Aral - Kazakhstan

After a voyage over roads that ought to be termed beaches, not roads, the travellers are greeted by Aral; a harbour that is no longer a harbour decorated with the rusting hulks of abandoned fishing vessels. All this and more in a tale of discovery, curious policemen and Kazakh breakfast habits.

Sophie Ibbotson:

A Kazakh drinking session starts with vodka at seven. Tumblers are laid out on the bar, filled almost to the brim, and you down your glass and cheer. By 10, participants have moved onto the beer – something a little lighter to pace oneself. At first glance this may not appear any different to a night out in Bournemouth or Brighton. The problem is that in Kazakhstan we’re talking about am, not pm.

We saw this practise most clearly this morning whilst settling down to breakfast in the café opposite our hotel. While we tucked into fried eggs and bread, washed down with tea and coffee, the men at the neighbouring table were on to their third pints of the day. It was shortly after 9 am. The prospect of living in Aral is certainly depressing, but it’s sad if it drives you to drink.

Arriving in Aral is like coming upon a town in the Mid West: one minute you’re alone in the dust, and the next you’re on top of a petrol station and a number of low-rise buildings. Aral is a large place, seemingly well-served by roads and a railway line. Giant statues of lynxes are mounted on the welcome gate as you enter the town, and an elaborate mosaic at the station proclaims proudly the moment in 1921 when Aral’s fisherman fed their starving comrades in Mother Russia.

Aral’s glory days are gone: only a ghost town remains. The Aral Sea, the source of the town’s prosperity, has shrunken to a poisonous puddle, the port town of Aral is now 30km from the sea and few fish can survive in the extreme salinity of the remaining water.

An hour’s drive from Aral is the so-called ‘Ships’ Graveyard’, but the same scene of desolation lies far closer to home. We walked out of our hotel into the old harbour. A modern school and domed sports club are the only signs that the area is not actually deserted. As you cast a glance across the sand and stagnant pools of slimy mud, buildings slump unfinished or derelict, cranes stand like rusted skeletons, and rubbish litters the path.

Dodging the debris, we picked our way along the harbour’s former mouth. A sand track wide enough for cars to pass now marks the harbour’s edge and, as we reached the top of its embankment, I stood aghast. Rotting, rusting hulks were scattered across the scrub. There were 8-10 in number and they were not insubstantial in size: there were not mere dinghies but sea-going trawlers capable of bringing home many tonnes of catch from a single fishing trip. The sight of their plight, symbolising as it did the plight of the whole community, their livelihood, way of life and environment, was utterly devastating. It’s no wonder the people need a stiff drink.

Steve Dew-Jones:

The occasional marmot, camel or golden eagle brings relief from otherwise endless stretches of barren land. Kazakhstan, for such a large country, doesn’t seem to possess very much.

One slightly more interesting town in this Western side of the country is Aral. Perhaps you have already heard the story about the Soviets and the irrigation trouble that saw the Aral Sea ebb away from the city of Aral by some 80km! In its stead, a place that once thrived on a booming fishing trade seems rather devoid of life. A few rusty wrecks of old ships in the port-that-once-was are all that remains.

The day before we arrived in Aral – and checked in to easily the grubbiest hotel we have so far encountered - we spent a night underneath the stars. Jerry Can and diesel tank both filled to the brim to ensure that there wouldn’t be a repeat of our last journey, we had driven for well over 400km by the time we decided to pitch up for the night. It was a funny old stretch of road; so impressively flat and pothole-free for large stretches until, suddenly, the road would stop altogether and one would be pointed off the tarmac and onto a couple of kilometres of terrain that might better-suit a beach than anything that might conceivably be labelled “roadworthy”.

Fun at first, by 6pm we had had quite enough of the endless quirks – on what was apparently the M32, the most major road between the north and south of Kazakhstan! – and found some wood from the only tree in sight so that we might make ourselves a fire upon which to consume some good old fashioned camping grub.

As another eagle flies overhead, Bryn is making the final repairs to the incy-wincy little hole in our engine (I blame all the enforced off-roading) and we should be on our way in the next half an hour.

Jo Dew-Jones:

On Wednesday we carried on driving past our original destination, so small did it look, and after a while of navigating the off-road track that constitutes the diversion whilst the motorway is being constructed, pitched our tent. There can surely never fail to be something romantically charming about a vast open space, a home-made campfire, sunset and (really rather tasty) camp food. I slept rather well this time.

Aral, unsurprisingly, was something of a non-town, built as it is around a sea which is no longer there and industry which has subsequently disappeared. Walking up to the ship wreckages where once there would have been water and life was bizarre. We had the good fortune of chancing upon a Brit and an American who were there making a CNN documentary about the Aral Sea.

So as we prepare to leave for Uzbekistan tomorrow, what will my memories of Kazakhstan be?
Firstly, the most inquisitive yet friendly bunch of policemen we've encountered - we have an unrivalled record for being pulled over just out of curiosity rather than having fallen foul of the road rules! Secondly, I suppose, MEAT - shashlyk (kebab), manty (dumplings), steak, laghman (meat and spaghetti in broth), sausage. Kazakhstan is not the place for vegetarians.
Thirdly: the wind! It has been remarkably blustery, and we required some extra rigging from Bryn to prevent our tent from lifting off last night.

Second impressions

The nothingness sweeps for miles on end
And reaches beyond and behind
With but a scattered shrubbery
Breaking the horizon of dancing dust.

This land, though, is rich in other ways:
The bold and glorious eagle atop the mound
Surveys his vast kingdom
Of marmots, who cheekily scurry along,
And sauntering camels, in the (unfortunate) stage
of shedding their uniform to prepare for summer,
And other herding animals, whose terrain seems boundless
And whose owners permit them to roam.

The bird life is varied and playful
And there must be many more life forms
We miss, hypnotised as we are
By a bleak land, which is anything but.