Thursday, August 30, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
THE LONG WAY HOME
OK, GET READY FOR A POSTING VERGING ON THE EDGE OF ABSURDITY...
Well, for all of you who care, I have finally made it home...safely. It's a bittersweet arrival. For one, everything seems to be back to normal — I don't have to convert prices in my head, people queue properly and finally people have started to speak English again. On the other foot, however, I had to turn home only 1000 kilometers from Ulaanbaatar and I'm truly upset about it. Let me tell you why...
PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES
So, it seemed like a small victory on my part after getting through to the Russians that I was not a smuggler or spy and that they would finally grant me access into their country. I had met a nice couple from Denmark, Peter and Mia (Mya? I'm sorry if I didn't get that right) at the Russian Embassy who had been travelling for two months all over Europe and Asia. They had been standing in the visa line with me hoping to get their own to catch the rail to Moscow. Anyway, we split a cab to the station where a very nice, elderly, Kazakh woman helped me grab a ticket from the clerk right before she closed her window for the night. The plan was: Train to Petroslova, connect to Irkutsk, connect to Ulaanbaatar via the Trans Siberian. Sounded simple enough. And as she handed me that thin paper ticket, I had physical assurance that I was going to be able to finally leave Kazakhstan for the first time in more than a week. I was excited to say the least.
So there I was, waiting hopefully, pass in hand, anticipating the arrival of my train when I was approached by a man from Turkey who had overheard me asking directions to my platform in English. He came over and asked "Been alone long?" Yes, yes, I replied and gave him the annotated version of my adventures. He thought it was the most amazing thing he's ever heard, and even more amazing to see a sole American to be sitting alone in Kazakhstan. "There's a reason they don't have a tourist welcome center here," he exclaims with a hearty laugh. I knew exactly what he had meant.
Astana, Kazakhstan is a big city with a small-town mentality. That's the most comprehensive way I can put it. The big fish (gangsters, rich businessmen) think they're in the ocean, rather than a bowl. And they're not used to tourists to boot. They are a little apprehensive about outsiders to say the least...
Anyway, the Turkish man took my picture and wished me luck, and in passing, breathes out "By the way, Petroslova is THAT way." I had been standing on the wrong side of the tracks. I couldn't thank him enough. 10 minutes come and go and finally an enormous, forest green locamotive comes charging into the station, hundreds of faces poking out the windows to get a good look at the station. Bags in hand, I step up the grated steps thinking I had finally said goodbye to Kazakhstan the last time...
There I was, sitting in my third class seat, which was reasonably comfortable FYI, reading Palanhiuk's "Fight Club" for the upteenth time (I had failed to find a single copy of the new Harry Potter to my dismay). With a loud bang, I look up to see a uniformed police officer stumble through the reinforced cabin door. It could of been the swaying of the giant train bending itself on the tracks, but the glassy look in his eyes led me to believe his inbalance was from the good ol' Voda Russkiie. He sees me from the long end of the cabin, wearing a bright green Red Sox jersey, alone, American. "You pa-Americanskiie?" he wonders in broken, clumsy English. "Yes," I say. What to do about it? "Pasapart," he says, a little more pointedly. I show him my passport. "Ahhh, Americanskiie." Yes, I repeat to him. "You de, uhh, fraahm Nuuw York Ciiity?" We're all from New York City, Americans, the same way that all Kazakhs look like Borat (I've had to remind numerous aggitated locals that Sacha is ENGLISH). "Teeket, teeket," he says now. I look around. Suddenly everyone seems to be immersed in some fascinating literature of some kind or another. I produce my ticket stub and hand it to him, a little apprehensive now that he is holding both my ticket and passport. And then with a come hitherto motion with his other hand, he mumbles "Money, money," without even looking up from my stub. No, I say. I've been shaken down enough. He looks up now. "Money!" He says, frustrated. "How much?" he mumbles something I can't understand. I take out pen and paper and have him right the figure down. He scratches down a 1 on the paper, followed by three 0's. "Thengay? I only have 500." "No, no!" He says, pressing his finger on the paper. "Americanskiie!" You've got to be kidding me... I tell him I want to talk to the conductor. He tells me to sit back down and that I'm not to leave the cabin. After denying him the obscene pay off multiple times, he pulls his radio from his belt and splurts something in Kazakh into the mic. He signals me to come with him. Finally, I can actually talk to someone in charge. He points to my bags. "Take, take." I grab them and he stands me by the door. He rattles off some more into his radio. Suddenly I feel the train start to slow. You've got to be kidding me... As soon as the train hits around 10 mph, he forces me off 7 feet down into a ravine with my bags, a good six or seven miles from anything in either direction. Entirely pissed off and cursing the heavens, I throw on my shoes and trek back to the station. I arrive about three hours later, tired and angry. I have had enough. I go to the nearest taxi and tell them "Aeroport, now."
