Warrior

Kazakh (Қазақтар): steppe roamer or free warrior.

Taraz, 27-10-2009

Hello!

Much has happened, so get ready for a long read.. Where to start.. First of all, I enjoy cycling again! The endless steppe, in all its beauty, but with its sparse life, almost got the better part of me. But my days as a steppe roamer have come to an end. The last couple of days I have cycled through hilly landscapes, which makes me technically a mountain biker. But in the true sense of the word, unlike the guys in spotless, shiny outfits with even shinier sunglasses that I've met in the peripheries of German and Polish cities.

The road south of Turkistan came with some headwind, but the beautiful autumn colours that the Syr-Darya valley wears at the moment, totally compensated for this. Many rivers flow from the northern spur of the Tian Shan (the mountain range at the border between Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan) and make for fertile land. Trees align the streets and it seems as if the people that live in these surroundings try to make it look good overall. Their houses are bigger than the ones I saw in the western part of the country, and built in an L- or U-shape, with a garden in the middle (and arable land behind the house). There's also not as much waste lingering around. Even the leafs that have fallen off the trees are burnt in little piles (smoky affair if you pass by on your cycle).
And the last couple of days I had T-shirt weather! Grand feeling: a refreshing tailwind, sun on my skin, road zooming underneath the tires.
After Tortkol I got to choose between the M32, or a secondary road. Both ways are between 80 and 90 kilometres long and lead to Shymkent. Easy choice: from there onwards I wasn't bothered by the numerous trucks that inhabit the M32, the artery of transport by road in Kazakhstan. I dipped into Shymkent to try out a good coffee bar that I had heard of (first good espresso in Kazakhstan), had my money belt fixed and stocked up on dark bread. Then on to Sayram, 10km out of Shymkent and one of the oldest settlements in the country. I got there just in time to see the Kydyra minaret by daylight. It is said to stand there since the 10th century and it's 15 meters high. Good bricks.
That night I camped out in the fields near an uninhabited farm. The next day I continued my ride east to Qaramurt and some 20 kilometres later I had a great brunch in a town called Mangkent. The proprietor of this 'restoran' proudly showed me his place (he spoke a little German; he waved me goodbye with a "tschüssi!"). It had a big terrace, for outside eating, some special seats spanning an artificial river that runs through the plot, a Russian style cottage including a miniature banya (see 'Volga Voler' for a description), modern hotel rooms in another building, a sauna, and all this was tied together by plants and trees. A neat place.


(Pictures: getting rid of the junk. The first one shows a street sweeper in a park in Shymkent, the second one three ladies pushing a Zhiguly Dvoyka VAZ 2102 (spaseba Vladimir!))

I left with a full stomach and a few kilometres down the road (by then I was back on the M32), a small boy caught sight of me. Normally small boys, like guys my age and elderly men wave and/or shout at me (not women though, they mostly keep their distance even if I greet them, apart from some market vendors that tell me: "I luv you!"). This one started throwing rocks. And he was good at doing this. The first stone he cast, hit my left knee. "Why you little ...", I heard myself curse in a Homeresque way. At first I kept on pedaling, dodging the stones that he kept on throwing. But then I thought, like this the next cyclebeast that passes this menace will suffer too, so I turned around. "Let's see what his mother will do when she finds out that her little one is harassing innocent passerby's." As soon as he saw me coming back, he ran off. I cycled up to the house, placed my bike against the outer wall and followed him in. Through a shed-like storage space, door to the garden, some cows to the right, little path that lead to the residential part of the premises: knock on the door. "Salaam aleikum!" No answer. I stuck my head around the corner. There clearly had been a tea break not long before, but there was no-one in the room. Strange, because there were a lot of shoes awaiting their owners at the doorstep. I tried the next door. "Zdrast!" No reply. Again some worn out shoes and sandals on the doorstep, but not a single soul in the room. 'Messy' room I might add. Stuff lying around, boxes with cups and saucers, disorderly piles of blankets.. I shrug off my initial restraint and went in. Room after room: a 'Jan Steen household' (meaning a messy scene). These disorganised people either hid collectively underneath the bed, or they had abandoned their house on their socks when they saw me coming.
I do know now where the twofold meaning of the word 'Kazakh' comes from. Fierce little warrior.

