KAZAKHSTAN
September 2002

While waiting outside, hidden in the shade from the scorching sun, I noticed a smartly dressed man in uniform appear from a building less than fifty meters away. I watched with interest as he drove his aging Audi the short distance between us until, finally, he stopped with a small skid only a couple of feet from me and in a loud voice he asked: "English?"
"Yes" I replied.
"Very good. Practice, Practice. Can we? My name is Alex, I am the senior customs officer, what’s your name?"
"Simon"
"Where do you live?"
“England”
"Where are you going?
"Astana"

........ and so passed the next hour; with me seated in the shade, keeping one eye on our bikes nearby, and he in the car, contentedly managing this impromptu English lesson of his own creation. With the formalities completed, and with the senior customs officer apparently satisfied with the result of his English vocabulary work-out , we rode our bikes on the loose gravel the short distance to the last official who was manning the barrier. This was the final hurdle which separated us from no mans land and the country of Kazakhstan. He gave our passports a cursory examination and then waved us on. Just as we were about to pull away we couldn’t help noticing a large sign announcing that we were now entering Kazakhstan. Encouraged by the relaxed atmosphere, we asked hesitantly if we could take a photograph by the roadsign. To our amazement, he said yes. In fact he even took the photograph for us. Hopefully this might be a good omen for the rest of our time in Kazakhstan.

Confidence was high and we were on our way. This was our 22nd country, and still no major problems since leaving Ireland. After three kilometres we reached our first road-block, which was manned by at least five policeman. This time the atmosphere was different. We were ordered to pull over and park the bikes and then to remove our helmets and sun glasses. The senior officer asked for our passports and inspected the visas. After a vigorous check he ordered us into his office which was on the second floor of the Police building which, in turn, protruded over the road giving a panoramic view of the road junction. We went to sit down but he told us to remain standing. Speaking in Russian, with Monika interpreting, he asked:
“Why do you visit Kazakhstan? How long are you here? Where are you staying? and for what seemed like a hundred other questions which went on and on and on until, finally, after completely satisfying himself that we were what we were just a couple of over landing bikers and not a threat to national security, he said we could go and with a look which implied he was doing us a favour. He waved us on our way for the short ride to the nearest town and our destination Petropavlovsk the most northern city in Kazakhstan.

Our Hotel, which had been highly recommended because of its price and location, was situated in the heart of the town and overlooked the cities main park. We pulled up in front of the hotel 'Kyzylzhar' and, as ever, it wasn’t long before we attracted a large crowd. We were both tired and all we wanted to do was make the bikes secure and check-in to the hotel, but a small group of lads in their early twenties were insistent that they should be allowed to sit on our bikes. Sometimes after a long day's ride, when you are tired and filthy, you just want to say NO and that is exactly want we wanted to do. But like always we find that extra thread of patience and allowed them to have their way. After only a few seconds, seeing their obvious delight, faces with huge grins, justified and rewarded our few extra minutes of patience. Before the youngsters departed, one of them gave me his business card. The company logo indicated that he was in the auto trade. Little did we know then how grateful we would be in the future for this chance contact. The accommodation was only $8 dollars per night. The room was clean and had a bath and that is all we required.

In the morning after a good nights sleep we walked to the car park to find TV and Press waiting for us. We did numerous interviews including regional and national television and we were overwhelmed by their interest. Again a large crowd gathered, drawn by both the TV cameras and our motorbikes. The first thing we noticed was how friendly everybody was towards us, shaking our hands, patting our backs and even offering us gifts as we stood by our bikes. hotel workers clapped as we rode our bikes around the hotel car park for the benefit of the TV cameras. Was this really the Kazakhstan we had been so nervous about? It was only a few months earlier that the Kazakhstan consulate in London had tried to talk us out of visiting the country because they would be unable to guarantee our safety! And yet here we were, in Petropavlovsk, receiving the warmest of welcomes -- possibly more than at any previous location since our adventure began.

