Kazakhstan, its real big

The sledge-hammer of a stamp falls, and in an emotionless Russian accent, “welcome to Kazakhstan” sound more like a prison sentence than true welcoming. This however could not be further from how we felt the entire stay. We were lucky to couchsurf with a fantstic duo, David and Ali. They both grew up in small towns out in the country side, but moved to Almaty (the former capital) to pursue their careers. They work in the fashion industry and to put it mildly, were much trendier than ourselves. We hit the town, which turns out to be extremely hip and easily the most modern city we had been in since leaving Amsterdam 4 months earlier. Almaty actually reminded me a lot of Portland, filled with green spaces, trees, and a laid-back atmosphere. Unfortunately, we arrived in Kazakhstan a bit later than anticipated so our visa only had about 2 weeks left, so we jumped on a train to head north and visit our friend Joe who we had met back in Azerbaijan.

Our wonderful host, David!

Our host served us wine and cheese, in bed! Talk about classy

Kazakhstan is the largest landlocked country in the world, and it became glaringly apparent after traveling the 24 hours from Almaty to Astana (the current capital). While still in Almaty, Ali told us it takes him 3 non-stop days by train to visit his hometown, and therefore only does so once a year. We stepped off the train around 7am and were rendered breathless due to the frigid, frigid cold of the steppe. We expected it to be colder, but this was truly a shock to the system as there is nothing to protect you from the Siberian winds. Our gracious and enthusiastic host met us and immediately after dropping off our bags, whisked us off into the frozen city for a morning tour.

Joe put up with our shenanigans, a feat in negative temperatures

The self-proclaimed President-For-Life of Kazakhstan was born in Astana, so naturally it was decided that the capital should no longer be Astana (the cultural and economic heart of the country) but should be this once village set thousands of kilometers from any other town in the far north. The president-For-Life then gave free-reign and boat loads of money for architects to design the buildings of their dreams. What has developed is a a conglomeration of futuristic, fantasy style structures, in the literal middle of nowhere.

The presidential palace and big gold shiny buildings

We accidentally got on the bus going the wrong direction and ended up on the edge of town, and that is exactly what it was, the edge. Suddenly the pavement stops and there are no more structures to be seen, nothing but endless steppe. We spent a couple of days marveling at the buildings, which included the world's largest tent: housing a 4 story mall complete with mono-rail, a beach and water-slides. A building that looked like a giant bird's nest, complete with golden egg, held several stories up by a white-lattice elevator shaft. You can ride the elevator to the top, where while gazing towards the Presidential Palace can place your hand in a mold of the President's. Buildings that looked like books splayed open, and a pyramid made of stain-glass windows, and when you catch the light just right, you can see the doves that have been etched into them. This was easily the weirdest and most baffling city I have ever visited – or seen pictures of for that matter. It does seem fitting though, doesn't it? I mean, Kazakhstan....

World's largest tent

The "golden egg," Kazakstan's national symbol

The top three floors is an atrium with plants growing out of the walls

We took a day trip out to a lake, a famous vacationing spot of the President. You would never have guessed though, as walking up and down the main drag, not a single store, cafe, or hotel was open. Night was quickly approaching, and the temperature beginning to drop, making us a bit nervous and unsure of our self-warming abilities if it came to sleeping under a stoop. We began knocking on doors, and buzzing doorbells in search of a homestay. Finally, we were welcomed in by a man that was visiting his mother (who we would stay with). She cooked us a nice meal and we slept well in her warm home, but even with her kindness decided to leave the next day – after a quick hike around the lake of course.

Our other side trip was on Halloween to a former gulag (soviet prison-camp). The Soviet Union decided that the wives and children of the men they had arrested as political prisoners were also threat, so this gulag was set up for their detainment. It gave us a very real understanding of what it would have been like to be a prisoner there, as we battled the Siberian winds just to make it into the building. Though we weren't able to celebrate Halloween in proper fashion, we were given a chilling experience, insert bad joke about the weather.

Kumus, the national drink - fermented mare's milk, its not good

Once again we traveled the long, long distance back to Almaty and boarded a bus bound for China, marking the end to our central Asian experience and the beginning of part two: Katie and Kim attempt to speak Chinese. 

Karaoke in Kyrgyzstan

Outdoor, kiosk style karaoke booths. Osh won me over the moment I laid eyes on these little gems. Strewn about the central park, these pint sized star-factories let you belt out all the hits to your adoring fans – those on the one wooden bench sitting in front of you or the poor helpless passers-by simply trying to enjoy a stroll in the park. I immediately fell in love. Alas, it was not to be as they had not a single English song. I asked, “do you have Madonna?” No. “Do you have Michael Jackson?” Laughter....No. “Fine, fine, do you have Celine Dion?” No. Though heart broken, I walked away reinvigorated to let the world hear my voice....

