Finally got to see Kazakhstan beyond the big city.
Did you know there are two four o’clocks in one day? Well, there are. And today we are up at the first one, ready to go on a mamouth sixteen hour, six hundred mile round trip. That’s the equivalent of driving from Cardiff to Newcastle and back in one day. It’s not something we would contemplate in the UK, but Kazakhstan is such a vast country, that’s just up the road for people here.
We had been contemplating this trip for months without making our minds up. There was no consensus as to whether we should do it over two days, one day, or not do it at all. In the end we cut the team in two. Posh and Becks stayed in Almaty, Megan and I hit the road. This trip was the one thing I really wanted to do when planning the trip. And it’s a ridiculously cheap £44 each. Including lunch.
We drag ourselves up to the pick-up point ready for a 5:30 pick-up. We are the second group to be picked up so have pick of seats. We grab three seats for comfort and hope the bus is not full.
Next stop after ours, a guy with a Wales Away shirt gets on. We greet him with “Shwmae But”. He smiles as he climbs aboard. We learn that his name is Russell and is originally from Swansea. Therefore, he shall forever be referred to as Jack Russell. Well, in this blog anyway.
The sixteen-seater Mercedes Sprinter fills up with a wide selection of nationalities: French, Malaysian, Spanish and … to be honest, I had lost track by the time the microphone got halfway to the back.
The bus is ultra modern, luxurious and air-conditioned. But surprisingly, not very comfortable for people with a fuller figure. Initially I had a young lady sit next to me in the third seat, but after our first stop she moved to the back. She didn’t say “I’m not sitting next to that fat bastard” out loud. But I heard her saying it inside.
Ellie, our Kazakh guide, gives us a potted history of Kazakhstan and the city of Almaty. The second tour guide of the week to do so (and won’t be the last). Each have their own take on past events, and indeed current affairs. But most of them tie in with what I had read in advance and what I have skimmed through in the previous seven blogs of this trip.
Apparently ‘stan’ means ‘country’ or ‘land’ and Kazakh means ‘free people’. Therefore, we are in ‘The Land of the Free People’.
Our driver is typical of all drivers we have encountered so far. Not much of a stickler for the rules of the road – if there are any here – but it doesn’t really matter, because neither is anyone else. Therefore, people sort of just get on with it and don’t get upset when someone cuts them up. Well, not very upset.
The driving in this city is like any other city. A shed load of cars ripping about on their own individual mission and their own reason to be clogging up the roads. Once out of the city there are wide roads that disappear into the distance on the vast steppes, or twist and turn in chicanes trying to struggle up huge mountains. The traffic is significantly sparser than in the city, which means when you do come across another car you have to take the opportunity to cut them up. At least that’s how our driver appeared to approach things.
We marvel at large flocks of sheep, herds of cows and horses, or packs of wild dogs that wander into the road and disrupt our journey. I’m not sure why. It’s no different to driving across Gelligaer Common (other Commons are available) but somehow it feels more exotic.
Along our journey we see horses on trailers. I don’t mean horsebox type trailers. Just trailers. I saw two horses on the back of a pick-up truck. There’s the usual heavily overloaded vans with about two lorry loads of hay on the back, and the blades of a wind turbine so huge it has one lorry pulling it and another lorry pushing it.
After two hours we arrive at out first stop of the day. A service station. We pile off, argue with little old ladies about whether or not we are going to pay to use the toilet, and grab unhealthy snacks from the shop.
Then on to the next stop. Another two hours away.
It’s a delicate balance. We all need liquids to sustain life. But at my age, those liquids need to be drained off at regular intervals. When you’re on a bus with no toilet you have to decide if you prefer being parched, or pissing yourself.
Eventually we arrive at a stop that isn’t just a toilet break. We are now in Charyn Canyon National Park. First stop is Valley of the Castles.. It’s the second largest canyon in the world, The Grand Canyon being the largest. Americans have always got to go large, haven’t they?
Before we get out of the bus Ellie suggests hats to protect our heads from the sun and coats to protect us from the cold. As I climb out of the bus I immediately notice it is windy. Very windy. I decide to give the hat a miss. As for the cold, it’s 19c. That’s cold if you are used to 34c, but if you live in the valleys it’s positively tropical.
