Golden dust: wandering in Central Asia

A journey through Kazakhstan, part 2.

In the far east of Kazakhstan lies a surprisingly diverse landscape. Where the journey to Almaty had been nothing but a dry, monotonous steppe, the scenery suddenly transforms over just a few hundred kilometers. Red canyons and dunes rise from the plains, soon giving way to the majestic Tien Shan mountains, with their vast pine forests and milky white peaks.

This mountain range is a favorite among hiking enthusiasts, and from Almaty, numerous 4x4s offer rides to the trailheads for about a hundred dollars. The visitors are mostly Chinese or Kazakh, here to explore the area for a long weekend. As for me, I seek less the company of fellow travelers than that familiar feeling of solitude in immensity. But adventure sometimes has its limits: distances are so vast here that I often worry about finding a ride and don’t dare stray too far from the main roads, for fear of ending up in a remote valley with no way back

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I finally hitch a ride at the outskirts of Almaty with the first group willing to squeeze me into their packed minibus. After a good fifteen minutes of negotiations, I find myself wedged among twenty or so young students on a school outing, led by a witty guide, visibly amused by my presence. They aren’t headed all the way to the mountains, but offer to drop me at the Charyn Canyon, where I might find someone else to continue the journey.

We spend two long hours on the road, and as always, I have to submit to the inevitable flow of questions about my life and the motivations for my trip. A row of women bursts into laughter, mimicking a pregnant belly in my direction. This simple, teasing gesture reminds me of the many socio-cultural gaps that have formed between the West and other worlds, and that I regularly face. I always struggle to explain why, at over thirty, I am neither married nor a mother and often even without a travel companion.

Recently, rereading sociologist Eva Illouz’s The End of Love, I came across passages describing the gradual loosening of relationships in the West, where traditional frameworks like marriage and the nuclear family have steadily lost their hold in favor of more flexible lifestyles, yet emotionally precarious. As a natural outcome of modern capitalism and individualism, we’ve learned to value independence and self-realisation, often at the expense of the solidarity and attachment necessary to sustain family structures. We live alone, travel alone, and may very well die alone. But try explaining this to people for whom family is as much a social and collective duty as a source of personal fulfilment. Though transitions are underway, Kazakh family structures remain influenced by nomadic traditions and values centered on intergenerational solidarity. It is still common for several generations to live under the same roof, although the nuclear family model is becoming more prominent in large cities.

Here like in many places along my journeys, few people remain unbaffled by my lifestyle. And though I rarely suffer judgment, I find myself constantly facing worldviews that seem irreconcilable.

I am dropped at the crossroads of a small road leading to the canyon entrance, in the early morning, before the heat crushes the horizon against the sharp rocks. As I approach, souvenir stalls appear like mushrooms along the roadside, while a few buildings under construction rise here and there, most likely to offer future visitors a more comfortable stay. I don’t know why it still surprises me to find, even in places that seem so far from everything, the early signs of the modernity soon to follow. I stop in front of information boards outlining the history and geology of the place. The view of these cliffs is certainly breathtaking, but something has been lost, as it has in so many places: the magic of discovering a place in solitude.

At dusk, I continue my journey toward the mountains. Along the way, cars with tinted windows head back to Almaty. I like to imagine that, closer to the peaks, I might find a piece of tranquility. We may get frustrated seeing certain spectacular sites gradually overrun by crowds (to which we, too, contribute), but there will always be a quiet spot to find, wherever we go.

I’m staying in a small, isolated village at the mountain’s foot. Amina, my host, has prepared a bed for me in a tiny, windowless room. She insists that I take off my shoes before entering—a rule she never fails to remind me of, yelling from the kitchen with an accusing finger pointed my way. In the living room, a large brown leather couch faces a cabinet covered with trinkets and family portraits. The house is filled with smells of fried food and black tea. To reach the bathroom and toilet, one has to cross the yard, where two dogs and a few chickens laze around all day. I plan to spend two nights here before beginning a long hike to the Kolsai Lakes.

Three gradually higher lakes must be crossed to make your way to the Kyrgyz border and reach the shores of the famous Yssy-Kul. I won’t go that far this time around, but there is a long walk ahead before I can pitch my tent by the third lake, patiently awaiting me 2850 meters above. Just past the trail that opens onto the first lake, I stumble upon a brand-new road and a vast parking lot where cars and buses weave in a constant ballet. From there emerge crowds of tourists, in their Sunday best, who would probably never have left their homes had they been required to put on hiking boots. I stand speechless before the cluster of refreshment stalls and small boat rentals. Bitter feeling of the one who, hoping to rediscover a wild mountain, realizes his foolishness when he sees how much the world around him has changed.

A storm breaks. And from afar, as I make my way up to the hopefully more peaceful summits, I watch the parade of silhouettes hurrying along in the pouring rain, all bundled up in the same blue plastic poncho distributed a little further down. An image comes to mind, familiar to anyone who's ever seen a wildlife documentary: a colony of penguins, in their solemn black-and-white attire, waddling across the ice, indifferent to the frozen ocean spectacle and the occasional passing boat. Perhaps we shouldn’t mock other species so readily; after all, we have very little to envy them.

My Kazakh interlude comes to an end on the shores of the last lake, a few steps from China and Kyrgyzstan, around a stove where my tea water is boiling. After all, here remains, perhaps more than anywhere else, a nature and a silence so profound that even crowds can't disturb.

Source: personal archives, 2023.

References et recommandations:

• Nicolas Bouvier, The Way of the World, 1963

• Ahmed Rashid, The Resurgence of Central Asia, 2002

• Eva Illouz, The End of Love, 2020