My New Favourite Country!

Richard writes:

Kyrgyzstan is naturally beautiful, Uzbekistan is not. We left the rolling mountains behind us as we crossed the border and entered the baron, dusty and flat landscape of Uzbekistan. What Uzbekistan lacks in natural beauty however, it makes up for in quirkiness, warmth of people and man-made sights.

When planning our trip through Central Asia, it had been the cities of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva that inspired my desire to travel through the region. After just a few days in the country, I have already seen that Uzbekistan has so much more to offer than these iconic Silk Road cities.

I mentioned quirkiness, and there is nothing more bizarre than the country's money. One US$ buys you approximately 2,300 Sum using the official rate, however if you wish to partake in the black market currency exchange you can actually get 3,000 Sum to the dollar. What really sets the currency apart from all others I have ever used though, is the denominations. The highest note in circulation is the 5,000 Sum note (about $2), but these are in short supply, for this reason, in practical terms the highest value note is 1,000 Sum (40 cents). This would lead one to believe everything is exceptionally cheap, but it's not! A bottle of Pepsi costs around 4,000 Sum, entry into a museum is about 5,000 Sum and a meal out might cost 15,000 Sum. Admittedly these prices are not expensive, but they are high enough to require a massive number of notes to be carried around with you at all times. Every financial transaction results in laborious counting and double counting, and when eating out in a group, the pile of notes in the middle of the table is enormous and looks like a drug deal is being completed. Taking into account differing price levels, imagine in Australia having to conduct financial transactions with your highest value denomination a one dollar coin or in the UK a 50p piece.

The Kyrgyz people were quiet and reserved, whilst the Uzbeks are confident, friendly and excitable. Our first few hours in the country reflected this contrast, with the border guards warm and full of smiles and our first interaction in a shop (buying liquid to combat the ferocious heat) awash with handshakes and welcomes to their country. We are frequently approached by Uzbeks practising their English, requesting photos with us and car horns hooting us as they overtake the truck we are travelling in. Even a police car got into the act in Samarkand, sounding its siren as it began to overtake to gain our attention and as it drove past, the several policeman inside manically waving, smiling and shouting hello.

Our first night in Uzbekistan was spent in the city of Fergana. A small, quiet and exceptionally clean city, built by the Russians at the end of the 19th century. There was nothing of note to see in the city, but it provided a perfect break, before travelling the 300 kms or so to the Uzbek capital, Tashkent, the following day. To break up this drive, we visited a silk factory and the city of Kokand, which had been the capital of the region, until the early 20th century.

We had a couple of nights in Tashkent, and it is safe to say, we will not remember it as one of favourite cities of the trip. There is nothing to specifically dislike about the place, but its clean organised grid of streets lacks character. This can probably be attributed to the city having to be almost completely rebuilt after a massive earthquake in 1966, resulting in a massive soviet rebuilding project. Despite our lack of love of the city, we, with some friends from the tour had a pleasant day walking the streets, visiting the bazaar and the Khast Imom; the official religious centre of the republic. The complex contains several mosques and the Moyie Mubarek Library. The library is the home to what is claimed to be the oldest Quran in the world from the 7th century. The book is huge and certainly well worth the 6,000 Sum admission fee.

Next stop after Tashkent was the incredible cities of Samarkand and Shakhrisabz. Both cities are intrinsically linked with the 14th century tyrant Amir Temur. Shakhrisabz was Temur's birthplace, whilst Samarkand was the capital of the vast empire he controlled that spanned between Istanbul and Delhi. Samarkand's roots date back as far as the 5th Century BC, but what remains was built after Genghis Khan obliterated the city. The most spectacular sight in Samarkand is the Registan. This collection of madrases, surrounding a square, marks the centrepiece of the city and would have been the commercial centre of the medieval capital. Having the opportunity to see such a beautiful scene marks one of the highlights of the trip for me. We also visited Temur's mausoleum, Bibi-Khanym mosque (at the time of building, one of the largest mosques in the world) and the Shah-I-Zinda. The Shah-I-Zinda is a beautiful hilltop avenue of mausoleums with exquisite mosaics. Buried here are various members of Temur's family and Qusam ibn-Abbas, a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed, who was said to have brought Islam to Central Asia.  

Shakhrisabz, a Unesco World Heritage listed site, situated less than 300km from the Afghanistan border, is a quiet dusty town, famous for the ruins of Temur's summer palace amongst other buildings from his reign. It was interesting to contrast the restored buildings in Samarkand with the barely standing remains in Shakhrisabz. Ak-Saray Palace, Kok-Gumbaz Mosque and Khazrati-Imam Complex made a great day trip, which we thoroughly enjoyed.

Casey and I both agree that seeing this part of the world on a tour has many advantages. We have without doubt seen things (especially in Kyrgyzstan) that we would not have had the chance to independently. Inevitably, the group dynamic can be challenging and it is not possible to like everybody, but we have met some fantastic people that we would love to stay in touch with after the tour finishes in the Turkmenistan capital, Ashgabat. One such person that we will stay in contact with will be Sarah, from Brighton, Ontario. As a tribute to our newly forged friendship we have invited her to be a guest writer in this blog!

