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We knew how close we had come to Uzbekistan when every other taxi driver in the gauntlet at the station offered Tashkent as a destination. Once every single driver had made his pitch to us they gave us up to the marshrutka minivans that cost one tenth as much.
The 105 carried us through the bustling little town and dropped us a block from the Hotel Turist. Meeting the challenge of crossing the mad, honking traffic, and then a dusty parking lot with several small growling dogs, we met the friendly staff of this clean, cheap hotel in the lobby. Got a room on the fourth floor.
"Where is the lift?" I asked the man.
"This is Kazakhstan: no lift," he laughed.
A healthy nap took care of the leftover tiredness from the poor train sleep. Then we ate some lunch. And then napped some more. The street was a chorus of honking horns.
In the cooler evening we took a short stroll past bread shops and shashlyk joints and mobile phone vendors, and groups of police were starting to deploy at intersections and taxi drivers shouted destinations at us so we returned to the hotel and began a grand collaboration to bring our travel notes up to date. |
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A Monday holiday today. We rose early to meet our Swiss buddies as they got off their night train, escorting them back to our happy hotel. Unlike we had been, they were full of energy and so we four made a day trip to the nearby ancient village of Syram.
Two buses and a marshrutka got us to the village market, raw meat hanging on hooks and an old fashioned fizzy drink maker, fruits in piles and dresses on hooks, the usual public market stuff.
We strolled toward some mosques and even peeked inside one (is it allowed?) and walked around a cemetery. Andrea spotted a snake just after I had stepped over it. Might have needed a grave myself.
Nearby we lunched at low outdoor tables on pedestals, served bread wheels and noodles and watery beer called Kvass by giggly girls who wanted photos with us. It was all fun and laughs.
Up a side street Thomas poked into a house courtyard and was welcomed by the Muslim man of the house and even took photos of the wife and kids. Another man came down the street babbling. The first man flicked his neck, which means "that guy is drunk". We waved goodbye and headed up the street. The drunkard naturally followed us.
Unfortunately it was a dead end and the happy babbler caught up. He wanted to show us an old well, and sent the bucket down too fast and the handle spun out of socket and started smashing around. He cranked it back clumsily and got the rope wound all wrong on the axle. The water was full of debris and we refused it and started away.
But as we passed his home door he latched onto first Karen and then me with an iron grip. He seemed to just want to show us something quickly, so we gave in and went in the door. In the courtyard was a stack of adobe bricks that he proudly announced he had made himself. We had to photograph it. Then two young sons came out and one was made to fetch his award certificate and of course we had to photograph that, too.
Then there was a squawk, and an old woman hobbling toward us with a cane. She was furious! Giving our drunk a hearty chewing out, she pointed at the door and it was clear she meant for us to get out of her yard. We gladly obliged.
The drunk followed us up the road awhile but we did our best to ignore him and finally he was gone. We wondered about how the Muslim locals viewed public drunkenness, especially now during Ramadan.
Up the road we met some kids who had a smattering of English and asked where we could find the minaret described in the Lonely Planet. They took us back of their schoolhouse where stood the shortest minaret ever. We goofed with the kids on their playground bars and chatted with a few teachers standing in the courtyard. Tomorrow school would begin for the year.
A crowded hot marshrutka carried us back to a bus station in Shymkent full of friendly drivers waiting for their marshrutkas to fill with passengers. We hopped into number 24 which went right to our street. The Swiss picked up a watermelon from the stacks on sale, then went to buy vodka as Karen and I hurried to print a photo I had just taken of the watermelon man posing with the two foreign girls. He almost sniffled when he saw it, and handed each girl a free apple.
On our little balcony we cut a hole in the melon, drained excess juice into a cup, and filled the sucker up with as much vodka as it would hold. We went across the road for shashlyk dinners while it soaked. And so the booze melon was our desert, sliced into sweet dripping hunks that got the floor sticky. In the room next to the Swiss were noisy shirtless Kazakhs having their own vodka party. It was the end of a long weekend. |
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The drunks swung open their door in the middle of the night to allow all on the floor to hear their loud and serious deliberations. Shortly after that the skies were brightening and the first cars and trucks were hooting and my stomach was gurgling even louder. I visited the bathroom with a serious case of the runs.
Karen and I risked a quick trip across town to buy train tickets: my belly held. We tried to call this Ali Khan fellow but the number did not exist. With the Swiss we decided to just head down to his village and ask for him: surely he was well known.
