Drinking Camel's Milk in the Yurt – Expat Stories From Kazakhstan Read online

  First published Great Britain 2013

  by Summertime Publishing

  © Copyright Monica Neboli

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-909193-23-9

  Design by Creation Booth (www.creationbooth.com)

  Cover photo: Eleonora Le Rose

  For my daughters, Eleonora and Agata

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 – The Arrival

  First Snow

  The Changing of the Seasons

  When All Else Fails, Cluck!

  Chapter 2 – Kazakh History and Traditions

  Mourning on the Steppe: Kazakhstan’s Soviet-era Labor Camps

  Reflections atop Almaty’s Blue Ceiling

  Nauryz in Kyzylorda

  The Cultural Heritage of Kazakhstan

  Sunset on the Caspian Sea

  Chapter 3 – Contemporary Living in Kazakhstan

  Dromophobia

  The Magic Dvor

  Celebrating Art in Atyrau

  Winters in Astana

  The Universal Language of Music

  Chapter 4 – Cross-cultural Exchanges

  Tea with Natasha

  Birthdays and Beshbarmak

  Drinking Camel’s Milk in the Yurt

  Table of Unity

  Fun and Games at a Kazakh Birthday Party

  Chapter 5 – Travelling in Kazakhstan

  On the Road Without a GPS

  Tales of a Traveling Teacher

  Chapter 6 – The Silent Steppe

  Dirt Roads, a Donkey and a Life Transformed

  In Search of the Third Kebezhe

  The Long Horse Ride: Journey Across the Steppe

  Resources

  Glossary of Terms

  About Monica Neboli

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  This project began in 2011, while I was living in Kazakhstan, and has lasted almost two years. During this time a lot happened, including the return to my home country, Italy. This, as you can imagine, brought not just reverse culture shock, but also several changes in my life, all of which led to a significant slowdown of the initiative. Without the help of some precious travel companions, I would have struggled to get to the end at all.

  Among those to whom I owe much are three friends who, to a varying degree but with equal enthusiasm, accompanied and supported me during the creation of this anthology. These are also people with whom I shared my expat experience in Kazakhstan… Sholpan Iskendirova for helping me to look beyond appearances and stereotypes and for showing me the extraordinary and fascinating culture of her country; Arianna Gianola for supporting the idea and for invaluable marketing efforts during the initial writers’ competition – not to mention her advice, suggestions and encouragement along the way; my dear Annemarie van Klooster, with whom I spent evenings working on the project, all the way from the website construction to the final draft of the anthology. I thank her for being constantly available and for her commitment and professional contributions to the book.

  To Jo Parfitt of Summertime Publishing, who believed in the project and has made it possible, and to Renata Harper who gave form to this anthology.

  To the Embassy of Kazakhstan in Italy – in particular Ambassador Andrian Yelemessov, Prime Secretary Aigul Bokaeva and Honorary Consul Pierluigi Aluisio – for their patronage and for recognising the value of this anthology in contributing to a better understanding of the Kazakh culture among the expat community.

  To Francesco, my lifelong partner, for standing beside me throughout the process. He has been my inspiration and motivation for continuing to be focused on my passions. I also thank my wonderful daughters, Eleonora and Agata, for being so understanding on those weekends when I was working on the book instead of playing games with them. I’d also like to thank my parents and the rest of my family for having promoted the final product beyond all expectations.

  My final thanks to all the special fellow expats and travellers who, moved by the common desire of sharing the unforgettable experiences they have lived in this magical country, have made this anthology possible.

  Foreword

  You are about to read a collection of short stories about my country, the Republic of Kazakhstan. This book describes Kazakhstan through the eyes of foreigners, ordinary people who, by fate – or rather, by fortune – came to work and live in this beautiful country. As Ambassador of the Republic of Kazakhstan to Italy, but first and foremost as a Kazakh citizen, I am filled with pride and joy – pride for my homeland; joy because this book will introduce readers to Kazakhstan and its residents, traditions and culture.

  While reading this anthology, you will pass through some of Kazakhstan’s cities (perhaps unknown to you before); you will become acquainted with the country’s hospitable and friendly people; you will come to know more about local cuisine and crafts. And all this, I hope, will create a better understanding of us, the people of Kazakhstan, and perhaps shatter some stereotypes too. If you want to draw your own conclusions about this country, read these stories, for you will find in them dialogues with ordinary locals and a description of their life and manners, as well as the authors’ reflections on historical and contemporary Kazakhstan.

  Why are these stories so interesting? Because all are firsthand, real and original!

  Come to Kazakhstan: we welcome you as our guests. Don’t be surprised if a stranger pays for your taxi or takes your hand and helps you cross the road. Or if, on asking someone for directions to your hotel, he invites you to his house to meet his family and treats you to a tasty dinner. When the time comes to say goodbye, the family may offer you simple gifts, with such open hearts and kind words that you might burst into tears.

  Enjoy the simple human values of the Kazakh people, their friendship, love, hospitality, trust and honesty… and share your experiences with your family and friends on returning home.