Sarah writes:

I first met Casey and Richard at the hostel in Bishkek. I had just put on my backpack and was about to leave when the door beside me opened up and there they stood. After the usual hostel introductions including where we were from, Casey asked what I was up to that day. We soon figured out that we were all heading to join the same Dragoman tour. They quickly offered me a seat in the taxi they had booked and I gladly accepted as I had been heading out to navigate the busing system. It was awesome to meet friendly, normal people that were on the same tour! Kyrgyzstan was truly beautiful with its mountains. The camping was amazing and I found I had a lot in common with Casey and Richard. Between hiking, talking, and sometime complaining too (it's a tour....it's going to happen) I have been very lucky to have such lovely people to hang around and do stuff with. The best bit about travelling is when you know you have made new life long friends. I'm looking forward to the next two weeks of adventures with them and hopefully more adventures in the future!

Caution: Graphic Decapitated Goat's Head

Casey writes:

Kyrgyzstan is a country with a land area comprising of 96 per cent mountains and only 6 per cent valleys. We've spent the last few days camping with beautiful scenery: we are surrounded by rolling hills, jagged mountains and stunning glaciers. We've gone hiking and horseback riding and have passed many a night sitting around a campfire enjoying a few drinks.

Our group piled into two soviet ex-military vehicles for the trip to Altyn Arashan at an altitude of 3000 metres. For 2.5 hours we bounced along a narrow rocky path with the edge of our wheels coming frightfully close to the sheer cliff. Fortunately both of our drivers had plenty of off road driving experience and we arrived unscathed. We spent our time hiking along the fast moving river with beautiful rolling hills on each side of us and a stunning glacier in the distance perched between two intersecting mountains. We crossed rivers by balancing on logs, avoided cows in fields and attempted to talk to local farm kids who spoke no English. Upon returning to our accommodation we spent the next few hours in the hot springs with beers in hand.

The next morning after another bouncy ride back down the mountain, we had two hours to kill in Karakol Town. Both Richard and I had to go grocery shopping with our respective 'cook groups' to buy food for the next two days of bush camping. It was stressful enough trying to buy ingredients to feed twenty people, but with a tight budget and limited options in a tiny town, the task was indeed challenging. Both of our groups were at a disadvantage to the ones who had gone before us, with Richard's group having one less person than every other group, and my group having George. George was 79 years old and most of the time didn't know if he was coming or going, let alone that he was responsible for cooking for twenty people that evening. George could talk - albeit incoherently - and he was more interested in trying to buy a bottle of vodka than to count out fruit and vegetables at the market.

Travelling to Jeti Oghuz, our group had to dismount the truck on five occasions, to allow it to cross five narrow, rotting, rickety bridges. The fear was that the bridges would not hold its weight with twenty passengers on board. We arrived safely at our secluded campsite and set up our tents next to the river under a forest of fir trees.

My group's three sessions of cooking went relatively smoothly, although Richard had to join my group to act as George's minder. George did not understand the concept of vegetarianism (we had two vegetarians in our group), and while cooking dinner, I repeatedly had to blockade the pot of vegetables to stop him throwing in the chunks of meat. He didn't understand that vegetarians wouldn't eat meat. He didn't under stand that vegetarians didn't want the ladle that had meat and blood on it used to stir their vegetables. After the seventh stand off between me blocking the pot and George holding the bowl of meat, he finally communicated that he understood. By the time dinner was ready, I was a nervous mess and George had gone to pour himself some vodka.

The following morning I explained to George that our group would be cooking fried sausages and fried eggs for breakfast. I'd barely finished talking when George began breaking all thirty of our eggs into a bowl.

Casey: 'George, what are you cooking?'

George: 'Scrambled eggs'

Oh.

I had to break the news to Richard's group that we had now stolen their menu item for the following morning. George didn't under stand what all the fuss was about. He knew we'd discussed fried eggs, but took the decision into his own hands without telling anyone else, god bless him. He also didn't understand why the vegetarians didn't want sausages mixed with their eggs. The half a kilo of salt that he added to the eggs despite my protests, also got a few comments from fellow group members as well. Richard also came to the rescue a number of times to protect George from burning his arm off while trying to light the gas stove. The whole campsite smelt like gas by the time George started waving the lighter around, and without Richard's diplomatic intervention I fear we would all have gone up in flames.

I was very relieved when my cooking duty was over, to say the least.

After breakfast we went horse riding along the river. The scenery was picturesque, the horses were generally passive and we had a lovely time. We stopped at a local family yurt, where they offered us mare's milk. We accepted, and pretended it tasted nice, hiding our screwed up faces and saying thank you for their hospitality.

