A flyer that got into my hands read:
"Today, most visitors to Kazakhstan are rich businessmen there for its oil and the tourist facilities reflect that" - very true I would say. The first glance around town will conclude that prices of accommodation are ridiculously coffin-inducing high.
"Almaty is a cosmopolitan (if expensive) city with plenty of nightlife and through route" - very, very true. But that's not all to Almaty, our next port moving on from Kyrgyzstan. If you had seen the best of Bishkek, then you will kiss the ground of Almaty when you arrive in Kazakhstan.
Once upon not very long ago but long enough to have the writer still looking for an Internet access (continuously unsuccessful), there arrived a 32-year old wanderlust-filled lass who came down from the high jailoo of Kyrgyzstan to attempt continuing their overland journey across Central Asia. After successfully avoiding a brawl with the touts, securing bus tickets, even ordering coffee with milk in perfect Russian, she settled into the bumpy nest of the ride on what was supposed to be a 4-hour cross to the border.
For the first time, Kyrgyz guards at the border were quick and efficient to speed us through. Walking past an empty and desolate looking "duty free" screaming shop that had seen busier days (Kenzo anyone? Or maybe a Hugo?) I crossed into no man's land on a bridge over muddy water. Sucking in a quick breath, I took an immigration form from my first human contact with Kazakhstan, an 8-inch diametre frying pan-looking hat toting guard. The midday sun was making an issue on my neck and I scrambled to find some shade and a working pen. As different busloads of border crossers joined the funneled mesh of human bodies inside a tiny hut that operated as the immigration check point, we shouldered our excitement and fatigue dutifully to work ourselves and our backpacks through a myriads of Turkish, Uzbek and of course, the mandatory Kyrgyz and Kazakh looking passport holders. I was finally in a line and working myself quietly to the front counter. Despite the heat and the lack of air circulation, I was in a good mood. Smoothing my hair and braving a smile I walked up confidently to the counter and handed over my passport.
A barrage of Russian came raining down on me like armed missiles and a thick female index finger indicated the mimed language of:
(1) You stupid tourist, you are on the wrong lane;
(2) You stupid tourist, you need to get to counter one; and
(3) You stupid tourist, get the heck out of my counter - NOW.
"Today, most visitors to Kazakhstan are rich businessmen there for its oil and the tourist facilities reflect that" - very true I would say. The first glance around town will conclude that prices of accommodation are ridiculously coffin-inducing high.
"Almaty is a cosmopolitan (if expensive) city with plenty of nightlife and through route" - very, very true. But that's not all to Almaty, our next port moving on from Kyrgyzstan. If you had seen the best of Bishkek, then you will kiss the ground of Almaty when you arrive in Kazakhstan.
Once upon not very long ago but long enough to have the writer still looking for an Internet access (continuously unsuccessful), there arrived a 32-year old wanderlust-filled lass who came down from the high jailoo of Kyrgyzstan to attempt continuing their overland journey across Central Asia. After successfully avoiding a brawl with the touts, securing bus tickets, even ordering coffee with milk in perfect Russian, she settled into the bumpy nest of the ride on what was supposed to be a 4-hour cross to the border.
For the first time, Kyrgyz guards at the border were quick and efficient to speed us through. Walking past an empty and desolate looking "duty free" screaming shop that had seen busier days (Kenzo anyone? Or maybe a Hugo?) I crossed into no man's land on a bridge over muddy water. Sucking in a quick breath, I took an immigration form from my first human contact with Kazakhstan, an 8-inch diametre frying pan-looking hat toting guard. The midday sun was making an issue on my neck and I scrambled to find some shade and a working pen. As different busloads of border crossers joined the funneled mesh of human bodies inside a tiny hut that operated as the immigration check point, we shouldered our excitement and fatigue dutifully to work ourselves and our backpacks through a myriads of Turkish, Uzbek and of course, the mandatory Kyrgyz and Kazakh looking passport holders. I was finally in a line and working myself quietly to the front counter. Despite the heat and the lack of air circulation, I was in a good mood. Smoothing my hair and braving a smile I walked up confidently to the counter and handed over my passport.
A barrage of Russian came raining down on me like armed missiles and a thick female index finger indicated the mimed language of:
(1) You stupid tourist, you are on the wrong lane;
(2) You stupid tourist, you need to get to counter one; and
(3) You stupid tourist, get the heck out of my counter - NOW.
So hushing what I barely recalled as a PG-18 rated curse phrase, I turned around to walk back into the ocean of warm sweaty bodies. This was an orgy of hands and bags, scarves and funny slogan T-shirts, hair gel and cheap perfumes. You can sense the air of desperation and foul play as men and women began to lose their cool. Line cutting began and thankfully I was still in a positive mode. There was no signs even in Cyrillic that I could use to determine that I need not repeat my mistake again. Except that what officer's finger had indicated as counter No.1 was reading in the internationally recognised language of mathematics, No.4 - so I quickly moved outside to another shed to see if that was indeed counter No.1 that I had been looking for. News flash for today: Counter No.4 will act as counter No.1 today. Obey or be destroyed!
