Across Continents

Ken's Blog

Into the city

July 8th, 2010

“You have to move inside” he said. Italian. Possibly. “Why?” I asked, abruptly. “Because the sign on the wall says you must” he replied. I laughed loudly. I’d been sat quietly, catching up on a few e-mails, in the courtyard of a hostel I’d found in the capital. By now dark, just the glow of my netbook screen to reveal my presence. Didn’t think that was disturbing anything. No more than the opera in a large marquee nearby. Wearily, and slowly, I gathered my belongings together and wandered off.

Hostel front

Despite the unwarranted interruption, the hostel was pleasant enough. Reminded me of the small workers hotels in Kazakhstan normally run by ethnic Russian women. Basic but always clean. No cockroaches. But where they differed is cost. Mine wasn’t cheap, just the least expensive option I could find. And simple things you’d often find included, towels or even wireless internet, would increase the cost by almost half. Not the most expensive city I’d visited, certainly not Baku in Azerbaijan with its eye watering prices, but still tough on the budget.

Hostel grounds

I’d travelled into the city a few hours earlier, a little jaded by the journey from Almaty, but not sufficiently tired to sleep. The train almost empty, the streets, the metro system quieter than I’d expected. Flags draped from windows, mostly as we’d passed through the suburbs. Nationalistic celebration? Perhaps. But a subdued atmosphere, as if in defeat.

A third country where I hoped to be able to secure fresh visas sufficient to cross uninterrupted across China, and return to Kazakhstan. And a few other things besides. With little realistic prospect of securing a workable Chinese visa before my Kazakhstan one expired, I’d had to travel further afield. Nevertheless, elements of the Stans I thought. Plentiful parks and green spaces reminded me of Bishkek a few weeks earlier. And the man’s insistence last night on rigid adherence to rules, without proper explanation? Shades of the old Soviet Union?

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Visa games

July 7th, 2010

Passport

The application form for a tourist visit ran to ten pages, and required a myriad of supporting documentation. Details of your itinerary, employment, income, any criminal record. Whether you’d ever been a member of the Armed Forces, the Judiciary, even a security company. Or the media. Evidence of your ability to support yourself whilst visiting. If successful you might even need to register with the Police once you’d arrived.

Shades of the old Soviet Union? But this wasn’t some xenophobic, far off nation. No. It was the UK. Which is worth remembering when struggling to obtain visas on the road. I’m surprised anyone gets to visit Blighty, other than as an illegal immigrant. Not sure I’d even qualify for entry.

Keeping out miscreants, economic migrants, I can quite understand. In any country. That would be reasonable, almost a necessity, but I’ve seen much more evidence of paranoia as the rationale behind visa regimes than I have of a desire to exclude those who threaten a nation’s well-being. And political whim, drifting around in the breeze. Treating innocent travellers like pieces on a chess board.

Obtaining visas at Consulates is all about first impressions, a first taste of officialdom. Insisting on easily circumvented requirements, hindrances rather than genuine mechanisms to exclude undesirables, does little to instil a favourable opinion. Rather, by frustrating the genuine visitor, it suggests you lack confidence in your own system of Government, perhaps a degree of xenophobia. Something to hide.

You’d at least expect visa requirements, and fees, for a given nationality and place of residence, to be consistent between Consulates. But no. Substantive differences. Some insisting on visa support – the purchase, from suitable agents, of letters of introduction, airline tickets, hotel bookings. Adds little to the process, other than increasing the cost. Which means less money to spend when you actually get there. And guidance on immigration rules is often plain wrong. In fact, the only consistent feature seems to be that visas for US nationals are always the most expensive.

But what of the UK’s own visa regime? I’d travelled with an Azeri national with considerable experience of the system. He thought it robust, but consistent. There at least appeared to be a rationale behind it. And there was always an Appeals process if you felt you’re application hadn’t received proper consideration. English fair play.

