Journey To The Center Of The Earth

A few weeks ago, the Zhezkazgan volunteers were invited to go on a picnic day trip with the teachers and graduating students of a local college. The prospect of a day outside of the Zhezkazgan city limits is always a welcome proposition, so we gladly accepted. The destination was a village called Ulytau, located about three hours north of the city. Ulytau is not just any Kazakh village; it is as historic as a village in Kazakhstan can possibly get. While this is quite possibly damning with faint praise, it is true that Ulytau is the traditional home of Kazakh culture. It is said that the Kazakhs are split among three ancient tribes, although I personally have never heard anyone discuss this except when specifically referencing Ulytau. Nonetheless, Ulytau is recognized as the hallowed meeting point of these tribes. The village, which today consists of maybe 5,000 people, is located truly in the center of the steppe, miles from any other human settlement. What makes Ulytau interesting is that it lies in the shadow of a mountain that is remarkably large given the surrounding steppe.

We set out from Zhezkazgan early in the morning on a rickety, crowded bus. Fortunately, the road north of the city has been recently repaved, which allowed for smooth sailing all the way to Ulytau, unlike the road south. Beyond Ulytau, however, the road (European highway E123 - hah!) is from all accounts completely impassable even to the most intrepid vehicles. The only person I have met who braved the full length of the northern road was a Swedish cyclist passing through; the only cars he reported seeing were those rusting away on the side of the road, having been abandoned long ago.

(It's nearly impossible to capture the vastness of the steppe in a photograph. I don't have anything that can do it justice. Really, it is something that needs to be experienced over distance and time rather than something that one can comprehend with a snapshot.)

Our bus quickly passed through the smaller city of Satpaev, which lies only 15 minutes north and then proceeded through a maze of mines. I had always envisioned the Satpaev mines to be deep under the ground, but apparently they have their share of strip mines as well. Past this industrial section, the surroundings acquired a surprising beauty. I had previously held a rather low opinion of the asthetic value of the steppe, but my opinion had been heavily influenced by the brown months of fall and winter. In the early summer, at least, the grass took a strangely compelling shade of green. As we continued north, the landscape ceased to be as flat as the southern steppe and became a series of rolling hills. A bit later, real hills appeared on the horizon, shrouded in the purple mist of distance. The endless expanse of green grass (the "naked steppe", as they say in Russian), the bright blue sky dotted with cloudbursts, the purple hills, and the exposed mounds of reddish dirt created a palette the likes of which I had nearly forgotten existed during a Kazakhstan winter. It was refreshing.

(Rush hour on the road to Ulytau.)

We passed through a small village called Zhezdi one hour into the trip, where another road branched off to even more godforsaken locales to the west. After Zhezdi, the road was two hours of emptiness, although there were isolated houses strewn here and there and an attentive observer could spot the odd shepherd. As the hills in the steppe became more numerous, our 360 degree view became about as obstructed as is possible in Karaganda Oblast. After rounding one little flat-top, Ulytau came into view underneath a series of rugged-looking hills.

(A monument to the meeting place of the Kazakh tribes, a few kilometers from Ulytau.)

(Ulytau springs into view after we pass over a hump.)

We passed through the town, which seemed rather tidy by Kazakh village standards. I even saw an ATM! It should be noted that Ulytau is the capital of its region (think county), although that's not saying much considering the Ulytauskiy Rayon is home to only about 13,000 residents despite being the size of a small state. We passed through the center of the town and drove on towards the foothills. The bus managed to quite literally ford a stream, which fortunately was running low and eventually we found our way to a clearing where we set up shop.

(This is just the tip of the iceberg.)

The bus came to a stop and out came all the blankets, food containers, big pots, and shashlyk apparatus. We set out the dastarkhan (array of food -- it's an institution here) and "snacked" on some "light" food. After this relatively quick affair, the group split in different ways as we explored nature. Drew, Robert, and I separated ourselves from the pack since our mountaintop of choice was deemed to be too ambitious by the rest. I love a good aerial view and it was a great change of pace from the flatness of everyday life. Unfortunately, our ascent up the ridgeline was ultimately cut short by threatening weather. We retreated down the side of the ridge to the valley and eventually back to the campsite, where it was time for the shashlyk.

