by Tim Cope
Come the collapse of the Soviet era, this surviving nomadic existence had abruptly halted, and I could see more clearly how things had unraveled. Most fundamental to the crisis was that with so few livestock remaining, the pasture in the immediate surrounds of auls and towns was adequate for them to graze on all year round. There was now no reason to migrate to the traditional seasonal pastures—a trend confirmed the following day in Ulanbel by people who spoke with bitterness and envy about the nomadic family I had met.
In fact, in Ulanbel one could find any number of hardened men playing dombras and singing melancholy songs. Crippled by nostalgia, they seemed to believe that the modern era was a temporary stage and that ultimately they would return to the life of the ancestors in the future. I began to see many of these sedentary Kazakhs as dormant nomads waiting for the day they had enough animals to justify a return to the steppe.
It must have been nearing midnight by the time Temir’s son pointed nervously to his watch. The man with whom I had been speaking tried to persuade me to stay: “Timurbek! Maybe you could even travel with us into the ‘starving steppe.’ We could find you a Kazakh wife!”
If only I could. But then again, my animals were waiting, and the mild spring conditions beckoned with promise for travel in the coming weeks. I climbed onto the back of the motorbike and clung on for life as we crashed through the darkness.
A day’s ride west from Ulanbel I made camp by a lake flooded with overflow from the Chu River. Ducks whispered high across an orange sky, smaller birds darted acrobatically among reeds, and a pair of white swans milled at a safe distance from shore. As my mash of rice and canned meat boiled I watched the horses rubbing their sweaty backs in the sand. Taskonir went first, digging with his front hooves before falling to his knees and attempting to roll over. It took him more than a couple of tries before he managed to get up onto the ridge of his back where he thrashed about, his unkempt mane mopping up the sand. Once he had gone down, the other two followed. When they had all gotten up and shaken off, they, like me, stood gazing to the west.
For the next 200 km I planned to follow the Chu River as far as possible on its westerly course between the Moiynkum Desert and the Betpak Dala. Like many watercourses in Central Asia, it started off with great promise from the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan but withered as it flowed inland, finally disappearing ungraciously in a series of salt lakes and thirsty flats. Every year in spring, however, fresh snowmelt flushed through its system, bringing a fleeting abundance of life. For the first time on my journey this thin green line suggested the kind of reprieve I had only dreamed of previously: ready access to water for days on end and the prospect of plentiful grazing.
That first night out of Ulanbel I slept in the tent without a warm hat—the first time in six months—and rose in the morning feeling light and clearheaded. By sunrise I was in the saddle, and knew at once I was in for a good day. With a slight press into Zhamba’s side we were moving forward across the sandy earth. I held the reins lightly in one hand and let the other go lax, twisting my torso at times to take in the full panorama. Following a series of horse tracks, we crossed empty flats, then threaded our way between tall desert bushes. There was always water to our right and grazing to our left. By lunch we had covered 20 km, by dinner more than 40 km.
The following day I was unwilling to lose the gathering sense of momentum and took a wide berth around an aul called Shyganak before hugging the shoreline of salt lakes. In the evening I descended to flood-plains and brought the horses to a slow walk among a carpet of orange and red tulips that were backlit by the low sun. Between them crawled an engrossing sight—hundreds upon hundreds of tortoises. There were so many it was nearly impossible not to tread on them, and indeed, in coming days we encountered many corpses of those unfortunate ones crushed by horses and motorbikes. Tigon was fascinated at first by the plodding tortoises but soon decided they didn’t play fair when they receded into their shells. Later, at our camp, he growled when they crossed by the tent through his territory, but invariably let them shuffle on.
That evening, as I sat glowing with the visions and feelings of our ride, I sensed that tortoises and wildflowers were not the only life unharnessed by spring. Tigon’s ears rose suddenly to attention, and the horses went stiff and tall.
