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

  When we arrive at my apartment block, I try to carry my own bags up the six flights of stairs, but the old man waves away my offers of assistance as he ascends. I open the door to my apartment and turn on the light, gesturing for him to step inside. For the first time, I see his full face, his gray hair and tattered jacket collar, and I wonder how long he has lived, how hard he must have worked, and all that he must have experienced as his country fell apart and rebuilt itself over the past decades. I remember that I have not even learned his name, and somehow, for all the intimacy we have shared, this seems wrong. I open my mouth and stammer a hesitant greeting in both Kazakh and Russian.

  “Menin atym Jacyntha. Menia zavut Jacyntha.”

  The old man puts his hand to his heart, bows slightly and answers back, “Menia zavut Rustem. Ochen pryatno.”

  After a few more formalities of payment and thanks, I realize I still have Rustem’s blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I take it off and hand it to him, but he simply steps back and shakes his head. With that, he smiles and nods one final time, then turns to go back down the stairs.

  My apartment is warm and inviting, and I am awake now and eager to settle in. I flit between rooms, switching on lights and unpacking my bags of silks and spices. From my living room I can see the snow gathering on the roof of the building opposite. In the far distance, a dawn glow is beginning to rise above the mountains. I know that in a few hours Almaty will wake up to a morning full of the new promise that fresh white snow brings and, for the first time since I stepped off my flight from Vancouver in early August, so will I.

  Suddenly, I understand: this is a land more ancient, more compelling, than any I have ever known. It is a place 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 understand too that if I am going to live, to really be alive in this ever-changing country, I need to open my heart and embrace kindness as an act akin to breathing, just in the way Rustem showed me tonight.

  Only then will I have earned my right to be here.

  I doubt I will ever see Rustem again in this city of two million souls, but I fold his blanket carefully and put it in my closet, ready to offer it to a neighbor, friend or stranger who might need comfort and warmth one day. As I do this, an unfamiliar word forms at the base of my throat and slowly escapes my lips. In one soft breath, as dawn nears in a city that has learned to share itself with the mountains and the steppe, I whisper, “Rahmet” – thank you.

  It is a word I will say every day for the next four years, and I will mean it every time.

  Rahmet, Kazakhstan. Rahmet.

  The Changing of the Seasons

  by Erika Rosati

  When our family received word of a relocation to Kazakhstan, I, like many others I have since met, had to consult an atlas to determine the whereabouts of our destination. Only then did I realize how vast the Kazakh territory is. Bewildered, I discovered that Kazakhstan is one of the largest countries in the world, and that Astana is one of the youngest – and the coldest – capital cities in the world. From Europe to Kazakhstan… I was to be catapulted into a strange and different world.

  I landed in Atyrau in the middle of the summer with my husband, who was immediately dispatched to work in the steppes, and our two daughters, who adapted to this brand-new reality in less than a minute. July in Kazakhstan is a time for holidays, a time of scorching heat, steaming asphalt and semi-deserted cities, and I did my best to get to know my new surroundings while the crowds were away.

  In those early days, I walked with the girls along the banks of the Ural River, which here divides Europe and Asia and mixes the different cultures, intrigued by the fishermen who attempted to catch big fish with their rudimentary fishing rods (just a wooden stick with a piece of fishing wire tied to the end) and equipment. On our walks, I stumbled across a new world and a small slice of land that I would never have known had I decided to stay locked indoors. I found a special city that conjures up a whirlwind of emotions.

  My grandmother might have felt comfortable here: it feels like a country in a post-war period; it is a vibrant country that is beginning to bloom, as our beautiful Italy did in the 1950s. It is a country that is starting to experience well-being, remember culture, and accept diversity. It is opening to the world now that the communist regime is over, growing and blending with the Western world. Whether this is positive or negative is worth debating, but what is certain, is, that the Kazakhs are a people trying to preserve their traditions in the face of an invasion of consumerism and the media.

  The girls and I walked into the depths of the city too, and here we found a playground. Our sanctuary for several days, it was just a swing, a slide and a muddy sandbox where children cooked meals and baked cakes of mud. It was under shade, which is not to be scoffed at in this region in mid-summer; a colourful spot in an unknown city, hidden by the buildings that surrounded it. These were exciting times for us. I was reminded that children are children, no matter where they are, and do not perceive aesthetic differences, while mothers exchange the same knowing looks in every part of the world.

  During one of our playtimes we were introduced to a life far removed from our own urban ways. A small van approached and stopped next to the playground. All around us we could feel a growing excitement. Two men got off the truck and unloaded a sheep. The animal was moved to a small space next to the swings and, within an hour, was hung by its feet, killed and skinned. I felt like an intruder and was overwhelmed by a thousand conflicting feelings. I walked away as life in the playground carried on as usual: a barbecue, the back and forth of an iron swing, the cuddling and amusing of a toddler, the stirring of mud soups inside imaginary pots. I later discovered that the sheep was a sacrifice for Hilal, the beginning of Ramadan.

