Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan

by Monica Neboli

  After Ayagoz, we spent another day driving to Karagandy, on a road that was marked red on all our maps, but was nevertheless impassable in places. We knew there was no chance of getting to Astana before night so we decided to head for the Karkaraly National Park. After confusing the names Karkaraly and Karagaily, which resulted in another detour, we found our way to the park. The owner of the first hotel we found was stunned when we requested a room.

  Are you crazy? his expression said.

  “We don’t have running water or electricity,” he explained, “but you can stay in a unit with windows.” Then he thought again and recommended a better hotel nearby. “All the tourists stay at Shakhtyor,” he said.

  The hotel was easy to find and we concluded that it must indeed be popular to get away with charging those sorts of prices. We ended up in another guesthouse for the night and looked forward to spending the morning in the mountain forest nearby. It turned out that the only way to the mountain trails led through Shakhtyor’s territory and that the hotel’s security charged for entering. Fortunately, our host told us about a hole in the fence that all her guests use to access the mountains. We did the same and didn’t have any problems, even when we did bump into the guards. We enjoyed a morning hike, collected a large bouquet of wild flowers, and then headed for home. We arrived in Astana a few hours later – remarkably, without incident.

  There we started packing for our next journey. But that’s a different story…

  Tales of a Traveling Teacher

  by Linda van de Sande

  “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain

  In August 2011, I threw off the bowlines, flew away from the safety of my home in Belgium, and caught the Atyrau wind to the QSI International School of Atyrau. I explored, dreamed and discovered… Friends and family wondered why I had picked Kazakhstan, known to many of us only as the country from the Borat movies, as my next destination. Many of us didn’t even know where it was located. But the not knowing would be part of the adventure and the highlight of my stay would be my travels, which I did by train… just like a modern-day Kazakh nomad.

  It was October, fall break. I had been here for two months and was ready for a short vacation. In Atyrau we don’t have trees, not unless you count the purple and yellow plastic trees along the streets that light up in the evening. There is no grass or mountains either, so the city is flat and sandy. I decided to travel to Turkestan, one of the pilgrimage sites in Kazakhstan, a city that lies between Kyzylorda and Shymkent on the famous Silk Road.

  Five colleagues and I started our journey at Atyrau’s train station. The trip to Turkestan was to take around 33 hours. Our carriage was perfect for six people: three beds on one side and three bunk beds on the other. The beds turned into seats during the day and in the middle of the carriage was a small table. It was an open carriage, which meant we could see our neighbouring passengers – a great opportunity to make friends! The train had one dining car where you could drink chai and eat delicious kespe (homemade noodles) and borsh, a soup with meat and noodles. Most passengers however, bring their own food and that’s what we did: plastic plates, cups, utensils, coffee, tea, bread, rice; we were prepared for our journey.

  The train stopped in every big town along the way. People got off to buy food or drinks, to smoke or just to stretch their legs. We arrived in Turkestan at 2 am. We hadn’t booked a hotel – nomads don’t do that! – and ended up at a market, very sleepy after the long ride. The only help we had was a travel guide book and Sholpan, one of our colleagues. If you thought that the Turkestan market is quiet at 2 am then you’d be quite wrong! Some of the vendors were sleeping in their shops, but others were getting ready for the next day. We asked about hotels or places to sleep. The market’s security guards were friendly and helpful, but unfortunately all the rooms at their recommended spot were occupied. Eventually, with the help of our guide book, we found a hotel near the mausoleum.

  The next morning, or rather, a few hours later, we awoke and decided to walk around the city. We had breakfast in a local restaurant, which was a series of rooms, each with tables and chairs. Coffee, tea and food were cheap in Turkestan compared to the oil city of Atyrau. I particularly enjoyed my Russian plov (a meat dish with rice and carrots that resembles Uzbek palau)!

