In Kazakhstan, bread is taken from the bakery to where it will be sold in small trucks. The truck beds are covered, and there is a small door at the back. This is exactly the kind of truck Daurin found in which to haul his donkey home. (I found myself imagining these trucks were used to haul animals on a Sunday and bread the rest of the week.) Oldana and Daurin bade goodbye after giving hugs and words of thanks. I couldn’t wait to see what they would do with their new donkey.
I was astounded the next time I went to visit them. Daurin had used the donkey to haul dirt and straw and was manufacturing mud bricks. He had sold some to neighbors, but mostly he had used them to improve their home. I felt like a proud mama as they took me around their place and shared with great pride the results of their hard work. Oldana showed me how they had expanded their home by adding a small room. Daurin beamed as he opened the door to his new outbuilding to reveal the contents: coal, wood and canned vegetables from their garden. I didn’t have words. Tears slid down my cheeks as I surveyed all that they had done.
That first journey to Kazakhstan in 2000 opened the door to a life I could never have imagined. With this came an opportunity to be part of something bigger than myself, to be humbled by the generosity and kindness of people half a world from where I started, and to find a place to call home.
In Search of the Third Kebezhe
by Francesco Le Rose
I opened my eyes at the ringing of my iPhone and mechanically grabbed it from the nightstand. I realized then it was the alarm clock. It was 6:50 am on a Saturday morning and my penultimate weekend in Atyrau, Kazakhstan. The room was filled with the sort of light that invites you to leap into action. I looked out of the window at the blue summer sky, the kind of blue that only Kazakhstan can offer, with not the slightest wisp of a cloud in sight. The 40° Celsius heat wiped from memory the –40° Celsius of the Kazakh winter.
I kept to my usual routine, but in a house now empty of voices. The absence of my wife and my children’s laughter – sounds that usually kick started my day – was conspicuous. I remembered my wife’s words before she and the kids had returned to Italy: “Remember, you have more than a month to find another kebezhe. I promised my mother. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
It was during her visit to Damba, a fishermen’s village an hour’s drive from Atyrau, that Monica had discovered the first kebezhe, a traditional piece of Kazakh furniture that is used in the yurt for storing food and tableware. A few days before her repatriation to Italy, she had left the comfort of our villa in the expat compound to spend the day in Damba with our two children, and to meet the parents of Sholpan, my children’s first Kazakh nanny, who has since become a dear family friend. Sholpan, with her dark shining eyes, is the best friend an expat family could wish for. She speaks Kazakh, Russian and English, laughs and plays with the children, and is serious with the adults and always on hand to help.
Monica described this day as one of the most beautiful she had spent in Kazakhstan. I saw in her the traveler who loves to stray from the tourist routes to discover the essence of a place. She was so happy to have shared in the simplicity of a day with this family, enriched by their composed yet warm welcome. She was thrilled also to be in a place where ancient gestures and traditions capture your soul and to witness the nobility of this nomadic people. Today, she proudly tells others how our girls ate beshbarmak with their hands.
Monica had seen the kebezhe by chance, while paying a visit to an elderly relative of Sholpan. Resembling a small trunk with four legs, it was sixty centimeters high, one meter long and less than half a meter deep. There was a small door in the middle of the front, but in some more elaborate models there is a small drawer too. The feature that makes the kebezhe most attractive is the inlay on three of the four sides, with themes that symbolize Kazakh traditions painted in bright colors ranging from green to red to white, burgundy and yellow. Monica was immediately fascinated and whispered something to this effect in Sholpan’s ear.
“Really?” said Sholpan. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes, it’s beautiful,” my wife replied. “I’d love to take one home as a souvenir.”
“We might be able to buy this one,” said Sholpan, “but it’s better that you stay out of the deal for the time being. Let me ask my mother the best way to go about it.”
Accompanied by her mother, Sholpan returned a few hours later to the old relative, who accepted the offer to buy the kebezhe for a few thousand tenge.
The day after the visit to Damba, while proudly showing it to Ainur, our nanny at the time, Monica discovered that her grandmother also owned a kebezhe. Two days later the two kebezhe were standing together, side by side in our house. They looked similar only in shape; the inlays and colors chosen by the respective craftsmen made each a unique piece.
I was on my second sip of coffee, which is made always with my Bialetti coffee machine (my faithful friend in my expatriate adventures), when I saw the minibus had arrived, on time as usual.
My mission today was to fulfill my wife’s wish for a third kebezhe. With a driver organized by my company and Sholpan as interpreter, I was heading to the mythical village of Sarayshyk; about a two-hour drive from Atyrau and once a leg of the ancient silk route. Little of its splendor remains today, although recent archaeological excavations have brought to light some important findings, such as houses of the ancient city’s first inhabitants and a variety of crockery. A few dozen families live here and there is one museum to share the village’s antiquities. We believed we might find a kebezhe in one of the old houses in Sarayshyk.
