Bishkek and Almaty both lie right on the edge of the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan border, but on different sides (obviously, since they're in different countries). And both lie on the northern edge of the Tian Shan mountain range. Aside from a valley somewhere in the middle, the small country of Kyrgyzstan is almost completely mountainous, while the enormous country of Kazakhstan is almost completely flat. Geographically, Kazakhstan can be very proud of being the largest of several things of which a country probably does not want to be the largest. It's the ninth largest country in the world, but by far the largest landlocked country. The steppes of Kazakhstan form the largest region of continuous dry high plains in the world. From the mountainous southern border, you can look north across over a thousand miles of gently rolling hills to the horizon. If you were to travel those thousand miles, you would come across just about nothing, all the way to Siberia. It's also bordered on the West by the Caspian Sea, which is the world's largest lake, but since no body of water wants to be known as the biggest lake, they call it a sea to make it feel better about itself. Likewise the Aral Sea is partly within Kazakhstan, and even though it's significantly smaller than the Caspian, it would throw a fit if it wasn't allowed to copy its big brother, so they call it a sea as well. Our three-hour drive today was in the margin–the flat area on the verge of being mountainous, the Kazakh region on the verge of being Kyrgyz, the direct route on the verge of weaving.
At least we thought the drive would take 3 hours. Bishkek lies much closer to the border than Almaty, so after 30 minutes, we were at the crossing. Once we'd crossed, we'd have a long, uninterrupted 2.5 hours along the Kazakhstan edge of the border. But first, we had to cross. Rudi, Anni and I got out of the car with most of our bags to walk across while Janysh followed in the car. There was a line of cars at the border so long it bordered on interminable. Since the customs procedures would be different for the three of us compared to Janysh, a Kyrgyz citizen, it made sense for us to split up. Furthermore, there is a trend of illegal car-smuggling from Kyrgyzstan into Kazakhstan. It seems strange to think of smuggling a car, considering that cars are typically the vessels in which other things are smuggled, but since vehicles in Kyrgyzstan are significantly cheaper, it has become common for entrepreneurial-minded individuals to purchase cars in Bishkek and sell them in Almaty for a profit. So while the three of us dealt with our own migration details, Janysh handled a completely different set.
Our migration details began with a long line of people waddling slowly toward a giant gate through a long and narrow cage that would have made any type of emergency evacuation absolutely impossible. Safety first, right guys? The on-foot crossing begins maybe 400 meters from the first of two customs offices, as a pathway about 2 meters wide with metal bars on either side and a corrugated tin roof (I'm even starting to think in the metric system). Despite the fact that we were plodding like cattle (toward an end that would turn out to be much closer to slaughter than I would have expected) through a narrow chute that practically forced us to travel single file, the concept of a line still seemed foreign to these people. There was constant pushing, nudging, and jockeying for position. I was on the brink of a claustrophobic breakdown. Each centimeter forward was a victory won at the cost of someone else's progress, and several people behind continually crept forward in repeated attempts to cut in front. Were it not for Rudi behind me making himself as wide as his slender frame would allow, we surely would have been unjustly bypassed several times.
When we finally reached the slaughterhou–I mean, the customs office, the claustrophobia reached a climax. The corridor opened up into a large room which contained several booths, each housing an official. Ironically, more space, immediately resulted in more crowding. The larger room provided more opportunity to circumvent the universally-agreed-upon single-file procedure, and people pressed forward shoulder-to-shoulder-to-back-to-hip-to-elbow-to-knee-to-armpit. The narrow cage which I had grown to despise moments ago actually seemed comforting. I looked back with longing, but knew I must press on. One lady behind Rudi thought she might be able to get ahead if she could get her bag in front of us. She put it on the floor and scooted it continually forward with her foot, even when the crowd was not moving. Eventually, the bag was beside me, and almost at the end of the reach of her leg, yet she limboed down under Rudi's arm (which was glued to the handrail in order to prevent her from passing) and scooted her bag forward still. Despite the fact that neither Rudi nor I would have consented to her passing us just because her bag had somehow magically appeared in front, anyone with the inclination could have simply reached down and stolen her stuff. When we finally reached the passport window, someone did pick up her bag, and simply handed it back to her. I don't know if I have ever had to resist an urge stronger than the urge I had to turn around and laugh in her face.
