Sunday Story: A small springtime adventure in the Aksai valley

Two weeks ago I promised this post, so here it is, but a word of warning: it's a long story.  I've tried to put pictures in to keep it interesting, but read at your own risk:

Part I: Finding our way

I wasn't exactly sure where we were.  Let me clarify: I knew where we were - we were west of Almaty on Zhandosova at the 20 km marker.  The problem was that I wasn't exactly sure where to find the road that leads into the Aksai Valley.  So while I knew where we were, I had no idea how to get where we were going.

"I'm gonna call Marsha and see if Mike can give us some land marks."  I tell Dee and Jon as I pull out my cheap Nokia phone.

"Hi Marsha, it's Elizabeth...you don't happen to remember exactly where the turn off is for the monastery do you?  Gas station and grey fence?  Thanks...yeah, I'm sure we'll find it.  Thanks."

"She says it's right before a grey fence."  I looked around for a grey fence.  Down the road further was a grey cement wall, but there was no accompanying gas station.  Up the road, two strawberry salesmen stood in the shade of some trees with their flats of strawberries.  "We could always try and ask" I suggested to Dee and indicated the strawberry salesmen.

Dee, Jon, and I walked toward the little strawberry stand.

"Hello" Dee said to the men as we approached the stand.  "How are you?"
"Hello, thank you we are fine." Replied one of the vendors.  "Where are you from?"
"From America," Dee answers.
"Would you like some strawberries?"
"Are they delicious?" Dee inquired.  Asking whether produce is delicious is one of Dee's go-to Russian conversation pieces.
The man chuckled as he answered "very delicious."
"May I taste one?" Dee asked.
"Of course," he replied, and selected a large bright red berry from a pile on one of the flats.
"Oh, very delicious," Dee said as she bit into the strawberry.
"You don't happen to know where the street to Aksai is?" I asked the man, as Dee finished the strawberry.
"Aksai?"
"Yes, The Aksai Monastery. In the Mountains."  I don't actually know the Russian word for monastery, but I use the word I saw on Google maps assuming it means monastery. It turns out that word means "cell" and that the Russian word for monastery (Monastir) sounds a lot like the English word for Monastery.
"Do you mean the church up there?" the strawberry salesman asks indicating the gorge where I knew we were headed.
"Yes," I reply with enthusiasm.
"Go back toward until you come to a small store on the right. The road you want is by the small store."
"May we buy some strawberries?"  Dee asks the man.
"Sure, how many?"  The man replies.
"Not a lot, half a kilo?"
The man laughs, says something to his partner in Kazakh as he throws several handfuls of the beautiful ripe strawberries into a plastic bag. "Money not needed" he says as he hands the bag to Dee.
"Really?!"
"Really, not a lot." The man laughs.
We thank the strawberry salesmen, and begin walking back up the road toward town until we come to an red-signed АСЗ gas station, corrugated tin fence, and a small store and know we've reached our road.  So we turn up the road toward the mountains munching on fresh strawberries as the sweltering mid-morning sun climbs high into the sky.

Part II: the long road to the beginning of the trail

The trail to the Monastery begins around 8 kilometers south of Zhandosova.  It is fairly easy to catch a taxi out to the 19km marker (we paid 1000tg for our taxi ride), or to take a bus (several buses including bus 11 go out that way) but getting a ride into the national park is a little trickier.  As we walked along the road we took turns trying flag potential rides down.  Finally a little grey sedan that looked a hundred years and a million miles old pulled over.  We explained where we were going and the driver nodded toward the back seat.

we crawled into the back seat and I rested my feet atop the paint cans that filled the already limited floor space.  With a squeal and a groan, the car slowly started forward.

As soon as the car began to move, I noticed strong odor of gasoline permeating the interior of the car.  I tried to roll the window down, but when I pressed the button, all I got was a faint humming sound.  We bumped and swerved our way up the rough road at an agonizingly slow pace.  Each bump and rise brought a groan and squeal of protest from the car's over taxed suspension.

