sofasurfers

So, London is cold, huh?! Actually, when my (new Russian) host in
Karaganda (some 4 hours south east of Kazakhstan’s capital) said the
outside temperature was minus 15 degrees C, I whooped; he just looked
at me with disdain. It’s true, my ‘the colder, the better’ optimism
was unarguably tourist folly – a local would never be so flip (not
least when the mercury hits minus 40 degrees). But this was what I was
here for: I wanted to touch the frozen frontier. I wanted to
experience deep freeze, I wanted to know what this shock to my system
would feel like: it’s what locals have to negotiate every winter – so
I wanted to negotiate it too. When the moisture in my nostrils froze,
when my trousers felt like sausagey ice-packs wrapped around my legs,
when my fingers stung after just a couple of seconds of exposure, when
the sharp, cold air tickled my throat as I inhaled, I felt a warm glow
of satisfaction. In Moscow, a Kazakh had told me, “In Moscow, no one
looks at anyone else in the street, but in Kazakhstan, everyone
watches for everyone else to see if the tips of their noses have gone
white, to tell them they have frostbite.” Up till now, I’d presumed
this pure Kazakh myth; what Kazakhs tell their fair weather friends to
illustrate their colder climate and their warmer hearts. Now, it
seemed like it could very well be a reality. So, I asked my host: do
people suffer frostbite much here? “Yes,” he confirmed. “Actually this
is a real problem with alcoholics, because they don’t feel it
happening.” So vodka: not quite the anti-freeze it’s presumed to be.

And so to Karaganda’s city square, where like all good former Soviet
towns who know what’s good for them, a formidable statue of Lenin
stands proud, here his mighty gaze facing Moscow. These little
torpedos of snow can try all they like, but Lenin’s hold is
indestructible.

My host isn’t so impressed though: “Lenin was wrong. Communism suits
the lazy, the people who can’t be bothered to get a job – the
government just gives it to them.” Capitalism gives people an
incentive to succeed, he argues… It’s certainly seems to drive the
fruit sellers to the market.

“They’re very excited. It’s a big shock to see a British girl here.”
We’re in the local market, to buy fruit and veg, and despite the
temperature, it’s very much business as usual, with the market
operating for full nine-hour days. My host goes to buy some Persimmon
– but aren’t they frozen? “Yes,” he says, “but they taste better this
way – they’re much sweeter.” [When I eat one at home, with a spoon,
it's like a pure fruit sorbet – yum]. Anyway, as soon as I pull out my
camera to snap a stack of fish in nature’s refridgerator there…

and how they keep their little fishies warm there

people clamour to be in my photo

and so a kind of two-way tourism takes place. “Angliya?!” they say,
with awe and wonder. But, I ask my host (who happens to be blond and
blue-eyed – and might I point out, despite its irrelevance here, my
host’s blond hair is over two foot long), why can’t I resemble
European Russian? Why can’t I blend in in this multi-ethnic nation?
“Russian girls dye their hair. They dress differently. You just don’t
look like you’re from here.” True, there’s no mink or rabbit chapka on
my head, no trashy patent leather black spike heeled boots worn on my
feet in all weather. As we catch a bus home, a Russkette with crisped,
yellow hair comes unavoidably into our view. “See what I mean about
the dyed hair?” says my host. And actually, it’s a thrill to be the
odd one out: it really confirms that a frontier has been crossed.