Golden Dust: wandering in Central Asia

Part 1 - Kazakhstan

source: personal archives, 2023.

I travel first through books. They become, in a way, the first echo of a place, a culture, or a history. The work and stories of writers, anthropologists, or adventurers whose sensitivity and spirit inspire me awaken a curiosity and desire to explore places I may never have considered. Thus, it is to a handful of individuals I have never met—many of whom are not even from my time—that I owe most of my journeys. Something must compel us to step outside our homes; to each their own sources of inspiration. Mine are literary.

Among all the travel narratives that have marked me, one region stood out repeatedly: Central Asia. A mosaic of little-known countries caught between the giants of Russia, China, and Iran, which some dismissively refer to as the “Stans.” These distant lands have inspired numerous travel narratives, for they lie along the famous “Silk Road,” an ancient axis of commerce and convergence between the East and the West.

Since reading The Way of the World (Bouvier) and the writings of Ella Maillart, I have nurtured the idea of embarking on a long journey myself, traversing the lands of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan. However, it would take me several years before deciding, one morning between two cups of coffee, that it was time to leave. This journey may have been one of the most significant of my life. And because if I do not write about it, it will eventually haunt me, I begin here what will be the first note in a long series dedicated to Central Asia.

I first set foot in Kazakhstan. Before leaving, a meticulous map study was in order to familiarize myself with the regions, cities, and main routes. Traveling solely by road or train in a country covering nearly four million square kilometers required some concessions: a complete west-to-east crossing was out of the question for now. And so I opted for a flight to Turkestan, halfway down south, from where I could explore the steppes to Almaty before heading to the Tien Chan mountains, near the Kirghiz and Chinese borders.

After landing in Turkestan, I found myself on a stark and endless road. From the first kilometers, an almost overwhelming immensity. The southern part of the country, arid, stretched between semi-deserts and scorched mountains; was the first time I saw what until now had only been described to me through books. In these vast spaces, one must relearn patience and perspective. Measure time differently, train the eye to rethink distances. That village appearing in the distance, which would seem reachable in a few hours of walking, could very well be eighty or even one hundred kilometers away. And with only a few railways beyond the main routes I would have to rely on the goodwill of the few passing vehicles. On a particularly sweltering day, I waited for hours at a deserted intersection, hoping someone would stop. Time is stretching slowly, and unexpected questions arise without warning: "What did we came here for?", "What if we run out of water? How will we endure the challenges of walking, the sun, and hunger?".

Eventually, two farmers pick me up in an old car with a dented bumper. Inside, a strong smell of gas and an infernal jumble of tools, clothes, and boxes filled with bread and cheese. Next to me, an old woman is sitting, carrying two large bags filled with onions and potatoes. As my eyes wander across the landscape, I listen to their conversations in the distance, trying to decipher the subject. No one seems particularly concerned about my presence. Finally, the car stops in front of a cluster of houses scattered along the road. The old woman gets out, hands a bill to our drivers exchanging a few last words, and we drive off again. One of them eventually turns to me, suddenly interested in the purpose of my journey. For the first time, I see those golden teeth, revealed in a smile—a curious contrast with his eyes of a pale green nearly dissolving into the air. “Is Macron still president?” he inquires in broken but sufficient French to leave me astonished. I am always surprised by the way information crosses borders.

I read in a book by Ahmed Rashid on post-Soviet Central Asia that Kazakhstan is arguably the country that has remained the most "Russified." For cultural reasons, perhaps, but more certainly to preserve common economic and geopolitical interests—Kazakhstan possesses the most abundant natural resources in the region and important economic routes to the West. Nazarbayev even went so far as to relocate the capital from Almaty to the newly built Astana, closer to the border and Russian communities. In 2000, Kazakhs made up only 51% of the population, and many spoke only Russian. As of 2024, ethnic Kazakhs are about 71%, followed by Russians (15%) and Uzbeks (3.5%). Having never been to Russia, I may not be the best judge of the nuances of its influence here, but some details do strike the curious visitor.

source: personal archives, 2023.

After several days of traveling from one village to another, Almaty finally appears in the distance. A city with broad avenues lined with uniform panelkas, incessant traffic, a hot, dusty air in this early June, and whose spirit I find difficult to grasp. Following the grid of these streets, wandering along these blocks stretching infinitely, certainly helps with orientation, but understanding where to find its essence and life is another matter. The brand-new mosques and their golden domes contrast with the overwhelming gray, and between two main arteries, pedestrian alleys emerge, abundantly watered by a wall of automatic sprinklers. Since my arrival, I have the curious sensation that the entire country has emerged with the Soviet era. The historical heritage predating the Russian influence seems absent, almost erased by time. But before the first Russian invasions in the 19th century, these lands were primarily inhabited by nomadic tribes from Siberia, and organised into ordas, these tribal or clan units following the authority of a Khan. Therefore, one cannot expect to find, in contemporary cities, a historical heritage comparable to what one might imagine in Europe.

I stay in a modest apartment in the city center, above a large supermarket where I regularly go for groceries. Some unhealthy eating habits seem to have crossed the ocean: here, the shelves are overflowing with energy drinks, cakes, and snacks straight out of the US, and everywhere in the city, young and old roam with a can in hand. I spend my days wandering alone, often stopping for a coffee to observe the usual chaos of cities.

Soon, I will have to hit the road again toward the Altyn Emel National Park and its canyons, then on to the Tien Shan mountains, at the crossroads of Kyrgyzstan and China. And it is one early morning, after a quick breakfast, that I embark for the final steps of my Kazakh journey, hopping into a truck with a cheerful group of Kazakhs.

This text is the first part of a long series on Central Asia.Coming next: in the far east of Kazakhstan, the peaks of the Tien Shan mountains and the Kyrgyz border.

References et recommendations:

• Nicolas Bouvier, The way of the World, 1963

• Ella Maillart, Turkestan solo: A journey through Central Asia, 1943

• Ahmed Rashid, The resurgence of Central Asia, 2002