Finally we reached a hill the car just couldn't make it up.  It groaned and protested, and then stopped.  "Perhaps we should walk." I suggest to the drivers.

"Yes, it isn't far."

We crawled out, over the paint cans on the floor and back into the intense glare of the summer mid-day sun and begin to walk the narrow road lined by the tall cement walls of the homes and dachas.

The drivers were right, the entrance to the park was only a few hundred meters further along the road, but even that short distance felt unbearable in the heat.  The sight of a ranger with a hose spraying the hot, dusty, road down was almost too much to handle, as we approached the gate, payed the entrance fee and went to look at the map.  

It is several kilometers from the entrance of the park to the trail head to the monastery and trees that lined the road provided no shade from the day's unusually hot sun.  As cars passed, we tried to get a ride, but most of the cars were filled with families out to enjoy a day along the river.  The road follows a small river whose white waters bound and bounce through the rocky valley leaping over boulders and rushing under the 5 bridges that carry the road across it.  Every now and again public picnic areas spring up along its banks, and in a few places, it is even slow enough for a dip.

Each time we crossed the river we took a bath in its refreshingly cool waters and then re-applied sun screen.  Water and sunscreen were our only defenses from the day's brutal sun.  two and a half hours and three river baths later, we came to the gravelly remnants of an old mud slide, a place where the river slowed a bit and where little copses of birch trees along the water's edge provided some shade.  We sat down to rest our feet, munch on a lunch of cheese and Jam Sandwiches and M&M's, and watch people as they stopped at the spot to wade and splash in the slower waters of this part of the river.

The Hike and the Monastery

The Trail to the monastery begins only half a kilometer up the road from where we lunched.  What had been a well groomed, well traveled road in the fall, was now overgrown with brush.  We climbed the steep hillside of the canyon, through the apple groves, just now beginning bud.

The trail to the monastery is quite steep and takes most people around two hours to hike.  The first part of the trail cuts up and along one side of a steep gorge. In the fall the hillsides are covered in red and gold trees and the brush along the trail is laid low by the tread of a thousand feet.  In the spring, however, the brush on the first part of the trail was often as tall as I was and many times completely obscured the trail.

At the top of the gorge the trail finally crosses the spring-fed stream and enters the gate marking the monastery grounds.  In the fall, the stream ran clear and clean and people drank without reservation from its waters.  Today however, the stream water looked silty and unappetizing and as we began to climb the series of wooden ladders and steps up forested hill that the monastery tops, I began to worry about my rapidly depleting water supply.  

I shouldn't have worried, though. When we reached the top we were invited to drink from the monastery's water supply and the monk who was greeting visitors that day even filled our bottles with the cool water from the church.  Any concerns I might have had about drinking unfiltered water from a natural source were dwarfed by much more pressing concerns about dehydration. We found out later from the off-duty police officer who drove us back into town (we were so happy that we didn't have to walk all the way out of the park).  That the temperature in town that day was over 36 degrees Celsius (close to 100 F).  Strawberries, fun cars, long walks, hospitable monks, who could ask for more on a hot day in Almaty?

One last Hurrah: The Kolsai Lakes

 

 I am leaving Kazakhstan tonight for six weeks in Colorado, England and Scotland (don't worry, I plan to be back in Kazakhstan in August).  So this weekend, was my last chance for a romp in the country-side of southeastern Kazakhstan.  Some friends and I used the opportunity to go camping and hiking at the famed Kolsai lakes in the mountains on the Chilik River.

To reach the Kolsai lakes, you drive east from Almaty turning south just before crossing Charyn Canyon. The landscape shifts from the red rocks of the Charyn Canyon, to rounded green hills somehow reminiscent of hobbiton.  As the road leads into the mountains, it deteriorates drastically, and the last 30 kilometers involve the arduous dodging of dangerous potholes.



