Ken's Blog

Turkistan. At last. Two hundred miles south of Kyzylorda across the inhospitable Kazakh steppe. I’d stopped briefly at a small cafe on the outskirts, seeking directions for the centre. Found a mobile phone pressed into my hand, an English speaking female voice at the other end. Wasn’t exactly sure who the woman was, but explained what I was doing, adding I’d been given a sketch map to help me find somewhere to stay.

After the emptiness of the steppe, a mele of sights and sounds in Turkistan. Vehicles stopping suddenly, forcing others to weave erratically around them. Scant regard for traffic lights. Pedestrians wandering aimlessly across the road, unperturbed by the traffic. Alluring aromas from roadside cafes and market stalls.

I drifted around for a while, soaking up a little civilisation. Then off to find somewhere to stay. Chancing on a hotel mentioned in my guide book, I’d suspected it’d be outside my budget but thought I’d enquire in any case. Barely reached the reception desk when a young woman arrived, addressing me in English. Ainur explained that it was she I’d spoken to earlier in the cafe her mother ran. She’d guessed where I might go and had come to help. Which she did admirably. Got an ensuite room for the price of a basic single. About fifteen pounds for a night. Came with air conditioning. And Emma could join me.

All that would have been generosity enough. But no. Returning to the lobby after dinner, I met Ainur once more, quite unexpectedly. She was keen to show me something of her home town. The Mausoleum of the first popular Turkic Muslim holy man, Kozha Akhmed Yasaui, built in the fourteenth century. Beautiful rose gardens.

At the cafe from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

Ken describes proper adventure in the Kazakh steppe, and a night in a small family run roadside cafe. And admire the only trees for miles.

I’d ridden hard from Zhangaqorghan towards the town of Turkistan, anxious to make as much ground to the south as I could in the relative cool of the evening. I’d intended to stop around nine and discretely pitch my tent away from the road, but instead came across a small settlement. Gave me an idea. A homestay. Usually very inexpensive, and a great way to experience village life. But had to be quick. Would soon be dark.

Asking around, I was directed to a small family run roadside cafe. In a mixture of broken Kazakh and Russian, I explained I’d hoped to reach Turkistan that night, but it was now too late. Could I sleep here? Yes. It seemed I could. And Emma could spend the night in the porch. The usual fascination with my map and phrase book over, I was beckoned to the water pump in the yard to remove the worst of the salty grime I’d accumulated. Then a generous bowl of mutton soup, a roll mat, pillow and duvet. Bed at last. Not bad for about five pounds.

In the Kazakhstan steppe from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

Ken describes riding across the Kazakh steppe in ferocious temperatures.

Shade. I lay prostrate against the sloping concrete supports of a small bridge, exhausted. Five in the afternoon, temperature still in the thirties in the Kazakhstan Steppe. Contemplating the road to Bishkek, how best to deal with such fierce, draining heat. A wide brimmed sun hat and sunblock provide a modicum of protection. Settlements are infrequent, sometimes thirty or forty kilometres apart, the odd petrol station, but sufficient to replenish with water. And frequent donations from passing motorists.

Nothing moves during the middle of the day. Except the traffic on the main road south, and even that seems lighter. Livestock, goats and cattle mostly, the sheep content to wander, vie for shelter in the occasional concrete bus shelter. Lorries parked up, their drivers lying beneath their trailers. Temperature in the high thirties. The air tastes hot.

Attempt to ride much after eleven in the morning, and again before four or five in the afternoon, and progress is barely worth the effort. A few kilometres at a stretch, then the struggle to find shelter, to cool down. And, despite the odd passing vehicle, so very lonely, the landscape barren, arid, inhospitable. The elements harsh, unforgiving.

I’d found myself stopping in small family run cafes, flaked out across chairs or benches, sleeping, like many of the local people, during the hottest part of the day. Given generous bowls of mutton soup to revive me, payment refused. Every sinew of meat devoured. And small gifts of local chocolate to take with me, surprisingly resilient to the intense heat.

Water alone fails to satisfy. You crave cold fluids. With temperatures close to that of the body’s core, the cooling effect seems as vital as keeping properly hydrated. And the quantities you need to consume are quite staggering. Close on a litre an hour. Quite possible to down an entire bottle without pausing. Even the smallest village shops, often precious little on the shelves, have freezers brimming with a multitude of cool beverages. But not cold. Too much of a struggle for the refrigerators.

Driving south from Kyzylorda across the Steppe, progress on the first day had been a respectable eighty miles. But much of it achieved by riding late into the evening, pushing hard in the relative cool. But the next day, from Shieli towards the town of Turkistan, had been much tougher going, the road conditions generally poorer and the heat more intense. By five I’ve reached the outskirts of Zhangaqorghan, where I’d found some respite under the small bridge. Still almost fifty miles remaining to my intended stop in Turkistan.

Unsure what I’d find on the road ahead, I decided to stock up with more supplies and then continue on until dusk, before pitching my tent a discrete distance from the road. Rest, then back in the saddle at first light, riding hard until mid-morning, hoping by then to have reached Turkistan.