As I stood and turned, I locked eyes with a chestnut stallion standing resplendent in his shiny spring coat, tail raised like a war banner and ears speared forward. At first I watched, captivated, as he snorted, pawed at the earth, and marked his territory with droppings. But then he pranced forward, and my mind began to race. Spring was renowned as a time of chaos and conflict for horse herds, as maturing mares were expelled from the family and stallions fought for mating partners. I’d heard stories of competing stallions fighting to the death.
The stallion began circling, his focus bearing down on my horses, which stood defenseless in their hobbles. Tigon leaped to defend them, but the stallion charged anyway. All I could think to do was run between the stallion and the horses, taking aim with rocks and sticks. When finally a rock landed between the stallion’s eyes, he retreated for a minute or two, but then came charging in again.
This routine went on until midnight, at which point I managed to chase him beyond camp. At dawn, he was back again, and just as I became absorbed in cooking porridge he took his opportunity.
When I looked up, a blur of mane, tail, and teeth was bearing down on Ogonyok. Ogonyok turned to run, but the stallion mounted him from behind, dug his teeth in, and dragged them along his spine from head to tail. Ogonyok reached the end of the tether that was tied to his front leg and somersaulted to earth. Almost at the same time, the stallion came crashing over the top, and the metal stake torpedoed overhead. It wasn’t over yet, though. As Tigon took up the fight, the stallion caught him in the bushes and bit down on his back before flinging him through the air. Only after Tigon limped into my tent did the stallion recede to the bushes in the dunes. When the dust had settled I brushed Ogonyok down and uncovered two bloodied fang tracks from neck to rump. I cleaned the wounds and resolved to carry rocks in my pocket—a tactic that proved crucial for the remainder of my journey.
The stallion was not the only spring danger that seemed to have blossomed overnight. Even as I packed to leave, I noticed dozens of small bugs jumping aboard my boots and crawling up my chaps. They were ticks, and on inspection the horses had swollen specimens the size of grapes hanging off their chests, the sheaths of their penises, and under the tail around their anuses. It was dangerous work to pluck them off, especially from Ogonyok, who was sensitive at the best of times. In the process many ticks exploded, and by the time I had finished, dark oozing blood, thick as sap, had congealed with molting horsehair and stuck like glue to my hands.
It was a relief to eventually climb into the saddle and pick up the momentum of the previous day. Yet while the coming days would not turn out to be quite as eventful as the past twelve hours, it was clear that my encounters with the stallion and with the ticks were part of the many rhythms of spring I would have to learn to take in stride.
A week’ ride west from Ulanbel we approached an aul called Tasty—a cluster of adobe houses on a peninsula of land that jutted out into a bend of the river. It was evening, and as I drew close, herders were returning for the night with sheep and cattle from all directions.
I decided to wait it out hidden among twisted desert shrubs before unpacking in darkness and making camp, but a herder spotted me with his binoculars and invited me to his home. The following day, while the herder’s children took my horses out to graze, I joined him at a gathering of the aul’s elders.
In the cool confines of a mud-brick house with whitewashed walls hung with rugs I squeezed in on the floor along a dastarkhan. Opposite sat men with faces as old and gnarly as camel-gnawn desert bushes. Most had patchy gray whiskers and wore traditional Kazakh hats. Women wore silky vests and were wrapped up in white head scarves. Most understood Russian, but few could speak it f
luently.
On the table between us sat a freshly boiled camel’s head surrounded by mountains of baursak (the deep-fried dough Mongolians call boortsog) and plates of the national dish, beshbarmak.
“C’mon, Tim, eat!” the old men demanded.
Using the communal knife to cut meat from the cheek of the camel was one thing, but I was yet to master the eating of beshbarmak. The name means “five fingers,” and it is a dish of meat and boiled squares of pastry often cooked with wild onion.7 The technique of eating it involves scooping up the meat and angling it into the mouth so that the fat doesn’t spill. When I tried, the hot fat and meat burned my fingers, and I sucked on my fingers to cool them. As I shoveled the food down, pieces inevitably dropped to the floor, and the elders laughed.
