One Busy Day: Southeast Kazakhstan

The “Golden Triangle” of Kazakhstan is a group of semi-touristy outdoor activities outside of Almaty, including “Kazakhstan’s Grand Canyon” (Charyn Canyon) and two attractive mountain lakes (Kaindy Lake and Kolsai Lake). You can look up most of the facts and images about these sites fairly easily online these days, so while we’ll discuss them a bit, we won’t belabor the facts by listing them here; instead, we want to tell you about our personal stories and experiences en route to and at each of these, which we hope will provide a better feel for the people, places, and adventures found in the spaces between them.

Unfortunately, there is no public transportation to the Golden Triangle sites, so you have to have a car/hire a driver or go with a tour. All the tours start from and return to Almaty; however, because this southeastern corner of Kazakhstan is really close to our next intended destination in Karakol, Kyrgyzstan, we didn’t want to backtrack to Almaty, and instead sought a route that visited the Golden Triangle and then proceeded directly to the nearby summer border crossing to Karakol in order to save travel time. None of the tour companies we spoke to would do this, except for a one-woman show named Karla (that’s it, no company name, just “Karla”). After much back and forth on WhatsApp (which, we’ve learned over the last couple years, is the main communications vehicle for small hospitality businesses across much of the world), Karla arranged a driver and itinerary for us over two days and connected us to a French couple who also wanted to go to Karakol. It’s worth noting that this was planned over hundreds of three-word texts sent over bouts of intermittent WiFi over three days (none of us travelers had data in Kazakhstan at that time), inconvenient time differences (Karla was in Istanbul during all of it), and was not firmed up until late the night before our 7:30am Saturday pickup. These last minute, cash-based, no-confirmation-or-receipt-needed way of booking itineraries/rides/treks with strangers making verbal promises is something that we both love and occasionally get uneasy about while traveling abroad; it is something we would learn to get very comfortable with very quickly throughout Central Asia.

Charyn Canyon

Karla’s driver was Vladimir, and as she promised, he showed up at our hostel at 7:30am. Vlad, a sixty-something cheerful Kazakhstan native of Russian descent, was our “English-speaking” driver who barely spoke English—and the words he did know were heavily obscured by his thick Russian accent. But he was jolly and he did pick us up on time in his green Mitsubishi van, so that was a good start. We then picked up the Frenchies at their hostel and drove out of Almaty, traversing along the front of the mountain range that we had seen flying in. When the road turned toward the mountains and through a pass, what started out looking like Colorado transformed into the Nevada desert—vast open land and endless skies with dry rocky cliffs and mountains. After a little more driving through the stark landscape and suffering through Vlad’s choice of loud elevator music (none of us had ever heard of Richard Elliot before this ride, and now we don’t ever want to hear him again), we arrived at the top of Charyn Canyon, a Bryce Canyon-like depression of orange and red rock with a depth of about 500-1000 feet, depending on where you approach it. It is not quite as large as the Utah national park, but still very impressive. (Apologies for all the American West references, but southeast Kazakhstan really does look quite similar to it, maybe only differentiated by the yurts and herders.)

Looking into the canyon from the top, Vladimir eyes a trail. Through his gruff voice, we thought we heard, “Go down here into the canyon, follow it down to the river, then you will see a trail from there to go back up, I’ll pick you up on the top of that trail. You have 90 minutes.” Sounds easy enough.

The four of us head down through the hoodoos, joining quite a few local Kazakhs who were also taking a weekend trip to enjoy the spectacular views and outdoors. Before long, we make it to the river and then—per instructions—start looking for the trail back up. It was not as obvious as Vlad suggested. We saw some potential goat paths, but certainly no trail markers or anything obvious. Another tourist passed us and tells us that he saw a trail about 200-300 meters away. Is that 600 feet? So, we go in that direction and identify a few leads, but nothing promising. Playing MacGyver, we see some footprints in the dirt and collectively decide it was fine to keep going. We scramble up some rocks; at one point, Francois goes first and shouts back down to the rest of us, “It’s steep, but not impossible.” Good enough. Everyone continued, on all fours now to climb over rocks and crannies. A few minutes later, it became clear that this was, indeed, not the right trail, but by then, it was too late to go back—it had been fine going up, but the path was far too steep to go back down safely. So of course, we just kept scrambling up, scaling canyon walls and looking for a way out. Our French counterparts, who work at the Eurobank (and were taking advantage of its six-month sabbatical policy, natch) but acted more like professional mountaineers, blazed the trail, and we followed along. We ultimately found ourselves at the top of the canyon, but on the wrong side of a large chasm between us and where Vlad was parked half a kilometer away. Even though we didn’t know how we were going to get off this particular outcrop, we already knew it was worth it—the views of the unique rock formations and river-cut canyon with snow-capped mountains in the distance were awe-inspiring.

