Backpacks and Bra Straps (7 page)

“How’d you sleep?” Mom asked Ammon in the morning.

“I was freezing, ‘cause the window was jammed open, but then someone came by and threw a blanket over me in the middle of the night.”

“Well, that was sure nice of them.” It always made Mom happy to hear about other people’s kindnesses.

“Yeah, it was. And how did you guys make out?”

“I think Bree might’ve chewed off some of my toenails during the night, but other than that, it was actually pretty okay,” I said.

Ammon looked at Bree suspiciously and said, “You beast.”

She rubbed her belly and made an animal-like chewing gesture, “Yummm.”

Knowing our journey was coming to an end, many of the passengers wanted to trade gifts and asked us to autograph their tickets or books for them. As I smiled and handed a notebook and pen back to a new friend, I guessed that tourists, particularly Canadian tourists, were as rare as celebrities to them, ‘cause they saw so few of either. We were certainly off the beaten track.

I handed the train conductor the cloth ‘Vancouver’ patch from my daypack, and we exchanged decks of cards with Sergei. His sweet face lit up when I gave him the green ‘Vietnam’ bracelet Ammon had given me as a gift years ago. In return, he traded me some of his old, collectable Kazakh coins.

Despite it being such a cramped journey, the people who opened up and befriended us made it special. We’d gotten to know many of them, and I was thinking about how incongruous the shouting match had been earlier. Perhaps their behaviour was not actually threatening or aggressive, but simply a normal expression of their forceful culture, in much the same way the Chinese would push and shove at a cash register instead of lining up in an orderly fashion. Perhaps their usual speaking voice was just set at a higher volume than ours. We’d seen a lot of screaming matches, but none had ever actually turned physical. For all I knew, what we interpreted as ‘Move your bloody fat ass, or I’ll move it for you’ could’ve simply meant, ‘Would you like to share my bench? Please. I insist.’ I was surprised at how faulty first impressions can be, and reminded myself again how important it is to keep an open mind about unfamiliar cultures, at least till you know what’s really going on.

Everyone said ‘Goodbye!’ and we did our best to respond with, ‘
Do svidaniya
!’ Though we’d spent less than a day together, it felt like we were leaving good friends.

Longsocks
8

I
left the train feeling so positive about the people we’d met that my first impressions of Kazakhstan were replaced by much more optimistic sentiments. I even felt a bit sad that we probably wouldn’t see any of them again. Our new friends waved to us as we all went our separate ways– some to go home, others travelling on, but few with no particular destination in mind like us. We were just heading off to explore, but I felt confident that we would meet more friends along the way.

“Almaty is the largest city in Kazakhstan. It was the country’s capital until 1997, when Astana replaced it. It’s easy to confuse them, ’cause Almaty used to be the capital, and it’s still the biggest city in Kazakhstan,” Ammon said. The train station and local architecture were very similar to Russia’s. I was surprised that so little had changed in the way of people or culture, given we were in a completely different country.

After we’d been walking around for what felt like ages again, looking for accommodations, Mom asked Ammon, “Why is it so hard to find a place to stay here?”

“Most foreigners coming here would be involved in oil somehow. There’s very little tourism, so they mostly just have only fancy hotels and no hostels or guest houses,” Ammon said. We still had gotten no recommendations as we left yet another four-star business hotel. The struggle to be understood was weighing on us, never mind the so-far fruitless quest to find reasonably priced rooms. We’d searched every hotel in the neighbourhood around the train station without success. They were either fully booked or too expensive. We took a taxi to a different part of town where we hoped there might be some better options. Though our #1 rule, ‘DON’T GET DEAD’, was followed closely by our second rule, ‘No taxis,’ sometimes we just had to improvise a little. With no public transit, and nothing but more of the same for at least fifteen kilometres (about 9 mi), we had no other option. But what are rules for anyway, if not to be broken once in a while?

When we were dropped off on the sidewalk in a more promising area of town, a solo bystander greeted us with a kind “Hallo.”

“Hi there,” Ammon exclaimed when he noticed the young guy standing on the curb, cradling a yellow book in his arms. He was in his early twenties, and I estimated him to be about five-and-a-half feet tall. He was very thin and had evidently just returned from getting a haircut, judging by the number of short hairs sprinkled on the nape of his neck. I knew Bree must be dying to brush them off. Her tightly sealed mouth was twitching in an attempt not to do something about it, or at least, to instruct him to fix it himself.

The silver taxi drove off and there we were, just the five of us, observing each other like quizzical birds.

“Are you lost?” he said, in a very timid, sweet voice. “Do you need help?” I’d figured we would make new friends, but this was even quicker than I’d anticipated. It was a surprise to hear English in these parts, and even though the young man’s was very basic, it was definitely a treat to hear. He wore a blue and green striped golf shirt, black socks hiked up to just below his knees, and green plaid shorts that could pass for oversized boxers. He was one of the few pedestrians out and about in this quiet area. Evidently, he’d been watching since the moment our taxi stopped, and had seen us struggling to get the bags out of the deep trunk. No doubt he’d also heard us snapping a bit at each other in our frustration.

We introduced ourselves and he was clearly intrigued. “What you doing here? Business? This your family? Is beautiful family you are having.”

Upon hearing his declaration that, “We are friends,” we told him he was welcome to join us in our hunt for a place to stay. Delighted to be part of the gang, he said, “I am happy we are friends. My name is Arman.” I was grateful to have met him, and relieved to have this friendly (if slightly ridiculous looking) guy around to help. Despite his halting command of English, it wasn’t too difficult to get our needs across. Arman immediately took charge, and we followed along as he inquired at every hotel we came to. It was a huge weight off Ammon’s shoulders, as he was usually the one on the front line, battling with the phrase book as he tried to communicate.

