I kept a diary when I went with three friends to Kazakhstan in 2002.
23rd September 2002, Almaty.
A warm September morning. Broad tree-lined streets some adorned with fountains. Spacious parks, heavily wooded to provide shade in the summer heat. Attractive iron railings and frequent kiosks selling drinks, cigarettes and newspapers. The appearance is somewhat like a rather run-down French provincial town. Some of the buildings hold great beauty but many are masterpieces of Soviet architecture that clash with the simple lines of earlier buildings. The opera house set at the end of a broad avenue has a pediment and pillars. We wander through streets and parks. There is a vast Soviet war memorial complete with an Eternal Flame. Faces of soldiers from the Soviet republics are hewn from an immense piece of rock. The whole effect is of an over-whelming grandeur, not particularly conducive to reflection on the events being commemorated.
24th September 2002, leaving Almaty.
The straggling suburbs of Almaty fall away behind us and at first we drive through cultivated land with roadside bungalows. Tobacco hangs out to dry on wooden frames. Quite suddenly the fields end and the steppe begins. A huge waste land with low hills sculpted like sand dunes. The road runs straight through this near desert. Men on horses keep watch over flocks of sheep. Sometimes the monotony of the scenery is broken as the road winds through a range of hills. Such places would be ideal for an ambush and I watch idly for the glint of sunlight on gunmetal.
We are in a Soviet army truck, vintage 1979, which has been adapted for tourists. It has six wheels, the cab is the original olive green but a not-so-new orange superstructure has been placed on the back. Entry is up a three-rung metal ladder and through a side door. The interior is laid out airline style wth four rows of four seats divided by a central aisle. There are sliding windows and blue curtains. The airline illusion is strengthened by the seats actually being old airline seats with loose covers. Behind the seats is storage space. Communication with the driver is through an intercom. Alternatively there is a button to press which lights up a bulb in the cab if we want the driver to stop.
After a few hours we turn south and the country become mountainous Alpine meadows on high hills freckled with conifers. In the early evening we arrive at an aquamarine lake in the Chilik valley. There are a sprinkling of run-down dachas which can be rented and a family live in a house at the entrance to the path that leads up to the Chilik river. We load up with all our kit and set off.
We carry small, light rucksacks. Our guide, three porters and a cook are heavily laden. After about twenty minutes Kanat (our guide) selects a flat camping site on the shore of the lake. While tents are being erected and supper cooked I try out my brand-new fishing rod and with a small silver spoon cast out into the lake. It quickly becomes very deep and we variously suggest that it reminds us of Canada, Norway or Sweden. Meanwhile Pippa and Alex are gathering wood and like good girl guides soon have a fire going. The temperature falls rapidly and we are soon grouped round it with a bottle of gin and my Angostura bitters. It transpires that the water is back on the truck. Manfully we drink neat pink gins out of stainless steel beakers, bought by me in Peter Jones in the 1970s with remarkable foresight. It is decidedly colder than I had expected and I’m glad to crawl into my new (suitable for – 7 C) sleeping bag.