 

Trying to find a song I could sing, notice the karaoke booth on the right

Shortly there after...

Osh was an alright city in itself, but we hung around mainly to recover from the ravenous effects Tajikistan had on our bodies. This is however, where we met our first “walker.” Apparently he is not alone – though that is how he travels, alone. He started in Italy and has walked all the way to Kyrgyzstan; WALKED. Staggering in he said he might be suffering from over-exertion, as he struggled to open the walnuts that were his planned dinner. Another girl in the hostel noticed his knife was a bit cockeyed and asked about it. He said yes it was in fact broken.

**Side Note: Kyrgyzstan is home to the “vodka window” where for 5 somoni (equal to about 20 cents) you are served up a shot of vodka – chaser included – right out of a window on the sidewalk.**

I was a bit inebriated when this fine gentlemen told us of his knife plight, so naturally I jumped into action. Unsheathing my multipurpose-all-in-one leather-man style knife, holding it above for all to revel in its glory as the bright hostel light shone upon it.

What probably really happened was that I pulled it out of nowhere and shoved it in this poor man's face.

No matter the circumstances, we traded. So now I have – what the hostel owner informed me- a prison made Uzbek switch blade.  This is what I now use to cut fruit while on long train rides and offer sliced cheese to kind families, straight off the blade. 

Knife in tow, we began to make our way north stopping at the world's largest walnut forest. Being harvest season, the hills were a streak of orange, yellow and a blood-red so bright I had never seen before. We stayed with a family in their home and rented horses the next day to explore the forest and surrounding area. The people of Arslanbob are probably the greatest tree-climbers in the world as we wouldn't have noticed them high above us, save for the walnuts raining down. During the harvest they set up temporary homes out in the forest where generation after generation has collected from their families' plots. Dumbfounded we passed along, far underneath the canopy of trees and tree-climbers above.

 Our horses for the day, and their owner for the rest of the days of the year

Hiking around Arslanbob

Continuing north, we made our way to Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan. The day we arrived a friend we had traveled with in Uzbekistan contacted us, saying he too was in Bishkek. So off we went to meet Fillip our Belgian friend for a night out in the big city. On our way to meet him however we were stopped by another couple we had met in Uzbekistan as well! So all together we attended the city-sponsored “pop and lock/break dancing” competition. Let me tell you, it was warmly embraced by us as we watched mesmerized by this urban expression, especially after traveling from village to village for so, incredibly long.

Travel family - minus a few members

At the end of the night, our traveling friends' couchsurfing host invited us to stay at his house as well – as we had had trouble finding a host and were staying in a hostel. So the next morning we made the switch, solidifying what Katie and I have now begun referring to as our “travel family.” Putting the total at 6 guests, with our only sleeping option a hardwood floor. Still it was greatly appreciated. We had all intentions of leaving on the overnight bus when suddenly the clouds parted and my dreams were allowed to shine through. Everyone in the “family” wanted to go to this Karaoke bar I had found called “Michael!” after the late king himself. I'm not sure if I should be proud or not but I was the last to leave and the last one singing – Ace of Base none-the-less..... Don't worry we had pulled the crowd in first with some Billy Idol, Tom Jones and Garth Brookes. In fact, we had wowed the crowd so much that a different table bought ours a bottle of champagne. Of course the fact that it was also the birthday of someone at our table made no difference.

The next day we caught a ride out to Karakol to stay with some PCV's and get out for some hiking. Hiking which was abruptly brought to a hault as it began to snow. We made it for one solid day, the next however was canceled and with our Kazak visa looming ahead of us off we went to begin the journey into Kazakhstan – but of course staying one more night along the beautiful Lake Issy-Kol where at another PCV's house we made sushi and took – of course – some shots of vodka. I'm not sure if its the same all over the world, but apparently no matter where you go in the, what was our region called?? Eastern European Mediterranean Stan group? – Albania, Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan, whatever – if you stay with PCVs, you will drink vodka.

 Hiking the Karakol area

The camel we stumbled upon in the middle of nowhere - and which McNabb was afraid of, squealing like a little girl

The men we found at the bottom of our hike that serenaded and fed us shots of vodka, one of them even played "My Heart Will Go On."