The little kids of town were smartly dressed for the first day of school, the boys with little ties, the girls with giant bows of lace atop their heads. We saw many from the marshrutka to the bus station, before our minibus got into a "bus war" with a large bus that had cut him off, swerving and braking and nearly running cars off the road. It caused our engine to break down, the driver cursing at it as we jumped out to walk the rest of the way.
At the bus station the same friendly drivers were standing around waiting for their buses to fill up. One bus still had a sign reading "schoolbus" in German. The real Kazakh buses were classic old affairs with rows of little skylights. And in the middle of the lot was an ancient baby carriage with round loaves of nan for sale.
A marshrutka took us to Lenger through open range lands approaching tall peaks with patches of snow. At the small town's bus station we got a good pestering by taxi drivers who surrounded us in the hot sun, claiming to know Ali Khan, but strangely not knowing his phone number. We smelled bullshit, so started to walk down the street. A goat was eating a plastic bag from a garbage can. Things were not looking good.
An old man swerved his little Lada over to us. He seemed honest, though hard of hearing, so we asked loudly for the "national park". He said come on, and we stuffed packs and people into his tiny ride. Off we went toward the peaks.
Next to a government building he suddenly swung the car around and stopped under a statue. "Park!" he announced proudly. It was the city memorial park.
We tried to explain "national park" but got nowhere, so we thanked him and got out to sit on a shady bench and ponder what to do. The Swiss went off to ask around, and Karen chose a high-tech route: she texted a friend in Budapest, where it was early morning, and he phoned her back on Skype. Graeme was able to browse the Web for us, and it came to pass that Kazakh phone codes had recently changed from the ones printed in our guidebook.
So finally we got hold of the Eco Tour people in Almaty, who gave us Ali Khan's real number. He spoke only Russian but I was able to decode a phone number he told me. It was for an English speaker named Oscar who was, funny enough, back in Shymkent where we had just been. He got our location and sent Ali Khan to meet us.
Ali Khan was the consummate businessman. Dapperly dressed, he wasted no time describing all the trekking options. He was not pushy, did not try to cheat, and was polite. He put us into his car to go back to his home office.
We looked at camping gear that he had and decided it wasn't enough for two nights in the back country so we chose his homestay option. He lent us a photocopy of a map of the national park and his wife drove us out there.
Half an hour through scenic foothills of golden grass, horses out grazing among green birches, holding my camera out the window to shoot, we crossed a rickety low bridge across a bubbling stream at Kaskasu and bounced up a rocky road to a farm house. An older gentleman wearing Muslim cap introduced himself as Said Bek and his serious, moon faced wife sent the kids scurrying to the market for groceries. We dropped our packs in a room with four beds. The river could be heard nearby.
There was time before dinner to stroll around nearby fields in low angle sunlight. It was gorgeous. Distant horsemen wrangled cattle. Birds swept across spaces dotted with thistle. The mountains stood awaiting us.
We sat cross legged around a low table covered with plates of salad, bowls of fruit, piles of candy, and dinner was served, but Said Bek did not eat: he was observing Ramazan and could not even sip water until later. He did, however, crack open a bottle of vodka and pour shots for the guests. He displayed his only phrase of English: "All in one!" We threw back our shots.
The wife sat serious and quiet at the corner closest to the tiny kitchen, refilling teacups, hanging on to a cute little two year old that wanted to mess with Grandpa. Finally it was dark, and with a whispered "Allahu akbar" he tipped a bowl of tea slowly to his lips.
In bed later, the night was so quiet that you heard your own ears ringing. |
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The wife set out a big breakfast and we tucked in to everything except the bowls brimming with spicy tomato sauce. She also made us a lunch pack with boiled eggs, a drinking glass, and picnic blanket. We thanked her, and left the latter items behind.
Said Bek appeared riding a donkey so small that the large man's feet stuck in the stirrups nearly scraped the ground. He tapped the animal on the shoulder with a short stick. It bore him up the hillside and we followed, casting long shadows in the slanting morning sun.
He led us through a complicated network of dirt tracks and even put each one in turn on the donkey's back and led it across the stream. I kicked off shoes and waded the chilly water myself to save the beast a trip. We passed by a cave, and a bee keeper's boxes guarded by a yapping puppy. After an hour we reached the informal entrance post of Syram Ogyem National Park. No wonder the locals had never heard of it. Said Bek had to shout to get the attention of the ranger lounging in a nearby yurt. The man looked us over, thought for a moment, and decided that the official entrance fee was 500 Tenge per head (about three bucks). We got no receipt.
