Post 9: TURKESTAN - ARALSK - AKTAU

The train journey from Turkestan to Aralsk is spent in a shared cabin with a middle aged alpha male Russian - Vladimir. We converse little when I first get in as we are both tired. There is something quite soothing about both the movement and the sound of the train. Perhaps this is something which takes one back to being a baby rocked to sleep. Or maybe it is just because I am tired. But it is the best sleep I have on the journey so far.

The next morning whilst Vladimir snoozes on the opposite bed, I lye and read. Abruptly he wakes up, and in less than two seconds he is rummaging about and chatting away. The idea of there needing to be a transition between sleep and daytime activity seems pointless to him. In a friendly manner he lectures me about how the route I am planning is stupid, and that I should go via Moscow, not Azerbaijan. He then somehow musters up an enormous breakfast from his small rucksack, feeds me and continues refilling my plate until I explain that, if I eat any more, it may come back up as there is no space left in my body for it to go. He jokes that if I manage to hold some more food down it may help a certain body part expand - but that is not enough to tempt me.

The train slows into a town full of small white cottages. According to the clock this is the time that I am due to arrive in Aralsk, so I assume I am here and get up to leave. “Where you going? This not Aralsk”, firmly asserts Vladimir. “Oh, okay” I sit back down, and he explains it is not for quite a few more miles yet. Five minutes later he overhears some voices talking outside and jumps up and shakes me. “Actually this is Aralsk, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!” I step off just in time, as when I turn and face the train it is shuttling off. A grin finally fills Vladimir’s face as he smiles and waves goodbye from the window.

Walking through Aralsk is not an experience which could be described as enchanting. The place has clearly seen better days. Back in 1921 it gloriously responded to a hunger shortage in the Soviet Union by provided fourteen railway carriages full of fish from the Aral Sea. However, the drainage of the Aral Sea for the irrigation of cotton fields since the 1960s removed it completely from Aralsk’s coastline, leaving the town to rot. Apparently, though, the times are a-changing, as dams are being built to try and move the lake back to where it once was.

Despite being a sleepy town, when I walk through the town centre it is pulsating, not with trade but with a carnival atmosphere. Today is Victory Day - a celebration and remembrance of the Soviet Union’s role in defeating fascism. A staggering twenty-seven million of her citizens sacrificed their lives in the Second World War, and countless millions were maimed.

As well as a day of remembrance, like most public holidays around the world this is a chance to take time off work and revel in other activities. Groups of boys linger near the groups of girls, eager to flirt, though desperate not to embarrass themselves. Old folks sit on the benches and reminisce. Some of them have eyes which radiate that they have seen and experienced more than I will ever know.

Between groups of people with different ages and genders I turn my attention. I do not need to approach anyone - they call me over. I stand out like a sore thumb for at least two reasons. Partly because the town in so small that everyone seems to know each other. And furthermore because I am wearing shorts, the only person in the square to do so.

At night the atmosphere grows more exciting. The coming together of young and old is not just visually apparent but can also be heard in the music. The DJ somehow manages to blend modern dance with old rallying songs seamlessly.

Early the next morning I catch the train to Aktau. It is a thirty-four hour journey, but as I speak with others on board I soon learn that I should not complain - they have already been on this train for thirty hours, travelling all the way from Almaty. This is, after all, the ninth largest country in the World, and distances between the towns and cities are long.

I am in the lowest class of carriage, so am surrounded by many beds, and hence many people. Some of the people sitting and socialising around me are from Turkmenistan, and are taking a slow but cheap route home. They want to know everything about me, from my age and nationality to the specific details of my hobbies and my family. I ask if they are spies, and they laugh and say they are just curious as they have never met someone from England. They joke that it is more plausible that I am the spy, a real life James Bond.

In the evening I find a food cart for some peace and quiet, after many hours of chatting. But in the food cart I am called over to a table of people, this time some lads from Almaty in their early twenties. They pour me out some beer and say “Relax, man!” They are on their way to Aktau to collect some cars. As things stand import duty is remarkably low, so they can make a decent profit if they buy cars from abroad (the Middle East), collect them from Aktau port and drive them to Almaty to sell on. This lucrative trade is set to end, though, as the government is hiking up the import taxes in June.

They say that when we arrive in Aktau I can share a flat with them. I accept. The next day they stick to their word, and we are collected from the train station and driven to the entrance of one of the many concrete blocks that dominate the town. The exterior may lack character, but the interior is lovely. They cook me dinner and pour out some vodka.

We walk towards the shore of the Caspian Sea. Every fifth car is a Lada. Once the norm in much of the Soviet Union, they are slowly becoming extinct, and perhaps because of this, as well as their simple design, they appear almost quaint. Almost. And they are certainly much less threatening than the SUVs which roar around this town, a status symbol of those who are getting rich from the oil pipelines and shipping which is taking off ‘big time’.

Aktau is perfectly situated to watch the sunset. It is beautiful. I end up staying in Aktau for seven days and nights waiting to receive an Azerbaijan visa and then waiting for the ferry to arrive. Plenty of things happen, but there is a saying amongst people who are only in Aktau on a temporary basis - what happens here stays here. Thus, in respect of this rule, I shall stop there.