Testing Times In Kazakhstan

In the last blog I felt I'd been a bit hard on Azerbaijan. Then on my last day in the country I was again hassled by the Police for money (The Baku constabulary are little more than uniformed beggars) and was charged 3 times the price of what I should have paid for my boat ticket to Kazakhstan - the lady in the ticket office even kind enough to use a calculator and a botched exchange rate to show just how much of my money she would be pocketing for herself.

She had the boat tickets, she also knew I had the money and as such my bargaining power was below zero and I got on the boat dissapointed to leave a country where it was impossible not to feel at times that the majority of people were 'on the take'.

After boarding the boat however, my losses were put into perspective when I ran into teams from England and Spain competing in the Mongol Rally - an annual race/leisurely drive in the aid of charity from either London or Madrid to Mongolia. The teams I had met had encountered even more corruption than I had and most reported being stopped twice a day - with the worst off having been left out of pocket by up to $500 (and of course no paperwork to go with the fines).

So it was fair to say I was with a group of people who, like me, were just happy to be on the boat and heading for Kazakhstan. As we left the harbour the beers were cracked out, music was played on a guitar and as the sunset on the party atmosphere it was easy to sit back and remember that times like this are exactly why we travel.

A celebrational atmosphere as the boat leaves Baku

Waking up the next morning conversation turned to when the boat would arrive in Aktau. I'd heard 18 hours, the Spanish had heard 20 and the English teams just hoped for somewhere in between: I don't think it surprised anyone when we finally docked 38 hours later. It was another 2 hours before we were finally let off the boat only to encounter more problems: It had been difficult enough dealing with the Azeri Police who went out of their way to break to the rules but in Kazakhstan they didn't even know them. And as such I had to wait another 2 hours while 3 guards talked furiously, checked rule books and argued with each other before deciding that, like I had pointed out 2 hours previously, my bicycle didn't need registration papers.

Me, Marie, her father and Roi at Aktau Port

As I headed through customs I met Roi, Marie and her father. Marie and her father had cycled from Thailand and were headed back to their home in Brittany, whilst for a real hard luck story there was Roi. (Edit - it turns out I was completely wrong about Roi - to read his story check out his comment at the bottom of the page!)

I was upset for him when I heard about his troubles, he was a good guy and had even kind enough to swap books with me as I travelled so I could get the Lonely Planet Central Asia. Upon recieving this book for some unknown reason I'd felt the desire to look up the passage on the boat from Azerbaijan to Aktau: ' There are irregular boats every week to 10 days between Baku and Aktau. One of these ferries sunk in 2002 killing all 51 people on board'.

I really must do more research!

Finally being free I was left to consult my map. I had already spent 3 days of my alloted 30 day visa simply getting here and given that I had to get visas in Almaty this realistically left me with just 21 days to cover the 3,700 km between Aktau and Almaty....hmmmmm.

This unlikely task became an impossible one the moment I met Slava. I had originally gone to the beach to try to find somewhere to sleep but we soon struck up a conversation and before I know it I was invited to stay and that his friend ran a bar in downtown Aktau - what happened next I couldn't tell you but given that I woke up the next day with a splitting headache and with the ammount of money gone from my wallet suspiciously correlational to 3 rounds of the local vodka I can probably just about work it out. Worse still I then had to leave the comfort of a nice cosy house for what was one of the biggest challenge yet - the Ustyurt Desert.


I accidently left my riding t-shirt in Baku - Slava was kind enough to give me one of his

The next 5 days weren't fun, and as if sweating vodka wasn't bad enough conditions were made worse by so many different factors: There were no roads, just dirt tracks. Towns were randomly dotted every 100km or so, meaning everytime I wanted water I had to flag down a truck. There was no cover anywhere so I was having to sleep in drainage ducts below the road, oh, and the headwinds. Dear god the headwinds. It was tough. Very tough. But at least in my mind it confirmed a few things: Struggling to travel 80km a day I now knew I had to get a train for part of the journey in Kazakhstan and a quick bit of maths told me that whilst I could no longer cycle the entire journey, I could at least climb the mountains.


At least Kazakh road signs are honest

I arrived in the town of Benieu, with the destination of Janaghorkan in my mind as this is where the contours on my map started. With no direct trains I hopped on the first train for 8 hours before swapping in Makat: I've often found it difficult to work out if I could call myself an adventure traveller or not, but in Makat I earned my stripes and had something happen to me that no travel story is proper without - my wallet was stolen!

Worse still it coincided with being a Saturday and also the first day of the football season: Depressed at the loss, I was left to sit in the train station alone, looking at my watch and thinking about what would be going on at home right now: 12 o'clock - I'd be cooking the bacon sandwiches for me and Dad. 1 o'clock - set off on the drive for Loftus Road. 5 o'clock - leave ground complaining about performance regardless of result. 8 o'clock - meet up with friends with a few beers in the same bars. Every week without fail.

The routine I'd been so desperate to break free from, even if only for a year or two, now sounded so beautiful, so fun, so much better than sitting alone, walletless in a place where nobody speaks the same language as you: For the first time I didn't just miss home, I wanted to be there.

One of the problems I've still not solved is how to tell people I don't like their food. These lovely ladies served me what seemed like raw sweetcorn in sour-milk - as tasty as it sounds. However not wanting to offend and

only knowing the Russian word for good I was able to leave not only without hurting their feelings, but also with a fine stomach ache to boot.

