sofasurfers

A spontaneous decision to go and see this band (”The best live band in
Kunming,” my host had announced) was made (by me, course) when my host
also announced over dinner that he had a “bedroom appointment” later
that night. What?! Not even a living room appointment first? Straight
to the bedroom?! “Yes,” he said, coolly. “It’s complicated… ” Is
this in your bedroom, I asked, in your own apartment? “Yes, but don’t
worry – you don’t have to make yourself scarce. It’s fine.” I
obviously made myself scarce (though not quite in time – I was hiding
in my room when a waft of woman and perfume entered the apartment…
“This is pretty stressful, this …’thing’,” I overheard). When I
heard his door close, I opened mine and so I headed to the bar where
Lush has a residency. Since they were nowhere to be seen when I
arrived, I tried – and failed – asking, and then took to my notebook,
writing: “LUSH?” Naturally, I got some pretty funny looks from the
neon-flashing bar staff (really). Did they think I was asking if they
thought I was lush? Did they think I was looking for a drink? Perhaps
Budweiser instead, one offered. Anyway, I eventually found Lush,
hidden upstairs in a deserted room where the pick of the tables was
mine. “The only other people up here are waiting for a room
downstairs,” said the singer. (Downstairs, by the way, was a bearpit
of bacchanalia, with a 100% Han crowd hoovering up whole bottles of
spirits and lines and lines of beer laid out on their tables.) This
rare luxury of peace upstairs was quickly invaded by a group of
Israeli students who got busy with embarrassing disco behaviour:
illicit karaoke with the band’s kit, a little frottage and a lotta
noise. I sighed to myself: how long does one give for a ‘bedroom
appointment’?

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.

Hello Almaty, hello unrestricted internet access, hello blog! Finally I can update my own blog like an adult, rather than having to email Ollie with my tedious waffles - in China, wordpress is completely blocked.

Also, my collection of silly SIMs continues: email me (or Ollie) if for some small/strange/even silly reason, you need my Kazakh mobile number.

PS I’ve added some photos from the action-packed train journey from China to Kazakhstan (scroll down to Steppe Back in Time if the curiosity takes you).

The Kazakh border - the fun starts

So we’d barely crossed into Kazakhstan, when friendly faces started popping round our cabin door. ‘kazakhstan is boring!’ said one.

L: My NBF from SF; R: another happy Kazakh

‘Chelsea Futbol!’ said another. We’re currently entertaining a 4-year-old (who almost cried when eventually I confiscated my nice camera from him, but he seems to be distracted by drawing on my sheet and being poked in the tummy). Oh no - he’s remembered and is upending my pillow looking for it it. I have to go! Verdict: not boring.

How can you say nyet to me?

All change! No more Chinese, no more Uighur… Bring in the Kazakh and the Russki. And funnily enough, I’m sharing my cabin with another couchsurfer (from San Fran) who just lost her traveling companion. Funnily enough Number Two: I somehow found myself taking a 90-minute English class this afternoon! I even had a teacher’s pet-the third person this trip to compare me to Carrie Bradshaw (no-not why he was TP). All will be revealed!

So it seems that my replacement BlackBerry and UK sim were deemed by
the local customs to be highly suspect, and so I never received them.
I do have a Chinese mobile, however: +86 150 1144 2562 and I
understand you can send texts to me for free via Skype. When I land in
Kazakhstan (hopefully on 19th November until 30th November), I will
(hopefully) be back on my Russki phone (+7 916 648 407). Or of course
I am on email, but much less reliably so.