The scene at Astana's airport wasn't much brighter. No flights for two weeks. "You've got to be kidding me! This is the country's capital! How can you not have a flight? I refuse to believe that. Connect me through another carrier, something." The ticket-booker woman shakes her head, repeatedly saying "Nyet, nyet." Behind me, a monster of a man (at least 6'5") in a cowboy hat approaches me, having heard my tirade of swears in English. He introduces himself as Jerry(weird), a cattle shipper from Alberta. He tells me if I pay the airport directly for an "Insured Utility Ticket" ($450 airport fee) from the airport, I could fly with him and his cattle on a gutted 747 back to Moscow. So there I go with 300 head of cattle on possibly a quite illegal journey to Moscow. He tells me in the loud, cramped seating section of the plane between the cockpit and steerage that when we land, I need to hop of quickly and immerse myself in another flight's crowd. That's the only way I'm going to get off the tarmac without spending the next few weeks in a Russian interrogation room. When we land, I pack all my things tightly to my body and am happy to see that the platform down to the runway was facing away from the aiport terminal. I walk down the steps, strolling casually past the workers pushing up the mobile stairs with my face buried in a bunch of printed pages. I take a quick walk to the back of the plane, still flipping through pages of my MONGOL RALLY MANIFEST, pretending to inspect the flight numbers. As soon as I was out of view of the workers, I crunched myself down behind one of the plane's massive tires, waiting for another flight to arrive. Soon enough, an Aerflot 737 lands right next to the plane and starts to unboard. Once again, I bury my face in the papers and walk non-chalant over to the group of people, say hi to a couple of people, and board the bus with them to the terminal. Alex Switzer, secret agent extraordinaire. I had literally just penetrated the Iron Curtain with 50 cents worth of copy paper. In Moscow, the flights came easier. I had to book a flight on Aerflot (I seriously advise against this unless absolutely necessary) the following morning. I roll out my sleeping bag on the terminal floor and lay back, still basking in successfully growing the biggest pair of huevos I have ever attempted.
The next morning came in a flash, and I was soon on my way to London, happy to finally hear English being blared in a muffled baritone over the loud speaker. Aerflot — big, blue, orange, and straight out of the 70's. When the plane landed safely, everyone started applauding. I got the feeling this was a common occurence...
Once in London, I sought my way to the Virgin Atlantic ticket counter and was helped by a real delightful woman who decided to knock some money off my flight when I told her what I had just been through. The deep, violently bright red of the plane's cabin was a beautiful sight — back in English speaking, proper queueing land. I had also bolted to the first bookstore I could find in Heathrow and finally got my hands on "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" (wahoo!). After seamless flight and a small connection in Newark, I was finally home, greeted by my family and unexpectedly seeing Kevin and Jeremy Lawyer from CHC (the REAL CHC).
I'm safe. I'm home. And still, deep down in my gut, there is a hole of vain, having travelled all that way and meeting so many amazing people only to be turned around because of a crooked cop's greed. I feel very left out, not being able to go to the party, and highly disappointed in myself after promising everyone that some way, some how, I would make it to Ulaanbaatar. Chris and Ross, Tim and Fudge, Ali, Himi, Deebs, and Muzzy; I hope our paths cross again, you have all made my journey unforgettable. P.S. Tim and Fudge, Tommy and I are going to visit you in Wales and turn the scale waaaay up.
Tommy and Joya, even, I never know when I'll see them again. Tommy is moving to Los Angeles and Joya possibly to Vietnam. I hope our friendships can traverse that vast difference that will be between all of us. For now though, I'm going to try and get my life and career back on track because it seems a lifetime ago that I stepped off onto the unbeaten path, the road less travelled by...
P.S.S. I think I'll keep up with this blog thing, I enjoy it immensely. Also, when I get all my photos digitized, I'll put them up on here ASAP.