After the meal I lay anchored to the floor by my full belly watching the chiseled old faces and listening to the guttural sounds of Kazakh. Russian influence hadn’t penetrated here as deeply as it had further to the north and east, and I sensed that these people were closer to the nomad past—a trend confirmed that night in my host’s home.
Serik, as he was called, led me to his one-month-old baby boy, who lay in an old crib sucking on a piece of sheep tail fat.8 As I bent over and smiled Serik gripped my arm and gently pulled me back. In silence we left the room. Once out in the kitchen he told me, “We Kazakhs believe that for the first forty days a baby has not been fully born and released by God to us, and must be protected from bad spirits, especially the evil eye of Zyn, which is like the devil. We would not usually show our baby to strangers during this time, only close relatives. We think you will bring good luck to our baby, but you should not look into his eyes.”
I had often wondered why babies I had seen in Kazakhstan had black dots, usually from charcoal, on their forehead, and thanks to my host I now understood. “We make those dots to draw the attention of onlookers away from the baby’s eyes. You would not even know yourself if you had the evil eye—don’t be offended.”
Traditionally, Kazakhs used all manner of techniques to keep bad spirits from harming the young. One involved giving the baby an unpleasant name that would make people laugh and therefore distract evil spirits.9 An amulet called a tumar was also worn, traditionally filled with a sample of the baby’s own feces, although nowadays with a prayer from the Koran. There was even a tradition known as satyp alu (buying a child), in which parents gave the baby away to an old woman dressed like a witch, and then went to her home dressed in rags to beg for a baby. The baby would be delivered through the door headfirst, as in birth, to ensure a long life and that he or she would eventually die while standing—traditionally considered honorable. In return, the parents would gift the old woman with several sheep, firewood, and a kettle.
From Tasty there remained just 40 km of riding along the Chu River to the town of Zhuantobe. During the two days it took me to get there, I never quite found my rhythm again.
Leaving Tasty was awkward after I discovered that my headlamp and watch were missing—it turned out they had been stolen by Serik’s children. Then, just half a day from the aul, Tigon was hit by one of the first cars he had seen in his short life. At the time we had been forced onto the shoulder of a road to avoid floodwaters and had been transfixed by a solitary Lada hurtling in from the west. After the impact Tigon lay bleeding and unconscious. I was sure he would not survive, but the very next vehicle to arrive was a motorbike carrying the veterinarian from Zhuantobe. Tigon regained consciousness, and on inspection had a broken rib and concussion. The vet arranged for Tigon to be taken to Zhuantobe, where he would be looked after until my arrival.
When I reached the town I was greeted by a throng of barefoot children eager to lead the way to Tigon. I found him lying like a prince in the shade of an outhouse. He had been dining on bowls of fresh milk, meat scraps, and his favorite, eggs.
After two days Tigon was on his feet again, but it was clear that both spring and the respite of the Chu were over. The heat had arrived, and not far west of Zhuantobe the river came to a finish, spilling into a series of salt lakes and swamps. My immediate route lay to the southwest across 120 km of the Moiynkum Desert to the Karatau Mountains.
In what would prove a taste of the conditions and landscapes of central and western Kazakhstan in coming months, we covered this next leg in two long, hot days. At first I was guided by a local man and his friend on a motorcycle, but halfway across their fuel ran low, and we discovered that the artesian bores once used by nomads had been closed off—rumor had it that the water table had recently been poisoned by operations at a Canadian-financed uranium mine.
The last 60 km were the thirstiest to date for my little family of animals. I pushed them on across the shadeless steppe and desert until finally the olive-green ridge of the Karatau Mountains emerged from the dusty horizon. Beyond them lay the Syr Darya River, which I hoped would be my next lifeline, carrying me deep into central Kazakhstan.
Just at dusk we came to a gorge between the Moiynkum and the mountain ridge, at the bottom of which lay a cluster of adobe homes—an aul called Karatau. I hurried down and caught the last herder on his way home for the night. I didn’t have to say a word before he led the way to a trough and invited me in.