(Ulytau from above)

Shashlyk is a major Central Asian dish, although as far as I know, it is originally from the Caucausus region. It's basically a meat shish kebab and it is the closest thing that Kazakhs have to barbeque, although the meat -- lamb, chicken, beef, or less often, pork -- is much less tender than what you would find in an American patio. The existence of shashlyk is irritating in one sense because it proves that the local cuisine can marinade meat, yet they insist on boiling it in every other instance. (Note to my mother: if I see boiled lamb in my first month back in America, I am leaving for another two years).

(Shashlyk in action. It's always cooked this way -- a wood fire is made in the far end and the hot embers are slid down the chute to cook the meat.)

Despite the rain, we managed to light a good fire and successfully cooked everything. Ultimately, the rain shower was welcome because it drove away a Vietnam-like number of bugs that must have recently hatched. Free from the pestering of insects, we demolished round two of this Kazakh picnic as the rain subsided. Following the food, the teachers beckoned to us to follow them into the woods, which is how I ended up drinking vodka while standing in a distant forest in the rain with a bunch of middle-aged Kazakh schoolteachers. If that's not Peace Corps in a nutshell, I don't know what is.

(Raw, wet, late spring weather followed us home.)

Soon after, we began the epic task of cleanup and eventually boarded the bus once again. The ride back to Zhezkazgan was a sleepy one for everybody, especially because the trip lasted 13 hours in total. Seeing Ulytau was a fascinating experience for me. While I did not get the chance to wander around the town, it was by far the most isolated human place I have ever been in my life (yet we got great cell phone service, welcome to the 21st century). It was life at its simplest, far away from the bustle and worries of the larger world. Of course, it is easy to romanticize village life. Those volunteers who live there day in and day out and who eat beshbarmak every day might have a slightly different take.

Казахская Свадьба! (Not Just Any Wedding)

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post, but I am finally settled in my apartment which is never a simple process. C'est la vie in Kazakhstan.

(Proud parents await the official ceremony)

As I wrote earlier, about a month and a half ago, my host sister Sania got married. Coming into the wedding, I had no idea what to expect. The routine, the traditions, the ceremonies, and the general atmosphere were all a complete mystery to me. I could have dug deeper when asking my host family about the proceedings, but the family stress level was palpable. Some things in Kazakhstan are best experienced without any prior knowledge of what is supposed to happen, anyway.

(The couple during the civil ceremony. I'm not sure exactly what was said, because it was all in Kazakh.)

The classic image of an American wedding is that of the bride gliding down the aisle to the altar. This defining moment is not shared by Kazakh weddings. At around 3:30pm on a Saturday, we proceeded directly to a government office located about five minutes from our apartment. We waited in the hallway, collecting more family members, as another wedding was being performed in the main room. When it was our turn, we entered a modest room with a large desk and a huge sky-blue flag of Kazakhstan on the wall. This was the civil ceremony and was attended by a small group of about 30 family members. The best man and the maid of honor attended Sania and Kuanysh as papers were signed and the marriage was official.

That was quick.

(A quick dance.)

The Kazakhs clearly prefer to get the paperwork out of the way in order to clear the rest of the day for celebrations. In this case, the ceremony took about 20 minutes, although in reality it was simply the prelude for what ultimately became a 13 hour journey.

After the marriage ceremony, we went outside and waited in the blustery spring weather for the newlyweds to emerge. Kuanysh came out carrying Sania and swept her into the backseat of the first of seven waiting cars, all adorned with flowers and balloons. The best man and the maid of honor joined them in the first car while the rest of the wedding party filed down the street to the other cars. (Note: I don't know exactly what the 'best man' and 'maid of honor' are called here, but their roles are a little different. There were no extra groomsmen or bridesmaids).

As the celebrations continued through the day and into the night, the initial ceremony felt more and more like mere paperwork that had to be dispensed with. Our procession of cars left the government building and sped down the street, horns blaring and streamers flapping in the wind. When we reached the widest boulevard in Zhezkazgan, the cars began weaving between each other. My car would occasionally sidle up to another with windows rolled down and the guys in the back seat would clink their shot glasses together. Seeing that the vodka was already flowing at 4pm of what I knew would be a marathon of a day, I did my best to avoid doing a shot a minute. However, when it comes to drinking, locals are not accustomed to taking no for an answer.

(A quick candle-lighting ceremony at the local museum. What does the fire symbolize? Eternal love? I don't know -- your guess is as good as mine.)

