The joys of a 14 hour train journey across the Kazakh steppe

Or, this gets a bit monotonous...after 5 minutes

There are few things I love more in life than taking overnight 3rd class ('platskartny') rail journeys, especially in the former Soviet Union. One tends to meet a wide array of interesting characters in a convivial atmosphere as well as get barked at by hostile train attendants if you fail to adhere to the proper train etiquette. They're also a lot cheaper than the slightly more comfortable 2nd class option.

So I set off from Almaty Monday night with 6 people squeezed into an area meant for just 4. Third class is almost like a hostel on a train - it's all open-plan with no barriers between sleeping areas. In many ways, this makes me feel a lot safer, safety in numbers like. And people are generally up for a bit of banter, conversation, food & drink sharing and what-have-you. But not on this trip.

I was greeted gruffly by my bunk mates, a married couple with two young whippersnappers in tow (the 2 extra people) plus an older man with a permanent scowl on his face. I was given a look as if to say 'what the hell do you think you're doing intruding in our space?' I knew the kids would prove to be a nightmare and they were, constantly yapping, running around, climbing on top of me, knocking my book out of my hand. I remained resolute and steadfast in my determination not to get too flustered.

Going back to my last post regarding Kyrgyz hospitality, here was my first opportunity to experience a bit of the Kazakh brand. Never before had I travelled on an overnight train journey and not been offered food and drink of some sort. Not once. Until the other night. And this couple had an absolute feast, enough to feed a small army. I had a few snacks of my own, but nothing like the spread they put on. To add insult to injury, at the same time as the woman unveiled her epicurean delights, whippersnapper #1 decided that he had to take a dump and promptly started crying. So the woman produced a small little portable toilet for the kid to sit on. It must have been incredibly comfortable, for after depositing his load, he sat there complacently grinning and giggling. Happy for him to remain content, the woman just left him there, while his output began to ferment right under him. Soon enough, the woman had produced eggs and fish; combined with the pungent fumes produced by this kid, the whole train was soon treated to the wafting aromas of Kazakh cuisine at its finest. Once whippersnapper #1 was happy enough to get up, whippersnapper #2 promptly unleashed his load, though thankfully he wasn't as keen as sitting there comfortably relaxing. Bless the poor kid: as young as he was, I think he was smart enough to realise (probably from the look of anguish on my face) that it was best to get right down to business and then be done with it.

But the shit doesn't stop there

The remainder of the journey passed without incident. The landscape, which I'd been eagerly looking forward to, reminded one of a vast, unkempt billiards table, such was the monotonous nature of the steppe. In other words, not such exciting stuff.

After arriving in Shymkent and finding a hotel, and perhaps feeling inspired by the young toddlers, I immediately went into the toilet down the hall to do my business. My hotel is a very nice one, though they still only have the squat toilets, which as my close friends can attest to, make me terribly nervous. I have immense difficulties with the logistics of this operation though I won't get into too many unnecessary details. Thankfully, however, the toilet was spotlessly clean, so I made myself as comfortable and relaxed as possible. This involved removing all of my undergarments so as not to run the risk of making a mess. (at this point, I blame no one for giving up on this blog and never reading it again.)

We've all been in caught in at least one embarrassing moment...

Now, I was certain there was toilet paper there when I started. But then I realised there wasn't and that I was SOL, literally in this case. I had little other choice but to make a beeline for my room to grab my spare roll. Not wanting to put on my boxers, for obvious reasons, I chanced it. I got to my room just in the nick of time, as I heard someone coming from around the corner. But I'd failed to grab the key from the pocket of my trousers, and there I was caught in the corridor like a deer in headlights. It was the maid, who was on her way to my room to drop off a couple of towels. I admire her resolve and calmness in the situation; while I was in a cold panic, embarrassed as all hell, she remained nonplussed, calmly handing me my towels. Which I conveniently used to cover myself up and then promptly went to retrieve my key.

The pleasures of Almaty

Almaty was a lovely city, though far different from Bishkek. It was very European in temperament and layout - Emma and I thoroughly enjoyed meandering aimlessly about the wide boulevards and pavements, gorgeous tree-lined streets. Overall it's very relaxing, peaceful and chilled, far from the frenetic atmosphere of Bishkek. Even on Monday morning, there was little traffic and a very calm, languid atmosphere about. By Central Asian standards, it's very expensive (the cheapest beers were $4 but most were in the $6-8 range). Not to launch into an expose or diatribe on why Almaty is as it is, but it's a city that has changed dramatically over the past decade or so, as oilmen have moved in and construction has boomed. At times you'd think you were in Vienna, while it really reminded me a lot of Odesa, in its layout (Soviet-style grid), tree-lined wide boulevards and pavements dotted by numerous cafes, and a lack of a real downtown or city centre or main artery. Even the couple of ex-pat Irish pubs were almost the same as Odesa's.

Speaking of Irish pubs, after Emma had left, I spent my Sunday evening at a place called Mad Murphy's watching that epic Wimbledon final between Roddick and Federer. I'm a big Roddick fan and was eagerly cheering him on. In the bar were quite a cast of obnoxious, annoying customers. In one corner were the absurdly drunk and ludicrously loud German football hooligans, and in the other were the table of two Canadian women, a couple of nasty pieces of work. Right away I could tell there was something odd about them and they had the foulest mouths, swearing like Welsh miners at every opportunity they got. If someone's mobile rang, one of them would scream at the top of her lungs 'turn that f$&*ing sh$% off!' They expressed their annoyance in similar terms with the Germans but that didn't get them far and in the end they resorted to muttering insults about Germans under their breath.

But the real annoyance for me was that these two women were rooting for Federer...because Roddick is American. And furthermore, they were doubly delighted in that Federer's win, his 15th in a Grand Slam final, broke Pete Sampras's - another American - all-time record. So that was two for the price of one, two Americans down in flames. These women were thrilled at this.

I refrain from any further comment.

Famous last words?

On the walk back to my hotel (11.30pm at night), I encountered some minor trouble from a couple of Kazakh men who apparently wanted my money. I imagine they were amateurs, for they didn't really do a good job of getting it out of me. I have a pretty fearless - some may call it reckless - attitude towards walking late at night, stemming from my stint in Nigeria. One dark evening, in search of some late night snacks in Port Harcourt, my then girlfriend and I went in search of barbecued beef ('suya') in a slightly rough part of town. While trying to avoid the traffic (and since there was no pavement), I instead balanced on the kerb. In one of the cleverest lines I've ever heard, a voice from out of nowhere shouted, 'hey white man, why you balancing with your life?'

I survived that night and from then on I've shown no fear. If I can survive Nigeria, I can survive anywhere.

T-shirt update!

Although Emma and I had our eyes peeled for more examples of great t-shirt slogans, we sadly didn't spot any memorable ones, though I did just after she'd left - what rotten luck. This was perhaps the most bizarre of all, and it was spotted on a young man:

'When you masturbate, God kills a kitten. Don't kill kitten.'

Welcome to Central Asia kids.

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I head off tomorrow morning for Tashkent, and the start of a fortnight in Uzbekistan. I'm rather worried about the temperatures, which are said to average around 45C/113F on most days this time of year. Today it reached 35C/95F in Shymkent and I was flagging. I'm a wreck and a baby in the heat; I can hardly wait to see how I hold up.