The day after the match. Always a slow day.
We are lucky that, whilst not rich in cash, we are reasonably rich in time. I do understand why some people have to go home the day after the game, but we have always, whenever possible, factored in a day or two to recover. I can’t imagine flying for ten or fifteen hours to get home the day after the game.
We are still here for a few days so had the luxury of a lie in. We did get up for breakfast, but went back to bed. We looked out the window at the weather and decided to wait till it cooled down before we headed out.
We eventually left the hotel around 3 of the PMs. It was still hot, so we decided to make the short walk to Roast Beef and have a leisurely lunch in luxurious surroundings at Kazakhstan prices.
Just as we are leaving the restaurant, we get a message that the Bargoed Mafia have something we need to pick up from them, and are in Bocchinok, the pub where the pre-match fans party had been held.
We jump in a YandexGo. They really have been a game changer. There must be thousands of them about, we never have to wait more than five minutes. Our car arrives on time. However, it is now rush hour and like many car-centric cites, the roads are like a car park. It would have been quicker to walk but we are in an air-conditioned car and it is incredibly cheap. Less than £2. And the fee is decided in advance, rather than on a meter.
Eventually we arrive at Bochonok. It is by far the biggest pub we have seen for the whole trip. It is cavernous, soulless and depressing. Like a Kazakh Walkabout. Scattered around the room are shell-shocked Wales fans also having a slow day following the excitement of match day.
As I order our drinks at the bar I watch one of the Bargoed Mafia trying to pay his bill. I watch him slowly and surely explain what he wants to pay for, and watch a waiter with very little English write it down. Something is not quite right.
My suspicions are confirmed a few minutes later. He has just reordered what he has already had and a second meal and drinks soon arrive on his table.
We check to see if there is WiFi. Everyone has noticed a ‘North Wales Police Surveillance’ hot-spot showing and we all look around trying to work out who it is. I think it’s the guy speaking Welsh with a scouse accent, wearing dark glasses and whisperering into a secret microphone. I might be wrong.
After necking our drinks, accompanied by complimentary ‘beer snacks’ – grated salty fermented cheese – we head back out into the city.
We make the short walk to the Baiterek Tower. A 105m tall tower that resembles the World Cup trophy. It is apparently representative of Kazakhstan independence and was commissioned by that First President dude. It’s composed of a series of steel struts that rise up to support a bit spherical viewing platform. We hop in the lift and ride to the top.
We had planned two visits. One in the day, one in the dark, thus getting two interesting views across the city. Today was to be our night time visit.
Now it’s a basic scientific fact, known to any child, that if you are in a brightly lit room your view of the dark outside will be limited. What’s more, you will see a reflection of yourself in the window. All that money and a schoolboy error. The view is crap. Dim the bloody lights mun.
There’s several floors to the (not) viewing platform. On the top there’s a guilded hand print of the First President. Apparently it is lucky to touch it and pay for your photo to be taken. We didn’t bother with that bollocks.
We return to the Russian craft beer pub for more mead, then get a YandexGo home.
Not the most exciting day, but relaxing after a hard day footballing.