As per Zhezkazgan tradition, the entire afternoon and early evening was spent traveling to a number of different local spots to take pictures and drink vodka. The first destination was the local history museum, where we took pictures and wandered around for a short while. After 15 minutes, everybody piled back into their cars and we drove to the neighboring town of Satpaev. While Zhezkazgan has a mosque of its own, it is rather dingy compared to the one in Satpaev. There was a minor catastrophe when, upon arrival, we realized that we had lost the car that was transporting the parents of the bride. Somehow, there had been a miscommunication and they had driven to the Zhezkazgan mosque! While missing the religious ceremony of their daughter's wedding might seem traumatic, the parents seemed to be only slightly bothered by this. I suppose that gallivanting around in cars while soaked in vodka is a young person's game -- we were only a party of 30 or so people, whereas dinner would be the true climax of the wedding.

(The mosque, which is located right across from the Russian Orthodox Church. Apparently they made sure that the minaret was slightly taller than the steeple.)

Following the trip to the mosque, we sped out of Satpaev and proceeded to skirt around Zhezkazgan to the airport, located a few miles outside of town. The airport is apparently the anchor of the "Zhezkazgan wedding tour". There are only daily flights to Astana and Almaty, a fact which lent the Zhezkazgan airport an air of importance about on par with the airport in West Lebanon, NH. Nonetheless, I had never seen the airport. Naturally, more pictures were taken although the strong wind and the cool spring air drove many back into their cars. The rest, of course, tossed down a few shots and champagne.

(The gang poses for a picture before running back to the cars as soon as it was taken. No, Kazakhs still have not gotten used to the wind around here.)

On the way back from the airport we stopped at a massive "ZHEZKAZGAN" sign overlooking the city. The standard pictures were taken and the newly-minted husband performed a tradition of tossing a champagne bottle in the air. Whether the bottle shatters on the ground determines the gender of the couple's first child. Of course, the bottle broke, but since it was never made clear to me which outcome meant girl and which outcome meant boy, I'm still holding my breath.

(Boy or girl?)

The final stop on the grand tour was in the main square in town. We took another round of pictures, but most people were too cold to stick around for more than a few token moments. We quickly retreated to the cars and finally drove to a restaurant.

(Satpaev Square in Zhezkazgan. Satpaev, by the way, was a Kazakh scientist who discovered most of the copper in this region.)

Restaurants in Zhezkazgan seem to thrive on wedding parties and the like. There is not a terribly strong culture of dining out, but families spend what I can only assume to be a ridiculous amount of money on big occasions such as these. A head count was impossible, but there were easily 200 people spread out among long tables. Like with most formal Kazakh functions, the routine was very standard. A hired emcee ran an agenda that included the formulaic games, music, and occasional dancing. All through the night food was brought to the tables and many people stood up to give toasts. And of course, there were pictures.

(The Scene as we entered)

(The table of leading dignitaries...and I want to stress that those are only the appetizers.)

(The four sitting at the main table would always stand as they listened to each and every toast throughout the night. Toasts play a much bigger role in Kazakh and Russian culture than they do in American culture. A regular dinner party will have many. A wedding... well, there were plenty.)

(Lord knows it wouldn't be a wedding without beshbarmak.)

(A better view of the whole room)

(The cake, which pretty much nobody ate because it was late and you can only be at a Kazakh dinner party for so long.)

(Yes, that is a Yulia Tymoshenko bobblehead on the vodka bottle. Tymoshenko is the Ukrainian prime minister and Princess Leia lookalike. Seriously she's got the hair. I want my George W. Bush bobblehead tequila bottle!)

The scene at the restaurant dissipated at around midnight. A long day of fluctuating between various levels of inebriation is the sort of thing that kills me and I was very ready for bed. This naive optimism was quickly dashed when it was announced that "молодёжь" -- the young people -- would all be heading to a night club. This was fun for a while, but I was a complete zombie by 4am. Thankfully, we left around 4:30 and I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

The wedding was an interesting experience. At its core, it was not drastically different than an American wedding, although it was hardy the same thing. In truth, the wedding seemed to follow the exact same format that every large formal party follows, but with a pre-party and a post-party. I suppose it simply would not be a Kazakh event if it did not involve the дастархан, the enormous arrangement of food that leaves almost no empty space on the table. It was a fascinating experience, but not one I would want to do every weekend!

Moving!