Sholpan revealed our destination to the driver, whose reply was a look of bewilderment. After only a few minutes we left behind the traffic and city houses. This was the first time I had left the city without my wife and girls. I became aware of this because there it felt unfamiliar to have no distractions, no shouting, laughter or nappies. My eyes lost themselves in the boundless expanse of the steppe, split in half by a long, straight and endless road. I felt like a sailor in the middle of the sea, for the bushes and grasses rippled like waves. On the horizon, perhaps to make the Ural River’s journey less monotonous, were an infinite expanse of bush, dotted with yellow and red flowers, and the odd sand dune. I could not but think of the days when camels and horses were the undisputed lords of this land, together with their nomadic masters.
Suddenly, a sign appeared out of nowhere; I could make out ‘Sarayshyk’ in the Cyrillic script. There was a kind of sculpture nearby, but the minibus was going too fast for me to understand what it represented. We reached a junction, where a sign on the right read ‘Museum’. The driver stopped and turned to us for guidance. On the opposite side of the road I could see a man and a woman coming towards us, walking arm in arm.
“Please Sholpan,” I said, “ask them where we might find some antique furniture.”
I looked out the window, listening to the conversation in Kazakh. The woman was smiling, covering her mouth, and Sholpan too was amused. The man gestured in the direction opposite to that of the museum.
“He suggests we try to look in the oldest part of the village,” said Sholpan. “It is located in the area around the archeological excavations.”
The wind had picked up and the dust rose all around us. The official road seemed to disappear and the minibus started zigzagging to avoid large shallow potholes. We stopped in front of a gate manned by a guard in a sort of wooden hut. I realised we had reached the excavation area. The guard became excited on hearing of our interest in antiques and invited us to come inside.
“He doesn’t know where we can find a kebezhe,” explained Sholpan, “but would be happy to let us take a tour of the excavation area.”
I replied that we didn’t have much time, as I wanted to make it back to Atyrau by lunch. Thanking the guard, we boarded the minibus again, unsure of where to head next. I looked around me at the large open space out of which arose a series of old houses. The houses were small and square, white and sand in colour, with
wooden doors and window frames painted blue.
Sand was circling in the air, denying me a clear view. Suddenly, however, I noticed two old ladies, probably neighbors, chatting in front of a blue door. Their clothes were white and each had a scarf around her face for protection from the wind. Sholpan was a little reluctant to approach them, but finally agreed to make one last attempt. After Sholpan had explained the reason for our visit, one of the women pointed to a house about a hundred meters away with wooden fences about two meters high. On reaching the house, Sholpan knocked at the blue door. A dog started barking and after a few seconds a small door within a gate to the right of the house opened. Sholpan exchanged a few words with the old man, who peeped out. Then she turned to me, smiling, and told me to step inside as the man opened the gate.
I could not believe my eyes. Within this large fence was a world in itself: piles of junk, and mostly rusty iron, were the backdrop to a series of small stables and three yurts. I could distinguish bicycle frames, automotive parts, trucks, sheets of metal, and containers of various shapes as well as a host of parts from who knows what else.
The man now entered the house via the porch, which was covered with a creeper to create shade. After a few seconds, he came out, accompanied by a sturdy, wrinkled woman in a pair of blue pants and a black blouse. She greeted us and smiled.
Sholpan revealed our goal. The women looked in the direction of the yurts, before heading for one with a blue engraved door and beckoning us to follow her. She opened the wooden door and bent down to enter. Once in the yurt we were surrounded by a series of shelves containing boxes, crates, carpets, bottles, and a range of furniture. And there, on the middle shelf to my right, covered with a thin layer of dust, was a kebezhe! It was burgundy in color with inlays that perfectly camouflaged the little cupboard door, only the small doorknob giving it away. I could hardly contain my joy at having found it. Helped by her husband, the woman brought it out into the daylight. She also produced a carpet and recreated a scene of how the piece of furniture would once have lain in a yurt.
“It’s perfect!” I whispered to Sholpan. “Let’s get going with the bargaining… and try to include the carpet too!”
The requested price was way below my estimation of the items’ value: for less than one hundred euros I bought both. A few minutes later we were back on the minibus with the third kebezhe. While my eyes again took in the view of the steppe, I phoned my wife.
“Ciao cara.”
“Hi, where are you?” she replied. “I tried to call you at home.”
“I’m in the steppe.”
“In the steppe? Doing what?”
“Do you remember your wish for a third kebezhe?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Well, mission accomplished!”
The Long Horse Ride: Journey Across the Steppe
by Rowena Haigh & Yolanda Cook
The Long Horse Ride is an endurance ride that started shortly after the 2008 Beijing Olympics, crossing China, Central Asia and Europe, before entering London in time for the 2012 London Olympics. The horse ride aimed to raise funds for charities within the countries it crossed. It entered Kazakhstan in June 2010 at Korgas and headed west towards Kyzylorda, before heading north towards Atyrau and then crossing into Russia at Astrakhan. Two expats in Kazakhstan at the time joined organizer and lead rider Megan Lewis on different legs of her journey.
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Rowena Haigh took part in various legs of the ride, including the first trial and the final leg in the UK. Here she gives us a glimpse into her month-long journey across the Kazakh Steppe, which began in late March 2011, at the start of spring. Rowena covered about 2,500 kilometres, excluding the final week’s ride into London.