We finally found a red dirt saddle between us and the other side of the canyon that we deemed safe enough to basically slide down, which then allowed us to climb back up to the correct side of the canyon and back toward Vlad. On our way, we pass the tourist who told us about the “trail” and told him he was wrong; he had a big smile and shrugged. Forty-five minutes late, we get back to Vlad, who is parked in the exact same spot where he dropped us off. When we told him we got lost coming back up and had to scramble up canyon walls, he shrugged and said, “Why didn’t you just come back up the same way you went down, like I told you to do?”

Ceremony in Saty

Despite the unexpected canyoning, it was still only about 12:45pm—many hours and a full day still ahead of us. We continued on to Saty, a small village near Kaindy and Kolsai Lakes where we’d be spending the night. By now, the four of us were dying from Richard Elliot’s Greatest Hits and starting to plan an intervention. We were grateful to arrive at the family guesthouse, where the plan was to drop off our bags, eat lunch, and then head up to Kaindy Lake for the afternoon, saving Kolsai Lake for the next morning. It turns out that Karla hadn’t notified the family that we were coming, so the host wasn’t able to warn us that they were having a family gathering that afternoon. They initially told us that we could still stay overnight, but that they couldn’t serve us lunch and that we should come back later after they were done. Totally understand. We start to pull away to get lunch elsewhere, when a woman comes running out to stop us. “You can come in and join us,” she offered (in Russian or Kazakh, to Vlad). This was unexpected but not necessarily surprising, as we had been told that culturally, Kazakhs love to host people at their homes and always treat guests with open arms. We walked in, entering a living room with several gentlemen socializing on a couch, and were invited to drop off our bags in cozy bedrooms in the home.

Even though Vlad had tried to explain to us what the occasion was, we hadn’t fully understood the importance of this gathering—both because we didn’t know the cultural traditions, and also because, well, Vlad…

Within minutes, we were ushered into a dining room with a long table set up for about 18 people. More specifically, Karen had stepped away for barely one minute to go to the bathroom, when she came back to Michael in the dining room as the only non-family member at the table, seated at the right hand of the eldest male head of the family! The rest of us sat down next to him. We soon learned that the matriarch of the family had passed away a year ago. In Kazakh tradition, when a person dies, the body remains at the home for two or three days while relatives and friends visit to offer condolences and to say goodbye to the departed; additional commemoration services are then held on the seventh and fortieth day after the death, as well as on the first anniversary. We were now experiencing the latter. And what a commemoration, indeed—it was a feast! The long table was covered in fruits, candies, local dishes made of unknown meat products, and more candies. Not an inch of the table was exposed. Next to the elderly man at the head of the table were seated the guests (us) and a group of men from the village, while the women sat farther down the table. Everyone held their hands up as the eldest man said a few opening prayers in what sounded like Arabic, and then everyone started digging in. Plates of salads, noodles, and meat pies were passed around feverishly. After eating a full plate of food and feeling full, we began to eye the many desserts. Michael tried what looked like a rugalach—not bad. When Michael passed the pastry plate to a local man next to us, however, the man declined. We thought he was just being healthy, but no—he was not ready for dessert yet was because the meal was not over yet. In fact, it had barely started; those were just the starters! A stream of women suddenly poured out from the kitchen with the main course—large platters filled with sheep’s meat, with the animal’s head crowning the top.

We had heard from our Kazakh friend that for special occasions, Kazakhs ceremonially carve a boiled sheep’s head. It was exciting to experience this local tradition firsthand! The head was presented to the elder as a sign of respect. After a few more words of prayer, he began to carve off pieces of the sheep’s head to share around the table, dishing out parts and saying a few words about the person for whom the part is most fitting. For example, traditionally, a child might be presented with the ear so that he or she will listen to their parents, while a garrulous guest might receive the tongue. Our guy sliced off the ear, and, with a chuckle, tossed the wobbly ear over to Karen’s plate. We think he was trolling her, as he was laughing throughout (and one does not actually eat the ear). Michael was given a huge leg shank, and we proceeded to eat a lot of mutton. Trying to be good guests, we ate as much meat off the shank as we could, but still left some on; looking around the table, all the other bones were eaten clean.

Several bowls of tea later, the meal ended almost as quickly as it started. We tried to talk and communicate, but were not really able to do so, as no one spoke a common language (though one villager spoke a few words of French and was able to exchange names with the French couple). Despite this barrier and the fact that we were complete strangers who did not even know the woman being honored, the family showed no misgivings about our presence and made us feel completely welcome and comfortable.

Fortunately, showing appreciation similarly does not require words. With full hearts and stomachs, we thanked the family for letting us join them on this special occasion and bid farewell.