It is hard to wrap Kyrgyzstan up in a few paragraphs, but it has been the country that I most want to return to. I feel the time of year, bitter bitter cold, as well as the visa-time constraints really put a damper on what could/would have been the greatest stop along our pan-asia tour. Katie may have a different opinion, but I'll do it. I'll go out on that limb and say – Kyrgyz PCV's were the GREATEST! We weren't only warmly welcomed, they quite literally gave us their houses at some points – they weren't even there and gave us their homes! haha. No, but really. You guys deserve a huge shout out and virtual hug. Do not hesitate, let me know when I can return the favor.

Belly Dancing to Booze Cruising: Tajikistan

In through the tunnel of death and out along the roof of the world. Tajikistan smacked us in the face on the very first day. Literally, the air smacked us as we entered what is lovingly nicknamed the tunnel of death. It has been given that name as several workers died due to asphyxiation during its construction (yet to be completed), and upon entering, it became very apparent how easily that could happen. An unpaved, pot-hole ridden 5 kilometer long tunnel with no vents or light.

Tunnel of Death

Winding up and down mountain passages we arrived in Dushanbe the capital. Dushanbe actually translates to “Monday” as it was founded as a market place that took place only on Mondays. I enjoyed telling people that we would be in “Monday” on Monday, though others seemed to be less impressed with my joke.

Staying with our former Safety and Security Officer from Peace Corps Moldova and his former PCV wife, we were spoiled with having not only a personal tour guide, but also a personal translator – which without his help (Multumesc Alex!!) I doubt very much we would have achieved our travel goals. Two of the many highlights while staying in the capital was enjoying a night of belly dancing and traditional music (in which a song was dedicated to our table, apparently our enthusiasm was noticed...) as well as actually touching the world's tallest flag. I will attest, it is indeed large. In all actuality, probably the greatest capital city activity was when Alex set about to create the most authentic Moldovan BBQ (aka “Shashlyk” for all those in the know) possible while in Tajikistan. Bazaar after bazaar after bazaar were scavenged for the appropriate charcoal, meat and ever important wine. Even though our chef donned a traditional Tajik hat, I had all but been transported back to Moldova – complete with the post gorge nap.

 

Moldovan BBQing in a Tajik hat

World's tallest flag

Part of our stay in the capital was to obtain the required permit to travel into the Pamir mountains and after many “official” phone calls and suspicious looks we were granted the permits. And so we began what is apparently one of the world's greatest road trips. Dubbed the “roof of the world” and traveling by requisite 4-wheel drive vehicles we set off, ready to conquer the first leg, a 16 hour journey into the heart of the Pamirs, Khorog.

 Break down #1....

Waiting for the rockslide to be cleared....#1

A bit too quickly it became apparent our journey was going to take longer than expected... roads having to be cleared from rock slides, a break down, three meals, two flat tires and a power nap later we arrived – 26 hours later to be exact. Not only did the roads prove to be hard on our bodies, but so did the food or water or maybe the air? As both of us fell victim, becoming very, very ill. It is expected when traveling to far off lands the possibility of getting sick, but what you don't expect is that your bathroom will be equally as far away. Outside, around back of a large building and up half a mountain, in the dark. I'll leave the details to your imagination. Food poisoning in Tajikistan is not so fun.

Our first excursion once we had recovered, was to a remote village set deep in a narrow valley, surrounded by glacier ridden mountain peaks. Traveling along a dirt road we were let out along a river where a thick metal cable hung precariously from one side to the other. The driver must have noticed the looks we gave to one another as he got out and yelled to the man who had just pulled himself across the wide river. It was explained to us that a few years back a rock-slide had taken out the only bridge connecting one side of the river to other for SEVERAL kilometers. The villagers had set up two thick cables, the original was a few wooden boards dangling high above the river, that you sit on and pull yourself across – inch by inch. The newer cable had a small wooden compartment with a crank on the inside. Working on a pulley system, this newer contraption required much less physical exertion and you were able to carry more across at once. Both cables were required however, as when one waits on one side of the river, the other must wait for travelers on the other bank.

Once we had safely crossed, the man that helped crank us over informed us that he too was hiking the 7 kilometers to...the only village in the entire valley. So off we went, our newly formed threesome, walking a trail clung to the mountainsides, pounded into existence by generations of footsteps, and the only connection to the greater world. Up and down and up a whole lot more, stopping to drink straight from the river that formed the shoestring valley, we entered the village of Jisev. It consisted of 6 mud-brick houses, clinging to the sliver of farmable land, strung along the river bank. Collapsing into our new hiking-friend's house, he offered his home for us to stay in for the night and we gladly accepted. The next day we set about hiking to the end of the valley, passing a few more lakes along the way and dominating more than our fair share of homemade cattle guards. After another night sleeping in a very traditional Pamiri house, we hiked back out of the valley and made our way back to town and eventually to our next excursion, another town a bit further south, Ishkashim.