I had found a lovely six-year-old stallion in Atyrau, who I christened Bolashak after the company that helped sponsor me. My next challenge was to transport him to our designated starting point in Kyzylorda, where Megan had placed her horse, Zorbee, over the winter. I had driven the Atyrau-Kyzylorda road in the autumn and knew how terrible it was, particularly the stretch from Atyrau to Aktobe. There seemed to be more craters than road and some were bigger than our little Niva car! I was concerned about how Bolashak would cope with being bumped about in the back of a truck for three days, especially as time was of the essence, and he would have to be ready to start the ride as soon as we got there. While poring over a map, I noticed a railway line directly from Atyrau to Kyzylorda!
As I began to follow an endless paper trail that led to and from various small offices staffed by bemused employees of the Kazakh railway establishment, it became apparent that no one, let alone a single foreign woman, had ever tried to transport a horse to Kyzylorda this way. Maybe to put me off, I was told I had to travel with the horse in the wagon. When the railway authorities realised I was serious, they became increasingly worried about my comfort, telling me that the wagon would be unbearably cold and insisting that I arrange some type of camp bed for the nights. Overall though, the authorities were incredibly helpful if rather incredulous about the whole adventure. They promised to try and ensure that my wagon was not left in sidings for longer than necessary and that I would be sent south as quickly as possible; and so it was that I found myself one morning at a yard behind the main passenger station loading Bolly and supplies for the next three days.
My camp bed and a chair were placed with great ceremony in the middle of the wagon, so I could look out of the sliding door as I travelled across the steppe. There were containers of water for both of us and more than enough warm clothing and bedding (or so I thought). With due ceremony, and several photos with various officials, I set off. My progress was to be reported to my husband as I travelled along the line.
The journey was a wonderful, unusual experience. There were looks of amazement on the faces of passing train drivers when they saw me looking out of my cattle wagon and endless conversations with surprised policemen checking the trains for stowaways – not to mention lots of admiration for the ever-patient Bolashak. The first night was unbelievably cold. I had to sleep in all my clothes and even considered putting up my tent so I could have some more insulation. The wagon remained cold over the next few days, but it was a little better when I eventually managed to close the vents that had been opened to give me some light. (Light was an issue as the wagon had metal sides.) Unfortunately, the only door I could open was on the opposite side to the sun all the way and so I didn’t have the chance to let the wagon warm up with sunshine. Aside from the physical discomfort, there was also the problem of never knowing where I was when we stopped in a siding or how long we would pause. Sometimes the stop was a matter of minutes and other times it went on for hours, and I was always nervous of straying too far from the wagon in case it started moving again. Fortunately, we made such good progress that we arrived before Megan, who had left on the Almaty Express a few days after us.
Back in the saddle
On meeting up, Megan, John Smallwood – a photographer who was to join us on his bicycle for two weeks to document the ride – and I headed out to Zorbee’s temporary winter residence. After a day of preparing the horses and being served a lavish lunch by our hosts, we set off with an hour or so of daylight left; just enough for us to feel that we were back on the road again.
The first couple of days are always tough on a ride like this as it takes time to get used to the long days in the saddle and sleeping on a bedroll in a tent. However, when sitting around the campfire with a vodka or two to warm you, watching the sun set over the steppe and listening to the chomping of the horses, it is all worth it.
Heading north, we rode along the route of the Syr Darya, catching glimpses of the elusive river through the trees and reeds. It is difficult to describe the excitement of seeing and crossing the famous rivers of the Asian-European landmass. Their names are magical and exotic, faraway entities that have been marked on a map, and then suddenly you are upon them, and instantly you know what this part of the world looks like.
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sp; The joys of the steppe
The gift of riding a horse across the face of the world is time; you can’t rush through anything. There was time to think, to contemplate what it might be like to call this home. The downside was that on some days the steppe felt endless, and then we had to rely on mental strength to keep positive and interested. We found that looking out for life on the ground gave us things to think about! We looked for footprints in the sand – the strangest were left by a tortoise. (We were unsure what the prints were until half an hour later, when we found a tortoise on our route.) We were particularly eager to find native Kazakh tulips and, after five days of searching, we saw our first yellow tulip growing up out of the sandy ground. We spent at least half an hour photographing it. Later on, when the tulips became more frequent, we still could not resist calling out in excitement.
As we rode further north, spring followed us. The weather was kind, neither too hot nor too cold, and there was green grass for the horses to graze on. We also found glorious clumps of irises and many other flowers we did not know the names of. At night we lay in our tents listening to the wolves howling. At one campsite, the locals were so concerned about our horses being found by wolves that they put the horses in a coral for safety. We were a little put out that we were not put in there too and we had an oft disturbed night listening to the howls that seemed to surround our tents and come closer and closer. We found we had to be careful about scorpions too. The first couple of nights, Megan had left her boots out at night, but she soon stopped doing this after I found five scorpions under my tent one morning.
Things to celebrate
Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan Page 11