by Tim Cope
“And in our country dogs choose their owners. Tigon is yours.”
I was not in the mood. Only half an hour earlier at the market he had told me I should buy a packet of condoms because one never knew what might be around the corner. His ancestors surely hadn’t relayed that advice to him! He had also convinced me to buy firecrackers to ward off wolves. He seemed to know everything that was best for me in a way I occasionally found patronizing.
“But what will I do with him? What will happen to him when I get to the border? I won’t be able to take him further. Can’t you take him on the bus?” I was frightened of the commitment of having a dog, and anyway, I had long since decided that if I was going to get a dog, it would be one of the big wooly mastiff breeds used by nomads as guard dogs.
Aset glanced down sadly at his feet and shrugged. “I don’t know. You can give him to someone if you like.” Then he looked me straight in the eye. “But there is one thing. In Kazakh culture there are some things that you cannot receive as gifts, that you must buy or steal: dogs, knives, axes, and wives. This dog is not mine. It is Guanz’s. You need to give me something for him; it doesn’t have to be money.”
I paid Aset $120 for accompanying me; gave him a toy koala, some photos from Australia, and $10 for Guanz; and promised to print and send all the photos we had taken together. I needed a second packsaddle, and so he offered to sell me his own saddle, the one he had been riding in. I bought that for $50.
We locked Tigon inside the caretaker’s hut for the time being, and waved down a car on the road into town. Then Aset was gone.
Aset had traveled only eleven days with me, but he knew so much better than I the challenges that lay ahead. For that I am indebted.
8
TOKYM KAGU BASTAN
I broke out of the tent into a landscape that resembled the open, rolling tundra of the Arctic. The scant moisture in the air had snapped frozen overnight into floating particles of ice that twinkled like quartz. Delicate crystals, light as cobwebs, clung to fine tussocks of grass that skewered up into the light. Underfoot the snow squeaked, but when I had finished my morning pee and stood still, there was utter silence.
I felt as if on a precipice.
The previous day I had said goodbye to Aset and nervously maneuvered the three horses around the southern edge of Ayagoz. In doing so I crossed the tracks of the “Turk-Sib”—a railway completed in 1931 to connect the cotton industry of Uzbekistan (set to rapidly expand under Soviet rule) with Siberia and Moscow. To me, these lonely black lines dissecting the steppe from north to south were a kind of frontier, beyond which the rest of Kazakhstan yawned—still more than 2,500 km of steppe as far as the Caspian Sea. The absence of fences, borders, and even mountain ranges, seemed to suggest endless possibilities as if I could ride in whichever direction I pleased. In truth I knew if I remained at this latitude, I would be ambushed by deep snow. Too far south, and I might find myself in a freezing desert without snow—which would be the main source of water for both myself and my animals during winter. Additionally, of the few rivers that lay between here and the Caspian, most flowed on a north-south line, or drained sluggishly into desert, or the Aral Sea, meaning that there would be no consistent access to water as I rode west.
Late the previous afternoon, after Aset’s departure, I had called home to Australia on the satellite phone. I received bad news: our family dog of sixteen years, a blue heeler we called Pepper, had died. After the sun disappeared I had lain awake in the sleeping bag recalling the doe-eyed, tail-wagging presence that had filled our home throughout much of my childhood. At the same time I was aware of the curled-up ball of fur and bones pressing up against my thighs and snoring. It was hard to believe that earlier that day I had nearly decided to leave him behind.
With Aset gone but Tigon yawning by my side, I now stood with the morning sun on my back and gazed west. Yesterday I had dwelled on the challenge of finding water, pasture, and shelter through all that emptiness. This morning the overwhelming feeling was that I would have to do it alone.
It helped me somewhat to indulge in a fantasy, thinking of my journey as that of a Kazakh boy born into the rigors of life on the steppe. Under the guidance of parents and the circle of kinship, there were rituals that guided nomads from birth, equipping them with the knowledge required to rise to the challenges of their lives.