The last few weeks have been hectic. After spending my first six months in Zhezkazgan with a host family, it was time to move out on my own. That's a daunting task for a foreigner with language issues and no knowledge of how one finds apartments in Kazakhstani cities. Fortunately, a local friend helped me out and found a number of available apartments. I moved a few weeks ago and ever since I have been struggling to track down random kitchenware, sanitary supplies, random spices, and everything else. Fortunately, my friend supplied me with a small collection of plates, forks, spoons, and of course a teapot -- absolutely no knives, however, because a Kazakh under no circumstances can give a knife as a gift. To give somebody a knife is apparently a very antagonizing gesture; I have also heard that it is acceptable to steal knives from the homes of others. I have not seen that in practice, nor do I hope to see it first-hand.

The move to my own apartment has temporarily cut off my internet access -- Kazaktelecom moves at its own uniquely glacial pace -- which is why I have been remiss in updating this blog lately. However, I plan to write about my host sister's epic wedding and a few other topics as soon as I can!

Kokpar and Carnivores

Shymkent has a longer history than any other major Kazakhstani city, nearly all of which grew out of 18th and 19th century Russian forts. Since the city is located in the far south, it had more historical connections to the Silk Road khanates and emirates based around cities like Bukhara, Samarkand, and Kokand, whereas nomadic regions in the rest of Kazakhstan urbanized much later. This distinction is made clear by the architecture of Shymkent. While not spectacular, it clearly lacks the level of Soviet influence that can be found in 20th century concrete creations like Karaganda.

Shymkent is fairly infamous in Kazakhstan and is frequently referred to by its nickname, "Texas". It is located in the heart of the most conservative and tradition Kazakh region in the country. The city has a reputation for violence and machismo, although in my brief experience all the locals were quite friendly. Deserved or not, its notoriety is such that my host sister refuses to travel there for fear of being bridenapped. In any case, Kazakh guys are rather territorial about their women, so keeping your distance from Kazakh girls would probably eliminate about 80% of potential problems in Shymkent.

(The Shymkent Hippodrome)

From a mental standpoint, Shymkent was a huge breath of fresh air. The city was in full bloom, which was a welcome sight after the frozen bleakness of winter in Zhezkazgan. The bustle of people out and about, the green grass growing in parks, and the leaves that had appeared on trees were practically a novelty to those of us who came from more northerly climes. For most, the main draw of Nauryz weekend in Shymkent was the rare pleasure of socializing with real, live Americans. That was hardly the only appeal to the trip, however -- on Nauryz itself was the fascinating display of traditional Kazakh sports.

(Some guy spending his holiday getting a good whipping while on horseback)

On Sunday we awoke to a dreary sky and the threat of rain. Nonetheless, by late morning we made our way towards the outskirts of the city and the local hippodrome. While there was indeed a large horse-racing track, the stadium itself consisted of bench seating built into the side of a hill. Above the seating was an endless row of food. Plov, doner kebabs, shashlyk, and well...not much else, but there was plenty of those three. On the field there was a series of competitions. First, was a traditional two-horse race between a male jockey and a female jockey equipped with a whip -- both in traditional dress. Essentially, the guy had to ride as fast as he could to avoid the girl's whip. In many cases the guy got away relatively unscathed due to the speed of his horse or the pity of the girl, but one poor sap got absolutely pummeled.

(Kazakhs would almost love tailgating, but the lack of table would be a total dealbreaker. It's too bad, because they do love their grilled meat -- although they don't deviate from shashlyk)

This activity gave way to a strange wrestling-on-horseback competition. Two men on horses circled each other and attempted to drag the other out of the saddle with their barehands. It sounds strange, but imagine a human thumb war on horseback. These guys were pretty tough and most of them acquitted themselves well (by my standards, at least) by managing to balance on a horse despite nearly impossible angles.

(Two Kazakhs grapple for the upper hand in a horseback wrestling match)

Finally, the horseback-wrestling crowd dissipated and gave way to the main event -- kokpar. This is a traditional Kazakh (and Central Asian) team game played on horseback. Instead of playing with mallets and a ball like in polo, they play with a dead goat carcass. Naturally. Teams would work together to toss the carcass into a round goal that seemed to be about 50 yards apart. Faceoffs are conducted by placing the carcass on the ground and guys have to swoop down and grab it without falling out of the saddle. Most of the game featured a scrum in the middle with about 10 horses running into each other as each team fought for the goat. Since the field was very large, it was tough to get a insightful view into how scrappy those scrums really were, but considering they were fighting over a dead goat, we can imagine that it would really bring the blood fever out amongst the players.