 

 Our little village.  The house on the far left is where we stayed.

Sitting a stones throw away across the river from Afghanistan in tiny Ishkashim, we watched people going about their daily routines. Smoke billowed from chimneys, donkey driven carts overwhelmed by heaps of hay, and children walking the seemingly endless footpaths skirting high and low the tall mountains that isolated them from the rest of Afghanistan. While down there, we hired a local to drive us along the Wakkhan valley, famous as being Marco Polo's trail, a popular Silk Road thoroughfare, and the connecting valley between Afghanistan, Pakistan and Tajikistan bordered in by the Hindu Kush mountain range. Making stops at several historical sites along the way we soon discovered that our haggling skills only played a small role in what seemed to be a “too good to be true” price for the driver. Crumbling forts and Buddha stands were not our only stops, but we also stopped to help our driver sell the cartons upon cartons of “liquid tea whitener” and cigarettes that were overflowing the trunk and backseat. At each village store and villager we passed he flung open the door yelling out “Cigarettes! Tea whitener!” and upon many occasions, would hop out to make the sale. Spirits were high by the end of the day as our driver had sold all of his products and we had seen most of what we had hoped (missing only one stop due to the most intense goat-sheep traffic jam ever witnessed). Our driver was so jubilant that he made one last stop to buy beers for the whole car (himself included). So off we road into the sunset, booze cruising along the Afghan border.

 

Silk Road fort with Hindu Kush in the background....and McNabb climbing down (she's the black dot in the middle)

 

Taking in Afghanistan, beer in hand....

Our friendship was solidified with this man the next morning when he saw us waiting outside the gates of the bazaar. We were scoping the place out, as it was a cross-border market. The military checkpoints on both the Afghan and Tajik side open once a week giving way for a large (and abrupt) bazaar to take place in no-man's land between the two countries. Our friend spotted us, waving us over and leading us past the armed guards into the heart of the bazaar where he was selling – wait for it - cigarettes and liquid tea whitener. It became very apparent the subconscious affect media has, as we both felt a baseless unease due to the traditional Afghan dress. Thank you news, although one man's look did imply “infidel!” as I tried to buy some dried dates. Everyone else we dealt with though, fantastic.

We may have looked out of place, but Arabic Fanta brought us right back in.  Easily the best purchase of the day.

After the bazaar, we bussed it back north to Khorog for the last time. As with any journey over 30 minutes, it was not to go uninterrupted. Apparently everyone knows everyone in this part of the world – even if the nearest town is 4 hours away. So we were forced to stop so two people from our mini-bus could shake hands with two others that happened to be in the road. Cordials were exchanged and a few minutes passed until our fellow travels stated that the whole mini-bus had been invited to eat. Grudgingly, we got out of the oversized van and readied ourselves for village-cafe boiled hot dogs or some other of the sort. Surprisingly we were led into a house, where laid out in true Pamiri style were plates and plates of Plov and salads. Happily we sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on the raised floor as is tradition and enjoyed our delicious meal. As it turns out, we had been invited in to an anniversary party where we were not only fed delicous food, were fed shots of vodka as well. After exhausting our two Russian jokes, a fellow party-goer came by with his video camera. Big mistake by giving our “we are sitting on the floor but can still shimmy” dance, because before we knew it, we had been swept away into the adjoining room. Immediately the dance floor cleared as our male counterparts began traditional Tajik dancing circles around us. By the end of the song we were both more than happy to escape the over 40 onlookers that had crammed themselves into the small room, however some did enjoy our attempt at traditional Tajik dancing as they threw candy at us in sign of approval. The female host really took a shine to us after this and commanded her husband to bring us more bottles of vodka. We toasted to her anniversary, to Tajikistan, and everything else we could think of before slipping out, back to our van and eventually back to town.

 Just before the dancing began....

It took us two more full days to make it across the border, traversing the over 3,600 meter high plateau and winding our way back down into Kyrgyzstan. One passenger was forced to smooth over the crossing experience by giving the guards, stationed out of a yurt, some cigarettes. At the entry point for Kyrgyzstan we were detained for well over an hour. One guard, in particularly high spirits, stated he would like to bride-nap me because I looked like Jodie Foster. I would like to take this time to point out that I in no way resemble Jodie Foster, and - while I'm not sure I should - will take it as a compliment. The guard himself seemed innocent enough, though bride-napping does still occur in the region, so we all laughed it off, especially after he informed us an average of 3 cars pass that border everyday, making it very clear that they had little in terms of entertainment. Looking around, trembling in the cold, with offers to be bride-napped it felt as though we had indeed made it to the exact opposite side of the world. 