On the other side of the border, Rudi and Anni and I waited. We waited and waited. We waited until we could wait no more, and then we waited more. When an adventurous photographer has a camera and nothing else to do, he takes copious amounts of pictures. It does not matter where he is, or whether the fact that a border crossing is not the most advisable place in which to take pictures. So I took copious amounts of pictures. Of people. Of cars. Of dogs. Of trash. Of the gas station where we were waiting. Of the foreign border officials… (oh, right–I'm the foreign one…) Of the domestic border officials. It turns out that domestic border officials do not like their picture taken. Domestic border officials always throw a fit when you try to take pictures of the domestic border officials at the border. So the domestic border officials tried to arrest me. If I'm not on the verge of being arrested, I must be doing something wrong. I'm accustomed to the idea that as long as I take pictures, and as long as I hold to the notion that all activity lies well within the bounds of the artist's scope, I will be frequently faced with near-arrested-experiences, and forever at odds with the domestic officials. And I'm absolutely ok with that.
I was knelt down by the side of the road with the camera pointed toward the border crossing when a guard approached me from the side saying "You come with me." I love interacting with officials who clearly don't speak much English, because I can be as dry and underhanded as I want in response, as long as I do it with an accommodating smile and a tone of voice that isn't too snide. "That's ok," I replied, "I'm good here." He pressed further, and I politely declined a few more times before beginning to head back to where Rudi and Anni were waiting with our bags. I didn't have my passport physically on me at the time, so I hoped he'd eventually succumb to the lost-in-translation routine. He didn't. I told him I had a passport "over there" and that I needed to get it before I went with him, but he insisted that I go immediately, and I finally did, once I got him to assure me that I would be able to return if I went along. We headed back into the border crossing compound where he showed me to his superior officer. "You, journalist?" he asked in a tone that implied that he simultaneously hoped I was so he could arrest me, and hoped I wasn't so I wouldn't reveal whatever it was I shouldn't be seeing. I almost replied, "That depends, do you have something to hide?" I didn't though, because this guy seemed to understand just enough English that the sardonic subtlety might actually hit home, thereby inviting more trouble. A part of me hoped that there really was something shady going on at the border so that I could expose it and break onto the journalism scene with a bang. Honestly, I don't know why else they'd be so paranoid about a camera at the foot crossing between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan unless they really did have something to hide. "Tourist." I said, adding, "I have a visa in my passport." motioning to the freedom beyond the gate. The superior officer called over his superior officer, who called over another superior officer. Eventually, I was scrolling through pictures on my camera exhibiting to them that I had not taken any incriminating photos, and that everything I had shot was "out there" and not "in here". Finally, they let me go. On my way out, another guard at the gate who had not been involved in the process stopped me and demanded that I wait while he retrieved his superior officer. "Seriously, homeboy?" I retorted, "Your buddy literally just told me I could go." I motioned to 'his buddy' who came over, and reinforced my right to leave. "Thanks, boss." I concluded. As I walked away, I flipped the camera around and took his picture. You give me trouble, I take your picture; that's the arrangement. I rejoined Rudi and Anni and recounted the last 20 minutes. Looking back on the incident, I still prefer the verge of being arrested to the verge of fatal boredom.
Back at the gas station with Rudi and Anni, I witnessed the illegal activity the border officials were trying to hide. They didn't want me to see their melons. An old beat-up Russian car, the likes of which is only found in movies about the Russian mafia, pulled up under the awning and out stepped a disheveled-looking Kazakh with the last fringes of a cigarette butt hanging out of his mouth. In the back window, I could see the tiny car was filled to the roof with watermelons. A couple of the unofficial border officials (guys wearing military-issue camouflage who weren't actually patrolling the border but I had seen them commiserating with on-duty guards) trotted up to the fruit-laden hunk of junk and his car, and instantly began melon negotiations. After some lively repartee, and more than enough sideways glances to be suspicious, they walked away with two of the biggest specimens. I don't know exactly what's packed inside, but I'm on the brink of a story that will surely expose the corruption within the ranks of the Kazakh border patrol.
