Ken's Blog

Gleaming carriages, soft blue livery. Hostesses in pristine uniforms standing smartly at ease. But my supposed rail car looked like a restaurant, and an expensive one at that. “No” explained one of the attendants, examining my ticket, “This is the Express to Astana, your train is on the next platform” she said, pointing to the footbridge. I must have looked disappointed. She gave a faint smile. Apologetic.

Steps were out of the question. Instead, a brisk walk to the far end of the platform. Across the tracks, gingerly picking a path amongst numerous shards of glass, mostly concealed amongst the sprawling vegetation. Small thorns ensnaring themselves in my socks, scratching against my ankles.

Another four berth cabin, a young woman called Naday. Four hours to Sayozek, arriving just after midnight, with little prospect of sleep before then. A few children rushing about, shouting excitedly, their parents too weary in the heat and humidity to intervene. Others lay about limply, the occasional futile effort at fanning themselves with whatever lay to hand.

After a while the guard appeared, insistent that all the windows be closed so the air conditioning might work. Chances seemed slim, judging by the state of the rolling stock and the grumblings from the other passengers. Conditions soon became oppressive, the guard by now flaked out on his own bunk, the windows were quickly re-opened. I’d be gone in a few hours.

Carriage five. Berth thirteen. The night train to Lugovoy. Close to midnight, the doors of most of the cramped four berth compartments remained open. Groups of young men, families, older couples, all ethnic Kazakhs. Sat on their bunks chatting quietly, a few sprawled out, attempting to rest under the harsh electric light. Small window tables piled up with mugs of tea, flat breads, salamis and boiled eggs. Pungent aromas on such a warm night.

The attendant had at first seemed suspicious of me, carefully checking my ticket as I’d sought to board the train at Turkistan. Once satisfied I’d found the right carriage, he’d helpfully indicated that if I could turn my handlebars out of the way, I could secure my bicycle in the narrow passageway right outside my own shared compartment.

My companions were two men who appeared to be travelling together. Quiet murmurings as I carefully stowed my panniers in the little space available. But then, with the appearance of my phrase book, the offer of tea and eggs. I declined politely, explaining I’d already eaten, instead showing them a small card explaining, in Russian, my venture. Was I going to Afghanistan? No, I said, I preferred to take my chances in Bishkek. They didn’t seem to think that was a good idea either.

By the morning they were gone, a young woman now occupying the bunk next to mine. Sound asleep, her face obscured by a clean white sheet. Ethnic Russian I thought. Outside, mostly gently rolling grasslands, patches of cultivated fields. Overcast, rain drops streaming diagonally down the windows. The occasional glimpse of mountains to the south, the border with the Kyrgyz Republic.

[With thanks to Alistair Maclean, a favourite childhood author, for providing inspiration for the title]