Love, Alex aka "More Proud To Be An American Than Ever" ;)
Well, for all of you who care, I have finally made it home...safely. It's a bittersweet arrival. For one, everything seems to be back to normal — I don't have to convert prices in my head, people queue properly and finally people have started to speak English again. On the other foot, however, I had to turn home only 1000 kilometers from Ulaanbaatar and I'm truly upset about it. Let me tell you why...
PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES
So, it seemed like a small victory on my part after getting through to the Russians that I was not a smuggler or spy and that they would finally grant me access into their country. I had met a nice couple from Denmark, Peter and Mia (Mya? I'm sorry if I didn't get that right) at the Russian Embassy who had been travelling for two months all over Europe and Asia. They had been standing in the visa line with me hoping to get their own to catch the rail to Moscow. Anyway, we split a cab to the station where a very nice, elderly, Kazakh woman helped me grab a ticket from the clerk right before she closed her window for the night. The plan was: Train to Petroslova, connect to Irkutsk, connect to Ulaanbaatar via the Trans Siberian. Sounded simple enough. And as she handed me that thin paper ticket, I had physical assurance that I was going to be able to finally leave Kazakhstan for the first time in more than a week. I was excited to say the least.
So there I was, waiting hopefully, pass in hand, anticipating the arrival of my train when I was approached by a man from Turkey who had overheard me asking directions to my platform in English. He came over and asked "Been alone long?" Yes, yes, I replied and gave him the annotated version of my adventures. He thought it was the most amazing thing he's ever heard, and even more amazing to see a sole American to be sitting alone in Kazakhstan. "There's a reason they don't have a tourist welcome center here," he exclaims with a hearty laugh. I knew exactly what he had meant.
Astana, Kazakhstan is a big city with a small-town mentality. That's the most comprehensive way I can put it. The big fish (gangsters, rich businessmen) think they're in the ocean, rather than a bowl. And they're not used to tourists to boot. They are a little apprehensive about outsiders to say the least...
Anyway, the Turkish man took my picture and wished me luck, and in passing, breathes out "By the way, Petroslova is THAT way." I had been standing on the wrong side of the tracks. I couldn't thank him enough. 10 minutes come and go and finally an enormous, forest green locamotive comes charging into the station, hundreds of faces poking out the windows to get a good look at the station. Bags in hand, I step up the grated steps thinking I had finally said goodbye to Kazakhstan the last time...
There I was, sitting in my third class seat, which was reasonably comfortable FYI, reading Palanhiuk's "Fight Club" for the upteenth time (I had failed to find a single copy of the new Harry Potter to my dismay). With a loud bang, I look up to see a uniformed police officer stumble through the reinforced cabin door. It could of been the swaying of the giant train bending itself on the tracks, but the glassy look in his eyes led me to believe his inbalance was from the good ol' Voda Russkiie. He sees me from the long end of the cabin, wearing a bright green Red Sox jersey, alone, American. "You pa-Americanskiie?" he wonders in broken, clumsy English. "Yes," I say. What to do about it? "Pasapart," he says, a little more pointedly. I show him my passport. "Ahhh, Americanskiie." Yes, I repeat to him. "You de, uhh, fraahm Nuuw York Ciiity?" We're all from New York City, Americans, the same way that all Kazakhs look like Borat (I've had to remind numerous aggitated locals that Sacha is ENGLISH). "Teeket, teeket," he says now. I look around. Suddenly everyone seems to be immersed in some fascinating literature of some kind or another. I produce my ticket stub and hand it to him, a little apprehensive now that he is holding both my ticket and passport. And then with a come hitherto motion with his other hand, he mumbles "Money, money," without even looking up from my stub. No, I say. I've been shaken down enough. He looks up now. "Money!" He says, frustrated. "How much?" he mumbles something I can't understand. I take out pen and paper and have him right the figure down. He scratches down a 1 on the paper, followed by three 0's. "Thengay? I only have 500." "No, no!" He says, pressing his finger on the paper. "Americanskiie!" You've got to be kidding me... I tell him I want to talk to the conductor. He tells me to sit back down and that I'm not to leave the cabin. After denying him the obscene pay off multiple times, he pulls his radio from his belt and splurts something in Kazakh into the mic. He signals me to come with him. Finally, I can actually talk to someone in charge. He points to my bags. "Take, take." I grab them and he stands me by the door. He rattles off some more into his radio. Suddenly I feel the train start to slow. You've got to be kidding me... As soon as the train hits around 10 mph, he forces me off 7 feet down into a ravine with my bags, a good six or seven miles from anything in either direction. Entirely pissed off and cursing the heavens, I throw on my shoes and trek back to the station. I arrive about three hours later, tired and angry. I have had enough. I go to the nearest taxi and tell them "Aeroport, now."