From Jeti Oghuz we travelled to Song Kol Lake, situated 3500 metres above sea level. We gathered snow and ice along the road for our eskies, and admired the stunning views of the mountains we passed through. Arriving at our yurt accommodation, we suddenly realised how less oxygen there was in the air at such high altitude: we became out of breath by simply carrying our backpacks from the truck to our yurt. And it was cold! After weeks of temperatures above 30 degrees, we suddenly had to pull our coats, scarves and beanies from the bottom of our bags.

Enroute to Song Kol Lake, we stopped at a location that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, with an empty and barren landscape that reminded me of the moon. We were here for an eagle hunting demonstration. Tumara, the eagle, was a huge and beautiful bird, who had been trained for ten years by her owner. She was a four-time Kyrgyzstan hunting champion! We got to hold her before her owner demonstrated her capabilities. He took her to the top of a nearby hill, released a cute little bunny rabbit in the valley where we were standing, and then let Tumara go. After a few seconds to orient herself, she made a beautifully graceful soaring beeline for the rabbit, and trapped it in one swift move. She had its leg off and innards out before it was dead, and most of our group looked away squeamishly, albeit very impressed with the eagle's skills. As soon as the liver and heart were retrieved by her strong beak, the rabbit was dead, and within five minutes she had devoured the entire body, minus the head but including the fur. Fascinating stuff!

At Song Kol Lake we had time to do some hiking, but more prominently, some relaxing. Hiking was hard work at altitude, but as usual the scenery was stunning, as we maneuvered our way through herds of cows and flocks of sheep. The food provided by the yurt owners was great - local dishes of mutton, fish, noodles and fried bread, plus endless cups of hot tea. And the yurts were incredibly warm and cosy, especially at night when the temperature dropped considerably. Our group passed our time by playing Uno and Rummikub, and sitting around enjoying the atmosphere of the beautiful location we were in.

The highlight however of our time at Song Kol Lake was definitely the 'buzkashi' (literally translated as 'grabbing the dead goat'). Also known as 'goat polo', this is practically the national sport of Kyrgyzstan, and this highly competitive game involves two teams of three horseback riders, and is often referred to as 'rugby on horseback'. The only difference is that the ball is a decapitated goat carcass, freshly killed for the game. The arena is simply an open field, with spectators standing anywhere they think that they will be safe from the stampeding horses, because there is no boundary line. After witnessing the goat sacrifice and cringing at the amount of blood gushing onto the ground, we took up our places in the field. The aim of the game is for the horseback riders to pick up the goat carcass from the ground and then place it on a mat that has been laid out some distance away. The other riders can wrestle and grab the rider and/or the carcass, and use their horses to buck up and try to dislodge the rider from his horse. It's manic and chaotic, and apparently very common for riders to experience broken fingers, dislocated shoulders and cracked ribs. On more than one occasion we spectators went running to safety as the stampeding horses plunged into the crowd. Some of us hid near a metal outhouse toilet, thinking we were safe, until the horse riders decided to use the toilet block as an obstacle to protect against their opponents. We jumped again for our lives as they crashed into the metal walls. The game lasted an hour, with riders frequently changing horses due to their exhaustion in the thin air at altitude. It was an amazing and unique experience and we feel privileged to have been there, as the event is held only once or twice a month. We also feel relieved to have survived without being trampled!

Now, since entering Russia and Central Asia, Richard has been infatuated with the soviet-famed Lada cars and how terrible they actually are. His favourite is the 4x4 Lada Niva, better described as a 'blocky car', like the type you used to draw as a child. We have seen more Lada Nivas that have been broken down, rusted, bonnets up or being push-started, than ones that are actually running. He has recently found a soulmate, Christine, a Scottish girl on our tour, who shares his delight in these ridiculous looking cars, and they have been playing Niva bingo during our long truck rides. Both Richard and Christine thought that they had died and gone to heaven when a Lada Niva rumbled up for the goat polo match at Song Kol Lake. All of a sudden, they had contributed $2 each for petrol, and were inside the Lada being driven off into the distance towards the mountains. All I could see in the blaze of dirt was a Lada bouncing through potholes with a door periodically flying open and two people screaming and laughing in hysterics due to the absence of seatbelts. Fortunately they returned safely, and I am not sure if anything else on our trip will be able to surpass this experience in Richard's eyes. 

After two more nights in homestays - one which included watching the World Cup Final at 1:00am on a fuzzy old fashioned television set - and a few more nights camping with spectacuular lake and mountain views, we finally reached the Kyrgyzstan-Uzbekistan border and crossed without too much fuss. 

Goodbye to the beautiful natural landscapes of Kyrgyzstan.... and hello to the assault of culture, mosques and world heritage sites of Uzbekistan!

Kyrgyzstan is difficult to spell!

Richard writes:

The calmness of Almaty behind us, ahead lies Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan and the start of a month long tour through Central Asia. In what had seemed a really good idea, we had arranged to get the train from Almaty to Bishkek, despite it taking 15 hours to travel only 200km. The train left at 4:44 am and we slept as soon as making our beds on the train, after battling to stay awake at Almaty station waiting for the train to arrive. The next thing we knew it was midday, and the train was almost empty, all of our fellow passengers had departed whilst we slept. We passed the time by drinking some Kazakhstan Cola, that we had purchased at a station near the border to get rid of our remaining Kazakh Tenge coins. The semi empty train, chugged to the border and without fuss we departed Kazakhstan. 