  A few days after this experience, the weather began to change, reminding us that our playground days were not eternal. I knew it, as we all did, that it had to happen sooner or later, though I would have preferred the latter. First the scorching heat gave way to a cool breeze, then the sun gave way to the clouds, the rain and the mud. Finally, the real, bitter cold arrived, slowly but radically changing the country to a place without greenery… no flowers, no trees, only a monotonous white landscape and a giant frozen river. The fishermen who had sat on the river banks in the summer now sat on the ice, pierced with their unlikely fishing rods, and patiently waited for the fish to bite. The only feature constant in this city is the clear, beautiful blue sky, which always puts you in a good mood.

  My family and I faced the upcoming winter armed with information but were nonetheless unprepared for the reality. We had never been exposed to such low temperatures, and each day a small drama unfolded in our household... thermal T-shirt and pants, shirt, fleece, leggings, pants, jacket, hat, scarf, gloves and boots… putting layer upon layer of clothes on small two girls was a considerable task, one that every mother here had come to learn.

  This is how it typically worked: while I dressed my youngest, I urged my other daughter to dress herself. As I was about to finish putting the first layer on my youngest, I would start shouting at the eldest, who had managed to comb and tie her hair, but was still in her pajamas. I’d postpone the dressing of the youngest to help her sister, who would have started crying desperately because, in putting on her shirt, she had messed up her hair. I would resume the dressing of the youngest, meanwhile begging the eldest to stop crying.

  “Please get a move on and get dressed,” I’d cajole. Jacket, boots, hat, scarf, gloves, backpack... she was finally ready. I would then run to the youngest and help her put on her jacket, boots, hat, scarf, gloves, backpack… Ready!

  Shortly after, I would turn and find my youngest stripping.

  “I’m too hot,” she would say.

  I would open the door and take my eldest outside, she grumbling like a pressure cooker because she would have to continue combing her hair on the school bus. I would dress
her sister again. Finally, it was my turn: jacket, boots, hat, scarf and gloves. The day could start at last and we headed out.

  After a few minutes every part of the body exposed to air would begin a slow freezing process. Then the wind chill would hit the face, the eyes. As shivers ran through our bodies, we pulled at our scarves, even putting on sunglasses for extra protection. The children, however, faced most of this discomfort as if it were nothing new, and a cup of tea or hot chocolate was enough to recharge their batteries.

  I will miss all this. There is a poetry and humour to it. I know that the moment I put my feet on Italian soil again, I will feel a bit empty. I will miss Kazakhstan’s people, its colors, the blue sky, even the feeling of sadness that grips you when you arrive in a country that is not your own and where you do not feel at home. I will miss the smell of the evenings, the night sky and yes, even the bitter cold.

  Translated by: Carlotta Faso

  When All Else Fails, Cluck!

  by Johanna Means

  While strolling near the Ishim River and enjoying the warm, summer weather of Astana, my friends and I decided to try a local restaurant for lunch. Three adults, with three children among us, we had just arrived in Kazakhstan. Although we had read and heard about horse meat and plov (a Russian dish with meat, rice and carrots), as well as other traditional entrées, we were at a loss as to what kinds of dishes might be served. Prior to coming to Kazakhstan, we had brushed up on the basics of “hello”, “thank you”, and “goodbye”, along with “good” and “bad”. And, of course, we were familiar with peevah (beer). None of us understood enough Russian or Kazakh to read a menu, but the restaurant would have a menu in English – right?

  We decided on an adorable, outdoor restaurant we had chanced upon. Plants and flowers draped the brick walls, while vines danced across beams over our heads, and the tables and chairs were plastic. It had an amazingly tropical feel, with a small creek flowing by, where swans floated lazily. Latin-influenced music was playing, and for a moment we were unsure if this was an authentic local restaurant. A waitress came over and, much to our surprise, she did not speak English; they did not have a menu in English either. (Of course, we would soon learn that few locals speak English, and those that do have a limited vocabulary, unless they are in a college or academic work setting.)

  Let me say here: in Kazakhstan, if you are ever in a hurry, do not go out to eat. Kazakhs are laidback at mealtimes and the focus is on enjoying their time together. There is no hurry to eat and be somewhere else. It may be five minutes before your drink order is taken, or it may be 20 minutes. Becoming edgy will not make the service quicker, so learn to relax, and enjoy quality conversation with your companions. Also, do not expect the orders to arrive at the same time. When a dish is ready, it is brought out to you. There is no option of putting it under the heat lamp.

  That day, while trying to figure out the menu, the only thing we could recognize was shashlyk, a form of shish kebab. We ordered lamb, our preferred choice, but also the only Russian ‘animal’ word we could remember. It would be easiest to just order what we knew, we thought.

  “Nyet,” our waitress replied. They did not have lamb. It turns out that restaurants will often be out of something on the menu. In fact they will often have one choice available, despite the menu offering four or five options – as was the case on this day. The problem was that we had no idea what this single option was and our waitress was unable to tell us. (We would learn very quickly to have ready a second and third back-up order when eating out.)

  My friend Chad, a fellow American, and I stared at each other blankly. We did not have our pocket dictionaries with us. We shared no common language with our waitress. Or did we? Chad looked at her, a young girl of about 19 years, and without giving it much thought, he mooed. She turned red, and we all laughed. She shyly covered her face, and then managed to shake her head, laughing along with us. Not one to give up, Chad made a second attempt.