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Outbound

July 6th, 2010

Almaty international airport. Kazakhstan. Early. Passport. Immigration card. Copy of the border rules and regulations. In English. After my albeit short-lived detention by Kazakhstan border guards a few weeks earlier, I reckoned I was ready for all eventualities. Knew my papers were all in order. My imminent departure on a flight to a third country to secure a fresh Chinese visa wasn’t going to force the payment of any suspicious fines.

The Customs Declaration form – I eventually found one in English – seemed contradictory, and I thought unnecessary for the Green Channel. Not carrying anything I shouldn’t be. Left the pepper spray, knives, petrol and local anesthetic behind. And the form? Sterling effort at translation, or a potential trap for the unwary? You do wonder sometimes.

I’d done the usual things – expensive electronics in my hand luggage, spent a little money getting it wrapped in resilient plastic film until I’d boarded. Protects the external fittings on the front pannier I was using as luggage, and deters officials from wanting to inspect the contents. Nothing to hide, just couldn’t be bothered with the hassle. And dispersed the contents of my wallet about my person. Never like to reveal exactly how much cash I might be carrying to noisy officials.

Customs. Green Channel. Just ahead of a large group. Deliberately. Smiled. Said good morning in Kazakh. Through. Skirted around the X-ray machines. Nobody seemed bothered, and they’d be a few more before I boarded the aircraft. Check-in. Helpful assistant from the airline I’d chosen. One I’d heard of before, unlike SCAT, the small Kazakh operation I’d used to enter from Azerbaijan.

Passport Control. I’d last entered through a land crossing from Kyrgyzstan, had to insist on an extra stamp on my immigration card to show my passport was properly registered with the authorities. Would that be accepted or had I to remind them that all the formalities had been completed when I obtained my visa back in Georgia? But no, a quick check, another stamp, in the passport this time, and off to the departure lounge. Outbound.

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Tour du Monde

July 5th, 2010

They were a rarity in Central Asia in two senses. Long distance cyclists. And French. We’d met whilst queuing for visas at the Chinese Consulate in Almaty, Kazakhstan. And their situation made my present tussles attempting to enter China appear to be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Their Kazakhstan visas would expire in two days, and, contrary to the advice they’d been given, could not, as they’d now discovered, be extended. And they’d no visa for any of the neighbouring countries. All their hopes lay on securing entry to China, and in just a couple of days.

To be fair, seemed they’d been mis-advised by the Consulate when they’d been given their Kazakhstan visa. I’d not been surprised by this, as I’d found contradictory information about Kazakh immigration and visa rules on official websites. An understandable mistake.

Like most languages, other than English and a smattering of Welsh, my French was never great and hasn’t improved. But found I could make some sense of their website – www.freresquiroulent.fr – appeared they too were on an around-the-world trip, albeit skipping Australia and Africa. Assuming they don’t get detained or deported in Kazakhstan first.

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Plan B

July 4th, 2010

Plan B from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

Ken explains the need for Plan B, a bold, decisive scheme to secure a fresh Chinese visa.

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Not yes

July 3rd, 2010

The lady in front smiled at me. A young man had approached the Policeman keeping order at the front of the queue, asking, in English, where foreigners waited to enter Almaty’s Chinese Consulate. I’d intervened, explaining you queued with everyone else. Just as I was doing. He wandered off, looking frustrated.

After a lengthy wait I was eventually allowed into the Embassy compound, to be greeted by a rather helpful man. Took me a few moments to ascertain he wasn’t a Chinese official but an agency tout, of no use to me. More waiting, then eventually allowed to approach a glass screen.

“Do you possibly speak English?” I asked. “No” said the official, without expression. I explained my circumstances, my just expired sixty day visa, showed him my application form, the supporting paperwork. Seemed I’d also need a letter of introduction, then perhaps thirty days might be possible. I’d explained I’d not needed this for my previous visa, a return flight confirmation being sufficient. But he wasn’t budging. It wasn’t a simple no, rather a not yes – a polite no.