 Crossing the border.  Guards in a yurt. Awesome.

Uz-Pakistan

Or at least that is how a family member of mine referred to Uzbekistan, the country we entered through the backdoor....

Once a booming sea town, Moynaq now sits some 180 kilometers from the seashore being continually eaten by the ever growing desert – or depending on how you look at it, the ever disappearing Aral sea. Why you may ask? Those gosh darn toot'n Soviets. Mixing in with the dust brought about by decades of sandstorms was an eerie feeling that covered every inch of the town. Though not a ghost town (yet), remnants of a time past could be found everywhere, from blue and white striped lifer-savers to the marooned boats themselves.

Who doesn't want to go on a desert trek to find rusted boats after 5 days of non-stop travel? Why not grind in a little sand and sweat into an already grimy mop-top with no prospects of running water in the near future? Well, honestly it was worth it – but who knew how hot deserts were... The pictures probably don't do justice, but it was crazy to find ships and sea shells in the middle of a desert without a drop of water to be found for eons.

During cotton pick'n time, the government actually seizes most of the buses in the country, and requires whole towns to take to the fields. We happened to be trying to walk out of one these towns just as the commandeered buses were rolling in. So naturally we thought it was the bus station. We lingered in the mob, back packs on, peering around for the perfect person to ask, when suddenly a soldier/policeman and the mayor (maybe?) asked us, in a very gruff manner, what we were doing there. Me and my fluent Russian answered - “we are from America!” McNabb, suppressing laughter, asked where the bus station was. Apparently, she had understood his question.

13 hours and 4 shared taxis (lots of strangers piling into a small car) later we arrived at our next destination. Most notable was the last cab which, unknowingly, we shared with a prostitute and her latest customer. Poor McNabb actually had to inform me of the awkwardness in the backseat as I sat happy as a clam in the front seat chatting away with the taxi driver, tunnel visioned by his flirtatious disposition and good looks.

Khiva is a self-enclosed city frozen in time. Mausoleums, mosques, caravansaries and towers connected by winding cobblestone roads preserved from centuries ago. We moved on to Bukhara and Samarkand – two cities famous as religious centers and major silk road hotspots. Massive flat faced structures decorated with thousands of intricate mosaics sparkling in the desert sun and shrinking passersby. We stayed at an eccentric old man's house named Mubijan who only refered to himself in the third person and spoke his own language mixing Uzbek, Russian, French and English. Surprisingly, we understood him quite well and one early morning he even took us with him to the locals farmer market in the Jewish quarter. Walking back to the house we loaded down with vegetables as we were such an anomaly that people began eagerly giving them to us as gifts. Mubijan's house was actually recommended to us by some French girls that from a previous city we were in. They warned us that the bathroom was not so good, but that Mubijan made up for it with his personality and the rest of the house was great. Giving us the tour, Mubijan showed us around his turn of the century traditional house, and McNabb and I were a bit confused as the bathroom seemed fine. We were even more confused, however, as the girls failed to mention there were in fact no beds. After a few days the toilet broke, leaving us with no water, no toilet, and no beds....but we still slept snug as a bug with our blankets and mat on the floor.

While taking in the sights one day we paused in front of a seemingly closed Medressa (Islamic School) to take cartwheel pictures when a packed tour bus pulled up and a little man (reminiscent of the guard from the wizard of oz) opened the 15 foot doors, catching McNabb mid routine. The tour group came and went, but the little man took a shine to us and invited us in for a private tour. We explained that we didn't understand Russian and he told us it was ok, he would speak slowly. Because this was not a usual tourist sight, we were the only ones walking around and the man encouragingly pointed the way to the roof. So up we climbed to the top of the beginning to crumble massive structure, offering one of the best views and a highlight to end our stay in the city.

In the capital, Tashkent, we were reunited with our Belgian friend Filip who we had met earlier in our trip and had ourselves a time in the big city where we learned all shots are served up in tea cups. Other highlights include eating horse and seeing the oldest Koran in existence (completed in 651, 19 years after Prophet Mohammed's death). Also, we were able to obtain our Tajikistan visas – a huge constant crowd in front of the embassy, which the guards parted for in true celebrity status, ushering us through the gates. We definitely felt very special. And the best news of all, the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan had reopened allowing us to continue on our journey as planned through (supposedly) one of the world's greatest road trips and the 2^nd highest highway in the world (just behind the Karakorum in Pakistan). 