The scene at Astana's airport wasn't much brighter. No flights for two weeks. "You've got to be kidding me! This is the country's capital! How can you not have a flight? I refuse to believe that. Connect me through another carrier, something." The ticket-booker woman shakes her head, repeatedly saying "Nyet, nyet." Behind me, a monster of a man (at least 6'5") in a cowboy hat approaches me, having heard my tirade of swears in English. He introduces himself as Jerry(weird), a cattle shipper from Alberta. He tells me if I pay the airport directly for an "Insured Utility Ticket" ($450 airport fee) from the airport, I could fly with him and his cattle on a gutted 747 back to Moscow. So there I go with 300 head of cattle on possibly a quite illegal journey to Moscow. He tells me in the loud, cramped seating section of the plane between the cockpit and steerage that when we land, I need to hop of quickly and immerse myself in another flight's crowd. That's the only way I'm going to get off the tarmac without spending the next few weeks in a Russian interrogation room. When we land, I pack all my things tightly to my body and am happy to see that the platform down to the runway was facing away from the aiport terminal. I walk down the steps, strolling casually past the workers pushing up the mobile stairs with my face buried in a bunch of printed pages. I take a quick walk to the back of the plane, still flipping through pages of my MONGOL RALLY MANIFEST, pretending to inspect the flight numbers. As soon as I was out of view of the workers, I crunched myself down behind one of the plane's massive tires, waiting for another flight to arrive. Soon enough, an Aerflot 737 lands right next to the plane and starts to unboard. Once again, I bury my face in the papers and walk non-chalant over to the group of people, say hi to a couple of people, and board the bus with them to the terminal. Alex Switzer, secret agent extraordinaire. I had literally just penetrated the Iron Curtain with 50 cents worth of copy paper. In Moscow, the flights came easier. I had to book a flight on Aerflot (I seriously advise against this unless absolutely necessary) the following morning. I roll out my sleeping bag on the terminal floor and lay back, still basking in successfully growing the biggest pair of huevos I have ever attempted.
The next morning came in a flash, and I was soon on my way to London, happy to finally hear English being blared in a muffled baritone over the loud speaker. Aerflot — big, blue, orange, and straight out of the 70's. When the plane landed safely, everyone started applauding. I got the feeling this was a common occurence...
Once in London, I sought my way to the Virgin Atlantic ticket counter and was helped by a real delightful woman who decided to knock some money off my flight when I told her what I had just been through. The deep, violently bright red of the plane's cabin was a beautiful sight — back in English speaking, proper queueing land. I had also bolted to the first bookstore I could find in Heathrow and finally got my hands on "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" (wahoo!). After seamless flight and a small connection in Newark, I was finally home, greeted by my family and unexpectedly seeing Kevin and Jeremy Lawyer from CHC (the REAL CHC).
I'm safe. I'm home. And still, deep down in my gut, there is a hole of vain, having travelled all that way and meeting so many amazing people only to be turned around because of a crooked cop's greed. I feel very left out, not being able to go to the party, and highly disappointed in myself after promising everyone that some way, some how, I would make it to Ulaanbaatar. Chris and Ross, Tim and Fudge, Ali, Himi, Deebs, and Muzzy; I hope our paths cross again, you have all made my journey unforgettable. P.S. Tim and Fudge, Tommy and I are going to visit you in Wales and turn the scale waaaay up.
Tommy and Joya, even, I never know when I'll see them again. Tommy is moving to Los Angeles and Joya possibly to Vietnam. I hope our friendships can traverse that vast difference that will be between all of us. For now though, I'm going to try and get my life and career back on track because it seems a lifetime ago that I stepped off onto the unbeaten path, the road less travelled by...
P.S.S. I think I'll keep up with this blog thing, I enjoy it immensely. Also, when I get all my photos digitized, I'll put them up on here ASAP.
Love, Alex aka "More Proud To Be An American Than Ever" ;)
Monday, August 13, 2007
I'VE UPDATED, BUT NOT LIKE MIKE DOUGLAS MARRYING CATHERINE ZETA JONES...