I’d wandered back out into the compound, found the tout I’d spoken to earlier and enquired about a letter of introduction. Around a hundred US dollars, would take a week or so. Bit of mental arithmetic – week for a letter, allow a week for visa processing – with no assurance of success, and I’d get perilously close to the expiry of my current Kazakhstan visa. Which would mean, in practice, a last minute flight out to obtain a fresh one. More expense.

So what to do? I’d get nowhere today at the Consulate, so decided to contemplate my next move over a cup of tea. Objectively. Seemed I could spend a good deal of money, time and effort attempting to secure a fresh visa in Almaty, but with no guarantee of success. Far from it. And even if I did manage to obtain a thirty day visa, I’d struggle to work with that for crossing China in its entirety. Time for Plan B.

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Solo in the saddle

July 2nd, 2010

I’d returned at dusk to the house in the suburbs where I was staying. Busy day, mostly writing for the blog, the events of the past week, or scribbling notes as I sought to cajole my thoughts into a form I could properly grasp. If the Chinese Consulate in Almaty said no that was simple enough, go elsewhere. But if they said yes, but just thirty days entry, something of a dilemma. Accept, or go elsewhere in search of more. Costly. And no guarantee of success. I’d chatted to my parents earlier which had helped a lot, but it still remained my call.

I must still have been pre-occupied with my own thoughts, for I missed Olima’s parents, Ilkom and Shaiza, sat quietly on a covered wooden platform in the garden. They called me over. Welcome glass of red wine to enjoy as the light began to fail, rumblings of thunder in the background getting ever louder until the steady patter of rain could be heard on the roof above us.

We sat on long, thin cushions around a low table. They both spoke a little English, admittedly more than either my Kazakh or Russian, but far short of what you might imagine would be needed for a conversation. And yet we’d been able to communicate, and quite successfully. Ethnicity, language migration across Central Asia, troubles in Kyrgyzstan, topics no phrase book I’d ever seen prepared you for. Found myself explaining about the Norman Conquest, Angles and Saxons. Even the relationship between UK, Great Britain, England, Scotland and Wales. Learning about Farsi being spoken in Uzbekistan.

The failing light, refreshing rain, the relative tranquility of the garden, had put me in a contemplative mood. I’d often be asked if I was travelling alone, more so as I’d headed east, and I usually said yes. Truth was I might be solo in the saddle, but I was far from independent. On the contrary, I was entirely dependent on others. Family and friends, people I sometimes met only fleetingly, Olima and her family for their generous hospitality in Almaty, so many others. Without whose support I’ve have scarcely left the UK, never mind reached the eastern edge of Kazakhstan.

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On the case

July 1st, 2010

“Stoic” a friend had said. Realistic I thought. The next day I’d set out early for the Chinese Consulate, arriving shortly after nine. Already a lengthy queue, seemed quite disorderly, despite the barriers meant to avoid too much tussling. And there’d be no chance of admittance today.

So instead I went in search of a suitable visa agent. They supposedly hung around the Consulate, but the idea of handing over cash and my passport to a stranger on the street, purporting to be an agent, seemed inconceivable. Decided to go and look for a suitable travel agency in the city centre.

After much searching I eventually found Nurila. She spoke good English and understood my problem. Quick call to the Consulate. Unfortunately, she explained, without a residency permit they would not issue me with a visa. Where there any agents in the city who specialised in visits to China, I enquired? I’d heard a rumour they might be able to circumvent the residency requirement.

Took me over an hour to locate a specialist agency, tucked away in a small office inside a hotel on the far side of the city. Diana was very understanding, spoke excellent English, but no, without a residency permit, there’d only be a flat refusal. My only hope, she explained, was to go in person and plead my case. And get there early, around seven, to have any hope of admittance when the gates open at nine, she advised. But she could help me with the application form, especially as it was in Russian, an offer I gladly accepted.

Emerging back on the street, the lingering humidity had been replaced by gentle rain, soon descending into a downpour. A cheap umbrella – a few pounds – from a nearby bazaar and then the long trek back across the city, contemplating my next move.