My expectations of the people of Kyrgyzstan were of a laid back and relaxed demeanour. I fully expected this to be reflected by their border officials. This was shot to pieces as a stern faced guard asked to look in our bags, whilst I was asked to get off the train, taking both Casey's and my passports with me, and walk to a room half way down the train platform. This made me feel a little nervous. I wasn't happy about having to enter what looked like an interrogation room, and I wasn't happy leaving Casey on her own having to deal with the bag searches of both our bags. I waited for what seemed like an eternity in a very hot room that was baking in the afternoon sun, before three guards arrived, one holding what looked like a very impressive velvet bag. I watched with anticipation as one of the guards caressed the bag. He slowly, but purposefully undid the knot securing it. As it opened, he pulled out the stamp! I afforded myself a smile that the stamp was given such a special home. With aplomb, he opened our passports and firmly pushed the stamp downwards. With a smile he handed our passports back and I rushed back to our train carriage to check Casey's bag search had all gone ok (which it had) and we waited for the short journey to Bishkek to begin.

We had read plenty about the dangers of Bishkek before our arrival. Basically the advice was to take extreme care after dark and to take even more care when dealing with the police. It seems that pickpockets, muggers and corrupt police officers are in abundance in the city. I was probably most fearful of the police, whom apparently are not above demanding fees for returning passports or stealing possessions when undertaking bag searches. With this information, we felt ill at ease in our surroundings especially in the evenings. As such we never left far from our wonderful Soviet themed hostel in the evenings, and ate every night at the same restaurant, which conveniently showed World Cup games and served up delicious food. The staff also spoke some English and went out of their way to help.

The city itself is leafy and green, but at the same time not particularly attractive. It has some impressive if not beautiful buildings and looks like it could do with a bit of a facelift. We all the same, had a very enjoyable few days walking around the city, enjoying its sights, shopping at the Osh Bazaar on the edge of the city centre and riding on yet another roller coaster.

Our main reason for being in Bishkek, was to begin our Central Asian tour. For 30 days, we, with around 15 others will travel through Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. As we were leaving our hostel to attend the meeting that would begin our tour we bumped into a Canadian girl (Sarah) who was also staying at our hostel and on our Central Asian trip. We chatted and shared a taxi to the hotel on the other side of the city. I think we, and Sarah, were relieved to have met someone pleasant and normal, so we would at least have somebody to talk to if everybody else turned out to be irritating! Initial impressions of the rest of the group, which were mostly Brits, Australians and Canadians were positive however, so hopefully that continues in the month ahead!

So far in our trip we have some absolutely beautiful sights. Unlike our trip to Bishkek, we have been able to view the beauty of the Kyrgyzstan countryside, which is dominated by mountains, including a huge range that includes several peaks over 7000m. We have been to Ala Arch gorge, where we went on a short trek before an evening of camping and the next night camped at the beautiful Chong Kemin valley. The camping and scenery has been fantastic, but I think both Casey and I are enjoying our stay at a hotel in Karakol, south of Issyk-Kol before some more camping in the south of the country. We have some fantastic experiences that lie ahead in the next week, and I look forward to seeing how Casey covers these in her next blog!

Ala Arch Gorge

Chong Kemin Valley

Lake Issuk-Kol and surrounding mountains 

Karakol

Almaty Part 2 - Let Me Tell You A Story

Casey writes:

Have you heard the story about the two tourists, the dumb driver, the arrogant husband, and the most ridiculously self-obsessed ignorant woman in the world?

Well sit back and let me tell you...

My mind still boggles as I try to comprehend the events that took place yesterday, the day we booked a private tour from Almaty to the Tamgaly Petroglyphs. Upon paying a significant booking fee last week to a tour company, we were promised excellent service for our day trip to this World Heritage Listed site. We were promised that we would leave Almaty at 9:00am and arrive back at our hostel at 5:00pm, giving us two hours to prepare and make our way to the Opera Theatre for which we had previously purchased tickets. We were promised a competent English speaking guide. And we were promised a reliable car and driver for the 2.5 hour journey each way.

Nope, we got none of this.

Ok, yes it was a hot day. A forecast of 47 degrees according to our guide. So when the car overheated one hour into our journey, we groaned, but accepted the frustrations of travelling in Kazakhstan in the middle of summer. Now, I've owned a car for 14 years. I know how to read a temperature gauge, and I know that the only solution once the engine overheats, is to wait for it to cool down, to add coolant, or similar passive strategy. But not our driver. He believed that the more aggressively he forced the ignition and the more he revved the living daylights out of the accelerator, the more likely it would be that the car would suddenly leap into action. The horrific noises - akin to a dying camel - coming from the engine intensified, but this seemed to motivate him even more in his key turning and foot pumping frenzy. Politely, Richard and I exchanged glances, but said nothing. Afterall, we were the guests at the mercy of these so called professionals.

