I awake in my lodgings in Shymkent and give Olesa (the friend of Zaur who lives nearby) a call. She meets me in the bustling city centre and we go for a Turkish coffee. She asks what my plans are, and I tell her I do not intend to stay here long, but would like to see the ancient town of Sayram before heading northwest to Turkestan. She tells me that she would be honoured to do anything she can to help, and gives her next door neighbour, Almaz, a call. She says he will take me to both of these places, and will not accept any payment off me except for the cost of the petrol. Half an hour later he pulls up next to us with a face of restrained excitement. We jump in, he navigates the traffic with ease, and we arrive in Sayram.
Sayram has recently celebrated its 3000th anniversary. The town is populated mostly by Uzbeks, which has earned it the nickname ‘Little Uzbekistan’. We find an Uzbek restaurant, and spend an hour sat cross legged eating the most delicious cuisine. As we munch away the conversation flows. Olesa, although no communist, talks with sorrow about how it has become very expensive to go to decent universities since the Soviet Union collapsed. When she was younger it was completely free to study, but she says that now parents are having to amass great debts to give their children any kind of hope.
We leave the restaurant and somewhere in the distance can be heard a song which causes Olesa and Almaz to smile and join in. Apparently it is a Kazakh song which is played when a couple have just become engaged. The romantic theme continues when we get in the car, drive off and overtake a convoy of cars which have flashing lights. This usually means that there are newly weds inside. Love is in the air.
Much of the landscape along the journey is, in a word, barren. The vast, flat ‘steppe’ which dominates the geography of Kazakhstan provides inspiration for the eyes, except for the occasional camel grazing on the dry grassland. I wonder if they are happy. Can a camel suffer from depression? One thing they can do is produce milk, and we stop off at a cottage and each drink a cupful, before continuing along the bumpy road.
Despite the barren nature, the land is not uninhabitable. There are various small communities we drive past, including some which still have the old nomadic ‘yurt’ style housing. Furthermore, the environment is more diverse than the eye can see - there are an eclectic selection of minerals and materials in Kazakhstan’s landmass, and the President (whose beaming face, shiny forehead and neatly combed hair can be seen all over the place) has boasted that they have almost every element of the periodic table available.
When we arrive in Turkestan, Olesa kindly accompanies me to the train station to sort out tickets for the rest of my journeys across Kazakhstan. She then asks around for a cheap-but-cheerful place for me to stay. They drop me off there, and we say our farewells.
The next day I potter around Turkestan. The old mausoleum is spectacular. It is situated next to a vast square, which by the early evening seems to be the place to ‘hang out’. Some lads spot me walking with what must be a distinctive gait, and they call me over. They are playing guitar, drinking beer and talking about girls. Splendid. As with previous encounters in Kazakhstan, there are different ethnicities. This becomes apparent from the word go. Well, actually, from the word ‘hello’ - some say ‘salamatsiz ba’, some say ‘salamaleikum’, some say ‘dobridyehn’. Some shake my hand, some hold it and cup it with their other hand. Some bow. It is a satirical and fun way to celebrate diversity. They give me a can of lager and I join them for an hour.
As if to emphasise that Turkestan is more youthful than the facades of the buildings convey, when I go to the train station in the late evening I am again summoned by some people in their early twenties, wondering what I am doing in this town, and for that matter why I am leaving it. They are heading to the larger city Kyzylorda for a few days, and say I am welcome to join them. Alas, I do not have the time. I do, though, have two hours with them waiting for the train. Their English language skills vary, but as we all seem to be full of energy and lacking inhibitions, we manage to have no major communication difficulties. Their humour is very sharp and to the point. One lad in particular has the knack of entertaining absolutely everyone without ever running out of steam. He kindly gives me a present on behalf of everyone. Appropriately it is a catapult, one of the many objects he keeps up his sleeve.
The train arrives on time, and the group gather around me, carry my belongings on board and help me find my cabin. They say goodnight and move on to their carriage, and the train picks up speed. Soon not a single street light can be seen out of the window.