And into the queue we formed, like penguin drug addicts on a roll, banging side-by-side until the boring atmosphere was broken by an angry Russian lady lambasting another lady bearing an Uzbek fashion sense for cutting into her line. The show down between the female ego began and I was chanting "fight, fight, fight" in my head. Two tiny men rolled a John Deere truck tyre quietly across the immigration counter, I thought maybe that tyre required a passport for itself. Alas, only heated words and evil eyes were exchanged as the line went on. Russian lady got ahead first and I just allowed the Uzbek-looking lady to get in front of me as I wasn't about to start messing with her because she had the buttocks the size of two barrels of samsa (and she probably ate them all for breakfast anyway) plus I just wanted to get to the counter and get a pass into Kazakhstan.
That was exactly what I had and the frying pan hat wearing officers ushered me quickly to move out of the building to get through to the side of this insanely incomprehensible country. The adventure was just beginning and I was beyond words. We couldn't find our bus! But I saw the German lady who had red ginger hair and eleven rings worn by ten fingers (you figure that one out), and only enough English to say she didn't understand English. In between my own sparse German "Guten Tag", we found a new friend in each other and used friendly finger language to indicate that we all should wait here as our bus probably got held up in inspection. We even later stopped for the same ice cream and kebab lunch. Sadly we had to part at the bus station, with her going back to her Militsia husband and mansion, while we hopped onto tram No.4 (what's with the numbers today?) to check out some ex-Soviet hotels.
I got to say, we stayed at a really (probably the cheapest in town) good building that even gave us a small balcony to dry our clothes. We could borrow cups from the kitchen, hot shower, clean sheets, window with a tree view, and they even throw in breakfast and there's an aquarium in the cafe too! Plus we get to watch great WC2010 telecast next door - no more midnight slogging walk back into the hostel like in Bishkek. All right, the walls are painted pink and the sheets are these blue tulips but the WC is spotless and the weather in Almaty is great. Food and drinks are expensive but if you care to head to the bazaar to buy fresh produce and make some salad to go with your roast chook and bread, you're fine. Did I say bus No.63 drops us off and picks us up point to point from the bazaar to our hotel (more like organised barrack buildings)? I was in blissful Kazakh heaven!
Getting into this next country had been exhausting but none was to cover what would be our adventure and temper-testing Government dates to come. Watch this space.
And into the queue we formed, like penguin drug addicts on a roll, banging side-by-side until the boring atmosphere was broken by an angry Russian lady lambasting another lady bearing an Uzbek fashion sense for cutting into her line. The show down between the female ego began and I was chanting "fight, fight, fight" in my head. Two tiny men rolled a John Deere truck tyre quietly across the immigration counter, I thought maybe that tyre required a passport for itself. Alas, only heated words and evil eyes were exchanged as the line went on. Russian lady got ahead first and I just allowed the Uzbek-looking lady to get in front of me as I wasn't about to start messing with her because she had the buttocks the size of two barrels of samsa (and she probably ate them all for breakfast anyway) plus I just wanted to get to the counter and get a pass into Kazakhstan.
That was exactly what I had and the frying pan hat wearing officers ushered me quickly to move out of the building to get through to the side of this insanely incomprehensible country. The adventure was just beginning and I was beyond words. We couldn't find our bus! But I saw the German lady who had red ginger hair and eleven rings worn by ten fingers (you figure that one out), and only enough English to say she didn't understand English. In between my own sparse German "Guten Tag", we found a new friend in each other and used friendly finger language to indicate that we all should wait here as our bus probably got held up in inspection. We even later stopped for the same ice cream and kebab lunch. Sadly we had to part at the bus station, with her going back to her Militsia husband and mansion, while we hopped onto tram No.4 (what's with the numbers today?) to check out some ex-Soviet hotels.
I got to say, we stayed at a really (probably the cheapest in town) good building that even gave us a small balcony to dry our clothes. We could borrow cups from the kitchen, hot shower, clean sheets, window with a tree view, and they even throw in breakfast and there's an aquarium in the cafe too! Plus we get to watch great WC2010 telecast next door - no more midnight slogging walk back into the hostel like in Bishkek. All right, the walls are painted pink and the sheets are these blue tulips but the WC is spotless and the weather in Almaty is great. Food and drinks are expensive but if you care to head to the bazaar to buy fresh produce and make some salad to go with your roast chook and bread, you're fine. Did I say bus No.63 drops us off and picks us up point to point from the bazaar to our hotel (more like organised barrack buildings)? I was in blissful Kazakh heaven!
Getting into this next country had been exhausting but none was to cover what would be our adventure and temper-testing Government dates to come. Watch this space.