  In the afternoon we visited the Mausoleum of Khodja Akhmed Yassaui, which thoroughly deserves its place on the list of UNESCO World Heritage sites. The walls were adorned with blue and turquoise tiles. Above the mausoleum was a ribbed turquoise dome, decorated with geometrical designs. No wonder we saw so many newly-weds, for the mausoleum was the perfect backdrop for wedding pictures. While walking around, we met an old man who was a professional dombra player. (A dombra is a two-stringed wooden Kazakh guitar.) He sang for us and signed the dombras we had bought earlier in the journey.

  The next day we went to the big bazaar in the center of Turkestan. We took a local bus, which are usually small and crowded, with standing room only (unless you sit on someone’s lap). Luckily it was not far to the bazaar. Inside the bazaar, we found: scarves, socks, clothes and an array of souvenirs. Outside the bazaar, people were selling colourful, shiny fruit and vegetables. The carrots in Turkestan are bright orange and the tomatoes are the best I have ever had.

  Soon it was time to take the train again, this time to Tulkubas, a small town near the Aksu Zhabagly Nature Reserve. Zhabagly is a farming village of around 2,000 people. We had booked a guesthouse in the mountains, so that we could enjoy Kazakh nature during the last days of our trip. The guesthouse was owned by a couple, a Dutchman called Lammert and Elmira, his Kazakh wife of 20 years. They wanted to share their love of nature with tourists escaping the busy cities. Lammert picked us up from the train station and we arrived at the guesthouse to a warm welcome; we immediately felt at home. Breakfast was ready when we arrived, and after we had finished, Elmira asked if we wanted to hike in the mountains. Of course we did! She made up a packed lunch for us and we took the bus into the mountains. The weather was perfect: the sun was shining and the temperature was around 20° Celsius. We hiked until we reached some waterfalls. We didn’t see any other tourists, only some local men on horseback, and it was a luxury to have the mountains and the gorgeous scenery all to ourselves. After a typical ‘crazy jump’ picture, we headed back to relax in the self-made sauna: a small room with a fire inside. After a mud bath, with black mud from the mountains, it was time for a walk in the village.

  One of the things I like most about traveling is interacting with locals. Even if you don’t speak the language, there’s always a way to communicate. We ended up chatting with a carrot farmer, who was cleaning some carrots and roasting a sheep’s head. (Sheep – and horse – feature regularly on a Kazakh menu, especially at parties.)

  It was hard to leave this sanctuary, but we had to go back to our life in Atyrau, back to reality… This time we boarded an old Soviet coal train, which was much slower than our original train to Turkestan and had windows that didn’t open. On board we met an old drunk, a Russian, who brought vodka and some smelly fish to our carriage. We told him that we were allergic to fish, so he removed it, but returned with music. He was in the mood for a party! After a while though he got the message that we didn’t really like his party, and he left. We made friends with Sasha the conductor too, and watched as he added coals to boil water. He felt almost fatherly as he took care of this group of foreigners on his train.

  It’s unusual for expats to travel by train, but it’s an experience I recommend. I enjoyed every moment of our journey. I would fall asleep to the sound and movement of the train and wake up to see the sun rising over the steppe. We watched camels and wild horses along the way and grew accustomed to the blueand-white painted houses that feature in every village. The trip was also a wonderful introduction to th
e Kazakh culture, and after a week spent surrounded by nature, I had enough energy to work until the next vacation!

  Dirt Roads, a Donkey and a Life Transformed

  by Victoria Charbonneau

  I have always had a place in my heart for unwanted children. Through the miracle of adoption, I am a single mom to two US-born bi-racial children. As a little girl, I dreamed of living on a large farm filled with children and animals. Being an artist I dreamed in full color; I envisioned children from many different ethnic groups learning about life through gardening, animals and farm activities.

  Due to many detours in life, that dream had been shelved – until I heard about a group helping to put on a camp for orphaned children in Kazakhstan. I attended their presentation and, crazy as it seemed, I knew in my heart that I had to go. The faces of the children on the screen were the same ones I had dreamed of as a little girl. My decision led to an 18-day trip that changed the course of my life.