  “Baaahhh,” he bellowed.

  This time, our waitress laughed out loud, her blush deepening.

  “Nyet,” she repeated.

  I decided that I would give it a try.

  “Bawk, bawk,” I said in my best chicken impersonation.

  Our table was in stitches and our waitress, who seemed to be enjoying the game of charades, became excited.

  “Dah!” she yelled. We had succeeded! We were ordering chicken for lunch.

  The main dish out of the way, it was time to tackle the ordering of the side dishes and salads. But we didn’t know our colors – and how does one imitate tomatoes or lettuce? Chad had another good idea.

  “Horosho?” he asked, pointing to an item on the menu. She understood that we wanted her opinion on which salads to try. With an understanding smile, she pointed to several different salad options that she recommended. We decided to try one of each. Why not, right? It was our first eating-out adventure in this new country. About 20 minutes after her arrival at our table, our order had been placed. We weren’t entirely sure what we would be eating, but we were confident in our waitress and her suggestions. After all, we had bonded over barnyard noises.

  While we waited, the adults enjoyed big, cold drafts of beer. I have since become quite fond of Kruzhka Svezhego Barhatnoe, the local beer, and prefer that to the Belgian or German brews my friends drink when we go out. The kids had ordered juice. In America, when you order this, you get a glass of juice that usually costs more than it is worth, and there are no refills. Here the waitress brought out the entire juice container, much to our delight!

  There were a few other patrons in the restaurant, and we had begun to feel as if we were on display. Maybe it was because we looked so different, or because we were speaking English. Or, perhaps, it was because we were loud and silly (and making farm animals noises). Fortunately, when we made eye contact, pleasant smiles were exchanged. Our lunch was the first of many opportunities to learn how friendly the Kazakh people are.

  Our meal finally arrived, and we couldn’t have been more pleased. The shashlyk was cooked to perfection. Pulling meat off such large metal skewers was a novelty for me (and by large, I mean at least 20 inches long!). One salad consisted of corn, mayonnaise and tomato, another of tomato and cucumber in a balsamic style dressing. A third dish was a variety of roasted vegetables. Prior to arriving in Kazakhstan, I had been worried I would not like any of the food. I had secretly hoped I would lose weight while here, but at that moment, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I had already discovered several things I liked, including the beer.

  Our table became suddenly quiet as we savored each new dish. We passed the plates around either until we could eat no more or until the food had completely disappeared. It was a glorious first outing in our new country. Our waitress left us to enjoy the occasion, appearing only when our beers were running low; just the kind of attention we appreciated.

  On the way back to our apartments later that day, we continued to have a good laugh over our barnyard antics. I did not let that experience go to waste either. A few weeks later, I was in the grocery store picking out cat food for my very picky and fat furry friend, who had come to Kazakhstan with me. A young man in the aisle saw my confusion and offered to help. He did not speak any English, so I resorted to my best chicken impression. He laughed hysterically, said something about Americans, and proceeded to show me the chicken flavor. As he walked away, still giggling at my silliness, I realized that I didn’t have to speak someone’s language to make them smile.

  Mourning on the Steppe:

  Kazakhstan’s Soviet-era Labor Camps

  by Stanley Currier

  I felt both excitement and trepidation as the car cut through the vast Kazakh Steppe, speeding through the desert-like land that went on for as far as the eye could see. The occasional buildings that interrupted the otherwise flat landscape either spewed filth into the clear wintry sky or stood long abandoned, relics of the Soviet past. It was December 2011, and I was on my way to the village of Dol
inka, 30 miles from Karaganda, Kazakhstan, and over six thousand miles from my hometown of San Francisco, California. I had already lived in Kazakhstan for more than 10 years, but like many of my Kazakh friends, had never been to this area. Thousands of miles away from the oil-rich towns on the Caspian Sea that have put Kazakhstan on the map in recent years, this is a part of the country – and its history – that is rarely visited. I was driving straight to the administrative center of a vast network of labor camps that saw an estimated one million ‘visitors’ from the period of 1932 to 1959, during the height of Stalin’s totalitarian reign of the Soviet Union.

  “This is a really depressed place,” muttered my taxi driver, Margilan, to me in Russian as we pulled into the village. “There are lots of drug addicts here. That’s a women’s prison over there to the right,” he continued, indicating a crumbling three-storey building that seemed to tower over the small detached homes dotting the land. Some of the houses had fresh coats of paint and satellite dishes whereas others looked as if they’d lost out permanently to history. As we drove through the center of Dolinka, we found the administrative center turned museum of KarLag, or the Karaganda Corrective Labor Camp. The three-storey building looked deceptively modern. It could easily blend into any city as a typical government structure, though the bright red star above the entrance evoked clues to its communist past.

  Margilan parked his car and we walked up to the museum entrance. After paying an 800-tenge entrance fee, a young Kazakh woman appeared at our side, looking too official for her age on a Saturday morning in her black slacks and crisp white shirt.