We walk down to the canyon and admire the view, whilst trying to avoid being blown into the view. The canyon is just shy of 100 miles long. It is magnificent and I’d love to spend an entire day wandering with my camera and clocking up the steps. Unfortunately, we only have an hour, so don’t get to soak up the full majesty of this natural wonder. It’s not long before Jack Russell is scurrying down into the canyon to retrieve his Wales hat that had been blown off by the wind.
I look down into the abyss and spot what I assume to be a film crew. Making a music video maybe? A scene from a movie? No doubt it is cheaper than filming in the Grand Canyon. And smaller.
Some of the gang walked off into the distance to see more of the canyon. With it all being downhill, meaning it will be uphill coming back, Megan and I factor in that we are not as nimble as the young guns on our bus and will take longer to come back up. So we don’t go down very far. We go back to the visitor centre to buy a fridge magnet.
There are five canyons in the park. Over the next hour, we visit two more. One of them is called ‘The Black Canyon’, because the rock is black – but not very black if I’m honest. Apparently witches have been known to chuck people in the canyon. I can’t remember what the other one was called.
We see the first of what turns out to be a thing around these parts. People hiring out traditional costumes so you can pose with a big fuck off eagle on your arm and have a picture taken. What’s more, you stand on a podium while a ‘selfie stick’ type arm rotates around you, providing 360 degree video. It’s a novel idea, but i can’t help thinking, “there’s an amazing canyon by there. And you’re not paying any attention to it”. We all like a selfie now and again, but there has to be a balance.
The eagles are well trained and behave themselves, even though they would no doubt prefer to be floating on the thermals high above, waiting to swoop down and kill their next meal.
Hunting with eagles is a centuries-old nomadic tradition in Kazakhstan and other Eurasian steppes, practiced by expert hunters called Berkutchi. This practice involves horseback hunting with golden eagles to catch small to medium-sized prey like rabbits, foxes, and even wolves, primarily for their fur, which is used in traditional clothing. Today the tradition it kept alive by a dwindling number of experts.
The birds are taken in almost as soon as they have hatched and have an incredibly close relationship with their hunter. Trust is built over many years.
I go for a wander along the top of the canyon, take some photographs, but take time to soak up the atmosphere.
At the next canyon, I spot something we haven’t seen all day: safety fences along the top of the canyon. And to demonstrate their commitment to safety, there’s a huge fuck off swing so you can swing out over the canyon. Megan gave a resounding “NOPE!” & hot-footed it away.
Soon our canyoning is over and we are whisked away to a local guest house for lunch.
We have to take off our shoes, put on slippers and wash our hands. Kazakhs traditionally eat with their hands. When we enter the dining room we are greeted with a veritable banquet. The table is filled with local delicacies. Some magnificent (like the dumpling/donut crossover thing), some less so (like the dried cheese that has been treated so it can last for many months without modern storage facilities). I put some in my mouth and almost crack my tooth. The fermented horse milk has similar origins. It was a way of keeping it, erm, fresh, when you dont have a fridge in your yurt.
The carnivores are served a meal of rice, vegetables and beef. Us vegeterraneans get rice and vegetables, with a spicy lentil soup to start.
Horse is widely eaten throughout the country but they are aware of western sensitivity on the subject. None is served today.
If you’re an ancient nomad, you have a horse. When all other food runs out, you eat your horse. It’s as simple as that. There aren’t many nomads around these days but the tradition has stuck.
Apparently it is considered a great insult to leave food. Don’t put it on your plate if you’re not going to eat it. I made a point of eating everything. In fairness, I always do.
We leave the table having eaten our fill but it’s barely made a dent in the groaning table.
Next up, lakes.
First stop is Kolsai Lake. Or at least one of them. There are three. One is in Kurgistan, so we ain’t going there. The other is, well, I can’t remember why we can’t go there, but we can go to the middle one. It sits in the bottom of a valley. The car park is at the top. You can walk down to it, and there’s a man made walkway around it. I opt to walk half way down, take some photos, and walk back up. Again it’s frustrating that we only get an hour, I could spend all day here. But I knew if I went all the way down I wouldn’t make it back up the hill in time for us to leave.
Megan and I are first to return to the bus. Then wait for ages for people that walked all the way down and couldn’t get back in time.