  As I boarded the plane in October 2000, I was all of a sudden filled with panic. What was I doing? Why was I leaving my own precious kids to go halfway around the world? I didn’t know anything about the land of Kazakhstan. What had I agreed to? After what seemed like days of travel, the plane landed in the middle of the night. Things had surely improved since Kazakhstan’s independence, but the old airport in Almaty was so different from anything I had ever seen on my limited travels around the US.

  I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac. Military personnel stood with large guns. But my most vivid memory of that night is of looking up into the vast sky and seeing millions of twinkling lights shining upon us. Emotion flooded my heart as a gentle breeze blew across my face. I was home, in a land where I belonged. I was surprised by this feeling. The unfamiliar smells, the sight of armed men, and the sounds of an unknown language did nothing to take away that feeling of being in a place I had long been missing. The seeds of love for Kazakhstan in all its majestic beauty and contradictions were planted that night.

  As we headed to the orphanage, I was beyond tired. I was hungry and aching from head to toe. Fortunately, the majestic mountains and sweeping views of the steppes kept my excitement alive. After a grueling 10-hour ride in a van loaded up with passengers and supplies, we pulled into the Ulan Orphanage in Taraz. As we rounded the corner, we were greeted by more than 150 children standing out in that cold spring day, waving and cheering as we came to a stop. I stepped out of the van, my weariness leaving me as I was greeted by smiling faces. I shook the children’s cold hands and my heart melted and was captured forever.

  Every human has a desire for their life to matter, their story to be known. I could tell you stories about so many of the children, but this story is about Oldana, a waif of a teenage girl with a big smile and a love of dancing. Her graceful movements were in stark contrast to the sadness in her eyes. She was shy and hung back, unlike most of the children who pushed and shoved to be near the Americans.

  By 2009, I had relocated to Kazakhstan to live and work with the children. My own children were adults by this stage. I wanted to do what I could to assist the caregivers in preparing their Kazakh charges for life outside the orphanage.

  Oldana had left Ulan in 2002; the children ‘graduate’ at age 15 or 16. What a surprise then to be called down from my office a few weeks after my arrival to see her standing at the reception desk! She was still tiny and the lines on her face were that of a girl more than twice her age, but her beautiful smile lit up her face as I came down the steps. For a girl so frail, her hug was tight and strong. Her hands were calloused, but her face shone with joy. She had heard from the other children that I had moved to Taraz. She wanted me to come see her house, to meet her children and husband. It was hard to imagine this young girl with girls of her own.

  The following week, my Kazakh colleagues, Assel and Aben, and I took off to find her house. When she had given directions they had seemed fairly simple. The day was bright and sunny and I expected the trip to be short and easy. However, I should have remembered to expect the unexpected.

  Most Westerners can’t begin to imagine the state of the roads in Kazakhstan. Though some major roads are improving, most of the back roads are full of potholes and driving them involves dodging livestock, donkey carts, pedestrians and other drivers, who act like they own the roads.

  Oldana’s directions had suggested only two turn-offs, but the actual trip had a lot more turns to it. We persevered though, and the road started to become more like a path between houses, seemingly placed at random. We stopped at intervals to ask bystanders for help. No one seemed to know of Oldana, but all said we were on the correct road.

  The village was divided up into three areas, each with the same set of road names. The streets were unnervingly narrow, but Aben assured me the car would be able to squeeze through. As most of the inhabitants didn’t have cars, I guess the road’s width didn’t matter much to them. The houses were dachas: small, mud brick homes with white painted plaster and sky blue metal roof and trim. They were originally built by city folk, to allow them to escape the summer heat and grow their own fruits and vegetables.