Said Bek wanted to guide us further, but we were keen to take a steep ridge up to the snow patches near 3000 meters, so we told him sorry, and that we'd be back home around five or six. We filled our water bottles from a branch of the stream, crossed it, and started energetically up the dry ridge. I spotted bear scat, large and full of seeds. Long legged Thomas was pulling quickly ahead. Eagles soared above, flowers glorified our well worn path, and the views out over the flatness of Kazakhstan grew finer by the minute.
In the heights we found swathes of rainbow colored grass and dirty patches of late season snow. We got into boulders and heard the whistle of a marmot. To the east were towering peaks of Kyrgyzstan and afternoon thunderheads rising above. Below in the wild valley we saw a herder's tent and up the far slope the barely moving specks of his herd.
I knew we were going to be a bit late when we didn't stop for lunch until we hit 3000 meters at 3 p.m. Everyone pulled out jackets against the chill of the heights and we made boiled egg sandwiches and chomped into tomatoes and cucumbers. Then Thomas suggested we return by way of the herder's valley: there would have to be a trail, it should be faster. My gut feeling was to say no, but for some reason I didn't follow it, and soon we were descending steeply into new territory.
What looks easy from far away always hides unexpected difficulties. We did expect a giant angry dog at the herder's tent and so gave a wide berth. There were in fact two dogs and one looked remarkably like a wolf. They were content to stay on their side of the stream and growl and bark. But the expected trail never appeared. Perhaps we should have realized that the herder comes up once a year to stay all summer, not using a trail at all. We found brief cow trails and cows, slogged through a marsh and crossed the creek again.
It was already time to be home and we had at least two more hours to walk. The valley was now in shadows. When we saw a faint trail ramping back up to the ridge we decided to return to known tread, though Thomas voted to stick to the creek. It was a wise choice: from above we could see that there was no trail by the creek, which in fact entered a zone of cliffs unseen from the top.
Back at the ridge we were able to descend steeply, rapidly, and with aching feet returned to our starting point. Now it was simply a road walk home. We laughed and chatted as we ambled homeward, past the bee keeper, past the cave, and past the stream crossing we needed to make.
Maybe half a mile later we recognized our error, and my gut said to go back, but again for some reason I listened to the other who said "there should be another way across up ahead". We turned off the road and started across a hillside. The sun was red at the horizon. We were going to be out after dark, not knowing the way, with a maze of farms and their guard dogs to cross.
I did have my GPS so at least we knew the right direction. We saw small bridges that crossed the stream into farm yards. I preferred to stay up high, in the light, curving around with the stream to the one bridge we knew from yesterday's arrival. Opinion was split and the group was about to break up, when someone said "There is a lady coming."
Out of nowhere, all alone, came a woman walking on the dark road behind us. We asked her in our simple Russian, "Where is Said Bek?" She motioned to follow. We were saved! She took a circuitous path, hopping the stream, along a fence, through a dark orchard, right on a dirt road. The GPS said we were dead on course. With just 200 meters to go, she pointed to a house and said, "Home." She was Said Bek's neighbor!
Poor old Said Bek was standing in the dark at his own gate, looking very concerned. The woman explained where she had found us, I guess. Said Bek indicated to us that he had been out searching all around. We tried to explain, to apologize, but it was too difficult with the little language we shared.
The serious wife served up a big dinner and we wolfed it. We had climbed 1700 meters today, descended the same, and had reached a point 10km distant - straight line - from home. That may be as big a day as I have ever hiked in my life. Said Bek cracked another bottle of vodka and we drank it all by shots and dazedly watched a martial arts movie from the 70's and soon fell like dead logs into our beds. |
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I slept poorly on my thin mat on the floor and my throbbing full bladder woke me before sunrise and I knew I was going to be sick, or at least have the runs, so I hoppled on painful legs out under the morning star to the outhouse to squat in the dark and see what I got.
Back to bed and felt a chill even under the thick comforter. I had a low fever. I stayed in bed as I heard the others rise for breakfast. I wanted to sleep forever. My aching thighs made it painful to roll over. I stayed in bed most of the day.
But I was just the first to fall. Thomas came down with the bug at lunchtime. Karen and Andrea somehow held out long enough to do laundry in a bucket and hang it between apple trees, and then go for a hot banya (sauna) that ended with a dunk in the frigid stream. But eventually we were all lying in bed and the host family wondered what was going on.
As I was first to fall, I was also first, in the evening, to resurrect. I sat quietly in the yard with Said Bek who trimmed berries from their branches into a silver bowl. We watched Karen run to the outhouse every ten minutes. I saw the wife dipping water for cooking from a trickle that came through innumerable cow fields above. A prime suspect for our malady. Thomas now was hurting the worst. I had not eaten all day and suddenly my appetite came back.
So it turned out that only Andrea and me sat down for dinner. We passed up the fresh salad and the home made salsa. But I wolfed a bowl of chicken soup and also the one meant for Karen. No vodka tonight. It was a wasted day. Everyone was in bed before Said Bek broke his fast after sunset. |
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The thighs were still burning this morning, making me hobble like a grandpa down the path to the outhouse. But I needed to stretch the legs so joined the girls for a stroll around the village with Said Bek. Thomas remained in bed.
We passed the vicious dog on a short chain next to the banya, passed a small tin roof mosque, and turned around at the big new schoolhouse. Up the road some older men with Muslim caps were in animated discussion. In a field Said Bek spotted a colorful stone, polished with his thumb, and handed it to me.
We paid the neighbors a visit. Twins played in the immaculate courtyard and a woman tended a big boiling soup pot. Then the dad came riding in on horseback and the kids ran to him. Clothes fluttered on a line above chickens scratching the dust.
A final uncomfortable lunch, avoiding anything uncooked, under the gaze of the quiet nonparticipating family. When the phone rang at 2pm it was a relief to know our pickup was on the way. Ali Khan himself arrived and immediately handed out questionaires and tallied up our bill, all business as before. What could we write? We adored the family and their country life, but it had not been a smooth encounter.
Ali Khan drove fast back to Shymkent and at the Hotel Turist we put poor Thomas right to bed. There was just enough time for a bit of internet work before Karen and I had to leave our Swiss friends and hurry to the train station (our acquired savvy told us we could ride marshrutka 145 instead of slow bus 5). The traffic was heavy on this normal workday, but we just made it.
Relaxing on the train back to Almaty we chatted with a woman lawyer from Astana who had been to visit her grandma in Shymkent and was returning loaded down with fruit and berries. We searched the train for a restaurant car but had to settle for cold dumplings bought at the door during a brief stop where women were pushing buckets full of apples at passengers who stood on the platform for a quick smoke.
We had struck on our new favorite seating: one bottom bunk where we could both sit together and also the top bunk above it as a "refuge spot". The train moved off in the sunset and the almost full moon was just coming up and the track meandered so much that by turns the sunset lit our window and a few minutes later the ghostly moon stared in. |
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What a change: Almaty had gone from summer heat to a cold and rainy place in the few days we were away. New snow whitened the rugged mountain backdrop. Talant came to meet us at the station.
It was time to buy onward tickets and we quickly hit problems. There were already no tickets available for our final leg from the Aral Sea to the west side of Kazakhstan. We were going to have to wing it. Maybe take a bus? Hitchhike? And only a second class daytime train available for the leg before that, from Turkestan to Aral Sea. We snapped it up. This process would have been a nightmare for us without Talant's help: as it was it took an hour.
And then a young man said he recognized me. It was the Frenchman riding a motorbike across Asia whom we had met in Urumqi. Now he had time issues and needed to ship his bike to Astana. Talant came to the rescue again. We visited the shipping dock, where tough baggage handlers asked four hundred Tenge to lift the bike, and the slimy overseer offered to "overlook" the excess weight of the bike for three thousand. Fred the Frenchman decided to check online for other options.
We had a look at his hotel near the station. The rooms were OK but it sat on a busy highway so we passed. We took him to Coffeedelia for a nice cup of joe and wifi for his laptop. We left him there puzzling over whether Aktau really did have a brand new Azerbaijani consulate.
Karen knew of another hotel near our good old Dormitory and it did look decent but then Talant gave us a better offer: to crash at his place. So in a few minutes we were getting our first showers since the mountain climb, and a shot of Kyrgyz cognac to boot. I helped him put new strings on his guitar.
Talant ran us around to buy tickets for a tour of Charyn Canyon tomorrow. What a difference having a car makes in big street Almaty! We also checked out a classy apartment his parents have up for rent overlooking a park, complete with antique hand made carpet and digital TV that we couldn't figure out.
Karen and I walked to a stretch of department stores, finally picking up a pack of postcards and a souvenir fridge magnet. We made a long search for a supermarket where I got hassled by security for walking back out the "IN" gate (I had just walked in) rather than out the five deep checkout line. I texted Talant to come meet us. Karen did the shopping. We saw the security man puking next to the road. Guess that's why he was so grumpy.
Next to Talant's place we ate doner kebabs in a 24hr joint and discussed the drinking and eating taboos of Muslims here and in other countries (Karen told about Libya) in ordinary times and during Ramadan. Heading up to his apartment he decided to go out with friends but we were tired and stayed home like old fogeys on this Saturday night in the big city. |