Next… ahem.
*I’m going to make a coffee. The next bit is mental.
Next is Kaindy lake. To be honest, this was the main reason I wanted to do this tour.
The 400m lake was formed in 1911 when the earthquake that wiped out Almaty also brought big chunks of mountain down, creating a natural dam, flooding a spruce forest. The water is glacial, crystal clear and never exceeds 6c. As a result, whilst the trees in the lake have died, the trunks never rot. They are like a magical underwater forest.
This was enough to have me sold. But there’s nothing in the brochure about how we get there.
We decant from the immaculate new Merc into a fifty-year-old Soviet school bus. It’s about as basic as you can get. Except for the fuck off sound system.
Rough, dirt and track are three words to describe the route to the lake. Hairy, boneshaking and mental are three others. Our ‘driver’ is a Kazakh version of Colin McRae. He puts pedal to the metal and launches this ancient heap of yellow metal down the track at what was probably only 40mph, but felt like 80mph. We bounce and bump along the track with what I assume is Russian techno music pelting out of the speakers.
He overtakes loads of pretty hard-core looking off road 4x4s, presumably driven by people who want to use their vehicle again. We splash through three fords as if they weren’t there.
My bowels are given a serious shaking.
Eventually we fall out of the bus, with several less teeth than we got in with. I try to sort my bowels out but there’s only a squat and twerk toilet with no handles to hold onto. Only once have I ever been so desperate as to use one, when I had diarrhea in China, and it’s not an experience I want to repeat.
But we are still not at the lake. We now have to fight over seats in a 4×4 Soviet minibus, which takes us another mile or so up an even more challenging road. More technosky is pumped.
And then… we are still not there. We have to descend on foot what is probably the equivalent of walking down Penyfan.
I’m determined to see this bloody lake. I’ve travelled 300 miles, so it seems silly to not go the whole way. But I do wonder if I will make it back up alive. I also wonder if I’ll shit myself following that ride.
But when I get to the bottom, my little heart skips a beat. It’s not a heart attack, it’s the sight of the most amazing magical lake. It’s like something out of a fucking fairytale, to quote Ralph Fiennes.
The water is emerald green and the trees rise majestically out of it, like scores of ladies of the lake thrusting excaliburs towards the sky. I can imagine elves hanging around there, oblivious to what is going on in Mordor.
I can imagine what it might look like if there weren’t dudes with eagles charging people for 360 degree selfies. But there are.
I ponder briefly on Susan Sontag’s philosophical book, ‘On Photography’ and the desire to document everything. And that was written long before digital cameras.
Now I’m not taking a moral highground here, I rarely leave home without my trusty Nikon, but I like to capture the spirit of the location, rather than what I look like in the location. I may be doing a disservice to the people around me, but some of them take no time to appreciate their surroundings.
I try to find an isolated spot to contemplate. I’d gladly wander around this lake for days on end, catching the changing light as the sun rises and falls, or even the changing seasons. I’ve seen some amazing winter photographs of this astonishing place.
Then I look at my watch and realise I need to head back. Two breathers on a bench, three heart attacks and a bucket full of sweat later I’m back in the queue for the Russian minibus.
Minibus is not the only option for the last leg. Gluttons for punishment can walk, or the adventurous can ride a horse up. Sadly, the horses are not in great condition. Their ribs are evident. I think if I had got on one I might have broken its back.
The locals have kept the equestrian culture of nomads alive and well. I spot a young lad of about ten stood up on the back of a horse. After returning from a day of carrying tourists, a string of half a dozen horses head back to the pasture for the night. They are not led, they walk along silently doing what they have done many times before. It’s both impressive and sad. They are well trained, but what have they been through to become that conditioned?
The journey back to the main road wasn’t quite as boneshaking, but it really did give my poor bowels a hammering. Again.
Then it was back to our luxury minibus. We were sat in the row behind the driver. I could see him texting whilst overtaking cars that were already overtaking someone else, in a 60km zone, doing 120km. My bowels were being challenged again, but in a different way.
I thought my plight was over when we got to the services, but again, squat bogs.
We were advised the drive from Kaindy lake would take five hours. We were back in four. I think whoever WhatsApped our driver a photo of her legs had motivated him.
My bowels finally got some relief and we fell into a deep slumber.