Diana had explained that the Chinese Consulate only ever issued visas for thirty days, to Kazakhs certainly. Indeed, the application form gave no other options, unlike the one in Malta I’d completed. Would that really be enough to cross China, assuming I was able to secure a thirty day extension once I’d entered? Five thousand or more kilometres in a little over fifty days, terrain and roads a largely unknown quantity. Difficult. On the boundary between the art of the possible, and hopeless optimism.

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Back to Almaty

June 30th, 2010

Charin

Forty miles. Over six hours. An unrelenting uphill gradient for the most part, never ending false summits. Charin Natural National Park. An empty wilderness, parts I thought resembled a moonscape. Sometimes loud buzzing sounds from bushes besides the road, but nothing to see, from a distance at least. I didn’t want to inadvertently disturb anything that might swarm.

And then the start of the Kokpek Gorge, unassuming at first. The village sharing the same name appeared to be no more than a collection of cafes, a few small shops. Some quite smart, others rather run down. A water fountain. Cool. Refreshing. Cars coming and going, the occupants scattered about the place. The odd coach, some passengers striding off purposefully to replenish with water and a few snacks, others just milling around, mostly enjoying a cigarette.

Gorge

Swift descent, a short respite from the earlier climbs, soon dropping down on to the plain that would eventually lead to Almaty. Still a hundred or so miles remaining, I’d decided to stop in the town of Shilik, a couple of hours beyond the gorge. The layout was confusing, the centre difficult to discern, but I eventually found another workman’s hotel. Ten pounds. No shower, just a sink. But a nice clean room. And no cockroaches.

Back on the road the next morning, the traffic steadily increasing as Almaty edged closer. Sweat mixing with the blackening exhaust fumes of passing lorries, many racing by perilously close. Black streaks on exposed arms, rivulets of dirt down my legs. Quickly got my bearings once more in the city, within the hour reaching the house I’d stayed in previously. First part of the plan complete.

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Long road back

June 29th, 2010

long road back

I’d decided to return to Almaty via a different route to the one I’d come on, back tracking a little to the town of Koktal, then heading south across the Ile river to Shonzhy. Then westwards through the Kokpek Gorge and across the plain that led to the city. Two hundred and forty miles. The length of Wales. Despite the heat, reckoned this was possible in three days. It’d be hard going, but I wanted to get a fresh Chinese visa as quickly as possible, so as not to loose too much momentum.

Marker posts

Swift progress back through the provincial town of Zharkent, past fertile, irrigated fields, alongside woodlands, and a brief stop in Koktal. Then south towards the Ile river and, far beyond its banks, the town of Shonzhy for the night. Fifty miles. Thirty or more degrees. I’d camp if I could find sufficient cover to conceal myself, but I doubted that would be the case. Way markers showing the distance, in kilometres, from the border, and to Almaty.

A very gentle, at times almost imperceptible, downhill gradient towards the Ile, and then a steady, I thought flat perhaps, run to Shonzhy. Bar a short stop in a roadside cafe in the late afternoon, I’d kept moving. The briefest of water stops and I’d found myself engulfed in a cloud of flies.

The town of Shonzhy, a short detour off the main route towards Almaty, was uninspiring, nothing to distinguish it from other similarly sized provincial centres. I quickly found a small workman’s hotel, about five pounds. But, by the time I’d got my trusty steed and all the luggage into the room, the price had doubled. The lady indicated it would be more, as I’d have two beds, and there was a television. ’Nyet’ I said, picking up some of the panniers as if to leave. We settled in the middle.

After a shower of sorts – barely a dribble but at least it was hot – shared with a few resilient cockroaches, I settled down to watch some television. Mostly in Russian, including a dated – I thought the seventies – dubbed production of Jerome K Jerome’s “Three Men in a Boat”. Few musical numbers and nymphs on water lilies I’d not remembered from the book I’d re-read back in Istanbul. And at least two different dogs.

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