  I want to thank everyone who contributed to this book, who shared with us, their readers, all these unforgettable experiences – sometimes touching, sometimes funny – of travelling to a distant and unknown country.

  Enjoy your reading!

  Andrian Yelemessov, Ambassador of the Republic of Kazakhstan to Italy

  Introduction

  One cold yet sunny afternoon in March 2011, there was a knock at the door of our house in Atyrau. A small middle-aged man of composed manner followed me into the living room, an amused smile on his face.

  My family and I had been in Kazakhstan for two years and I had decided to organise a series of seminars for the expatriate community in Atyrau. The seminars, entitled ‘Fundamentals of living in Kazakhstan’, were intended as a forum to discuss the process of adjusting to our host country, as well as to introduce expatriates to the history, culture and traditions of Kazakhstan. We were also to discuss culture shock and other topics with which most, if not all, expats eventually become familiar.

  To make the seminars
a success however, I needed help. I needed the insights of someone deeply familiar with the country. And this is why Kuttygul Zambirbaev had arrived on my doorstep. A Kazakh friend had suggested Kuttygul as a cohost of the seminars and had set up this introduction. Kuttygul, a history teacher at a local secondary school, was delighted that members of the international community in this small city were interested in his country and he agreed, with much enthusiasm, to collaborate on the project.

  I was enraptured by the proud voice of this petite man sitting upright before me in my living room. During his quietly delivered, but intense, two-hour narration, fascinating scenes of Kazakstan’s history passed before my eyes, from the tribalism of the Hordes to the Kazakh Khanate, from Russian influence to independence. Kuttygul’s pride in his country was a characteristic that I had come to recognise in the Kazakhs, particularly in the older generation. I had also come to appreciate the deep connection many Kazakhs have with nature and its elements. This struck me as deeply romantic and in many ways reminded me of the native American Indians, a sentiment that accompanied me throughout my years in Kazakhstan. (Indeed, once back in my home country a few years later, I read in National Geographic that anthropologists had discovered a genetic connection between the two groups; this did not take me by surprise. According to the scholars, thousands of years ago Asians from the Altai Mountains, the mountains on the border between China, Kazakhstan and Mongolia, crossed the piece of land which is now the Bering Strait into North America.)

  After that afternoon with Kuttygul, I was inspired to do more to bring this country to the attention of newly arrived expats as well as those who, like myself before I had moved there, could not locate it on a map. I wanted to collect the experiences of the many expatriates who had been charmed by this country; to hear the stories of those who, in their own way, had been enriched by their experiences of the country, whether through its people, its values or its endless landscape.

  One’s first experience with Kazakhstan is not always easy; we need the right eyes to understand and appreciate what we see. The severity of the climate, the apparent coldness of the people, the long distances, the vast and largely still wild land… these are elements that can test the expatriate. But if we dig beyond the surface, we can soon discover that those elements that at first seemed adverse in fact represent the strengths of a country. Suddenly new horizons are opened up to the expat.

  I remember well my family’s first flight into Atyrau from Cairo. While descending, my eldest daughter, Eleonora, who was two and a half years old at the time, and I looked out the window of the plane, only to come to the conclusion that we were landing in the middle of nowhere.

  “Mom, but where is the city?” she asked me, all innocence. “There’s nothing below us!”

  The scattering of houses, that from the plane seemed little more than a village in the middle of the steppe, were to become our world for the next two years. Discovering Kazakhstan was, for me, a conquest, and like all things that must be conquered, it took time, curiosity and a certain spirit of adventure.

  Drinking Camel’s Milk in the Yurt is a window into Kazakhstan and beyond. This anthology is a collection of expatriate experiences that have taken place all around the country, from its most desolate areas to its most modern cities. The stories have been shared by those who have experienced the difficulties of this land but did not let that stop them. Their enquiring minds have enabled them to discover the true charm of Kazakhstan; the sounds, scents, tastes and emotions that make up this incredible land and its people, the ‘sons of the Steppe’.

  As one of our authors writes, this is a land “driven by the memory of a nomadic world and its rules of hospitality, a world in which complete strangers have to care for each other under the most adverse of circumstances”.

  I hope that in reading Drinking Camel’s Milk in the Yurt you are inspired to visit Kazakhstan and to explore it in the spirit of these stories. For if you do, I am sure this land will too have you spellbound…

  Monica Neboli, July 2013

  First Snow

  by Jacyntha England

  As the plane begins its final descent into Almaty, the passengers prepare for landing by pulling winter clothes out of their carryon bags. Bronzed shoulders are suddenly wrapped in wool pashminas or thick knitted sweaters, while neatly pedicured toes are shoved into layers of heavy socks, and tight-fitting boots. Children who have spent the past week playing on the beaches of southern Thailand, whine as their grandmothers force gloves and hats onto sunburned skin, and tighten scarves around wailing throats. By the time the plane lands, not a trace remains of the endless summer we left behind in Bangkok, a mere seven hours ago. In just a few minutes, all the passengers on board Air Astana flight 782 have transformed from carefree vacationers into hardened winter travelers.

