The five mile journey, despite being the shortest of the trip so far, is definitely the most dangerous. Although he is young, the driver has quickly learnt every trick in the book to beat the traffic. This does, of course, include throwing caution to the wind when it comes to the law. The colours of the traffic lights are irrelevant as he breezes through them whilst the stereo blasts out Jamaican Reggaeton, Hispanic Hip-Hop and Kazakh Dance Music at deafening volumes. He is more than happy to drive on the wrong side of the road to get me there quickly. Sometimes we ride on the tram lines, turning back into the road only if a tram is several feet away. From time to time he drives with no hands, preferring to sticks them through the sun roof and feel the air resistance.
When we come to a standstill at a crossroads he points at some policemen who are parked at the turn off to our left. “You…see…those…cops?” I nod, thinking I can relax that he will finally drive a bit more carefully. I am wrong - he speeds ahead so fast that I feel like my face is going to melt. He grins excitedly, perhaps because he finds it fun to plough through the roads like a computer game, but more likely because he enjoys glancing at my expression of fright. My fear only ends when he swerves 270 degrees into the parking bay of the bus station and shouts “YES!” I give him the agreed amount (about £1) and shake his hand, though I should really be shaking the hand of Mister Good Fortune that I am still alive.
Once on board I take a big swig of this milk, expecting it to taste like heaven. Food palettes are to a large extent nurtured, so the experience of flavour is highly subjective. But my awareness of this fact is of little use in stopping me from gagging. My whole body heaves, trying to forcibly remove any trace of the milk from my person, but I somehow manage to hold it down and turn to Zaur and muster a smile. “You like?” “Errmmm…” “Here, have some more!” Seen as he has paid for this gift to me it is rude not to, so I take another swig, repeating to myself that with practice it is possible to enjoy eating and drinking almost anything. This time it is not so bad, as my body is prepared for it. I thank him, but refuse all future offers, which is fine by him as he is getting almost orgasmic pleasures from necking the stuff.
When the bus finally arrives in Taraz it is wet and late. But after eight hours of my company, Zaur is not sick of me yet. He tells me I must stay at his house and meet his wife, son and father. I accept his kind offer. We take a smoke filled taxi to his flat, the second floor of a small concrete block. Zaur’s father is asleep, but his son, five years old, comes to life at our arrival. Ten minutes later, though, he is so burnt out that he goes back to bed. Zaur’s wife cooks us some midnight snacks, and we all turn in.
The next day, after laying on a large spread for breakfast, I get to meet Zaur’s father, the eighty-nine year old Oljaz. He beams at me, and as Zaur translates his face fills with pride, as does the nuance of his voice, because he has the opportunity to uninterruptedly talk about his life and his family. Many Kazakhs can trace their ancestry at least seven generations. It is only in relatively recent history that a large number of Kazakhs were nomadic - Oljaz was the first generation of his family to grow up in a permanent environment. Oljaz fought in the Second World War, and has plenty of medals to prove it. He knew plenty of people who lost their lives in the fight against fascism. He is a lifelong communist, but he asks me to take his photograph with a backdrop not of Lenin but of his ultimate hero, Abai Qunanbaiuli: “The Kazakh Shakespeare!” Oljaz exclaims.
To compliment the food a bottle of Kazakh vodka and some shot glasses are produced from the cupboard. Zaur makes a point of saying that drinking vodka is not an every day thing, it is reserved for special occasions. And as it is his birthday, and also as they have a guest from abroad, it is a cause for double celebration.
We toast the unity of an Englishman with a Kazakh - “Za Druzhbu Myezhdu Narodami!” - we toast the birthday of Zaur - “Za Vas!” Drinking premium vodka neat is a magnificent experience. Unlike the muck that can be found in any newsagent and supermarket in England, this is sensational stuff. I get a taste for it, and don’t refuse a few more. The feeling of delayed warmth is enduring. After having one-for-the-road, we say our goodbyes. I thank them for their overwhelming display of hospitality, and they say I am always welcome.
The effects of the vodka kick in on the minibus, and I fall asleep. An hour later I wake up, and the bus is considerably more empty. A girl is staring at me smiling. I say hello, and go through the process of trying to explain who I am and where I am going. “Ahhh” she says, understanding what I have said, but a little perplexed by why I did not just get on a plane in Hong Kong. She takes deep breaths and then attempts to say some long sentences. She is seventeen years old and wants to improve her English speaking skills, so is glad to be able to speak with a native. The chap sat next to me does not speak a word, but just sits with a mild grin on his face throughout the journey.