After two similar instances of overheating, adding thirty minutes to our hot 2.5 hour drive, we finally arrived at the Petroglyphs at midday. The sun was scorching, and after a three hour drive without air conditioning, we were relieved to step out into the fresh air. There was a wind blowing, but it reminded me more of a hairdryer on its highest setting rather than anything that could provide relief.

Enter self-obsessed English speaking guide:

Lyubov was a middle aged woman, who spoke English reasonably well, but lacked the crucial other skills required of a guide. Listening, for example. She couldn't do it. She wasn't interested in our questions, she wasn't interested in our opinions, and she didn't give us time to finish asking before talking over the top of us, usually on a completely different tangent. She was incredibly irritating and we conceded that we were in for a long day. In addition, her knowledge of her home city was limited to,:

'Almaty has big mountains; they are cold.'
'Almaty is a big city; it is hot.'

Ok, I knew this already, thank you Lyubov.

The rest of her ramblings involved herself. We heard about her life, her husband (who had come along for a free day out at the expense of the two paying tourists), her invalid son, her lazy son, her hard working daughter, her holiday house, her physical ailments, her disdain for hot weather, and the rest.

Please let me side step for a moment. Despite Lyubov's non-sensical mutterings and the driver's incompetence, the Petroglyphs themselves were brilliant. Here we were, in an arid canyon near Karabastau village but a million miles from anywhere else, seeing for ourselves these ancient carvings into rock faces: over 4000 pictures of animals, hunting scenes, tribal warriors, sun-headed gods, rituals and more. Some of these pictures dated back to the 13th century BC, the Bronze Age. They were created by the nomadic tribes at the time.  We were thoroughly impressed and amazed at how well they had been preserved. Walking around for two hours in the 47 degree heat was tough, and we shielded ourselves from the sun with umbrellas. The local man who showed us around was very sweet, and despite speaking no English, his passion for helping to preserve the ancient site was obvious.

Back to the story. 

Enter arrogant husband:

I don't know his name but it's no loss. His part in this story is limited to two main things:

1. Always being miles away from the car each time the driver managed to finally get the engine to kick over. So time and time again, by the time he meandered back to his seat, the idling car had again conked out. This was funny once. Actually no, it wasn't even funny the first time, it was too hot to find any humour in it. By the twelfth time I wanted to clobber him.

2. Trying to sweep a poisonous scorpion towards Richard and me. Now, if this was a harmless little beetle, I'd feign interest and play along with the game, but when only minutes earlier we had passed a warning sign, and with no first aid equipment, I thought his actions were incredibly stupid. Scorpions can run fast and I didn't want it running up my leg. Here is the sign:

ATTENTION
BE CAREFUL, POISONOUS INSECTS AND SNAKES, SUCH AS TARANTULA, BLACK WIDOW, SCORPION, STEPPE VIPER AND COPPERHEAD SNAKE LIVE ON THE TERRITORY OF THE SITE OF TAMGALY. MITES INHABIT BUSHES AND GRASSES, THE MOST DANGEROUS THEY ARE IN SPRING AND SUMMER BEGINNING.

I also wished that I had seen this sign before Lyubov had encouraged me to go to the toilet in the thigh high wild grass on the side of the road during one of our car breakdowns. Fortunately, I emerged unscathed.

At 2:00pm, after accepting and pretending to drink the filmy water presented to us from a dirty carton that may have once been a petrol container, Richard and I got in the car, preparing for the three hour drive home that would see us arrive back at our hostel in perfect time.

But no, we were told it was lunchtime. Fine, we'd live with this, but at 2:30pm, we made noises that it was definitely time to get going. Our guide was fully aware of our evening opera commitment and she had mentioned it a few times previously, so we settled back in the hot car, gasping for cool air, but content that all was on track.

Ahhh, but no. After one hour of driving.... kaput. One overheated engine. And one driver, who was unable to apply previous learning to the current situation, insisted on revving and thrashing the engine until it couldn't even utter a gasp. This time, the look exchanged between Richard and I was one of bewilderment.

'Is he really that stupid?' (whispered)
'Yep.' (head in hands)

I've taught funded students who have shown better critical thinking and processing skills.

An hour and a half later, at the exact time that we were supposed to be back at the hostel, we were stranded somewhere in the middle of the desolate Kazakhstan steppe, choking on the dust, swatting away the wasps and quickly running out of water.

We carried on for another forty minutes of engine-chugging, with Richard and I hanging on to the hope that at the rate we were going, we would have to be dropped directly at the Opera Theatre for the 7:00pm performance. We weren't sure if they'd let us in wearing dusty shorts and t-shirts and smelling of sunscreen and sweat, but it was our only option at that point. We conjoured up images of ladies in sequinned outfits and dressed up to the nines, shrieking in horror at the slovenly and uncouth foreigners in the seats next to them, as we tried to make light of the situation.