UPDATE: I started playing wargames: me and the American (hoorah!) Embassy vs. the Russian Embassy and I won. So now I have visas and all that stuff. Turns out I didn't even need the invitation letter (No, no, thank you www.visatorussia.com!). So hopefully I'll be able to get on a train tonight to Irkutsk and then on to Ulaanbaatar (Mongolia) tomorrow. I just hope I make it in time for the party on Sunday. I have the feeling the other guys are expecting never to see me again so it should be quite a surprise when they show up and I'm hosting the damn thing. Wish me luck!
Alex "The Bourne Fed-up'ness" Switzer
Alex "The Bourne Fed-up'ness" Switzer
ONE DONE
OK, updating, I just got my invitation letter right before I was about to give up and go home. Let's see if I make it the rest of the way...
IN BRIEF, IN BRIEFS
ALL VISA'ED OUT: PART 2
I've been trying to get an invitation letter for the better part of a week now from www.visatorussia.com. Apparently, they don't want to give me one. They keep e-mailing me, asking for specific dates of entry and exit into Russia and I have repeatedly replied (alliteration or assonance?) that I am being as specific AS POSSIBLE (i.e. if I get my visa today, I will be on a train to Russia tonight). I also keep telling them that everything is dependent on when I get into Russia and know when I can book a train to Ulaanbaatar. This ceases to subside (again?) their inquiries. I have my passport photos and I know exactly where the Russian Embassy is, so I am once again at the mercy of a Internet-run visa company (DEJA VU). I don't have a cell phone to call them so I'm going to have to sit in this Internet "Kафе" all day long. Woohoo.
YOU DON'T KNOW JACK
An interesting part of the trip that I've neglected to share with everyone until now: This year's Mongol Rally has been of unprecedent scale (although precedent only amounts to about 5 years) because of a series of reasons. 1) Entries this year were a hot item, with the first 150 spots filling up within a matter of seconds. This is almost 3 times the amount of participating teams from last year. The last 50 had to be auctioned off because the sprawl to get an official spot crashed The Adventurists' servers. 2) There are three camera crews in the rally this year, all going separate routes and filming just about all the crazy and unforseen things that happen to people on the Rally. 3) And there is the presence of a celebrity seemingly as hell-bent on making it as the rest of us - Jack Osbourne, celebutante and son of notorious front linner of Black Sabbath, Ozzy. We were all worried that his participation was going to cheapen the experience by creating such a media presence when in fact he has taken all of this in stride and subtlety quite well. I saw him at Hyde Park, keeping a low profile and spending a lot of time in the back of his filmmakers' vehicle which had tinted windows. Inevitably there were some press there and his sister Kelly showed up for the event. Since then though, I have met him randomly (and actually spent multiple hours with him and his crew on the Russian border) and did not feel any spotlight glare. It's sort of comforting to know you can stand side by side with Hollywood for three and half hours and both be equally harrassed by Russian border guards.
Update:
Still waiting on that invitation letter...
I've been trying to get an invitation letter for the better part of a week now from www.visatorussia.com. Apparently, they don't want to give me one. They keep e-mailing me, asking for specific dates of entry and exit into Russia and I have repeatedly replied (alliteration or assonance?) that I am being as specific AS POSSIBLE (i.e. if I get my visa today, I will be on a train to Russia tonight). I also keep telling them that everything is dependent on when I get into Russia and know when I can book a train to Ulaanbaatar. This ceases to subside (again?) their inquiries. I have my passport photos and I know exactly where the Russian Embassy is, so I am once again at the mercy of a Internet-run visa company (DEJA VU). I don't have a cell phone to call them so I'm going to have to sit in this Internet "Kафе" all day long. Woohoo.
