Almost Astana
One and a half thousand kilometres after leaving Aqtöbe, the last place where we had a shower and slept in a bed, we have almost reached Astana, the capital of Kazakhstan. Tomorrow morning should be a short sprint to the city centre, followed in all likelihood by a lot of searching around for an affordable hotel. But we are used to this by now.
It is also three years to the day since I moved to Amsterdam from Scotland. Thus this website has its birthday today. I must admit I did not imagine that I would still be updating it now, least of all from the middle of Kazakhstan.
Unlike these last three years, the past week has been quite uneventful. On the first day after our last day off, we had the wind behind us for the first time since I can remember. Because of this, we managed to cycle 150km, by far the longest distance of the trip so far. The reward for this was a little river at the end in which to swim and get clean; it’s strange how such small comforts are so welcome when there is not so much else to look forward to.
An unexpected annoyance is that the authorities are busy reconstructing the main road to Astana. This is good news, I guess, but the problem is that they have not done a very good job of providing a temporary replacement where the old one has been dug up. This has meant quite a lot of lugging of the bikes up and down piles of earth and bone-crunching cycling over kilometres of rough stones and grit. Just when it looks like the worst has been passed and brand new asphalt appears to stretch out endlessly to the horizon, along comes another enormous pile of rubble and a hole in the road as big as a house. This is very tiring and frustrating.
An interesting encounter occurred today, in a village too small to be named on the map. We had stopped to buy bread and ice cream, and saw that tables were being laid with all manner of sweets, dried fruits, and other delicious things. Cars kept turning up filled with people, who would get out and affectionately greet those already present.
We got talking to one girl who could speak some English, who told us that they were all members of the same family, come together to celebrate the lives of their grandparents; it is apparently a Kazakh tradition. Next to the café where this was taking place stood a yurt, the traditional Kazakh nomadic tent. The girl explained that this was the tent in which her grandparents had earlier lived. Apparently few people live the nomadic life any more, having exchanged it for an easier life in the city; she herself was a recent graduate in biotechnology. It is sad but perhaps understandable that this way of life is rapidly disappearing.
Aside from this, we have passed through quite the dullest landscape yet encountered, and have seen very little else worth writing about here. What has kept me going is the thought of a week’s rest in Astana, a hotel bed, and a bit more variety in what there is to eat. And, most of all, a shower. Everything stinks and everything is sore.