But the car finally gave up. Dead. Plenty more dilly-dallying ensued before the driver finally hailed down a passing motorist and sent Richard, me, Lyubov and her husband off with this random stranger. This was at 6:30pm, with 55 kilometres still to travel to Almaty, and our hopes of the opera now depending on the heaviness of the traffic. But oh, dear goodness, this new car had air conditioning! Life was good.

At 6:45pm, Lyubov asked me if I was ok. In a calm voice I explained that I was very disappointed that we were running so late for the opera, as we had paid a significant amount for the tickets and didn't want them to be wasted. She nodded and seemed to understand. But five minutes later, she called to our new driver to pull over to the side of the road. She and her husband had spotted an old village woman sitting under an umbrella, selling cherries out of a box. And they simply could not miss this opportunity for such a bargain. So there we sat on the side of the road, Richard and I like stunned mullets, watching the minutes tick over, and waiting while Lyubov and hubby tested the cherries, bartered the price, had a good old chat with the woman, and then slowly loaded the crate of 'bargain' goodness into the boot. They didn't appear to have even an inkling of an idea of why this might be a problem.

At 7:00pm, as I was imagining the curtain rising for the first scene, I asked Lyubov how far we still had to go. 

'Twenty minutes', she replied.

Well, we could live with that. We would miss twenty minutes of opera, but we'd still see the bulk of it. No point stressing about it, we thought. Richard especially was optimistic, with the following rationale floating around in his head: 'Casey would still get to see some opera. But Richard won't have to sit through all three hours of it.' A win-win situation in his eyes!

As we drove into the outskirts of Almaty, we could tell that we were heading in the wrong direction to our hostel. We seemed to drive past our area of the city, and into the far south. Eventually, the car stopped and Lyubov's husband got out. Apparently he was more important than us, and warranted a direct taxi service to his home, at the expense of us. Now very angry, I confronted Lyubov and demanded an explanation. She admitted it was still another twenty minutes of driving back to our hostel, across to the other side of the city. She got another mouthful from me, as I ranted about the expectations of paying customers on a private tour.

We pulled up at our hostel at 7:45pm. Lyubov, bless her, had the audacity to make the following comment:

'Oh, you are only five minutes late'.

What on earth! Now I was convinced she was delusional.

She got a final onslaught of choice words from me before I slammed the car door.

Richard and I threw on some half-decent clothes, and ran to the Opera Theatre, which was ten minutes away. We thought that if we could get there before interval ended, we may still be permitted entry.

We arrived, and the theatre was eerily quiet. Confused, we entered the foyer, noticing all the lights were turned off, and the doors to the auditorium were locked. 

Could things possibly get any worse?

We approached the lady in the ticket office (the same non-English speaking one who sold us the tickets in the first place). Without a word, she simply took our tickets and passed us a refund for the entire cost. Unable to communicate our questions, we walked outside, utterly bewildered. Then we saw the blank white backdrop where the advertisement for this 'night of nights' used to be, and it dawned on us... the performance had been cancelled!

So there were were, hot, out of breath, sweating, but with 6,000 tenge in our hands. We burst out laughing. What a fitting way to end a crazy day. Disappointed that there would be no opera at all, we walked to Hardee's (Richard's preference to the opera in the first place) to drown our sorrows with burgers, chips and post-mix pepsi.

After a hot night's sleep, tossing and turning in the stuffy hostel room, the next day we headed straight to the tour agency who had sold us the day tour. Max, the consultant we had dealt with, was a lovely sweet man, and we knew our bad experience wasn't his fault, but we felt he needed to know, and we planned to asked for a partial refund of our money.

With my previous history of filing complaints with vigour, Richard opted to sit outside on the steps instead of accompanying me in to see Max. I can't think why he didn't want to watch the performance. But, there was no performance. I didn't need to ask for a refund. Max was horrified at what I told him as soon as I started speaking. He was so apologetic, announcing that he would never employ the driver or guide through his agency again. He was mortified about the car issues, shocked Lyubov's behaviour, as well as her husband's free-riding at our expense. He jumped on to the phone immediately to report the issue. Without me uttering another word, he had refunded us 12,000 tenge, and was visibly devastated that this experience might have blighted our impression of Kazakhstan as a whole. We assured him that this wasn't the case, and we were incredibly grateful that he had acted in our interests so quickly.

So, with an extra 6,000 tenge from the opera, 12,000 from Max, and 2,000 that we had refrained from handing over in tips to the driver and guide, we suddenly realised our financial situation was a whole lot better than it appeared 24 hours ago!

We can laugh about it now, but at the time, we just wanted to hit our heads against a brick wall. Actually, I wanted to hit Lyubov's head against a brick wall, but I wasn't sure of Kazakhstan's law against such behaviour. So I refrained.

There are some lovely, caring, intelligent people in this world. Unfortunately, Lyubov and associates fit into another category altogether.

Thank goodness the Petroglyphs were so amazing! Despite so many things going wrong, we still have fantastic memories of our day in the Kazakhstan steppe.