YOU DON'T KNOW JACK
An interesting part of the trip that I've neglected to share with everyone until now: This year's Mongol Rally has been of unprecedent scale (although precedent only amounts to about 5 years) because of a series of reasons. 1) Entries this year were a hot item, with the first 150 spots filling up within a matter of seconds. This is almost 3 times the amount of participating teams from last year. The last 50 had to be auctioned off because the sprawl to get an official spot crashed The Adventurists' servers. 2) There are three camera crews in the rally this year, all going separate routes and filming just about all the crazy and unforseen things that happen to people on the Rally. 3) And there is the presence of a celebrity seemingly as hell-bent on making it as the rest of us - Jack Osbourne, celebutante and son of notorious front linner of Black Sabbath, Ozzy. We were all worried that his participation was going to cheapen the experience by creating such a media presence when in fact he has taken all of this in stride and subtlety quite well. I saw him at Hyde Park, keeping a low profile and spending a lot of time in the back of his filmmakers' vehicle which had tinted windows. Inevitably there were some press there and his sister Kelly showed up for the event. Since then though, I have met him randomly (and actually spent multiple hours with him and his crew on the Russian border) and did not feel any spotlight glare. It's sort of comforting to know you can stand side by side with Hollywood for three and half hours and both be equally harrassed by Russian border guards.
Update:
Still waiting on that invitation letter...
Sunday, August 12, 2007
A QUICK UPDATE
Hey everybody. I'm writing to you from an Internet cafe in Astana, Kazakhstan(Astana became the new capital - the old being Almaty - in 1998 when the country wanted to make a more Northern entrance into the country). I'm sort of stranded at the moment. The Russian embassy people screwed up my invitation letter/visa so I was not able to leave yesterday with the rest of the teams. However, I am going to go to the Russian Embassy here in Astana tomorrow morning and hopefully get everything sorted out. For a while, I thought it wouldn't be worth it to make the trek alone and just go home from here but apparently I can't fly from here to London for less than $3000 so I've had to get creative. Here's the plan (supposing my Russian is good enough and I don't inadvertently get myself shipped off to Moscow): I'm going to get my visa sorted out by Monday afternoon/evening and hopefully hop a train to Irkutsk, Russia by midnight. From there, I am going to get on the Trans Siberian railway to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, and hopefully get there before Sunday. Sunday is the big finale and party in Ulaanbaatar for all the ralliers who made it. I can't say I know exactly what's going to happen but that's the general plan. Then hopefully to get home a little more cheaply, I will fly out of Beijing and head East to Los Angeles. Wish me luck! I'll let you know if I made it.
Your random hero,
Alex
P.S. I've been scouring Astana for a bookstore because I'm dying to read the new Harry Potter but apparently literature is hard to come by around here...
Your random hero,
Alex
P.S. I've been scouring Astana for a bookstore because I'm dying to read the new Harry Potter but apparently literature is hard to come by around here...
Thursday, August 9, 2007
LOTS OF THINGS
OK, big news first and foremost: Diana (our gray Fiat) is dead. She started making weird noises as we entered Kazakhstan and soon our oil light came on. We took her to an automechanic who stared at it for 5 seconds and told us to dish out $1000 for a new engine - apparently the problem was that severe. We decided to get a second opinion by taking it to a Volswagen dealership in Atyru and the mechanic there said he could fix it. Unfortunately, we had to leave prematurely because one of our convoy buddies didn't have a great night the previous evening.
THE PREVIOUS EVENING...
We had been covered in mud and sweat for four days driving along what can only be described as "the worst roads in existence." Four 900 Km, our little Fiat, followed by a convoy of two other cars, traversed 4-foot-deep potholes, 2-foot-deep mud and a long expedition through miles of silica dust that made our lungs feel heavy despite repeated efforts to cover our noses and mouths with t-shirts. So, when we finally landed in Atyru, the first major sign of life we had seen since leaving Russia, we were all feeling a little bit antsy. We arrived in the early morning, everyone delirious from pulling 12-hour shifts, and decided to stop at a small hotel for proper food. Once there, we became instant celebrities: people wanted to take pictures of themselves and even the local newspapers came out for our arrival (I'm the center of the picture of the front page, wahoo!). We also met some photographers from a German auto magazine so we'll be in there with our car as well (yep, FAMOUS). After lunch we drove a few more miles and eventually landed in the main part of the city. There, we got a hotel and decided to go out for a nice dinner. What none of us had realized is that heavy vodka drinking is mandatory for all visitors to the city. Four bottles later, we decided to go to a dance club. So naive of us to follow complete strangers to a club that ended up being a local Kazakh mafia hang out...