  All the passengers, that is, except me. New to Kazakhstan and its winters, I stand out like a sore thumb amongst my fellow travelers, for I have not thought to bring any warm clothing on this flight. I left Almaty two weeks ago, when the Tien Shan mountains stood bare against the blazing blue sky each morning and the sun still shone brightly each afternoon. As I packed my backpack on that sunny day in early October, I could focus only on my own exhaustion and need for a break from the culture shock that had been my constant companion since arriving in the country in August. That morning, I was running away; away from my loneliness and isolation as a newcomer to a city and people that seemed so closed and distant, away from a job that only managed to frustrate and disappoint me, away from food that made me feel queasy and bloated, and words that got caught in my throat just when I needed them most. I had come very close to giving up and leaving Kazakhstan many times since arriving, and the thought of returning to Almaty after my holiday had been just one dark day in a dim and distant future.

  But now that day is here. Two weeks on a beach have left me feeling human again, and I have been flying over the mountains and deserts of Central Asia determined to make a fresh start. My backpack is full of scarves, perfumes and incense sticks that I plan to give to my Kazakh neighbors and colleagues, and crammed into my carry-on bag are curry sauces, bootleg DVDs and trashy paperbacks; small personal treats bought on impulse in Bangkok’s Khaosan Road. With my rosy new attitude, it had not occurred to me that, somehow, I might be landing in Almaty in the dead of night – and one of the coldest nights of the year, too.

  The airport doors slide open and the first blast of Kazakh winter almost knocks me to my knees. The pavement is slippery against my useless tropical flip-flops, and within seconds my toes have begun to go numb. Groups of returning Kazakh nationals rush past me, hugging and kissing relatives who have braved the weather this late at night to come and greet them, exchanging words that I can only guess are full of love and celebration. I stand and wait, digging around in my purse for leftover tenge, and trying to remember the right words to use when negotiating a taxi into town, feeling more alone than I have in years. Whatever strength I thought I had gained on the holiday seems to be fading into oblivion, as the cold keeps biting into my skin and eyes, making every bone in my body ache.

  Suddenly, I feel a warm hand on mine. I instinctively recoil to this strange touch, and my eyes meet a pair of soft brown eyes nestled in the weathered and wrinkled face of an old man. He is reaching for my backpack, trying to help me carry it.

  “Taxi, devushka?” he asks in a gentle voice.

  I nod, and hold up five fingers to show how much I am willing to pay.

  The man smiles, picks up my backpack and begins walking. I follow him, keeping my arms wrapped around my chest for warmth, and trying not to fall on the ice. When we get to his car, a rusty old four-seater, I immediately begin to open the back door, but he shakes his head and gestures to the front. I sit down next to him and close my eyes, the exhaustion from the trip and return to Almaty overwhelming me. As I begin to drift off, I can hear the old man muttering, “holodno”, the Russian word for cold, as he starts the engine.

  I mus
t have fallen asleep for just a few seconds, for when I wake up the car engine is running and we have not yet left the parking lot. I can feel a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders, and glance up to see the old man squatting on the pavement beside the passenger seat, tucking the blanket along the side of my body.

  When he sees I am awake, he smiles and winks.

  “Vsyo normalno devushka, seichas ne holodno,” he says.

  My Russian is still so rudimentary that I don’t understand much beyond normalno [fine, or okay], but I know he is trying to make me more comfortable for the journey. In most other parts of the world, I would never let a male stranger so close to me, but somehow I feel I can trust this old man with his kind eyes and gentle voice.

  He is singing now, a soft lullaby in Kazakh, as he tucks the blanket around my bare feet. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a dented tin thermos. When he opens the lid, the scent of fresh tea with milk fills the space between us. He pours the hot liquid into a cup and passes it to me; I hold the cup between my hands and let it warm my chilled fingers. We stay like this, me holding the cup of tea and snug under the blankets, and him singing softly in the language of his ancestors, for most of the drive into the city. I slowly begin to relax as we pass the milestones of the highway, the factories and car showrooms illuminated under flickering streetlights.

  Just as we reach the Central Mosque, with its towering blue minarets, the faintest drops of white start hitting the car’s windshield.

  “Ah,” says my companion, a grin of delight spreading across his face and softening his wrinkles, “pervy sneg.” [“First snow.”]

  I will learn later that this evening has brought the first snowfall of the year, a sign of the changing seasons in a land that still abides by nature’s laws. For now, however, I am content to burrow deeper under the blankets and watch the snow fall gently across the tips of the trees that line Almaty’s main boulevards. We pass the cathedral, its golden onion-shaped domes glittering under the moonlight, then the grand tsarist mansions and Soviet statues of the main square, and finally the blue and white cottages that line the small canal that signals our entry to my neighborhood. Some of these buildings have been here for centuries, and at this time of night, as our lone car moves across a thin layer of pure, fresh snow, there is an inescapable sense of magic to our journey; as if we are being accompanied by generations of previous winter travelers across a timeless landscape full of secrets.