We now say farewell to Kazakhstan as we bide our time before our train departs Almaty for Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Today we visited the famous Medeu Ice Rink, and given that it's summer, we whizzed around the rink on a tricycle instead of ice skates, admiring the blur of mountains that rushed by. Now, I am typing this blog post sitting in a 24 hour cafeteria near our hostel, it's almost midnight, and I am wondering how we will pass the next four hours until our train leaves at 4:44am. People watching has proven entertaining so far...

Kazakhstan: What a crazy, but lovable country! We'll be back one day. 



  

Desert, mosques, ships, more desert and the worst attempt at a mugging in history

Richard writes:

We were very excited about our trip to central and southern Kazakhstan. In Almaty we had arranged to leave our large backpacks at our hostel and only take a smaller bag for our five days away visiting the cities of Aralsk and Turkestan. We have settled into our nomadic lifestyle so much, that it now feels completely normal. As a result, the packing of smaller bags, felt like a holiday, a trip away from our "everyday life".

Casey has already covered the joys of Kazakh summer train travel, but suffice to say, the trains were ridiculously hot. The pressure was therefore on Aralsk and Turkestan to make up for the pain endured . . . They didn't disappoint.

Our Kazakh experience so far has been one of modern large cities that are not dramatically different to cities in Australia and the UK. So much so, we both agree Almaty is a city that we could easily live in. This familiarity was dealt a mortal blow as we ventured into provincial Kazakhstan, where it is clear that life is very different.

Central Kazakhstan is sandy, very sandy. There is desert everywhere. The only interruption to this monotony is the odd herds of horses and camels. After being collected from Aralsk train station by our arranged tour guide and eating breakfast at our homestay, we were driven into this sandy abyss. Our destination was the environmental disaster that is the Aral Sea. Up until the 1960s, this sea was an enormous expanse of water straddling the Kazakh and Uzbek border, with fishing sustaining the economies of the villages that surrounded it. It even flowed as far as the city of Aralsk where we were staying, but the drive to the shoreline is now several hours. The rivers that flowed into the Aral Sea were rerouted to support Soviet designed irrigation systems and it eventually subsided to almost nothing. In Kazakhstan, projects supported by the World Bank and local NGOs have built dams amongst other strategies to restore the sea, and there has been some success with the sea increasing in size, but it is still a fraction of its original size. Fishing is again a major part of the local economies with new freshwater fish species introduced as the size increases and its salinity decreases. Sadly in Uzbekistan, the Aral Sea is beyond help and has almost completely disappeared.

The subsiding of the Aral Sea has however created a bizarre spectacle, that both Casey and I were keen to see, thus motivationg the several thousand kilometre round trip to Aralsk. This spectacle is the ship graveyard in the desert. A drive over the former seabed from the village of Zhalanash took us to three rusting ships, surrounded by nothing more than sand and camels. It is a truly eerie sight, that is confusing to the senses. It makes for some spectacular photographs however. The ships were left, when the sea subsided. The hulks wedged in the sand and they have stayed put ever since. We were told there used to be twelve ships, but there are now only three. The other nine have been broken up by scrap metal scavengers, so we were pleased to see the ships we saw, before these fall victim to the same fate.

From here, we travelled onwards to the actual Aral Sea. An extremely bumpy drive of over an hour in what was now excruciating heat. The heat was not just causing ourselves distress. As we drove, I pointed out to Casey two goats chasing each other in the midday sun. They frolicked without a care in the world, until one, with no warning, just collapsed, and made no attempt to raise himself from the ground. The poor thing's heart had presumably given out, attempting such exertions in temperatures that must have been at least 40 degrees celsius. The look on the goat that had been being chased was hilarious, even if it pulled at the heart stings a little. A look of total confusion as to where his buddy and playmate was.

The perfect tonic to cool us down was a swim. We changed into bathers and gingerly approached the sea. The water was warm, but it provided some relief from the relentless heat. We didn't venture far from the shore, but we enjoyed the experience immensely.

Our evening involved a walk around the city of Aralsk. It didn't take long. The people were friendly, but there was very little to see. The receding of the Aral Sea has seen this city's size reduce, due to its economy being devastated by the decline in the fishing industry. The city is also blighted by vicious sand and salt storms that get blown in by strong winds. Life is simple, and people didn't seem to go without, but it was clear that this was a very different world to the big cities of Astana and Almaty.

We ate traditional Kazakh food in the evening at our homestay. This included plov (horse meat and vegetables in rice) and a soup dish with boiled peppers stuffed with rice and meat. Our entertainment revolved around the four children who lived at the house. The only English they knew was 'hello', but they never grew tired of saying the word repeatedly and waiting for us to say it back. Casey left me to entertain them whilst she showered, only to return from the shower to find them using our bed as a trampoline and practising their art skills on our white board.