Finally, almost 4 hours later, Janysh emerged from the border gate. Even though I had just been on the verge of Kazakh prison, It was clear that Janysh had drawn the short straw today. Sure enough, they did suspect that he was attempting to take the car across the border to sell, and they gave him the worst kind of run-around. The kind that involves government ignoramuses. Janysh had to remove everything from the car, including a couple of bags we had left (one containing my laptop–yikes), and some very expensive and large audio equipment we were delivering to the studio in Almaty. They opened up panels of his doors, and even removed the air filter, running the whole thing through an x-ray machine and letting the dogs loose on it for a while, and I don't mean that the dogs were marking their territory. But the domestic border officials sure marked their territory well. We get it guys. This is your turf. Another half hour down the road, as we were still discussing the ridiculous nuisance of the border crossing, we arrived at a police checkpoint. It seems that there's a law in Kazakhstan that all vehicles must have their headlights on, and Janysh was in severe violation of that law, which was not posted anywhere along the road. "How am I supposed to know?" he asked them. A very reasonable question. "You must read the laws." An absolutely ridiculous answer. They had seen his ID card, and they knew he was from another country. No one in Canada would expect a visiting American to have read whatever 2-page document they have describing the 16-or-so Canadian rules and regulations (but then again, everyone in Canada is just too nice to be concerned with in the first place). The fine for not having headlights on amounted to almost $80. Needless to say, Janysh wasn't going to pay that, so the officer offered an alternative, "I haven't had lunch yet, maybe you give me some money for tea." So Janysh volunteered a few bucks to the officer's personal fund and we were on our way.
The rest of the drive proceeded without incident. When I say 'without incident', what I mean is that we didn't die. It's impossible to drive the road from Bishkek to Almaty without experiencing close call after close call. Drivers have as little respect for lines as people trying to cross the border on foot. The middle of the two-lane highway is apparently reserved for anyone and everyone who might want to pass anyone and everyone else traveling furious speeds at any time or every time. Most of the time, the two-lanes are three cars wide, and who knows what direction the car in the middle is going. We drove along the bleeding edge of safety between the mountains on our right and the thousand miles of prairie on our left. And then it started pouring rain. This rain was unlike any rain I have ever witnessed. These were Asia-sized drops of rain, and they pelted the windshield as if God was angry at water, and water was trying to run away. All the way through Almaty the torrent continued until we couldn't see anything in front of us, even with the windshield wipers on full boar. Once in Almaty city, traffic becomes completely chaotic, but I didn't really realize how chaotic it was until later, because we couldn't see it well enough to notice the chaos.
And then I ate horse.
There's a mildly humorous expression in which a person may wrap up a very boring story by saying "… and then I found five dollars." in an attempt to make their terrible story interesting. I have decided to adopt a similar strategy for improving upon my terrible stories by concluding with "… and then I ate horse." You might wonder where I came up with this idea. I'll tell you. I came up with it tonight at dinner when I ate horse. We arrived at the FEBC station in Almaty 4 hours later than expected to meet Nurlan, the station manager, his wife Karlygash, their son Ardak, and their daughters Adina and Dana. They had prepared a very generous meal for us, including a pile of flat sheets of pasta boiled with beef and onions known as bishbarmak, several different kinds of meats and cheeses, pastries and salad, and kazy. Kazy is sausage made with horse meat. As I was chewing on the horse meat, Nurlan was pouring drinks for everyone, as a good host often does. "What's this, milk?" I asked as he filled my cup to the brim. "No, no, no, no!" Rudi exclaimed, practically jumping out of his chair. He said something else to Nurlan in Russian, clearly trying to get him to pour smaller portions. Obviously this was not milk. At least not the milk I'm accustomed to. I don't think Rudi would try so hard to protect me from milk. Rudi explained, "This is kumis. It's fermented horse milk." I tried not to react, but failed miserably. "I'm sorry, it's what WHAT what?" Rudi reiterated "Fermented horse milk." and passed my full cup over to Janysh. Janysh already knews he didn't like kumis, but he accepted it anyway. As Rudi was explaining, Nurlan continued sloshing out the kumis into every empty glass, as if it was liquid happiness, and Rudi continually tried to slow him down. Rudi protected me once again, taking the next cup for himself, which had a little less than the one which ended up in Janysh's hands. The third cup still had WAY too much in it, but I accepted it anyway, not wanting to be rude. And the answer to your question is "Yes." Whether your question is "Is it gross?" or "Does it taste like rancid coconut mixed with hand soap mixed with despair?" or "Would you rather peel off your taste buds one-by-one with a fish hook?" the answer to all of these questions is "Yes." So after a day on the brink of disaster, I crashed into bed on the brink of an upset stomach.
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