Week 13-14: Step by step through the steppes…

Endless steppes and boundless hospitality.

Arrived in Kazakhstan partly shell shocked, relieved, and devoid of any money after being robbed by the police in Russia. After scrounging some Wi-Fi from a desolate shop in the middle of the steppe, I managed to book into a relatively fancy hotel in Atyrau, way over budget but needed to regroup, reorganize, and calm the nerves a little. A decent bed, some food, and finding a way to get some money were priorities. In the parking lot, as I was unloading my bike, I was accosted by a jovial and smiling Kazakh curious to find out where I had come from. As is often the way on long-distance solo travel, at first one is always cautious when approached by strangers, especially after my last encounters on the other side of the border. Paranoia can quickly settle in. Once one's guard is up, it's hard to let it down. So, as this strange little Kazakh man with round features, a stocky neck, and rotund countenance was asking me lots of questions about my bike, my journey, etc., I couldn’t help thinking what he was after—money? Information? I was on edge. But as the conversation unfolded, the themes started changing and before we knew it, we had been standing in the parking lot of the Atyrau Ritz hotel for over an hour, discussing philosophy, religion, Pablo Coelho, culture, and history. I ended up disclosing to him what had happened to me the day before, he shook his head and said this was pretty common in this part of the world, “welcome to Eurasia,” and to be careful with Kazakh police, as they were similarly corrupt. It was getting late and I was exhausted, but the conversation was so engaging I couldn’t bring myself to disengage. We decided to have breakfast the next day to continue our chat. The Kazakh's name was Altai, and little did I know that he would become a very important person in my journey and a dear friend.

Altai was my age, a year older, born in 1982 during Soviet rule. An erudite fellow, versed in history, philosophy, and trained as a petroleum engineer, Kazakhstan’s main export. From a humble and poor family in the frozen north of Kazakhstan, he remembered Soviet rule with tainted nostalgia. He more bleakly remembers the period of post-Perestroika, the periods of instability and famine that followed. In his teenage years, he tells me he had moved to a bigger city to be a waiter during school holidays. One day, a wealthy Russian tipped him his mother's monthly salary. When he realized this, he cried and decided he would do everything he could to improve his lot in life. His way up was through education; he received a scholarship to the second-best school in Kazakhstan and consistently scored at the top of every class he attended, securing himself a place at Istanbul University of Engineering. Upon graduation, after meeting his wife, the only other student with better grades than him, he joined a French petroleum company and traveled the world in the shittiest places, prospecting for oil and helping set up extraction facilities around Africa—Chad, Mali, Niger, etc.—and earning quite a fair bit of money. As his career progressed, he became disenfranchised with the industry, seeing the damage it caused the environment and in his own words, “the imbalance in nature it was creating.” He decided to quit and set up a construction company dedicated to building schools in his homeland. Now a CEO and a born-again devout Muslim, his sole focus is on bettering the future of young Kazakhs by providing them the same opportunities he had and offering them a way to improve their lot through education. In a sense, he is a model of the new Kazakhs' emerging middle-upper class that had been ethnically cleansed by the Soviets in the 1920s and subsequently through collectivization under Stalin's draconian rule. Not only had Stalin purged all the Kazakh intelligentsia, but he had also destroyed what was once a strong, proud nomadic culture. Forcing these once proud steppe warriors to give up their way of life to conform to whichever mismatched 5-year plan was in place at the time. Forcing these nomadic horsemen to abandon their equine ways to farm in collectives to be the Soviet Union's breadbasket. Millions of horses were slaughtered to feed Stalin's armies and consequently led to terrible famines across the country that decimated over 30% of the population.

The Kazakh genocide is little known about and forms part of the wider death and tyranny perpetrated upon the non-ethnic Russian Soviet republics by Moscow's more equal than other pigs.

Altai taught me the history of his country that I knew so little about. Its origins from the times of Timur's Golden Horde, the use of the Cossacks (Kazakhs) by the Tsarist emperors to fight their various wars, not least assisting in the destructions of Napoleon's retreating Army from Moscow through the Soviet purges and now the resurgence of Kazakh nationalism. The 1986 independence movement that took place there then started the events that would lead to Perestroika in 1991 and the end of the Cold War. Kazakhstan was the first country to claim its independence from the USSR. Altai was a fascinating and discerning character, full of anecdotes and always linking everything back to Kazakhstan. When I told him I was part Hungarian, he exclaimed, “You see, once you scratch the surface, everyone is basically a Kazakh!” He’s not far from the truth; 6% of the world's population shares the genes of Genghis Khan!

We met for breakfast the next day, he had a day to spare before flying back to his hometown in Shymkent, in the west. So, he kindly offered to help me get sorted with a SIM card, money, and took me on a tour of the city of Atyrau.

Atyrau is the wild west of Kazakh petroleum, a gray and dense city. Nothing pretty here, feels like a petroleum gangster town. Dusty streets spattered with remnants of old Soviet times. Kazakhstan was not a “developed” country prior to communism; people lived an agrarian nomadic life, roaming the steppe with their horses and cattle (this includes the horses, more on horse meat later). Stalin put an end to this and forced the Kazakhs to move into collective farms and cities. He also imported hundreds of thousands of ethnic Russians to replace the deported and murdered intelligentsia to maintain a grip on power in the country. As a result, most cities in Kazakhstan feel awkward, maladapted, just off for a people that until 100 years ago lived happily with their horses on the vast open plains.

Altai helps me get back on my feet, not without gently mocking me for my life choices as a European. “You Europeans have life too easy; look at you on your motorbike searching for the meaning of life, davai! Spend one winter in Kazakhstan and you will have your fill, get off the bike, get married, and have kids!” I wonder if he’s not wrong…We in the “west” are spoiled. As Altai said, hard times make for hard people, hard people make easy times, easy times make weak people, and weak people make hard times. In his view, we are in the post-hard times; we have just become weak and concerned with entitled non-issues while the rest of the world is dealing with hard times and becoming stronger as a result.

In the afternoon, we are invited to his nephew's house to have beshbarmak, traditional Kazakh horse meat and pasta-based. Sat cross-legged on a low table on the third floor of a post-Soviet high tower block with Jagal and Gul Jagal, his wife. Altai asks me to lead the prayer before eating “bismillah,” I prayed for our families, our ancestors, our children, and for providence that led our paths to cross and share this meal. The horse meat, I’m ashamed to admit, is succulent, and I’m quickly going for seconds and thirds. We eat with our hands, using our right hand as a cup; I dip my clumsy spoon into the central dish, making a mess much to the amusement of my hosts. We speak of life and politics at the table. The current worry is with Ukraine, the last incursion on Russian territory could mean that Russia could ask the countries it has a defense pact with to levy troops in order to defend its territory, much like NATO’s Article 5 on self-defense. A worrisome time for Altai, who is a reserve Artillery Officer in the Kazakh Army, another point on which we bonded.

The lunch ends, and it’s time for me to hit the road again, full belly and warm heart from having been hosted so kindly and warmly by Altai and his family. Altai suggests a new route rather than cross the endless steppe of Kazakhstan to head south and visit the ancient cities of Bukhara and Samarkand, the pearls of Central Asia. However, he warns me the crossing of the Kazakh/Uzbek desert is one of the hardest, the road conditions are abysmal, and if things go wrong, there isn’t much help around. “You want adventure, you crazy European, now you have it!” he jokes. He adds that he will be in Shymkent, the other side of Uzbekistan, which will be on my route to Almaty; he tells me that I am his guest and must accept, so I do. I will see him there in a week. We bid each other farewell after a warm embrace, and I’m off on the road again.

The roads from Atyrau to Beyneu are 700 km of one straight line across the flat steppes; the occasional giant Mongolian camel will cross the road, and in the distances, herds of horses huddle together in the sweltering heat. It’s a harsh place with no trees and no shade, constant wind, and the beating sun burning everything it touches, yet the sky is the largest I have ever seen, endless blue enveloping this harsh land.

There is much time to reflect on these long stretches of road; the incident in Russia slowly fades away, I have time to realize where I am. I suddenly start feeling like a nomad, alone riding through the desert, no home to go back to, no set destination on the horizon, free. My mind thinks about the brave adventurers and merchants of the Silk Road that traversed these arid lands on camelback, horseback, or even worse on foot. No paved roads, just endless steppes; it's hard enough with a podcast on and riding at 100 km per hour. Even more remarkable is that the Kazakhs dominated these plains for thousands of years on horseback, predating Genghis Khan's era. The Kazakhs are tough, proud, and rugged people. Their features alone seem shaped by the steppes, strong angular faces, upright postures. The men are huge and all look like wrestlers, and the women, many tall and slender. Of course, there has been much mixing of ethnicities with Russians and Tajiks. Often crossing beautiful women with slender Asian features, dark brown Tajik skin, and bright green Russian eyes. The vastness of this country cannot be overstated; it's just endless, amidst the nothingness are many oil fields dotting the horizon, the pumps rhythmically extracting the rich oil that is fueling my brave Tara and causing so much pain in this world.

The ride ends in Beyneu, a border town sort of a mix between Tatooine from Star Wars and a spaghetti western saloon. There, I'm introduced to Nukus, camel milk. Not for the faint-hearted, strong, salty, unpasteurized, straight from the camel's tit into a wooden bowl. I feel under pressure by the men that offer it to me, I can't wince when drinking it. Fortunately, my stomach held up that night and was able to make an early start the next day to head into the desert for the border crossing.

The crossing is 80 km from Beyneu; I decide to leave at 0500 after some PT in my room. Staying fit on the road is hard, so maintaining a daily 30 mins exercise every morning is vital. The ride from the steppe to the desert is still fresh, for the first time in a while I put a warm layer on. Arriving at the crossing, the road is clogged with white Chevrolet vans rammed with eager and excited locals preparing for the crossing. It’s 400 km of dirt roads until the first outpost once past the border. The day before in Beyneu, I was told of a secret new road being built that doesn’t show on the maps. 5 km from the old road through the desert, after the first construction site, apparently hard to get onto but once on it a breeze of pure, new, smooth, untouched tarmac.

The crossing takes longer than usual, it’s early, and the staff are beyond procrastinating. I hang out with some young Kazakh recruits, talking mixed martial arts, army stuff; I let one of them hop on Tara to take some pictures. In Uzbekistan, I get scammed for road insurance and end up paying way over the price to get in by a sleazy, snake-looking 19-year-old Uzbek who fancies himself a businessman; he’s barely a boy…

I head off a bit annoyed at the interaction and having encouraged this behavior, but the excitement of the crossing soon makes me forget this incident, and it’s time for some adventure!

In my over-eagerness to find the secret road, I ignore the instruction to head east after the construction site, my mind set on finding the road and make some time. The actual road is not a road; it's just a giant pothole with bits of tarmac on it. Impossible to do more than 30 km per hour, the total distance is 700 km…do the math.

So I head into the desert, after 20 anxious minutes I finally see it, elevated about two meters above the desert floor, with steep sandbanks on each side, there is the new road! But there are no access points, the workers must have blocked them off to stop intruders and locals from using it. Up on the pegs, I ride along it looking for an entrance. I spot a small dip in a sandbank leading to a once-used ramp that doesn’t seem too sandy and steep. Time to give it a try. As I turn in to prepare the entry, I go through a deep sand patch, and Tara nose dives into the sand…after a painful 270 Kg deadlift, she's back on two wheels, relatively unscathed. I then dig her into the sand as I try and get her over the sandbank, 20 minutes later, after painfully digging her out, offloading all her extra luggage, and determined to make it, I build a small rock ramp onto the road. Put Tara in off-road mode and rev her up onto the road! We've made it, plain sailing from now to Nukus, the next town! The new road is flat, smooth, and unused. Easy cruising speed of 80 km to conserve fuel. Fuel is a big consideration in Uzbekistan; people there use methane, not petrol. Most of the petrol stations are in the south of the country in the bigger towns, so it’s imperative when crossing vast sways of desert to plan accordingly and carry extra fuel. Also, to ensure that you carry a filter for any fuel you might find being sold on the black market, the quality is extremely poor and could cause untold damage to your vehicle if not careful. I carried a set of women's stockings that I would put on the muzzle of the fuel pump; you can imagine the confusion and amusement from the petrol attendant in this Muslim country.

So with the extra ten liters of fuel packed, I was careful not to burn too much fuel too quickly to make sure I could make it to the next town where I knew I could refuel. However, I settled into a monotonous riding style; after 3 hours straight on one straight line, my focus started to wane. Just as this happened, a sandbank that had been laid across the new road to stop the likes of me using appeared right in front of me, too late to brake and avoid it, have to go through it. Tara and I go airborne, and land with a large crash…The excitement and adrenaline make me forget to check, and I carry on riding, feeling a bit giddy and excited. A second sandbank appears a few hours later, this time I'm ready, I stop to check if there's a safe passage when I hear the roaring of a caterpillar charging down the road toward me. "Shit," I think, "I’m in trouble, I’m going to get scolded for using the new road." Instead, the caterpillar lowers its giant shovel and plows a fresh hole through the sandbank for me! The driver has a beaming white smile and waves at me from the cabin. I thank him profusely and we share a cigarette. He tells me it's better to get off the road after this one as there's a police checkpoint ahead and that I can get back on it 5 km after the CP. However, as I return to the bike, that's where I notice the damage from the jump. My rear pannier rack has snapped and my top case and spare fuel are precariously hanging off about to fall off and hit the rear wheel! The caterpillar driver helps me strap the hanging top case to the back seat using my spare rope, and I placed my duffel bag on the loose pannier rack. Rode through the breach my savior had dug through the obstacle for the next 300 km in the hope to find a welder that could fix my poor battered Tara. Arrived in the town of Nukus in the middle of the night, the first town that had a welde. A glint of blue through a closed garage door gave me some hope. As I unpacked the duffel bag on the back, I realized I had left it too close to the exhaust, which had melted a huge hole through it and my warm clothes within, much to the amusement of the mechanics. A few minutes later, Tara is operational again. Once again, bushcraft mechanics have saved her, all free of charge and with big smiles from the mechanics who think I’m mad for having taken that route.

Nukus is the furthest northern town of Uzbekistan, ethnically more Kazakh than Tajik, and politically within the independent region of Karakalpakstan, with its own president, flag, and governance. Part of Uzbekistan but separate, culturally more nomadic. In Nukus is the Savitsky museum, where all the art banned by the Soviet Union under Stalin was stored by the heroic Savitsky. Hidden in Uzbekistan in the most southern reaches of the regime out of sight and out of mind, Savitsky wanted to inspire the next generation of Karakalpak artists, and he began collecting works by modern Central Asian artists. These included works of Constructivism, Cubism, Futurism, and Neo-Primitivism which had been banned by Stalin in the 1930s and were considered to be degenerate forms of art. After a day's rest in the shade of the museum and floundering in the quiet and aromatic bazaar, I was ready for the next step. Another grueling 700 km to the ancient Silk Road city of Bukhara, a prized city for the Tsarist and British empires from the 18th century onwards during the period of the Great Game.

I set off early to beat the heat; the road follows the Turkmenistan border, across the desert. One of the toughest and hottest deserts I've ever crossed. 700 km of intense heat, like riding through a uranium-powered blow dryer. The long road and time in my helmet was hard psychologically, I was starting to tire and was missing just talking to someone. Long stretches of sunbaked sun, not a sign of anything green for miles on end. I start questioning myself, did I really want to do this any longer? Why had I picked this route and not stayed North where the sun was lighter and the air fresher. Heat and monotony are dangerous for morale.

I stopped for a cup of green tea and some shade in a roadside kebab house, upon departing I was approached by a peculiar and wild man. Half my height, dark tanned skin, a scarf wrapped around his head, a fake DIOR T-shirt. Lean to the point of sinewy, dark eyes with no pupils. Dragging a cart full of plastic waste. He stops the cart 20 meters from me, shouts something in Russian, and walks up to me. Despite my attempts to explain that I speak no Russian, he launches into a long monologue. I gather he is a Tatar from Siberia and was a tank operator in the Soviet army and keeps referring to me as commander. Maybe I reminded him of someone from his past? He then starts invoking Jean-Claude Van Dam and kicking the air violently. I give him a cigarette to appease him, he grabs the cigarette and hugs me violently. Then removes his hat to show me his hairless forehead. Grabs my hand and pushes against it with all his strength, he's only small but the situation is getting weirder by the minute. He then runs to his cart and gives me a set of plastic roses that he ties to my bike. The desert clearly has gotten to him, but I believe that in people's folly there is a wisdom of mysticism to be respected. The plastic rose now adorns Tara and has acted as a talisman eliciting smiles wherever we go and softening wanna-be Central Asian gangsters.

Rolled into Bukhara as the sun was setting over the old turquoise-roofed madrassas and mosques, the old clay walls are reflecting the orange light of the setting sun. The dome of the mosques is reflecting rays of turquoise and purple into the sky. The air is cooler and the atmosphere quiet and relaxed. A real oasis of architectural beauty, once the capital of Timur and the heart of the Persian Empire, Bukhara was a center for education and philosophy of the ancient world. Also strategically positioned in the middle of the Silk Road, a place for exchange and foreign riches.

Bukhara, a place that had loomed in my mind for weeks, a place where many an adventurer had come to seek fame, fortune, and glory, and where many instead had come to find a brutal end. Such was the case of Lieutenant Conolly, and Lieutenant Colonel Stoddart, both officers of the East India Trading Company, tasked with gaining influence with the Eurasian Khanates to prevent Tsarist Russia from getting closer to India, in a period of history referred to as the Great Game. In the midst of The Great Game, a strategic rivalry between the British and Russian empires for control over Central Asia, Colonel Charles Stoddart and Captain Arthur Conolly found themselves deep within the complex political landscape of Bukhara. Stoddart arrived in 1838, under the guise of curbing the regional slave trade and securing alliances against Russian influence. However, his diplomatic mishaps, including not dismounting his horse to greet Emir Nasrullah Khan and lacking a direct letter from Queen Victoria, led to his imprisonment in Bukhara’s notorious Bug Pit—a dark, vermin-infested dungeon.

Stoddart was a staff officer, not versed in Central Asian culture, one can just imagine him turning up with the arrogance and pomp of the era; unfortunately, in those days, errors like those could be fatal. Connolly, on the other hand, was a field operative, versed in the local culture, wearing local dress, a polyglot, and adventurer; he felt he had a better chance of rescuing his poor comrade. Captain Arthur Conolly, driven by a mix of evangelical zeal and geopolitical strategy, ventured to Bukhara in 1841 to rescue Stoddart. Conolly, who famously coined the term "The Great Game," believed in the potential to transform Central Asia into a British-aligned region promoting Christianity and countering Russian expansion. However, upon arrival, Conolly too was captured after a misunderstanding with the Emir, who was increasingly paranoid about British intentions following disruptive activities in the region. Both men were imprisoned under harsh conditions, facing psychological and physical torment as they struggled with their dire circumstances.

The situation culminated tragically in 1842 when both Stoddart and Conolly were executed by Emir Nasrullah Khan after being forced to dig their own graves in a public spectacle. This act of brutality highlighted the ruthless nature of regional politics and the perilous position of foreign diplomats in Central Asia during this tumultuous period. Their deaths underscored the lethal stakes of The Great Game and left a lasting mark on British Central Asian policy, bringing a somber close to their ambitious, though ultimately fatal, mission. My good friend, ex-army officer, and fellow adventurer, Levisson Wood had written about the perils of two unfortunate officers. After a phone call with him from the desert floor, he admitted never finding their graves, and so I decided that I would make this my mission for Bukhara, and jokingly asked Lev that we don’t try to reenact the mishaps of poor Connolly and Stoddard. I didn’t fancy spending 3 years in a bug pit to be decapitated on the main square. After some digging around the local bazaar, I found a local guide that knew of an unmarked grave in the old prison fort on the edge of the city. With great trepidation, we set off immediately to find it. We entered the foreboding place where Stoddart and Connolly had spent three years at the bottom of a 6-meter-deep pit infested with bugs. We found the pit, now a macabre tourist attraction. My guide took me to the backyard of the prison, and there it was, the only unmarked grave in Bukhara. Stoddart and Connolly had refused to convert to Islam; had they done so, they would have been buried in the Muslim graveyard, so we concluded that there was a strong chance this was where their decapitated bodies would have been buried. I saluted my two comrades of a bygone age, feeling a sense of sadness for their tragic ending and a sense of camaraderie. British officers today are not that different; we were all schooled in the same place and probably behaved as egregiously as young subalterns then as we do today. A sense of adventure occupies a big place in us all, and I couldn’t help to feel sorry for these two adventurous souls.

After paying my respects, I spent the rest of the day floundering around the bazaars, imagining the lives of adventurers of the Great Game, what they would have felt when they stumbled upon the marvels of Bukhara for it is a real gem of Central Asia. Once a center for philosophy, math, science, astronomy of the Persian empire, and hence the world. A place of great beauty designed to encourage reflection and thought. It traps the desert winds in order to cool the revelers walking about taking in the sights. One can imagine at the time of the Persian empire, scholars, sitting under the arches of the madrassas, discussing art, religion, the stars.

After Bukhara, Samarkand, another Central Asian gem. Samarkand is much larger and draws a lot more tourism from around the world. The Registan where Emperor Timur the Great is buried is a mind-blowingly grand and beautiful edifice, covered in lapis lazuli blue stones, rising high into the sky. The place is a bit overwhelming in size and very crowded in comparison to Bukhara. I beat a hasty retreat to a local restaurant where a live entertainer is singing Russian renditions of the Top Gun theme song; it's all a bit strange but the food is delicious. Grilled meats with incredible spices.

Refreshed from these two cultural oases, it was time to go back to Kazakhstan and meet up with Altai in Shymkent and then onto Almaty, the green mountain city of southeastern Kazakhstan. This would be my furthest east in Central Asia before heading south into the Pamirs and across into Afghanistan and toward Asian Minor, the Himalayas, and Southeast Asia.

The ride from Samarkand was yet another long desert stretch, hard graft, heat, and having to ride through Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, at rush hour made for a pretty exhausting ride. Not least that at the border a moment of inattention meant that some local thieves ripped my expensive camera off my bike as I was changing some money…Being on a bike means you're always exposed to such petty thieves; no point getting upset, must just be more careful next time.

Arrived late at Altai’s, to meet his brother, uncle, and best friend. We had a copious meal of horse meat, fruits, and green tea. His brother, a budding writer, has just finished his thesis on the British Army, I believe he works for the government security services. We discussed Kazakh history, its current place in geopolitics. As Arman sees it, it's stuck between the Russian Bear, the Chinese wolf, and above it circles the American eagle. Some hungry predators all eyeing up their natural resources. He tells me that relations with China have gone sour lately as Kazakhstan is a model of tolerant Islam that challenges the CCP’s control over their own minorities. It’s fascinating to switch the map of the world around and centralize it on the country you’re in to see how it perceives the world and sees its own place in it.