By the time we reached the first lake on Friday evening, it was well after dark.  We paid the park fees, camp fees (750 tg per tent)  went about setting up camp in the dark.  Our evening ended with a delicious burrito dinner, and a roaring fire with s'mores beneath the nearly full supermoon.

Saturday morning brought a gorgeous view of the first lake, and droves of tourists prompting us to pack up camp and head up the trail to the second lake.

There are three Kolsai lakes, the first you can reach by car, but the second and third require a hike or a ride on horseback.  The second lake is about eight kilometers from the first and takes around four hours to reach by foot. The trail is well marked and not too difficult but it does get pretty steep in places, most notably the first and last parts.

The first section of the trail climbs the steep hillside above the first lake and cuts across grassy, wildflower dotted hillsides, high above the first lake.  The trail then drops back down to the river and winds through the forested valley following the river.  The constant roar of the water rushing through the boulder strewn river bed accompanies all but a few short sections of the trail.

The last two kilometers leading to the second lake are one long, steep uphill climb and we climbed it with the sound of summer thunder ringing in our ears.  We reached the top and found a sheltered spot only minutes before the first of the afternoon downpours began.

The Second Lake:

the mountains above the second lake

our camp is in this picture somewhere

The third lake is an additional five steep kilometers from the second taking between two and three hours to hike.  We didn't have enough time to hike to the third lake.  Instead we camped at the second and enjoyed a nice morning sleeping-in and swimming in the frigid water.

I wish this picture did justice to the moon on Saturday night

One last picture of the first lake...

Next stop: Durango Colorado

Almaty from way up here: Hiking in the Tien Shan mountains

Since the last post was all about the story, this one is all about the pictures.  There is a bit of a story too, but it will mostly be pictures.  Did I mention there will be pictures?  If you are still waiting for it to load, it might be because of all the pictures.

OK, ok, enough of that.  Springtime in Almaty brings with it a return to the outdoors.  Each weekend, I find myself drawn into the mountains of the Tien Shan Range.  Last weekend I went back to the Monestary with some friends, but that's a longer story so I'll have to tell you more about it later.  Yesterday, I hiked from just below the medeo Gondola up to Kumbel peak.  The hike was long and took us well over six hours to reach the top and another three hours to come back down.  The view from the top, though, was worth every step.  So, seeing as I have nothing more to say that pictures couldn't say better,  I'll leave you with the pictures:

Our first view of the Shymbulak Gondola as we started up.

Our first view of Almaty (there were many, many more).

...and now we can see the peaks

Nearing the top of our first leg: that bright green in the distance.

Looking back down the trail

the "saddle" - top of stage one

technology is hard when the sun is shining.

Stage two: the climb to four rock formations called "The Three Brothers"

Pause for the view, and to catch a breath.

Atop one of the Three Brothers

Almaty from way up here

The Top:

Interestingly, A bit about the Kazakh Alpine Club was in my dashboard this morning and features the same mountain that you see behind me.  Check it out Bob McKerrow - Wayfarer: In the footsteps of Anatoli Boukreev, Maxut Zhumayev sets up the Kazakh Alpine Club

Tidbit Tuesday: Gypsy Taxis for Beginners

By way of preface, this is a story that I've been working on for a while, it has appeared elsewhere (in a slightly altered form), but this is where it belongs.

Catching a ride in a gypsy taxi in Almaty, Kazakhstan is a bit like hitchhiking, you stand on the side of the road, face the oncoming cars traveling in the direction you want to go, and stick your right arm out with your flat palm pointing slightly down. When a driver stops, quickly state your destination (usually in the form of a pair of intersecting streets) and the amount of money you wish to pay (you can indicate price with fingers – or learn the hundreds in Russian).  If the driver nods, you hop in; if not, you try again.  When it is time to get out, you can say “zdyes (здесь)” which means ‘here’ or simply gesture to the place where you would like to stop.