14
SHIPS OF THE DESERT
In the late autumn of 1219 Genghis Khan rode along the freezing banks of the Syr Darya leading somewhere between 90,000 and 200,000 men and probably at least twice as many horses. He was drawing close to battle after the long journey from Mongolia, and one can only imagine that the cold air would have lifted the energy and alertness of his mount.
In Genghis’s sights was the city of Otrar, which lay on the northern banks of the river, and beyond it Samarkand and Bukhara, at the heart of the powerful empire of Khwarezm.1 A year earlier, Inalchuk, the governor of Otrar, had enraged the Mongol leader by executing a 450-man merchant caravan from Mongolia. The sultan of Khwarezm, Muhammad II, had added insult to injury when he beheaded an ambassador sent by Genghis to offer a peace agreement.
This was more than enough to invite the wrath of Genghis, and what lay in store was not just a hot-blooded act of retaliation but a carefully planned campaign to conquer all of Central Asia. It is well known that Genghis used a vast network of spies and diplomats to gather information prior to attack, and a mobile corps of Chinese engineers who built sophisticated catapults, battering rams, and siege engines. What is sometimes understated is that as a nomad, Genghis was also well aware that success of any campaign depended as much on timing, taking into account the seasons and the health of his animals, as it did on technology and intelligence. His early life growing up on the edge of survival had taught him to fear and respect Tengri, the eternal blue sky, over any living enemy.
Knowing that the journey from Mongolia to Otrar and beyond was going to be particularly hard on his horses, he had ordered that no one was to go hunting of his own accord, and use of horses was strictly minimized. Traveling in autumn with the object of conquering through winter was a crucial part of his strategy. That way he could avoid the heat of summer, with its increased risk of saddle sores, and because of dew on the ground there would be more pasture and less need for water. As rivers froze over in late autumn and winter, his army could also cross rivers at will.
Come the scorching heat of summer in 1220, Genghis Khan’s timing had proven nothing short of genius, and it is little wonder he believed his aspirations to conquer the world were vindicated by Tengri. Otrar had been destroyed and its governor, Inalchuk, executed by molten silver poured in his eyes and ears. Following an unprecedented trek across the Kyzylkum Desert, a section of his army had also surprised the holy city of Bukhara, and after subduing the garrison, Genghis had entered the city and proclaimed to the ruling class that he had been sent by God to punish them for their sins. Samarkand was the next to fall before Genghis and his army retreated to the hills to rest and graze their animals for the summer. Sultan Muhammad II, meanwhile, was fleeing for his life, with a detachment of
the Mongol army hunting him down. After an epic game of cat-and-mouse, Muhammad was eventually cornered on a remote islet on the coast of the Caspian Sea, where he died of exhaustion and pneumonia in the winter of 1220–21.
At the age of fifty-seven, having already conquered much of China and Turkestan, Genghis was now the ruler of an empire that stretched from Persia to Peking. Although his success in China to date had already proven his prowess, it was this crushing victory over the once powerful Khwarezm Empire that set a precedent for the brilliance and terror that would characterize Mongol conquests in the future.
By contrast with Genghis Khan’s first major foray into Central Asia, my approach to the Syr Darya was not going well. Two days’ ride west from the aul of Karatau, I woke at midday slumped against a twisted tree root and listened to blood throbbing through my ears. The sun burned a rosette through my eyelids and pressed down on my cheeks like an iron. During my snooze the sliver of shade under the poplar tree had moved and the horses likewise had shifted, their bums facing the west, heads propped forward in the shade. Tigon had dug himself into a fresh hole for the third or fourth time and lay panting with his tongue out on the dirt and his eyes reduced to slits.
I felt lethargic and dizzy, so it took me some time to pull myself away from the tree trunk and reach for the battered plastic soft drink bottle that held my drinking water. Earlier I’d been lucky to find a well next to an abandoned winter hut and managed to lower my collapsible bucket 20 m to the water using tether ropes. As I pulled the bucket up it had broken away from the ropes, but I had managed to retrieve water by lowering this drink bottle, and had watered the horses from my cooking pots.