That day I cycled to Zhabaghly, a village 1100 metres above sea level, at the foothills of the Aksu Dzhabagly nature reserve (founded in 1926; one of the oldest nature parks in Kazakhstan). There I met with Vladimir, a biologist who runs a local NGO called 'Wild Nature'. He knows the area and its inhabitants and wrote a book on it (richly decorated with his own pictures of the many species that live in this territory; made it possible to distinguish between the long and short eared owl). In the introduction he compares the Tian Shan to a dragon that has lied down to rest, tail somewhere in Mongolia, belly in Northwest-China, head at the junction between the three 'Stans' that share this natural border. His fossilised spine created the mountains, his fiery breath the steppe and deserts surrounding them. The name Aksu Dzhabagly comes from 'white water' (aksu) that can be found in the lakes that took on the colour of limestone (the eyes of the dragon), and the word for a one year old horse (zhabaghly). It's said that the horse of the first inhabitant of the area saved him from a depression when he returned from a lost battle and found his people chased away, and property ruined. Only his horse stuck it out and the sight of the lean animal, and the sound of its whinny gave the warrior back his spirit, and the mountains and village its name.
Vladimir invited me to camp out in their garden and use their warm kitchen (where the teapot was always full), something I gladly accepted.
The next morning Vladimir's son took me to the rangers' office, for a permit and a ranger that would accompany me on my walk in the mountains. After knocking on five or six doors, and just as many references, we got to the 'Administrator's office'. A man in a training suit opened the door and took the kid inside. He told me to wait, which I did for a quarter of an hour or so. When Vladimir's son came out, I asked him: "Problem?" No, no problem. We walked out. "So, ranger? Permit?", I asked. "Ranger (sleeps)", he signed (palms against each other, held underneath ear, head slightly bend), he said. "So are they going to wake him up?" (Two hands holding imaginary ranger, shaking him, face making shouting expression.) "Nije ponjo.." Language barriers can be so frustrating. I tried to get him to tell me what had been said inside the office of the administrator, but my 'source of information' kept quiet and looked away. Than he took his phone from his pocket and said: "Pappa." Back to the house.
Vladimir told me on the phone that the rangers apparently had a day of rest. On Saturday, weekend, so one could expect some visitors to the park, but never mind. V: "Two options: either you go alone for a walk, or you go together with my son." K: "OK, but can you explain that to him, 'cause I'm having some communication problems here.." V: "Uhm, 'explain'.. What does that mean, I forgot?" K: "Sigh..."



I went alone, fed up with all the red tape that comes with this long established preservation and hungry for heights. First up to one of the park entrances, where an unfortunate ranger that was on duty this day told me: "Nijet." "So where can I walk?" "You go left or right but not straight to mountains." "OK..", and I walked away from him. About 100 meters to the right, behind some trees so out of sight, I started climbing. No paths other then some cattle passageways (you could tell by the manure) and quite steep but I managed to reach the top. From the ridge of this first mountain I made it to the next, where I followed another trail. The bit between 2000 and 2500 metres (estimation) was slippery because of the snow and difficult to climb because of the steepness. On all fours I made my way up. The mountain cam that followed had splendid boulders to climb though and I bouldered on. Splendid views: snow-capped mountains, green hills and valleys in the distance. Being there alone was a fantastic experience. A cloudless day, warm sunlight, the wind rustling through the junipers. Perfect silence in the lee of higher mountains. My friend San had described the reserve as stunning, something I can only confirm.



The next morning I showed Vladimir my pictures. He recognised the mountain that I climbed: Kazam Tsukur (3000m). "You're very lucky, because if ranger had seen you big scandal!", he told me. I take my chances with all of them sleeping off Friday evening's drinking, I thought. Next time I will wear long pants though, for a staggering amount of thorn scratches was added to the many cuts and bruises that decorate my shin-bones and calves.

OST East:
The flat of my friend Michael, an American who's participating in the Peace Corps program in Taraz, has no electricity at the moment. At night we illuminate his kitchen with some candles, which provide good enough light for cooking, and perfect light for a late night conversation. So far we've used his tiny speakers and my walkman for the background music. One of the many songs that passed by is the 'Roadhouse Blues' of The Doors. Candles, good food, beers and this ode to the road: a perfect ambiance. Thanks to my Indian swirl: