The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.

Beyond The Picket Fence

by Sherryanne De La Boise

My husband and I were to travel to Almaty, Kazakhstan. We flew 8 hours to Amsterdam, arriving in the morning. Gave us the day to go into Amsterdam and walk around before the 13 hour flight to Almaty. This was back in our frugal days, when we sat in the back by the toilets. I bought myself a seat upgrade, which my husband said was a waste of my money. He was right, because he sat in that seat-with-greater-leg-room, leaving me seated next to a stout Soviet Interpol Official.

It was this seat partner who provided the wisdom concerning the drinking of local water, If it smells like a swimming pool, then you can drink it. If it smells like horse piss, then don't.

And, concerning fruits and vegetables: It's Harvest season. Eat everything. If you get the shits, you'll lose a few kilos. What's the harm in that? We all could afford to lose a few kilos.

He arranged for a driver to take us to the Hotel Kazakhstan, selected because it was the cheapest hotel on Orbitz.com. Located directly across from the Russian embassy, it was the tallest building in Kazakhstan and featured on local currency. We were the only westerners visible. In our cramped room, we found a terrycloth bathrobe, the usual toiletries and two gas masks (which I pinched).

Having bought a guidebook, we did a walking tour. I was surprised to find a Saks Fifth Avenue, Polo, Armani, Missoni and Swarovski stores, as well as a Marriott. Kazakhstan is the 8th largest country in the world (the size of western Europe). It is the largest landlocked country. It was a part of the Soviet Union, and many things are still very Russian, with a large German population. My seat partner had warned me about the affirmative action, whereby Russians/blondes are passed over for natives. Be careful about passing for a German.

At the Opera, heavily made-up Kazakh women were arriving at the stage door. They are the chorus. Going in the front door, the audience was comprised of ladies in black heeled boots, panty hose, knee-length western wool luncheon suits, elegant ¾ coats, and beautiful grooming. Perfume filled the air. It was bizarre to see ladies-who-lunch in the land of Genghis Kahn.

The ironwork of the fences and railings was unusual. At a high fashion store, the railings contained silhouettes of runway models. At a naughty shop, the railings had naked women (British bachelor parties frequently come to Almaty). Lots of round balls with triangular cutouts atop of posts. These represent the native pinecone, which is very round with triangular indentations. And, the ironwork on the ends of benches were representations of the top of a yurt (where the smoke exits, the comfort of a hearth fire).

The office buildings are encased in grids of metal. Maybe they're a commentary about the cage of corporate structure upon innovation? Or, maybe they just look cool.

We wander a few blocks off the walking tour into a neighborhood. We see tiny, run-down compounds, with satellite dishes and yellow gas pipes. Occasionally, there will be a very cute home in adobe and Central Asian blue. The roofs were corrugated tin or layers of tar paper. It was hard to discern the entrance. Whereas the apartments had cars parked in-front, the neighborhoods kept all their cars parked inside the compounds.

Because of earthquakes, the gas lines are not buried. They run around Kazakhstan like telephone wires. When they cross a road, the yellow pipe goes up and over, like an arching entrance gate. The Soviets provided free heat to those who lived in their apartment buildings. If you had a house, it did not have running water or heat.

Apartments are so small, that the balcony becomes an important room (So small, you had to go outside to change your mind). When you own an apartment, the exterior wall is yours to maintain. Some apartment buildings are a crazy array with each unit having a different aluminum front, or full length glass, or carved wood, and air conditioners in every state of disrepair.

We stop at a local café. I like to sit and people watch. I like to breathe the air and listen to the conversation of others. We are eating a basket of plain bread with our coffee, because my husband doesn't speak much Russian. He thought he was ordering sandwiches. Anyhow, the dammmn Marine got ahold of the guidebook and would like to do a 31km hike in the mountains.

He's eyeing one of those buses with curtains and too many passengers, then hiking alongside a gas pipe. Uncertain of our stamina, I'm looking for a shortcut. We hire the man who drove us from the airport, to drop us off higher on the mountain, thus cutting off 7km. The road was built by Japanese prisoners of war after WWII. It is extremely steep, icy and blocked.

Yes, blocked by an avalanche of rocks. Our driver cannot go any further. We hitch a ride in a Russian jeep containing two scientists on their way up to work at the lab adjacent to the Observatory. When they get out of their jeep, they put rocks behind the wheels. That s how steep this road is. They fill water jugs from a nearby spring, which they will sell when they return to Almaty, at the end of their 12 hour shift.

We've reached a beautiful mountain lake. We are hiking to the waters edge to make a brief crossing into Kyrgyzstan, cut around a nearby mountain for a kilometer, then take the pass back into Kazakhstan, which will cut another 10km off the 31km hike.

Unfortunately, we are met at the border by a tall, dark and rather handsome Kyrgyzstani border guard, who tells us that the pass is closed for the winter. He indicates that we should go back to the 31km trail by walking with us (escorting?) across a dam on one edge of the lake. He does have a Kalashnikov hanging off his shoulder. His English is pretty good, so I tell him we are from Chicago. He is surprised. He thought we were Americans. He tells me that Almaty has the same weather as Chicago. I agree and give him a couple of my stash of Halloween chocolate bars. And, that is how we came to not make it into Kyrgyzstan.