Some people feel really uncomfortable with Gypsy Taxis but I have not had a bad experience in one.  Aside from the inevitable (and for the most part, innocent) flirtation when a driver finds out you are single, the experience is almost always entertaining and a really great place to practice Russian.

A Typical Ride

I slowly walk backwards down Furmanova toward Satpaeva my arm outstretched. Several waves of nice cars have already sped by without so much as a glance in my direction.  I can usually tell by the condition of the car if the driver might stop – the nicer the car, the less likely it is to stop. This isn’t always true of course.  I was once given a ride by the head of a computer firm.  She told me that sometimes she just likes the company on her commute.

A beat-up blue van with right-hand steering pulls out of the alley beside me.
“Where to?” The driver asks.  “Shalapina-Pravda,” I say, adding “700” almost as an afterthought.  700 Tenge is a lot to pay for an in-town ride, but I’ve come to a comfortable system for determining my number:  I know that 500 Tenge will get me to and from almost anywhere so if I am feeling impatient, I offer more.  If I am short on cash, I offer less.  Today I am feeling particularly impatient.
The driver indicates the passenger seat with a nod of his head.

I wrestle with the seat-belt as we turn into the busy Furmanova traffic.  A bit of the belt has folded and is stuck in the plastic guide above my shoulder.
“Give it to me,” the driver says as slows to a stop at the intersection.  I hand him the belt and he gives it a firm tug, pulling the fold free.
“Thanks,” I say, and then looking to the clasp, realize it is broken and won’t work anyways.
"Don't worry" he says.  "I'm security." With that statement he casually tosses a blue document holder onto the dashboard.  I take this to mean that any trouble we might have with the traffic police over me not wearing a seat-belt will quickly be settled with the display of the documents inside the sky blue cover.

The driver has a round, brown face with short dark hair and long laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His blue jeans and black nylon jacket look almost as well worn as his beat up van. “Where are you from?”  He asks me.
“I’m from America” I answer.  “Where are you from?”
I realize that the question sounds ridiculous and possibly even rude, but he answers with a chuckle “I’m from here.”
“From Almaty?” I ask.
“No," he replies.  "From Taldy-Kurgan.” I feel a certain smug justification at asking.  Many people in Almaty are actually from other cities in Kazakhstan, and getting them to talk about home is one way to keep the conversation away from marriage and children.
“I heard that Taldy-Kurgan is a beautiful city.”
“Yes, very beautiful.  Mountains, nature…Have you been there?”
“No, but I would like to go.”
“Call me if you want to go,” he offers.

As our conversation falters, I turn my attention to the long rows of brown and grey communist-era buildings peeking from behind the row of birch and elm trees that line Satpaeva.  Every now and again we pass blue or yellow signs that read “notary” or “Pharmacy” and, less frequently, “store.”  The car front of us abruptly pulls to the right to pick up a fare and we swerve to avoid a collision.

“Are there many cars in America?” the driver asks, his right hand resting lazily on the knob fixed to the steering wheel.
“Yes, lots of cars, but not so many buses, or taxis.  In Almaty there are lots of cars and taxis, and lots of buses, and a good metro.” I can only hope that in spite of my poor Russian I’ve managed to communicate that Almaty’s hodge-podge but serviceable transit network is one of the things I admire most about the city.
“Yes, but it’s dirty.”  The man replies.
“Yes, the air is very dirty.”  I agree glancing at the mountains that look pale and faded behind the brown haze.
“I was in Moscow for two years.  The air there was dirtier.”
“Really?!” I ask incredulously.
“Really” the driver answers.
“Why were you in Moscow?” I ask.
“For work” he answers.

Just ahead of us, I see the bright red sign for the Kimex shoe store at the corner of my intersection, so I pull a folded blue 500 Tenge note out of my pocket and fish for the 100 Tenge coins in my coin purse.  “Here please." The driver pulls over to the sidewalk. “Thank you very much” I say as I hand him the money.  “I’ll call you when I go to Taldy-Kurgan.”