But here I was and the next 24 hours were spent on a train to my destination (£10 for a day on a train with sleeping facilities for all - take note British Rail!) and it was back into the heat and headwinds on the road to Almaty.

After a few more days riding I happened to pass an Internet Cafe. It was interesting to see a comment on the last blog about how I wasn't really spending much time in the destinations I was travelling to - logging on for the first time in 12 days to find the place I'd been just 2 weeks previously was now a full on warzone I suddenly felt pretty justified in this! There had been a strong military presence when I was in Georgia, but none of the people I had met expected this and all I can do is hope that the scores of good people I met in the country are ok.

I met this family at a truck stop on the road to Almaty - they insisted on buying me dinner but refused to eat with me!

3 days later, having survived several attacks from moronic drivers (I'm not surprised they didn't understand the words I angrily shouted in their direction but I am surpised they couldn't work out the hand signals) I arrived in Almaty - which to be honest is a strange place. Its beautifully set in the shadow of snow capped mountains, with some stunning views of the city available and some wonderful architechture to boot. But for some reason the people didn't seem happy: people walking round with their heads looking at the floor, never smiling, never saying hello to each other and in many cases doing their best to avoid conversation all together.

The people I did meet I asked (as I do wherever I go) if they like living in their city. The only person I met who said 'yes' did so as he was filling out forms to move to China for the next 2 years. Others who said no gave varying reasons; the generic 'its too expensive' and 'there's nothing for young people to do' were responses I was used to hearing, but it didn't stop there. 'There are to many Asian faces' may not be the politically correct opinion but when coupled with the view of a Kazakh girl I met who told me 'I was born in the early 80's. At that time we had our own culture, we were proud. Now everybody is just trying to be European, we are not European. I don't like it.' and it could offer insight into some of the underlying social problems facing Almaty in the future.

But in truth whilst I was in Almaty I had one thing on my mind - with already a Krygyz Visa in my passport and a Pakistani Visa being processed I went to the Chinese Embassy to apply for the missing link in my route. On my first visit there I arrived at 9 o'clock only to be told that I would need to arrive earlier if I wanted to get inside as the queue was now 130 people and anyway I could not apply for a tourist visa without a letter of invitation and could not get a transit visa without an onward visa. I half expected this so I went away, sent some e-mails which confirmed what I had already known: that it was currently impossible to get the letter I needed as there was a ban until after the Olympics and that nobody would ever issue one for a transit visa anyway as you didn't need one. 2 days later, with the ink still wet on my Pakistani visa I returned to the Embassy to apply for my transit visa. This time, after queing for 6 hours I was refused because my application was in written ink as opposed to on computer - there was a man with a business opposite the embassy who made his living by writing peoples applications out on computer but he'd refused to serve me because I was English.

I was angry. Very angry. But after an embassy guard literally stood over and watched to make sure the man in the booth served me, I was then told that with the computerised document I now had everything I needed to apply and to come back early Monday morning.

By now I'd learned quickly that the organisation here was shambolic and the Embassy were doing their best to make it as difficult as possible for people just to get inside the building - let alone obtain a visa.

I wasn't taking chances. Half 3 on the Monday morning I arrived (and was still only 10 in the list!). By 5am the list was at 30 (only 28 people had gotten inside on the Friday), by 6 it was 65 and by 9, when the embassy opened 126 names were on the list waiting to come inside. But I was one of the first inside and what happened next will gaul me for the rest of my trip.

I entered, sat down and gave the clerk my application.

"Ok, you are from England. I don't think you can make this trip"
"Why not?"
"You have no letter of invitation"
"It is impossible to get a letter of invitation for a transit visa"
"I know"
"I also have proof of onward travel"
"I know"
"So what is the problem?"
"You have no letter of invitation"
"I don't understand the problem"
"I know"

There was a pause before he spoke again:

"But just so you know, it is not me who decides, it is this man"

He pointed behind me, I turned around and my heart sank.

A man of about 5 ft 8, pencils tucked into top pocket alongside a 15cm ruler, not a hair out of place and his name badge at exact right angles to his top pocket, the kind of man who had never been in love but whose heart had never stopped beating since the day he first held a clipboard: I knew from the first moment I set my eyes on this Chinese version of 'Rimmer' that I would not be getting my visa.

He rejected the 2 people in front of me, both of whom had the required Letter of Invitation and then took great joy in having one of them removed from the building because 'we cannot have any more than 8 people in this room at one time'. Deflated I handed over my application - he took one look at it and laughed, directly into my face before smirking the word 'nyet' as if asking for something I had everything that was required for was the worlds most ridiculous request.

I could've taken politeness: a 'we are very sorry Mr Blake, but you cannot make this journey at this time', or a 'It is a regretful situation but there is nothing I can do'. To be laughed at by a jobsworth I couldn't.

I left heart broken, but I did however have an ace up my sleeve. As I write this I've had to send my passport back to Britain - and what will I recieve? A 2 month Chinese Visa courtesy of a British tourist agency.

I wonder if the irony would be lost on my friend in the embassy: The Chinese don't want me to be there. If my friend at the Embassy had issued me the transit visa I wouldn't be there. Personally I want to be in Pakistan.

But after all of this I'm going to make sure as hell I enjoy my 2 months in China!