Land Ho Mate

The (plush) apartment we were staying in sat on the 10th floor, overlooking the port of Baku.  We could see ships coming in, ships loading and their eventual departure.  This apartment was a godsend to us, not just for the hot, high pressured shower and luscious bed, but because if it was not overlook the port we would have never caught our ferry to Kazakhstan.

Around 10 am we go to the port, ask the lady it who sits in a tiny, all cement office, "ferry Kazakhstan, there is?"  (our Russian is improving I swear...)  she says no, but to come back tomorrow.  We decide (based on research) to return that afternoon.  Around 3 pm we return and as I open my mouth she flatly states, "Ferry Kazakhstan, NO!"

So, satisified that there will be no boat that day, we start planning/buying our provisions for the possible 3 day boat ride.  Setting our burrito making fix'ns on the table in the apartment, we notice a large boat enter the port... so I am nominated to return to the port and double check that it isn't Kazakstan bound.  Huffing, I bust in the door to this unexcitable woman's office asking if that is the boat.  She says yes, but there are no beds.  I ask if there are chairs, she says yes but that she'll have to call the captain - the captain confirms that chairs do in fact exist on this boat.  I have finally gotten this woman to crack a smile when I tell her I want two tickets to sit on chairs on this boat.

I now have 60 minutes to return to the apartment, rally McNabb, pack our bags, pass customs and board the boat.  We make it, only to find out our "ferry" is a legitamate cargo boat and we are the only passengers.  They lead us to the crew's lounge where we settle in, planning out our sleeping spots.  At this point it is 6pm.  8pm rolls around and the boat has yet to move.  Around 9pm the first mate comes to the lounge and informs us some of the crew (which we have become quite the interest piece to) have shuffled about so that we could have our very own cabin.  Gratefully, we move in to these sailors' bunks (read: real, real nasty), though hardly private as the normal occupants had to come and go to retrieve personal items, or to simply sit and chat with us until we felt the need to tell them we wanted to sleep.  Shaken awake at 3am, our boat finally leaves the port and sets sail to begin the journey across the Caspian.

                                          

The next day is dedicated to exploring this cargo ship we have found ourselves on.  I spend the morning climbing ladders, while McNabb spends the morning informing me that that is probably against the rules. 
 Our exploring pays off though, as the captain catches me poking my head into the bridge and invites us in.  They explain the controls, the maps, the periscope type thing, and then they actually let us both have a turn driving!  Yup, we both earned our captain's - fins(?), on the high seas of the Caspian driving a cargo ship.  Then my new best friend, Rakhid and I went through all of the flags this fine vessel had to offer, followed by a tour of the rest of the ship.

Later on, during exploration part 2, I ventured into the cargo hold to see what it had to offer.  Making friends with two truck drivers, one of them decided to show-off his semi's sound system with none other than the best of Michael Jackson.  So, naturally, we capped off the evening with a cargo-ship deck dance party with some of the crew as the sun set over the Caspian.  Pure magic.

Truck Driver friend #1


After 33 hours on the boat, we finally docked in Kazakhstan around 1am, where we then had little other choice than to sleep at the port.  Luckily, we had made a Georgian man-friend who also had to sleep there, making us comfortable enough.  Around 8am we headed into the city to catch our 12 hour train into Uzbekistan.  Sharing the compartment with our Georgian friend and an adorable old Kazakh man we had no trouble sleeping through the entire journey.  We disembark, waiting at the station for another 2 hours until the next train.  This time 14 hour journey to take us across the border and to our first place of destination.  While there were no actual immediate threats, this train was a bit less sleep conducive.

Other than our Georgian friend (we never did learn his name) we were the only other foreigners, and the only females.  The Train car was partitioned much like cubicles, but instead of with walls, with 3 benches that faced each other, then another row of benches above the first.  About 40 men crammed in, with all eyes on us.  To say the least a bit intimidating.  Eventually we became acquainted with the men in our immediate vicinity (utilizing our Russian dictionary).  They even became our protectorates so to speak, as all questions were asked to them about us, and answered by them, about us.