The next morning we caught the train to Turkestan, where we were to arrive that evening. This train was exactly the same style as the trains we had caught previously that had been saunas, with one crucial difference; the windows in our booth didn't open. The reason for this, was completely deliberate and had something to do with the emergency stop alarm handles being situated in the booth. The extremities of temperature led us to developing some innovative coping strategies. We again used the wet towel strategy around our neck, but also had a constant flow of iced water and Coca-Cola on the go. If we kept our insides cold this seemed to keep us cool enough to at least survive. Every station the train stopped at, we leapt into action to replenish our stocks. Here are a few pictures of the train, to give an insight of the workings of Kazakh trains!

Train toilet

Cooling strategy

Corridor view

After our sauna of a train ride we eventually arrived in Turkestan in the early evening. The ancient capital of the Kazakh territory before becoming part of the USSR. Our guide Meruert met us at the station before driving us to our hotel. On the drive from the train station, we had observed that the city was quite rundown with very few modern looking amenities, but we were looking forward to having a look around, before our day tour the following day. Before this walk, we checked into the hotel to discover the heaven that was our hotel room . . . it had air conditioning. The cool air was bliss, and we decided that things were very much on the up. 

This optimism was to be destroyed only moments after leaving our hotel however. We walked towards the UNESCO world heritage listed Yasaui Mausoleum, which could almost be seen from our hotel entrance. Keen to get a better look, we braved the heat of the evening sun and followed a path in the general direction of Turkestan's main attraction. As we neared, a streetwise adolescent boy approached us, and spoke in Russian or Kazakh. We smiled and politely said we only spoke English. In the same way the children the night before did, he proceeded to repeat the only English word he seemed to know. Instead of this word being a giggly "hello" however, the word was "money". At this point neither of us were too concerned, we have both come across begging in our previous travels, if not on this trip, so we just said sorry and carried on walking. With no change in demeanour he stood in front of us and blocked our way, whilst continue to repeat "money . . . money . . . money". I was beginning to get irritated, but we both remained calm, until before we knew it the boy was diving for my zipped shorts' pocket. I am not quite sure what happened, but his attempt to extract my wallet, ended in an utter failure and he was left lying on the floor holding onto my leg, like his life depended upon it. The next second felt like an eternity, as the boy, lying on the ground, with his arms wrapped around my leg stared at me, and I stared back, neither of us knowing quite what to do next. I shook my leg, and he let go, without fuss. Somehow in the fracas, Casey managed to break a bracelet and rip some skin on her hand, but otherwise we were unscathed. Once he had let go, we hurriedly walked off. I struggled not to giggle as Casey used her strongest teacher voice to say "you leave us alone". It wasn't really the moment to laugh, but the surreal situation and Casey's classroom manner did make me smile.

We were relieved when we returned to the hotel grounds and reflected upon what had just happened, realising it could have been a lot worse. We weren't hurt, nothing was stolen, he didn't call his mates, he didn't have a weapon, etc. In truth it was an utterly pathetic attempt at a mugging, but it did shake us a little, and we have vowed to be a bit more careful as we probably had dropped our guard a little, as so far we have felt completely safe throughout the trip.

The evening was a delight. We watched the World Cup quarter final between Brazil and Chile whilst guzzling juice (we would have preferred beer, but it was Ramadan, so no beer could be served) and eating shashlik, before retiring to our air conditioned room.

The next day was brilliant and action packed. The tour was fantastic and the ever helpful and knowledgeable Meruert was on hand throughout. We visited the Ak Meshit (White Mosque) cave, a huge cave, eaten into the vast steppe. The temperature inside the cave was as cool as our air conditioned hotel room, despite the sweltering conditions outside. Later in the day we visited Otrar, a ruined village that Genghis Khan marauded through in the 13th century. Genghis savagely avenged the death of his merchant envoys in Otrar, by pouring molten silver into the eyes of the culprit; Otrar's governor. By the time we had reached Otrar, the heat was absolutely unbearable, but we with the help of our umbrellas for shade we enjoyed the visit to the ruins, especially as we had read so much about the site.

Ak Meshit Cave

Otrar

The two other main sites on our day tour were the mosques and mausoleums of Aristan-Bab (a descendant of Mohammed) and his pupil Kozha Akhmed Yasaui. The latter's is a beautiful site, that we had briefly seen the day before, only for our enjoyment to be cut short by the teenager with light fingers. Meruert works for the Yasaui mausoleum as a tour guide, and she knew everything there was to know. We saw the tomb, the mosque, the library and the burial site of the previous Khans of the region (all descendants of Genghis Khan).

Aristan-Bab Mausoleum

Yasuai Mausoleum

We saw some absolutely beautiful things in Turkestan, but I found the dusty, slightly menacing streets difficult to love. Our trip away from Almaty had been exhausting, but so worthwhile. Without spending the time to see small town Kazakhstan, we would have left the country with an extremely limited experience of just the main cities. One day, we would like to see more of this country, but with time limited, our thoughts turn to our next country; Kyrgyzstan, or at least they do after a few days in Almaty that we have to recover from this amazing experience in the heat of the Kazakh steppe.