TWICE IN THREE DAYS
Before I get to what happened at the club, I need to clarify how we received somewhat of a baptism by fire when driving through Kazakhstan. Two evenings prior, we had stopped at a gas station at 3 in the morning to fill up after a 24-hour stretch of driving through unforgiving terrain. The 11 of us sat there, exhausted with our hnds on the gas pumps when a beaten down Toyota with dark, tinted windows pulled into our station. A guy steps out, who has certainly been through his rounds: an elaborate foreign tattoo on his arm and a 4-inch scar leading away from his eye signified that this man has lived a rough life. He staggers up to us, as he has obviously has been drinking, and starts making small talk with some of my other convoy mates. Meanwhile, I am feet away pumping gas into our now diminished car. Suddenly I hear strained voices, and as I move closer, I realize this man has taken HIMI's (one of the guys from team Dzogchen out of Manchester, England) cell phone and put it in his pocket. As he began to move away, I realized this was a mugging in process. People stood there, looking stunned and frustrated (especially Himi) about what to do about this situation. Finally, I walk up to him and say: "I don't want trouble and I'm sure you don't but if you try to walk out of here with that phone, there will be plenty of it." He didn't understand my English words but by the way I said it, he understood well enough. Realizing I'd be a threat, he head-butted me in the face and then followed with two right hooks. He was surprised to find me completely unfazed by his attack (he wasn't expecting me to be a boxer and have an iron chin). I stared him straight in the eye and demanded the phone back, which he complied with, but by that time the gas station owner arrived with a machine gun so we decided it to be a good time to make an exit.
So back to the night in discussion, I am sitting in this club, watching everyone dancing and having a good time and laughing at the Kiwi's making attempts to dance with some of the local girls. Before I know it, I'm pulled in back by the club's manager telling me that the girls in the club were off-limits. To put it as crudely as he did: "The girls 'belonged' to a table of guys at the club. I wasn't stuid enough not to get that these girls were arm candy for the Kazakh gangsters sitting in the back of the room and glaring at us. Not to be intimidated however, I told the manager that it was not my responsibility to tell my friends not to dance. The only suggestion he had is that we not be there when the club closed. I warned everyone it was probably best just to go home but some of the guys still had vodka running through them, making them more brave than they should be. When I finally got everyone rounded up and moving downstairs out of the bar, one big, baldheaded Kazakh kicked me in the back as I was heading down. I fell about four steps, and completely pissed off and confused, replied to his hostility with a right-hand hook. Similar to the man at the gas station, he was not aware that I might have been trained in college by a man who fought two wars and was Navy boxing champion for 10 straight years. It felt like a perfect golf drive, and before he knew what happened, this giant Kazakh was rolling past me down the stairs entirely unconcious. His friends started making hand signals that we could all recognize: "we're going to get our guns." Once again, I thought it prudent that we leave ASAP... so we did.
A DISTRESS CALL
So there's Tom and I, sitting at the Volkswagen garage the next day waiting for someone to look at our car when JOYA, our third teammate gets a call saying something has happened to Himi and DEEBS (his teammate). We rush back to the hotel to find out they had strayed from the group the previous evening and had gotten lost. Unfortunately, both were mugged of wallet and cell phone. By the grace of God, neither were injured and made it back to the hotel safely.
MY CONCLUSION
For some reason, I don't think the Kazakhs like us, and from the unprovoked treatment we've been receiving, I don't think I like them very much either. Fortunately, we have three other very cool teams who are going to pack our things into their cars and hike us back into Russia. We're currently in Astana, Kazakhstan's capital, and only about 600 Km from the border. Diana had a hose leak from the oil pump to the engine, so although the fix was as easy as a new $20 hose(and not a new engine), we didn't figure it out until the damage was irreversible. So we're going to give her a final resting place here in Kazakhstan, which I personally think is a shame; she deserves much better.
Diana 1994-2007
I'll update again whenever possible, but who knows when that'll be.
THE PREVIOUS EVENING...
We had been covered in mud and sweat for four days driving along what can only be described as "the worst roads in existence." Four 900 Km, our little Fiat, followed by a convoy of two other cars, traversed 4-foot-deep potholes, 2-foot-deep mud and a long expedition through miles of silica dust that made our lungs feel heavy despite repeated efforts to cover our noses and mouths with t-shirts. So, when we finally landed in Atyru, the first major sign of life we had seen since leaving Russia, we were all feeling a little bit antsy. We arrived in the early morning, everyone delirious from pulling 12-hour shifts, and decided to stop at a small hotel for proper food. Once there, we became instant celebrities: people wanted to take pictures of themselves and even the local newspapers came out for our arrival (I'm the center of the picture of the front page, wahoo!). We also met some photographers from a German auto magazine so we'll be in there with our car as well (yep, FAMOUS). After lunch we drove a few more miles and eventually landed in the main part of the city. There, we got a hotel and decided to go out for a nice dinner. What none of us had realized is that heavy vodka drinking is mandatory for all visitors to the city. Four bottles later, we decided to go to a dance club. So naive of us to follow complete strangers to a club that ended up being a local Kazakh mafia hang out...