  Spotting an elderly woman, we stopped to ask directions again. Victoria, a small woman with gray hair swirled up in a bun, had a welcoming smile. If she was surprised to have a rather lost American at her gate she didn’t show it. Instead she graciously invited us in for tea. She showed us around her humble home and we shared the details of our quest. In response she jumped up and started clipping grapes that hung ripe from the arbor above and gathering tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden – to share with Oldana. She was sure that Oldana did not live on her street, but encouraged us to head to the next area of the village to a street of the same name. As we backed the car down the path (it was too narrow to turn around) she stood waving with a big smile on her face.

  After a few more detours, we were told to go down the large hill on the left and turn right at the fifth road and we’d find her house. Once we had figured out what to count as roads, we found the narrow path that led to Oldana’s house.

  She and her husband, Daurin, who had also been raised in the orphanage, were trying to build a life for themselves. Despite the odds against them, they were working hard to succeed. They had scraped enough money together to buy this small dacha, measuring five by seven meters and in a state of disrepair. The plaster was crumbling off the walls and the patched metal roof revealed daylight when one looked up from the inside of the house. The small plot of land lay barren and muddy. An old metal barrier encircled a well with its beat-up rusty bucket attached to a rope. In the muddy field of a yard was only an outhouse, leaning precariously to one side.

  As I looked at Oldana’s tiny frame as she held her youngest, I was touched by the look of accomplishment on her face. There was hope in her eyes that the lives of her girls would be easier than her own life had been. Hope is not something you find often in orphaned children. Kazakhstan’s statistics tell a bleak story, with less than 10 percent of orphaned children managing to build a life for themselves and many dying within the first five years of leaving the orphanage. Yet before me stood one young woman working hard to build a life for herself and her family.

  Some Americans may have looked around and seen utter despair and poverty. What I saw was great promise and potential. Looking into the neighbor’s yards I saw apricot and apple trees. I saw the remains of summer gardens, a good indication that the dirt was fertile. Even though the house obviously needed many repairs, it seemed to be structurally sound. My mind was whirling with the possibilities of what could be done here, although I was also mindful of not taking away their sense of accomplishment.

  All their money had gone into purchasing the house, leaving no funds to repair the roof. Winter was coming and they had their two young girls, Eliana and Diana, to look after. After some discussion it was decided that if Daurin would provide labor then I would get supplies.

  A couple of weeks later a work crew of six men, American and Kazakh, showed
up to replace the roof. They removed and replaced the rotten timbers and installed a new metal roof. By nightfall the only task remaining was to finish off the gable ends and trim. I often wonder what the neighbors thought and, more importantly, what Eliana and Diana thought of having their home invaded, torn apart and then put back together. We brought a picnic lunch for us all to enjoy, and, typical of children, the girls enjoyed the chips and cookies as much as the kolbasa (sausage) and bread. The girls call me apa, which is Kazakh for aunt.

  The following spring they put in a huge garden, including flowers to make the place look beautiful. During one visit I noticed an old donkey cart and got excited, thinking they had bought a donkey.

  “No,” was the answer. Daurin had found the old cart and was working on repairing it in the hopes of one day having a donkey. Seeing all the hard work they had done and the initiative they had shown, a friend and I talked over the idea of giving them a donkey as a gift. Friends of mine donated the funds and plans were made to meet Oldana and Daurin at the animal bazaar, a mostly male affair.

  Daurin had never been to the animal bazaar, nor had he ever bought an animal. If he had grown up in a typical Kazakh home this would have been commonplace. It isn’t unusual to see a small car driving down the road with a live animal (often a sheep) tied up in the backseat or in the trunk. The family will then slaughter the creature for a special celebration.

  As we walked down the hill to where the donkeys were gathered, I could see the hesitation on Oldana and Daurin’s faces. I wanted Daurin to take the lead in purchasing his donkey and fairly quickly he had pointed out a young colt. Next there was the matter of getting the donkey home. I have a friend in Kyrgyzstan who once delivered two donkeys to a family using the marshrutka (local minibus), but I was pretty sure that wouldn’t go down well in Taraz. We had an SUV-like vehicle and I figured the donkey could sit in the back, but my co-worker didn’t think that was a good idea. Daurin went off in search of a truck.