Central to the rite of passage for young boys was mastering how to ride a horse, graze and protect sheep, and in earlier times how to make and use a bow, hunt, and ultimately defend the family. One of the first important rituals was mounting ashami, when the boy was encouraged to emulate his father by taking a stick in place of a whip and riding out to see how the animals were grazed. An ashami was a special children’s saddle without stirrups to which the boy’s legs were bound so that he could not fall. Although this custom generally took place when the boy was seven years old, he would have been taught to ride much earlier; many children had their first experiences in the saddle before they could walk.1
By my reckoning, I had probably reached the metaphorical age of ten, and a custom known as tokym kagu bastan. At this age the boy was sent off alone on horse for his first long journey. The successful home return was anticipated with great fanfare—tokym kagu literally means “waiting for the boy to return”—and celebrated with a feast including the most sacred of drinks, kumys, fermented mare’s milk. Aset had known that these first few days and weeks alone would be a great test, my own tokym kagu bastan.
In the absence of nomads to consult about my route, a hunting inspector in Ayagoz had offered valuable advice. On his suggestion, I had settled on the idea of traveling southwest toward the salty waters of eastern Lake Balkhash to beat the deep snow, before riding west along its northern shoreline into central Kazakhstan. There I would reach the Betpak Dala—a name that roughly translates to “starving steppe.” My immediate goal was 150 km as the crow flies, to an aul called Kopa, where the hunting inspector had given me the details of a man known as Serik who might take me in.
After a pot of semolina, I set about the task of grooming, saddling, and packing, determined to overcome my nerves and set out in a positive frame of mind. Four hours later, however, I was still struggling to get the loads tied down on the two packhorses. Even when I finally got moving, the stiff leather of my seat had barely warmed before the load on Taskonir loosened and fell to one side. My original plan had been to use one pack-horse and rotate load-carrying duties so that each day one horse was rested without a load. Recently, however, Ruslan and Aset had convinced me that it was better to spread the weight across two packhorses and carry 50 kg of grain whenever I could get it. Unfortunately, I had left in Mongolia the extra packsaddle that would have been ideal for this purpose. Aset’s riding saddle, which I had bought to make do, was terribly ill-suited for carrying any load, let alone the wheat sacks I had rigged up as saddlebags. It was, according to my diary entry that night, “an absolute pig” of a saddle to pack.
It took another half hour to reload, but by then it was clear that the horses, tied for only the second time in a single caravan, had their own issues to iron out. I was riding Zhamba, with Ogonyok directly behind me and Taskonir bringing up the rear. But Taskonir, who had asserted his authority as the leader of my little herd, used every opportunity to take a bite of Ogonyok’s butt. Ogonyok would suddenly bolt forward, the rattling green boxes brushing along Zhamba’s flank and bashing into my right leg. Zhamba, who was the oldest but had retiringly taken middle ground in the hierarchy, was not pleased. His ears rested flat on his head while he bit and then kicked until Ogonyok was back in his place. I tried tying Ogonyok to Taskonir, making him last in our little caravan, but Taskonir continued the bullying by trying to kick Ogonyok in the head. Ogonyok pulled back until Taskonir came to a standstill and the lead rope was torn from my grasp.
Come darkness we had traveled only 12 km—and not particularly gracefully—but it was good enough that we had made it to camp intact. It wasn’t until
the horses had been staked out, hobbled, and fed, the stove turned off, and my stomach filled that everything felt remotely possible again. I sank back onto my big canvas duffle bag next to the tent and watched the crescent moon slope its way off the edge of the world.
For the next two days, any gathering momentum was interrupted by the same circus of hiccups, but even so I recognized the outlines of a routine that would become habitual in the coming weeks and months. In the morning Tigon bravely led the way. Then, when he tired, he followed behind like a tiny black shadow. As we rode through undulating hills, the cold white sun panned across our path and I took notice how in the morning the right side of the horses gathered a forest of sweat-frost, but by afternoon it was thicker on their left flanks. During the lunch break I knelt in the snow and watched the horses dig with their hooves and nibble on whatever they could find. Tigon sat in front of me, tail between his legs, bony spine in an arch, licking his chops and shifting his front paws. I tossed him rations of kolbasa, a Russian sausage, that disappeared in lightning snaps.