Kaindy Lake

After lunch, the five of us piled back into Vlad’s van and began the bumpy ride up to Kaindy Lake. Making small talk with Vlad so that we didn’t have to listen to Patricia Kaas (the French Bette Midler whom the Russians love, apparently—and Vlad’s next choice of music), we learned that Vlad used to be a ski coach. But not just any ski coach. After much deciphering, we figured out that he used to be a ski jumping coach. We asked him if it was for the Olympics and he didn’t say. But, nobody actually ski jumps recreationally, right?! We’d find out later.

In the meantime, we were stopped by a rural traffic jam. A large tourist RV was stuck trying to get up to the lake on the bumpy dirt road and was blocking the entire path. A group of Kazakhs and other bystanders were out of their cars trying to help the RV’s driver. Vlad similarly gets out to check out the scene. While he’s out of the car, we shuffled through his music (fed by his USB stick, with no available AUX line to our phones found anywhere), and mercifully found some Santana. We select it just before he gets back to the car.

But he wasn’t paying attention the music. Vlad comes back and says, “Michael, come here, we need your help.” Excited to see how he might be useful, Michael enthusiastically heads over to the RV, with the rest of our group following him. It turns out the RV owners are a Spanish couple who had driven all the way from Barcelona and through Eurasia for the past two years (cool!).

“Michael, you speak English, they speak English, find out what’s wrong,” Vlad instructs.

Um, OK, sure. So the guy from Barcelona proceeds to tell us and Vlad—in English—that when he realized the road was too rough for the RV to continue, he tried to turn it around, and then it suddenly died. He doesn’t think it’s the battery, he offered. After he’s done explaining, Vlad turns around to Michael, expectantly, to ask him to tell the group of Kazakhs what the problem was. Meanwhile, Karen is cracking up in the background because she knows that, (a) Michael doesn’t speak any Russian (100% less than the Barcelonan who couldn’t communicate with them in the first place), and (b), Michael knows absolutely nothing about cars. He was completely useless. “Vlad, why did you involve me?!” Michael laughed, as he stepped away from the scene after the other Kazakhs similarly realized that he was useless in this scenario.

Some cables and tools later (see, we really know nothing about cars)—as well as several very dubious K-turns on a rocky hillside later—the group somehow gets the RV started and turned around. The onlookers, which numbered about 30 now, broke out into applause. The Barcelonans drove off in their RV with a wave of their hands and their dog barking out of the window, grateful and relieved.

We started back up toward Kaindy Lake. Vlad, thwarting our ruse without even a look in our direction, immediately changed the music from Santana to Tina Turner. Sheesh, we couldn’t get a break. (By the way, we didn’t realize that the fast version of “Proud Mary” played at all the weddings is by Tina Turner; you learn something new every day.)

A couple hours before sunset, we arrived at the trailhead to Kaindy Lake, with Vlad giving us directions once again. “700 meters here, make a left at the stream, then after another 300 meters, make a right.” To confirm this time, we tried to repeat the directions back to him, but he interrupted us with a, “Just go, you’ll find it!” Didn’t he learn anything from this morning?!

We did end up finding the beautiful lake with no problems. According to Vlad (so who knows?), about 150 years ago, an earthquake triggered a landslide, damming up a mountain stream and creating this gem of a lake. What used to be a pine forest filled up with these crystal waters; while the trees died from the flooding, many of the trunks remain, sticking up from the water like lampposts and making for an incredibly intriguing sight.

On the way back to the guest house after the Lake, we stopped in the one village store to buy water. Like any good corner store, it sold water, snacks, and alcohol; it also sold stoves, washing machines, and fancy children’s clothes—y’know, all the things you might need on a pitstop. While we bought water, Vlad—in what may be the most stereotypical purchase of all time— bought a bottle of vodka.

After one of the most peaceful sunsets watching the family herd in their sheep for the night and playing soccer with the family’s young boys under snow-capped mountains, we all enjoyed dinner at the long dining table still covered with sweets. We mostly ate leftovers from the earlier feast, as well as some plov (beef rice pilaf, a staple local dish found all over Central Asia, which we would eat many times over while here)—and drank Vlad’s vodka. After a couple rounds of shots, Vlad opened up about his ski jumping history. Indeed, he was a professional ski jumping coach, training potential participants for the Olympics. He once took his prized student to Germany to train in advance of the Lillehammer Winter games. A few months before the games, they were scheduled to fly back to Kazakhstan before heading to Norway later. However, his student didn’t get on the plane; he defected and remained in Germany! Vlad, returning home empty-handed, was reprimanded, never to coach again. When we expressed our regrets upon hearing this story, he shrugged and said, “Such is life.” Now that we understood. We all finished the bottle of vodka before sleeping warmly in our Kazakh village home that night.

Karen & Michael

Southeast Kazakhstan, September 14-15, 2019

Fields surrounding Saty; Beautiful Kolsai Lake; View driving to Kyrgyzstan