After registering our visas at the government office, conveniently located to the rear of the hotel, we decided to tour the city on our motorbikes. After only a few minutes Monika took a heavy fall in the loose gravel whilst trying to avoid a large pothole. Monika was visibly shaken by the incident so we returned to the hotel. Remembering the business card given to us the night previous Monika called our contact, Dima, to ask if he would mind checking over the bike, just to ensure that we had not sustained any unseen damage. It was only a few minutes before he arrived in his pick up and duly whisked us away to his garage only a few kilometres away. Monika tried to clarify the cost in advance and to our relief Dima insisted that we would not pay a penny as we were guests in their town. We dropped off the bikes and departed for a tour of the city on foot.

We returned at tea time to find Monika’s bike totally cleaned and valeted, and looking in pristine condition, with a Union Jack flag flying from the rear pannier of Simon's bike. They had found the flag in Monika’s top box and made a small flag-pole complete with brass securing plate. Dima asked if there was anything else they could do for us and we pointed out that Simon number plate was indeed wrong and could they manufacture a new one with the correct registration? Not a problem and it would be ready the following morning at no cost! We arranged to meet up in the evening where they would show us the local bars and have a meal. We couldn’t even pay our own way, as every time we tried to pay for a round Dima or one of his friends would beat us to it. During the course of the evening Dima told us that Petropavlovsk had undergone some radical changes in the past few years. It was only three years previous that the city gained electricity and running water. The Russians when they withdrew from Kazakhstan had left the city in a terrible state. The only thing they were interested in was the exploitation of our work force and our fertile land for wheat farming. Until only a few years ago Petropavlovsk was a completely closed city to foreigners. So secret, in fact, that even the Kazaks and Russians needed a permit to enter the city. Throughout the cold war, this was the location where the Russians manufactured submarine torpedoes for both their diesel and nuclear submarines. Dima added that on occasions in the old days the electricity had to be diverted from the city to the torpedo factory, but now things are better. The factory is still in production but it now produces Pasta and not Torpedoes!

The following day we received message from the hotel reception that we had been invited out for a meal and that we were to be picked up at the hotel at 6pm. Intrigued by the invitation from our unknown host we got ready and were picked up in a large modern people carrier.. Two men sat in the front and one man sat to our rear. The passenger in the front spoke near perfect English and he informed us our host, the driver, was named “Asan Bulla” and that he wanted to invite us to his home to meet his family and have a traditional Kazak meal. His house was situated in the suburbs and it was by any standards extremely large. We were greeted at the entrance by all of his family, three generations in total, which included his brother a wealthy surgeon and his two wives. First as is customary in Kazakhstan the guests are shown around the home of the hosts and then we were presented with gifts which included a rare skin from a white fox which he proudly told me he had killed with one shot at great distance. The meal was fabulous and included many courses with much vodka and many toasts to our new found friendship. Asan Bulla told us he had made his fortune, after the Russians had departed, from Wheat farming where most of his crop is now sold on to the Canadians at a cheap cost, and with a wry smile he went on to tell me that that the Canadians then resell the Kazak Wheat to the English as Canadian wheat at a much inflated price!

The following day we prepared our bikes for the ride to Astana. Astana became the new capital of Kazakhstan in 1997, replacing the previous capital Almaty. Nothing could prepare Simon and I for this road. It was an exhausting hell made up of gravel, mud, stones and dust lasting for most of the 500km journey. The previous road south had been completely removed in preparation for the new modern highway programmed for completion in 2003. It was simply a case of make your own way through the least hazardous obstacles possible. We found ourselves ploughing through wheat fields, mud banks and dry river beds. There was no single track just a labyrinth of trails which you had to choose in the hope it would offer the passage of least resistance.

Sixty Kilometres from the city we came to a stop, both of us completely exhausted. We were filthy, more dirty than we have ever been since the start of our journey and all we wanted was a thirty minute rest and an ice cool drink. We had only just removed our goggles which to our amusement revealed clean white patches around our eyes surrounded by thick plastered dirt when a large new black 4 X 4 vehicle pulled up and from the window the driver shouted. “Are you the Adventurers we saw on Television from England?” Yes; we replied -- feeling fairly confident that we were the only British bikers heading to the capital. My name is Asan and this is my family, he said, and he then opened each car door to reveal first his daughter, called Jazira, and then his wife called Rosa.

“Do you mind if we ride with you to Astana?” he asked.
 "Not at all" I replied -- just let us have a quick rest before moving on."