(One of many rain-drenched scrums)

The rain eventually dispersed the crowd when the skies really opened up. I hate to admit it, but I proved to be a fair-weather kokpar fan and abandoned the game after about 30 minutes. Truth be told, after the absurd novelty of kokpar, it became a little repetitive. Nonetheless, I have no regrets about spending most of the afternoon at the stadium.

(If you look closely, you'll see a man in yellow leaning down to grab the goat carcass in this faceoff)

The Pre-Wedding Wedding

In Kazakh culture, one wedding isn't enough. My host sister's wedding will take place on Saturday, but according to local tradition, the celebration begins a week early. This event is roughly transliterated as a toi and it is largely like any other Kazakh party: many tables and way too much food. We sit down and eat and then we get up to dance, and possibly play a silly game. This is followed by more sitting down and eating and more dancing. Lather, rinse, and repeat. Kazakh parties are very structured and while they are interesting for cultural reasons, there is always a clash that stems from my discomfort at sitting down all the time, and Kazakhs discomfort at the fact that I might be standing.

The overarching theme of the toi seemed to be a sending-off party hosted by the bride's family. While members of the groom's family were present, relatives and friends of my host family came from Zhezkazgan, Satpaev, Karaganda, Astana, Almaty, and Balkhash. As the night drew to a close, tears were shed, and my host sister walked off with her future husband and his family. While they won't be officially married until Saturday, she is gone from our house for good. It is apparently tradition for the bride to live with her future in-laws for a week before moving out with her husband after tying the not. Living with in-laws for a week before a marriage is not the typical American's idea of a great time, but this tradition seems to be entrenched and unquestioned in Kazakhstan.

Seven hours is a long time for any social function. The toasts regress from eloquent to brief as the vodka and cognac flow. To make a long story short, in the final hour various Kazakh men tried to:

1. Convince me to come to Balkhash, effective immediately
2. Marry their daughter
3. Convince me that rap was actually invented in Kazakhstan

I also got a nice wet kiss on the cheek from a portly guy who seemed overjoyed at the sight of everyone and everything. I'll post pictures after the wedding next weekend.

Shymkent, Turkestan, and a Glimpse of Green

(Welcome to the south. Apparently they are one-humpers in Kazakhstan when it comes to their camels.)

When we awoke on the train to Shymkent, the view out the window seemed to be of an entirely different country. Fertile green fields, blooming trees, and the mountains in the distance served as a reminder that the icy slush of central steppe was a world away. Clearly, South Kazakhstan Oblast was a far cry from the snowy, blustery weather we had encountered in Zhezkazgan only a day before.

(A view once shared by a bloodthirsty Genghis Khan. If Otrar was ever impressive-looking, Genghis certainly did a number on that.)

After spending two days relaxing and catching up with volunteers from all over the country, many of us journeyed to Turkestan, a small city located a few hours northwest of Shymkent. Our first stop was ruins of the ancient city of Otrar. Otrar emerged as a trading hub about 1000 years ago, but was decimated by Genghis Khan in 1219 and in the fashion of the Mongol invasion, the population was killed or enslaved. It nonetheless was rebuilt some years later and re-emerged as commercial center and continued its association with violent Central Asian leaders when Tamerlane died of a cold on a visit in 1405. Eventually, the city died out as the Silk Road lost importance and the irrigation system broke down. Today, all that remains is a low-rising dusty hill that has been partially excavated in a UNESCO project.

(The mausoleum of Khwaja Ahmad Yasavi in Turkestan)

After wandering through the grounds of Otrar, we once again boarded the bus and headed to the city of Turkestan. The ride through this section of the country was just as flat as anywhere else, but this region seemed to be slightly arable, unlike the arid central steppe. Turkestan was a sleepy town outside of the bustle around its main attraction, the mausoleum of Khwaja Ahmad Yasavi. Yasavi was an important figure in the spread of Sufism in Central Asia and one of the earliest known poets in a Turkic dialect in the 12 century. His mausoleum was built by Tamerlane at the end of the 14th century.

(Attractive architecture in Kazakhstan? Who knew?)