TWICE IN THREE DAYS
Before I get to what happened at the club, I need to clarify how we received somewhat of a baptism by fire when driving through Kazakhstan. Two evenings prior, we had stopped at a gas station at 3 in the morning to fill up after a 24-hour stretch of driving through unforgiving terrain. The 11 of us sat there, exhausted with our hnds on the gas pumps when a beaten down Toyota with dark, tinted windows pulled into our station. A guy steps out, who has certainly been through his rounds: an elaborate foreign tattoo on his arm and a 4-inch scar leading away from his eye signified that this man has lived a rough life. He staggers up to us, as he has obviously has been drinking, and starts making small talk with some of my other convoy mates. Meanwhile, I am feet away pumping gas into our now diminished car. Suddenly I hear strained voices, and as I move closer, I realize this man has taken HIMI's (one of the guys from team Dzogchen out of Manchester, England) cell phone and put it in his pocket. As he began to move away, I realized this was a mugging in process. People stood there, looking stunned and frustrated (especially Himi) about what to do about this situation. Finally, I walk up to him and say: "I don't want trouble and I'm sure you don't but if you try to walk out of here with that phone, there will be plenty of it." He didn't understand my English words but by the way I said it, he understood well enough. Realizing I'd be a threat, he head-butted me in the face and then followed with two right hooks. He was surprised to find me completely unfazed by his attack (he wasn't expecting me to be a boxer and have an iron chin). I stared him straight in the eye and demanded the phone back, which he complied with, but by that time the gas station owner arrived with a machine gun so we decided it to be a good time to make an exit.
So back to the night in discussion, I am sitting in this club, watching everyone dancing and having a good time and laughing at the Kiwi's making attempts to dance with some of the local girls. Before I know it, I'm pulled in back by the club's manager telling me that the girls in the club were off-limits. To put it as crudely as he did: "The girls 'belonged' to a table of guys at the club. I wasn't stuid enough not to get that these girls were arm candy for the Kazakh gangsters sitting in the back of the room and glaring at us. Not to be intimidated however, I told the manager that it was not my responsibility to tell my friends not to dance. The only suggestion he had is that we not be there when the club closed. I warned everyone it was probably best just to go home but some of the guys still had vodka running through them, making them more brave than they should be. When I finally got everyone rounded up and moving downstairs out of the bar, one big, baldheaded Kazakh kicked me in the back as I was heading down. I fell about four steps, and completely pissed off and confused, replied to his hostility with a right-hand hook. Similar to the man at the gas station, he was not aware that I might have been trained in college by a man who fought two wars and was Navy boxing champion for 10 straight years. It felt like a perfect golf drive, and before he knew what happened, this giant Kazakh was rolling past me down the stairs entirely unconcious. His friends started making hand signals that we could all recognize: "we're going to get our guns." Once again, I thought it prudent that we leave ASAP... so we did.
A DISTRESS CALL
So there's Tom and I, sitting at the Volkswagen garage the next day waiting for someone to look at our car when JOYA, our third teammate gets a call saying something has happened to Himi and DEEBS (his teammate). We rush back to the hotel to find out they had strayed from the group the previous evening and had gotten lost. Unfortunately, both were mugged of wallet and cell phone. By the grace of God, neither were injured and made it back to the hotel safely.
MY CONCLUSION
For some reason, I don't think the Kazakhs like us, and from the unprovoked treatment we've been receiving, I don't think I like them very much either. Fortunately, we have three other very cool teams who are going to pack our things into their cars and hike us back into Russia. We're currently in Astana, Kazakhstan's capital, and only about 600 Km from the border. Diana had a hose leak from the oil pump to the engine, so although the fix was as easy as a new $20 hose(and not a new engine), we didn't figure it out until the damage was irreversible. So we're going to give her a final resting place here in Kazakhstan, which I personally think is a shame; she deserves much better.
Diana 1994-2007
I'll update again whenever possible, but who knows when that'll be.
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