You know the saying, "calm before the storm," well nothing could be more true in regards to the Kazak-Uzbek border.  As soon as we crossed all of the train cars were flooded with men, women and children selling everything under sun.  The already cramped passing lanes become a jungle of limbs as people yelling their offerings, shoving buckets full of food in your face, passing this way and that.  If you can imagine what the exact opposite of what a bazzar/piata/open market would be this was it.  Instead of the customers shoveling past, the vendors did so - hot boxing the train car with smells of cooked meat, perfumes, and the ever increasing body odor.  People bought cell phones and clothing, hot tea and coffee, there was even a man going around yelling "Shashlik" (BBQ) but had nothing to show other than a plaid bag (punga) from which I can only guess he served his meats from.  This is also how you change money though, and it proved to be an experience in itself.  As Uzbekistan is a bit of a police state, the government holds that the dollar is worth about 1,500 Som (Uzbek currency), so if you exchange at a bank, or use an ATM that is the rate you get.  The dollar is actually worth about 2,700 Som however, meaning that nearly everyone exchanges on the black market.  We exchanged a bit of money and were handed HUGE stacks of cash, as the largest denomination of Som is 1,000 -- so when you exchange $50, you are given 135,000 individual bills, all wrapped neatly together with a rubber band.

After 5 days of uninterrupted transit, we reached our destination.  Collapsing into our respective beds, we rejoiced in finally having a door to close.  It didn't even matter that our "hotel" didn't have plumbing, I was more than happy to brush my teeth out the window as long as it meant I would not be woken by the brow-cringing calls of "Davushka!"

 How we spent a lot of our time on the boat...

Celebrities and Sing-Alongs

Maybe you haven't heard of them yet, but you should as they are a pretty big deal.  The overnight singing sensation Caspian Dreamers with their hit "Baku State of Mind."  Actually, they are two PCV's who re-made Jay-Z's song to be about Baku which went viral on Youtube, actually propelling these two young men into (relative) stardom (www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4-U6TGX1T4).  McNabb, doing what she does best, internet stalked them and got into contact.  So we ended up staying with one of the local stars, who was living in the big city.  The weekend we were visiting also happened to be that group of volunteer's COS conference (final conference, A.K.A weekend of debauchery).  So we got to tag along for all of the festivities, and though we thought we had kept ourselves relatively tame, were later on told that we were the "pace cars" for the evening... Moldovan training I guess.

Towards the end of the night we had found ourselves to be the only girls remaining in a pack of COSing volunteer men who were ready to hit the clubs.  As we walked to Club Malibu (for the second night in a row) I watched as McNabb walked slightly ahead of the herd, warming up her dance moves in preparation.  Clubs are not the same, middle of the floor dance-off, losing yourself to the music in Azerbaijan.  Instead each dancer claims his or her (though most of the "hers" were paid to be there) place in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors that line the walls.  Once all places are filled, a second row forms, staggered so as to ensure constant vision on one's own shakes and shimmies.  That was fun for a while, but McNabb and I definitively broke the mold, and soon hypnotized by our dance moves were joined by the other PCV's.

One of the PCV's enjoyed us so much he even invited us out to his village for the weekend as his first and most likely only guests!  What an honor, the schmuck!  mwahahahaha.  When you think of the Peace Corps and the living conditions, this is how Matt (our new best friend) was living.  It was so hot in his little "house" that he had moved his bed out onto the porch, which is where we all 3 slept.  Being quite and anomaly, there was a constant stream of peering eyes peering through the slits in the fence, children and adults alike.  One night we were invited over to a neighbor's birthday party.  Upon entering it seemed to be all quite familiar, loads of food and vodka bottles covering one long table.  Matt was immediately ushered to the table, whereas we girls were given a signal that suggested we go up stairs.  This was obviously a man party, but it was fine because we were warmly (and curiously) welcomed in to join the women and children, sitting on the floor drinking tea and eating cake.  Eventually we went back home, though about 10 minutes later the party followed us (unannounced), and this time we were allowed to participate.  Shots, Russian, Azerbaijani and marriage proposals flowed well into the evening, until one of the the men took a wrong step, falling off the porch, leading his friends to call it a night.  This is when the fun really began, as turns out Matt is an excellent guitarist and has in his possession a book of the 40 most requested acoustic songs.  We rallied.  Singing all 40 songs, heartfelt and at the top of our lungs for the whole village's listening pleasure (3 am).   Around 6 am, the neighbor came over to milk their cow that lives in Matt's yard, but while that was going on, the little baby calf managed to break free, running a muck and bucking all around the yard.  The most help I could muster up for this woman as she chased down the cow was a weak, "oh, oh no."

                              The upstairs birthday party was joined by the birthday boy (man) himself.

                                                                           The Culprit.