In the afternoon of the third day the air thawed and the snow grew thin and patchy—encouraging signs that I was making progress south and had begun to drop off the plateau toward the basin of Lake Balkhash. By dusk the vacuum of frozen silence had been filled with the sound of wind rustling through grass, and I trotted out along a rounded, dun-colored ridge.
Free of snow, the steppe turned black in the sinking light, and I made camp atop stony hills near the ruins of mud-brick graves. Only after setting up did it occur to me that without snow there was no water. It wasn’t a prospect of great concern, though—I could make do with half a thermos of tea that night, and I was sure the horses wouldn’t have to go thirsty for long. Winter was on our heels, and the scent of a storm brewing on the wind suggested that by morning it would have caught up.
That night I woke several times with sharp pains in my chest and the terrifying suspicion that the horses were gone. Each time it happened I unzipped the entrance and shot out, turning on my headlamp as I went. There was nothing unusual about this routine, which had characterized most nights since the horses were stolen in Mongolia. I had long since resolved to maintain a discipline of sleeping in my trousers with belt, knife, and headlamp fitted.
At some point after 3:00 A.M., however, the usual paranoia mingled with a powerful and lucid dream, the likes of which I had not previously experienced, but which would prove to recur almost nightly for the next six or seven months.
The dream began with me instinctually flicking my headlamp on and preparing to rip open the door. No sooner had I sat up, however, than Taskonir’s head appeared in front of me. His eyes were as dark and shiny as maple syrup. There was a sheen to the long, dark winter hair around his face and under his chin. His floppy underlip quivered, and I had the urge to reach out and touch it. But then I realized Taskonir was looking not at me but over me, away into the night. In fact, now that I looked closer, all the horses were in front of me, their furry fetlocks at eye level, and I had all three of their lead ropes in my hands. They were pulling hard!
I held on for what felt an eternity, but just when I thought my arms and hands couldn’t hold out any longer, I noticed the stranger. He stood in the darkness just around to my right—I could see him from the corner of my eye. He seemed old, I thought—balding, with gray hair and strong workman’s hands. Unfazed, he walked toward me.
The rope began to slip from my grip, up and away. The heads of the horses lifted out of the beam from my headlamp and into the shadows. Before I could catch another glimpse of this man, my legs and arms gave way with heaviness. I closed my eyes and felt released into deep sleep. I had a strong conviction the horses were safe.
In the morning it was hard to get up. Outside, wind lashed the tent with thick wet snow. Inside, the dream hung around like a heavy fog. In time I would find the dream familiar and comforting—each time I would hold on to the ropes until an old man appeared and I would fall asleep. When I told Kazakhs about it, they were sure it was the spirits of the old men of the steppe, protecting me. This morning, though, the dream was still raw and frightening. I could still feel the tension in my arms.
In recent days, the steppe had spread out in a milky white and brown sea in which it was difficult to tell the difference between distant crags and clouds, the curves of both rolling sensuously out into emptiness. Now, as I moved on, the scale of the land contracted to depthless, throbbing squalls of snow. I caught only glimpses of the lay of the land—a warren of hills, a swamp, more hills, then a plain.
I had the feeling we had come in the wrong direction, but in the end my compass proved to be much better oriented than I, and at midday we stumbled on a track leading towards Tansyk—a village only 30 km from Kopa.
For the next two hours the tracks wound into fog and snow, and I shivered into a state of despondency. Stopping made me more aware of the wet sleet dribbling down my skin from neck to ankles, so I carried on without breaks.
I shouldn’t have, but I caved in to tempting thoughts about spring and good times with Kathrin. Visions, smells, and distant feelings taunted—hot sand underfoot on the beach, the light-as-air sensation of shorts and T-shirt, Kathrin’s soft, warm skin. They collided brutally with the reality around me. As I shifted my gaze to the snow in front, I thought I was dreaming. A snake was slithering feebly, incrementally, across our path. The odds against it seemed overwhelming.
Another hour of introspection passed, and when I lifted my head the tracks had turned to mud, it was raining, and there was no snow in sight. I paused to focus on a flock of sheep, tended to by a horseman—the first sign of life I had witnessed since leaving Ayagoz.