Met his wife and six children, his second eldest has secured a place at Oxford University so we discuss what it's like living there, and I reassure her that if anything were to happen to her, I still had many contacts there that would help her. I don’t mention that most of those are from the criminal underworld, but suffice to say that if she needed help, she would get it.

I spend two days in Shymkent, fixing up Tara at a local garage owned by the kindest and biggest Kazakh I have ever met. He cannibalizes some metal scraps from the heap in his hangar and fixes the bits that had been broken on the desert crossing, asking nothing in return but friendship. Steppe hospitality is just unmatched; I feel strangely at home in this foreign harsh land. People are honorable, proud, and have a real sense of community. They want to help and will help with no expectation in return other than showing them the same courtesy, respect, and kindness. Lessons in living that Europe has lost. Hyper individualism, hyper-consumption, fear, and distrust of the other have ruined our identity and sense of community.

I left Altai’s with a heavy heart; he has become a true friend to me and, in a strange way, a form of spiritual guide. His approach to religion and altruism has left a real mark on me. There is a strange and deep connection between us, as if we knew each other from before; I can’t explain how this short plump mini version of Genghis Khan can feel like a long-lost brother.

I set off for another 800 km straight line ride across the steppe, but this time with the beginning of the Pamir Mountains looming on the horizon, inviting me in to their twists, turns, and snow-capped peaks. Behind those mountains lays Kyrgyzstan, the land of the mountain nomads. The excitement starts to build. But before that, I had promised a Kazakh friend who had told me of a Brazilian Jiu-jitsu gym in Almaty I should visit.

Almaty is a bustling city, the Apple of Kazakhstan. Nestled at the foothills of the Pamirs, it is green and lush. Snow water flows down from the mountains, watering the endless parks and gardens spread across the city, such a sharp contrast from the previous seven days of desert riding. The air is clean and fresh, and the night cool and easy to sleep through.

The city itself is a bustling hive of activity; Kazakhstan is the size of northern Europe and has a population of 15 million (just a little more than London), 2 million of these live in Almaty. So to go from arid steppe to green bustling city was a tad overwhelming at first. The city's economy is thriving, the streets are clean, the cars are new, and American-style shopping malls are sprouting all over the remains of the post-Soviet buildings. Like a veneer of capitalism has been painted upon the rotting teeth of communism.

The BJJ gym in Almaty is run by a philosopher-warrior, black belt 3rd dan who also lectures philosophy at the university. We talk about choosing a path, mastering it, finding passion, and virtue in repetition and discipline. His assistant teacher is a young Russian, Konstantin, who has escaped Russia to avoid conscription. There are many of these types all over the ex-USSR countries. Konstantin has a huge smile and deadly leg locks. After class, I make a bunch of new friends, and we all go for Kazakh breakfast, yes you guessed it—horse meat and eggs…

At breakfast with three types of Russian Kazakhs, Konstantin the youngest leaving to avoid war, Nikolai in the middle born in Russia and educated at the military academy is now the COO of Kazakhstan’s largest e-commerce business, and Dmitry the giant bear. Third generation Kazakh, a doctor now fully integrated into the culture. Almaty is an ethnic melting pot, Russian, Kazak, Kyg, Tatar, Mongol all mixed together with no racial tension or divide. Such beautiful and interesting faces, aquiline noses, dark skins, blue-green eyes, blond, dark hair, it’s a real Central Asian melting pot.

The next day I set off from Kazakhstan into the mountains of the Pamir, where the adventure will really start. Before that, Dim and Konstantin propose we go to thermal baths at 0400 hrs the next morning, undeterred and warmed up by making new friends I accept, so we head to the mountain only 12 km from the city to throw ourselves in the freezing cold mountain river and then recover in the hot sulfur springs.

My time in Kazakhstan has been nothing short of incredible, more than the land itself it is the people here that have blown me away, their spirit and soul are as warm and hospitable as the desert is harsh and uncaring. I will always hold a special place in my heart for this wild and arid land that is so full of love and life