If You Don't Like Their Fire, Then Don't Come Around

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Kazakhstan is by far the largest and most prosperous of the former Soviet Central Asian states. Stretching from the 7000m+ Tian Shan to the Caspian sea it is longitudinally nearly as large as the 48 contiguous states. In the east, pipelines carry petros across the mountains into China. The western most regions, where much of these petros are mined, are technically in Europe. It is the richness of its resources that makes the young state a standout in an otherwise impoverished region and, as one might imagine, more than a few neighbor states are at length trying to get their hands in the pot. The country is currently embroiled in an attempt to craft a national sense of identity amidst Soviet architecture and a very diverse culture. Here in Petropavlovsk, so far north that some Russians pass through here on their way to work (in Russia), this sense of identity may never come to pass. Still we are decidedly in a different culture and a very hospitable one to boot. When we planned this trip, we applied for our Kazakh visa first. We did not plan to spend any great length of time here but their visa application process was simple and cheap. Besides, a country this big is just in the way. We knew that, should we run late coming out of Mongolia, we could duck into Kazakhstan and cut out much of southern Siberia on our way to the Urals. When came our first opportunity to enter, our visas were still a full ten days from validity. A week and a half rest did not appeal to us and so we set off into the flat flats of Siberia; rolling west as the days passed. The pavement was good, the winds in our favor, and the terrain so flat and homogenous that when we try to remember it day for day, we cannot. Time and miles flew by until, without really thinking much of it, we had all but bypassed the ninth largest country on the planet. By the time we found ourselves qued up at the border, we could have just as easily gone around the whole country to the north and avoided the double beaurocracy of two international crossings in three days. Riding for any length of time in the country would have us constantly dodging an inevitable crossing to Russia while diverting us from the Urals, the Volga, and many other regions we hope to explore. Curiousity got the best of us though and so into the presumed nightmare we went. They do not see many westerners at these borders. Usually people from our neck of the woods are here to adopt children or work for an NGO. Not us though, and this fact threw them for a loop at all six stages of our passage into the new country. Travel stories are wrought with tales of Kafkaesque insanity at these crossings but for us it was more like the surreal, ironic humor of a Woody Allen film. After checking into the Russian exit point we were directed by a friendly guard past the long line of waiting cars to a group of customs inspectors. Customs questions are pretty similar the world over: any guns, any drugs, loads of cash, etc. The difference is that, in most places at least, someone is around who can ask these questions in rudimentary English. No such person existed here and we tend to feign total misunderstanding in such situations so that we do not screw up somehow with our basic knowledge of the Russian Language. Not wanting to actually open our panniers, the customs officers quickly looked for a way to get us to just answer "nyet" to the three usual questions. As one of the group walked away laughing and shaking his head, another pretended to be serious while the third, an animated character, acted out the words of his comrade in a scherades-like fashion. He pretended to pull a gun like a wild west cowboy. We shook our heads as if to say "no" and we had passed question one. Next came the money question where we actually understood enough to tell them that we are poor. They laughed at the idea of poor Americans but they believed us given our dirty, haggard appearance. Next we moved on to the drug question and our actor became very dramatic as he jabbed himself with an imaginary needle and slowly pushed the plunger. He even tugged on an imaginary turniquate with his teeth. Next he demonstrated his technique for smoking a pipe and looked quite satisfied with his performance. At this we laughed hysterically not only because of his antics but (perhaps unbenownst to our comrade) because of the substantial patch of Cannibis plants growing just behind him, some fourty feet away. Perhaps years of confiscation and dispossal have helped to propigate these crops. Maybe they come from people chucking their stashes as they approach the border. Either way there they stood with their five-fingered leaves basking in the high lattitude sun. Thus concluded our exit "inspection" from the Russian Federation. A kilometer later the scherades hit a new high (pun intended) when we met with the Kazakh officials. Inside a small concrete booth, a young guard seemed more interested in asking us about the lives of American rap stars than anything else. Being from California we must be next door neighbors with 50 Cent, right? Oh yeah, he's our boy for real, straight up! When it came to the drug question he drew a cigarette from his pack, gripped it tightly between his thumb and index finger, and drew a deep toke. His eyes rolled back in his head and he seemed to be filled with a sort of exhaultation that he has experienced in the past. Perhaps an hour or so ago. After a few good laughs we were off to get our stamps. It was clear that nobody here actually took this business seriously. They have come to terms with the fact that their jobs are merely a formality. This was refreshing to a couple of westerners who are more used to folks in such positions taking themselves way too seriously. Our final hoop to jump through was a group of inspection officers who were more interested in seeing a real American passport than anything else. They failed to even look at our visas and seemed more interested in the little quips of nationalist propaganda that our government has chosen to enscribe on every page of our new passports. They wre very interested in the people in the pictures. We pointed out George washington crossing the Deleware with tidings of comfort and joy for soem British soldiers and they were elated. Someone yelled out "Abraheem Leencohn", another said "Snoop Dog". "Da, Abraham Lincoln, Da, Snoop Dog" we said. Good Americans, those. After a few laughs a car pulled up with a Russian family. The inspectors began an intense interrogation and search and we took the opportunity to escape their curiosity and ride away. We had begun to sense that if we stayed longer, they would want to drink vodka with us or maybe smoke a joint. None of that, thank you kindly. We have serious business to take care of. We are, after all, Americans.

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Comments

[colleen Busch]

a toast!
Chad and Allison, To your stamina, your great attitudes, your hungry bellies and minds, and your sturdy bikes! Let the adventure continue! Colleen

[Michael Dowden]

Hola-from Tahoe
Enjoyed Your humor and Mark Twain writings.Nice to know your our safe

[Laura Seligman]

Hey adventurers
Zradwidchya - kak dgela . Great writing- I am chuckling in the UNR knowledge center, thank you for that. Nursing school has been a doozie this summer. Excited to be free for wonderful adventures in the not too distant future. Pedal-party on. Dosvidanya !