I could have taken hints from the herder and found someone to take me in, but this was my first stretch of the journey traveling fully alone in Kazakhstan, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could cope. That night I camped in sight of two large dome graves and shivered through till dawn in a wet sleeping bag. By morning the sky had cleared, and now, on my fifth straight day I took great satisfaction in pouring out the last of the bag of grain for the horses. The sun brought relief, and as steam poured off my thawing clothes I packed up for the first time in three weeks without mitts.
“Another half a day south to Kopa. It must be still summer down there!” I said to Tigon. The dog looked back at me, ears upright. He just wanted breakfast.
In the same way that Kopa would prove a fleeting but intense concentration of life and movement in the larger scheme of my winter journey, the aul of forty or so homes came into view as no more than an island dwarfed by a wild sea of brown and gray steppe.
Far out, a herd of sheep and goats was being driven home for the night, appearing from a distance like bobbing seagulls drifting in on the currents. I descended from the hills just as people emerged from their homes to welcome the animals and herders back. Had the animals grazed well today? No wolf sightings? Were all the animals accounted for? Then again things settled, the working horses in their corrals, the sheep in their pens.
I’d met two men on their way on foot to Kopa earlier in the day, and they led the way to a courtyard where others came out and helped unload the horses. There could be no mistaking my host, Serik, who motored into the aul and stepped out of a battered Soviet, crank-start jeep. He was a gentle but powerful man with a strong Russian nose, meaty hands that clutched on to me, and pale Kazakh eyes that looked at me intensely.
“Where have you been? We have been expecting you for two days!”
Serik was the akim of the aul and the local district, which meant he was at once an elected mayor and a man of recognized natural authority. It was a title reminiscent of leaders in nomad times, known as biys, who, along with batyrs—warriors—had been part of the old nomad aristocracy known as the “white bone” (ak suyet), which officially ruled outside the tribal system of nomads. In such vast territories, where loyalty always lay to circles of kin and not central administration, they were crucial for resolving disputes, espe
cially over rights to grazing land.
Although there were historical parallels to be drawn, Serik oversaw a very different aul than that presided over by biys. In Soviet times Kopa had been a dedicated haymaking collective—a type of farming created under Soviet rule that saw collectives developed into monoculture farming productions and former nomads equipped with specialized skills such as haymaking, tractor driving, herding, and slaughtering. In post-Soviet times, this had left rural Kazakhs conditioned to be employees of the state but without the skills to practice the kind of wholesale farming introduced by the Soviets, yet also bereft of the knowledge that would allow them to contemplate a return to the nomadic pastoralism of their ancestors. Many Kazakhs had subsequently departed to regional towns and cities to look for work. Kopa, a victim of this trend, was now a largely deserted village, where the dwindling population survived on subsistence farming and the barter and sale of the hay that was still produced.
Despite the somewhat depressing conditions, the tradition of hospitality remained firmly unbroken. Without hesitating, Serik ordered the aul’s fodder vault to be opened, whereupon two of his workers hauled out giant bundles of hay and laid them at the feet of my horses. Tigon was promptly thrown some bones, and after I had been treated to a sauna-like banya, a dish of meat, and a couple of shots of vodka, Serik compelled me to stay for three days. This was a traditional period of time during which a Kazakh host was required to ply the guest with hospitality and had no right to ask who the guest was or what his business might be. Perhaps more to the point, there was due to be a wedding in nearby Tansyk, the aul I had bypassed the day before on the way to Kopa, and it was essential—compulsory, in fact—that I be there.
Two nights later the old dom kultura—the Soviet-era “house of culture”—in Tansyk was pulsating with a crowd of several hundred. Against the backdrop of a Soviet-era mural and some hastily strung up lights that flashed robotically, men with drab but impeccable suits and women in camel-hair vests mingled with a throng of teenagers clad in skin-hugging jeans. In a rising fervor of anticipation, many danced, including elderly men whose faces pursed in concentration, as if they were trying to remember a long-forgotten style. It didn’t matter if the music was Madonna or traditional Kazakh—their dance moves did not change.