the seven central Asian nations which end in ‘stan, and assuming you didn’t have the great Ken Jennings in your back pocket, how many of you could do it? Geography lesson of the day, in no particular order:

• Turkmenistan
• Afghanistan
• Tajikistan
• Kazakhstan
• Pakistan
• Kyrgyzstan
• Uzbekistan

We pulled away from the Kazak border sometime around 1pm. Comfortably horizontal I glued myself to the window and took in the Kazak countryside. In short time the road dissolved and the rear tire exploded. A lazy hour followed which gave me amply time to wander outside and let the gloriousness sink in.

As the afternoon dragged on the landscape out my window grew more and more surreal. Red deserts gave way to green rolling hills before white snowcapped mountains. The entire landscape empty save the occasional cluster of simple homes. The clouds gave way in late afternoon and the sinking sun transformed the view into a postcard. I pinched myself and mumbled under my breath more than a few times Dude, you’re in the former Soviet Union. It was a brilliant ride and one I’ll treasure.

We arrived into Almaty at 11:20pm (Urumqi time) but given the local time zone it was 9:20. It was well after dark, I was well tired, yet despite having no guide book, no information, and no plan I instinctively knew everything would work out. And it did. While collecting our luggage I asked the best dressed of my Kazak bus comrades for a decent hotel recommendation. Slightly predictable, he told me to follow him and we jumped in his friend’s Suburban. Fifteen minutes later I was deposited at the lobby of the city’s grandest hotel. I laughed at their room rate but listened to their nearby budget recommendation. By 10:30 local time I was being escorted to my third floor room in a dingy and overpriced hostel. The lady said there was already someone in my four-person dorm room and knocked on the door. When it opened I found a 6’4” German standing in the doorway. Dirk! Of all the hotel rooms in Almaty, what are the chances?

It was great to see him and we traded transit stories. Equally great to see was his Lonely Planet Central Asia copy on his bed…

Ruski Tourist Visa

Friday April 16^th was one of those days when everything just went right. And it was day I needed things to go right. When I arrive into a new town or country I address business first and everything else second. Just as Urumqi had been the key to entering the ‘Stans, Almaty, the former capital and largest city of Kazakhstan, would be the key to crossing Russia.

By 8am I had examined Dirk’s Lonely Planet guide and formulated my strategy. The day’s first stop was the nearby internet café to send off a “Safe & Sound” email to several very worried parties back home, as I’d been out of communication in the Xijiang internet vacuum for a week. Next I pulled a favorite move and saddled up to the concierge desk at the InterContinental Almaty. During some friendly initial chit chat with the Kazak concierge lady, I learned Alla had visited America. Where had she visited? New York, Washington, and Baltimore. Hook…line…sinker. Despite my status as a non-hotel guest Alla phoned the Russian consulate, several visa agencies, and drew me a map. God bless the glorious people of Kazakhstan.

With that I walked out the front door and began my education on Kazakhstan taxis. To start with there aren’t any. I haven’t seen but three official taxis yet. I learned you stand in the road and wave your hand until an unmarked and meter-less car pulls up. You then hand over your destination in writing and punch a fare bid into your phone. Some haggling will follow and you’ll be off. It was expensive learning curve to start.

It was in this initial taxi to the Russian consulate that I made one of my first great discoveries about this glorious place. If Kazakhstan had to pick one musical genre it would without question be techno/dance music. The stuff is playing everywhere from hotel lobbies to shopping malls to taxi cabs. It’s fantastic. This country’s musical accompaniment couldn’t be more up my alley. Speeding down the street towards the Russian consulate in a 1992 Audi jamming out to dance music with a Kazak at the wheel, what could be better? Cab #1.

I had learned from Alla that unless I had a multiple entry Kazak visa (which I didn’t) the minimum processing time for a Russian tourist visa was two weeks. I already knew you needed two passport photos and some pesky health insurance document, but other than that I was flying blind walking into the Russian consulate.