No one believed us, they all said "one week, minimum," "it's impossible!" "10 days, if you're lucky!"  And McNabb cackled in their faces, for they did not foresee her masterful planning skills.  It took us 2 hours and 15 minutes to obtain our Uzbek visas while in Baku.  Two hours of general paper shuffling, and 15 minutes of celebratory high-kicking in the streets after its attainment.  For our second stay (broken up by the village outing) we switched up our host, and stayed with some American ex-pats living in Baku.  We immediately took a liking to this couple, as we perused their pictures from things like Burning Man, costume parties, and mountain trekking.  As our conversations pushed on though, we found out that Jessica (one of the hosts) is actually an Arial-acrobatist and used to perform in the circus!  She even brought much of her equipment along with her, including her stilts!  Unfortunately, our boat arrived unexpectedly after our first night staying with them so we had to run to catch it as the next one wouldn't be for at least 10 days.  In retrospect, it is probably good that the our boat came when it did, as we were not stranded in Baku, and I did not have the opportunity to break my neck trying to moon-walk on stilts.

                                            High-Kicking in front of the Uzbekistan Embassy.
                                                            (It's hard to capture, ok?)

Land of Fire!

Into the Land of Fire (Azerbaijan) we marched, and hot indeed it was. Spending a couple nights in Zakatala, our first stop. The town itself, however, had little more to boast than a 400 ft tall flag, so we decided to hop on a random local bus (read: oversized van) and head out to a village. We disembarked at the end of the line and walked down a winding road, followed signs that our fluent Azerbaijani told us meant cafe (it was written “Kafe”) where we could ask a waitress how to find the nature preserve we had read all about.

In short, we walked a great distance, winding ourselves farther and farther into nowhere when we finally stumbled upon a gem of cafe. More of a lean-to with a wood burning stove, surrounded by tables hidden under trees around 50 yards from one another, and a creek running through the middle of it all. We drank tea, stumbled through conversations in Russian and about 2 hours and 2 pots of tea later, a delivery of food was brought to the “kafe.” So we ate and relaxed in the mountain breeze some more before heading back to town by foot. This is also where our current love affair began, no not with the kind Azeri border guard who took us out for a traditional Azeri dinner, but something a bit less....animate. 

Along with salt and pepper Azerbaijani tables also come equipped with what is called “Sumakh” (pronounced with a guttural “k”). At first, not knowing what it was we lightly sprinkled some on top of our shishkabab. Then it happened, an explosion of flowery, sweet and sour, slightly spicy deliciousness overwhelmed our pallets. In short, we were hooked. We put it on our salads, plain bread, anything and everything possible. Turns out, when I exclaimed out of utter bliss “it tastes like flowers!” I was right. It is in fact dried and crushed flower pedals. It may be time to stage an intervention as Katie and I have become full-blown addicts. At the bazaar we bought ourselves a stash and it has accompanied every snack and meal since.

Working our way back to town, at the very top of Zakatala stands an old castle that had fallen under Russian, Turkish and Azerbaijani control throughout the years, but was currently in Russian hands as a military base within the old fortress walls. We had read that you are actually not allowed in, being a “sensitive area,” however, after eh hem.... accidentally, tripping and falling into a door, we discovered that is in fact open to those who may be interested, though tip-toeing around Russian barracks does not necessarily equate to a leisurely stroll.

Ever onward, we continued east to an ancient Silk Road town called Sheki, where we stayed with an adorable Azeri family. Other than some of the sights and overall feeling in the town itself, the best part of staying here was this family. We were given an intimate glimpse into the life of a typical Muslim-Azerbaijani family upholding their traditional culture. Ilgar (husband) works at the silk factory and was able to describe in detail the process of silk making, a welcomed impromptu lesson as we sat in the first true silk road town on our journey.

As the road never ceases, never shall our feet, and we were off to our next town, Barda. A fellow peace corps volunteer from Moldova had actually already served not 2, but 4 years in Azerbaijan before signing up again and serving in Moldova. When we told him we were going to Azerbaijan, without hesitation he announced that we would be visiting his old site and staying with his old host family. So we did, and it was amazing. Not only were we warmly welcomed by the family, the current PCV's took us under their wing to show us around. We were taken to play basketball and ultimate frisbee with no less than 20 local kids, most of whom turns out are actually refugees from the Azeri-Armenian war. We were even taken to the (no longer functioning) school where all of the families are now living because of the conflict. Within minutes we were surrounded with eager ears and smiles as we walked into the courtyard and immediately Russian/Azeri/Hand-signed conversations ensued.

Although we thoroughly enjoyed our time in Barda, we were quite ready to escape the sweltering heat, and open desert plains for the cool breezes of the Caspian sea and of course the bright lights of Baku.