Turkestan is really the only place in Kazakhstan with much religious history. In fact, the nomadism of the steppe combined with the regions proclivity for earthquakes has left little visible history at all. I was glad to see the city while I had the chance. The Turkestan trip, however, was merely a prelude for Nauryz festivities in Shymkent.

Striking South

During the last two weeks, Drew and I logged over 60 hours of travel time on trains and buses in a big loop through southern Kazakhstan. The occasion was a confluence of two events. Nauryz, a major Kazakh holiday, was immediately followed by a Peace Corps conference in Almaty. For years, volunteers in Kazakhstan have taken advantage of this and organized big gatherings in Shymkent, the hub of southern green belt. Shymkent, Kazakhstan's third city, is considered to be the most Kazakh city in the country. Since it lacks both the cosmopolitan nature of Almaty and Astana and the Soviet feel of places like Karaganda, I am apt to agree.

Unsurprisingly, the journey itself was just as interesting as the destination. In order to save time, we decided to take the vaunted Zhezkazgan-Kyzylorda bus. If you look at a detailed map of Kazakhstan, you will see a road spanning the 450 km between these two cities. To be clear, this is a "road" and not a road. In addition to the horrified warnings issued by locals about this bus, I had plenty of other evidence to know what awaited us. The ride itself didn't disappoint.

(The guys on the bus while the girls were using the "bathroom". By that I mean they were going behind the bus for privacy and peeing on the road. Sometimes, it's good to be a guy.)

As we left at 8am on a Wednesday morning, a light snow was falling in Zhezkazgan. Since I chose not to bring my heavy coat to the sunny south despite the desperate pleas of my host family, this was a little unpleasant, although the bus itself was warm enough. This bus was not a regular charter bus, but a 70s-era Soviet claptrap that looked more or less like a miniature grey schoolbus that was held together with duct tape, string, and prayers. We were very concerned by the fact that we could only buy tickets on the day of departure, but fortunately this was not a problem as there were only 12 passengers out of a possible 16-18.

(The view was pretty consistent the whole way)

There is nothing between Zhezkazgan and Kyzylorda. For about 450km, there are no cities, no towns, and no villages. There are only a handful of what can only be described as homesteads. It must be a bleak existence, so far from anything; these dwellings must be among the most isolated in the world. There is little traffic on the road and by my judgment we passed only about 10 vehicles going in the other direction. However, that's not to say that the few residents in the area can't create a commercial opportunity from the road. About three hours before we arrived in Kyzylorda, we stopped at "the cafe". It's a hell of a place -- five or six outbuildings with goats wandering here, there, and everywhere.

(The "cafe". It's a lot nicer inside than it looks, seriously. I also highly recommend their goat lagman soup; additionally, the vodka that they served was honestly the smoothest I have ever tasted. Go figure.)

For almost the entire 10 hours we were on the bus, we were bouncing around like pingpong balls. For the first few hours the bumpiness was curbed by the fact that the road was frozen solid, but as we progressed south, the ice gave way to mud and the conditions worsened. For a few hours the driver was literally weaving back and forth across the road, avoiding lumps of mud, in what had essentially become an obstacle course of dangerous ruts. Right about halfway through the trip, we had a small problem:

(An unfortunate situation when you are about 200 miles from the nearest town)

The bus got stuck in a rut and went over the embankment into the snow. Fortunately, the ditch wasn't deep enough for us to flip, which would have made the story significantly less funny. In all, it took us about 30 minutes to get the bus back on the road. The process involved shoveling snow out from under the bus, ripping up shrub brush to use as traction under the tires, and then pushing. We pushed the bus away from the road to flatter ground, where it could slowly turn around and pick up enough speed to get over the embankment. Thankfully, it was simpler than we initially anticipated -- the guys on the bus worked with an efficiency that suggested that it wasn't the first time they've dealt with such a problem.


Upon our evening arrival in Kyzylorda snow was falling once again, which I found disconcerting, but fortunately it was the last snow I saw. We had planned to spend the night in the city with other volunteers, but we had made friends with a Kazakh guy and a Russian girl on the bus who were also continuing on to Shymkent, so we took a late train. In classic Kazakhstan style, the train was sold out, but the Kazakh guy "knew people" in Kyzylorda and we somehow managed to procure tickets.

By 9am the next morning, our motley crew pulled into the station -- 25 hours after departure from Zhezkazgan. For the record, that's making great time.