Inside I’d find not a single word in English. Every document, every posted announcement, every application was in either Sputnik or Kazak. Uh oh. I eventually approached a window, flashed my passport, and a woman pointed to door #2. I walked in and sat down. On the other side of glass sat a red headed and fair skinned smiling woman. I explained my interest in a tourist visa, my time frame in Russia, and my intended exit into Mongolia. I took careful notes as she rattled off the necessary docs:

1. Copy of transportation ticket into Russian
2. Copy of hotel voucher
3. Copy of passport
4. Copy of Kazak visa
5. Copy of health insurance card
6. Two passport photos
7. One completed general application
8. One completed special application for US citizens
9. 21,000 Kazak tenge in cash
10. One liter potato vodka

She confirmed the processing time was two weeks and patiently fielded my numerous questions. What the hell is a hotel voucher and where do I get it? Is my BCBS health insurance card acceptable? Do you have applications in English? If I submit by 5:00pm today can you guarantee pickup on Friday April 30^th?

She wrote an address and instructed to me to visit a travel agency that could provide hotel vouchers. Cab #2. The women of Reel Visa Services weren’t happy to see me and I wasn’t happy to see them. None of them spoke English and it was only with the aid of an English-to-Russian/Russian-to-English translation website we were able to communicate. It was comical yet tiresome. All the while I’m looking at the clock knowing full well if I don’t submit my application before the consulate closes at 5:00pm I’m adding an extra weekend to my stay in Kazakhstan.

I needed documentation of a plane or train ticket into Russia for this whole thing to work. And I needed it fast. The women phoned an English speaking travel agent while I grabbed a map of Russian off the wall. During the thirty minute call with Dmitri that followed we played out every possible travel scenario. Different flights into different central Russian cities. Some direct and some requiring an overnight stay in Moscow!?!? Trains versus planes. Everything. I’m scribbling like mad trying to capture the details, all the while butchering Russian pronunciation. How am I supposed to know how to correctly pronounce Omsk or Barnaul or Chelyabinsk? I’m juggling all this with one eye on the clock. A decision eventually had to be made so had them write down the agent’s address and took off for the street. Cab #3.

After shaking hands it took Dmitri less than ten minutes to issue a $225usd one-way Air Astana plane ticket from Almaty, Kazakhstan to Novosibirsk, Russia (via a 12 hour layover in Astana) for May 2^nd. Afterwards we shook hands again. Cab #4. Back to the Reel Service women who promptly sold me the necessary hotel voucher and made photocopies of everything. It was 2:55pm. Cab #5.

When I arrived there was a small mob of some twenty people waiting outside the consulate entrance. F*ck! After a few minutes with no one moving I pushed my way to the front and buzzed the intercom. “American citizen dropping off visa application.” Buzzzzzzzzz and the steel gate swung open. Yes! I waited in line and quickly found my seat opposite that fair skinned redhead. She reviewed everything and instructed me to pay the cashier. I reappeared with my receipt and she disappeared with my application. Ten minutes later she was back and voiced the sweetest words I could have asked for: “No problems. Everything will be OK. Pickup is Friday morning two weeks from today. Be here early. Goodbye.”

I walked outside and looked up at the red, white, and blue Russian flag waving in the wind. Holy sh*t! I did it! I’m going to Russia! And it was easy. Talk about a travel high. Let’s just hope everything goes like she said it would. That evening I got something I hadn’t since December 23^rd back in Hanoi: a haircut. Afterwards Dirk and I drank a few tall beers before going to bed a very happy man.

With two weeks to kill before an April 29^th return to Almaty I was thrilled to be back playing film making tourist. No visa work, no running around, just lazy days of traveling and getting lost in Kazakhstan. The next morning I photocopied what I needed from Dirk’s Lonely Planet and formulated a plan.  The plan led west and an overnight train to a little town called Taraz. Like a seasoned traveler who knew the score and knew we’d never cross paths again, Dirk wished me a good life when we said goodbye.

The train was clean, friendly, and brilliant. The beer never tasted so good. At dawn I stepped onto the Taraz platform with zero expectations on what I’d find, just an open mind for anything. Little did I know at the time that one of the craziest and most unforgettable days of this Walkabout had already begun. I couldn’t make up what followed next if I tried…

(7:16pm – Almaty looking west)

(6:39am – Taraz looking east)