Arman was busy at the large, glossy counter of yet another four-star hotel and I felt completely out of place, anxious to leave as soon as possible. The floor was so shiny I could practically see my reflection in it, a scary sight I didn’t currently want to face. While Arman attempted to locate a cheap hole-in-the-wall for the night, Ammon asked, “So what’s up with Longsocks and his telephone book?”

“Longsocks?” I laughed.

“Well, just look at him.”

“Yeah, I guess he does live up to the name in that outfit of his,” Mom agreed.

Arman again returned without anything useful. Business-oriented hotels just couldn’t help with recommendations for the kind of places we were looking for.

“So, Arman, why do you carry this book around?” Ammon asked.

Looking down at it and then stretching his arms out as if seeing it for the first time, he said, “Oh. This is present book.”

“Oh, yes, of course. A present book. I should have known.” Ammon nodded. “Who do you give it to?”

“Present book is for friends. For guys at military base. They like.” He explained that he was a soldier taking officers’ training. Somehow we found it a bit difficult to see Longsocks in that context.

“Okay, we going here. Follow me,” he said, apparently spotting something ahead. Up a steep set of metal stairs hung precariously on the outside of a brick building was a plain but suitable place. We rented two double rooms with a shared bathroom.

“Thank you so much, Arman. We really appreciate you helping us today,” Ammon said.

“Most welcome. I am free today. Is my day off. If is okay, I like to showing you around my city. And practicing English is, for me, good.”

“Well,” Ammon paused as he considered the exhausted looks on our faces. “Oh heck. Why not? Just let me pay downstairs, and then we’ll go.” We were all tired and almost completely worn out. Patches of dark sweat marks stuck to our backs and chests where the backpacks had been strapped on. After walking nearly forty-five kilometres (28 mi) over the past three days, not to mention the fifty hours we’d spent on public transport, a rest was definitely in order. However, we didn’t want to miss this opportunity to be shown around by a local, nor did we want to disappoint him, so we took dear Longsocks up on his offer. The least we could do was allow him to be the first Kazakh guide any of us had ever had.

“Well, it sure is nice here. Not what I was expecting at all,” Mom commented as Longsocks guided us around his city.

Ammon, as always, offered more information. “Kazakhstan’s tons of oil money was used to make Almaty modern and rich-looking.” The city didn’t offer much in the way of tourist attractions, but it was surprisingly beautiful and one of the most contemporary we’d seen on our trip.

“I seriously can’t believe we’re out here, though,” Ammon said. “The fact that the land is so barren and was used for nuclear testing is one thing, but then to have this kind of modern city pop up out of nowhere seems just a bit bizarre to me.” The countryside leading into Almaty was reminiscent of Mongolia’s Gobi desert. There was so much open, desolate space that I’d thought it would never end. Imagine my surprise when we bumped into this big city, a glass and steel oasis amidst the desert.

“You don’t know these things unless you come and see them for yourself. That’s what I love most about travelling,” Mom said.

“For some reason I was expecting it to be, like, dirt roads and donkey wagons again,” I said. “This is like a real city. Like Vancouver.” The people we saw in the streets were of mixed heritage. Some were obviously Russian, with white skin and features like Sorcha and Arman; others had a darker, Asian look. The gold teeth I’d seen on the trains were not at all unusual here. It seemed like almost every other person had at least a few of them shining from their mouths. The ones who didn’t often had gaping holes where teeth were missing. As we approached a gorgeous, spacious park, Ammon asked Arman to confirm that this was the Panfilov Park that his guidebook recommended so highly.

Arman smiled. “Yes, beautiful park. Panfilov Park.”

“Okay then. This park is definitely a highlight. I’m glad he brought us here, because I was planning to come anyway. It’s really great having Arman show us around.” Ammon flipped through his guidebook, using it as a reference. “It’s named after the twenty-eight Panfilov heroes, an entire Almaty infantry unit who died fighting off Nazi tanks in a village outside Moscow in 1941.”

We headed for the giant war memorial that gave the park its name. Charging soldiers were bursting out of a huge stone monument that was shaped like the former USSR. Each face represented one of the fifteen states of the former Soviet Union. The eternal flame at the front of the monument commemorated those fallen in both the Civil War and World War II; it burned from the centre of a bronze star placed within a wreath.

“The children, they taking flowers here on last day of school,” Arman explained.

Directly behind this powerful monument and down the brick walkways lined with lanterns was a cathedral with stunning yellow and white accents and warm green, red, blue, and pink pastel highlights. Hidden slightly by the trees, the metallic steeples jutted above the tops of domed roofs.

I was still staring at the gorgeous dollhouse-like building over the shoulders of the stalwart stone soldiers and getting impatient to see it up close when I heard Arman say, “That is Zenkov Cathedral. We go looking.” As we strolled down the brick pathway, the sun streaming through the gaps in the green branches warmed our faces. The pigeons jostled each other for the crumbs in the cracks between bricks, and the only audible sounds throughout the colourful, peaceful gardens were rustling leaves and birds squawking above.

The open square at the foot of the cathedral was so picturesque that many women chose this venue to celebrate their weddings. We saw several smiling brides wearing traditional white wedding dresses and taking family photos in front of the orthodox cathedral before being whisked away in stately, horse-drawn carriages. It was almost thirty degrees Celsius (86°F), and I couldn’t help but think about how constricted and hot those brides must have been in those big, glamorous dresses.

Momentarily sidestepping Ammon’s position as chief purveyor of historic information, I instead asked Arman, “When was it built?”

“I think 1900s. Yes. Early 1900s,” he told us, adding, “Is second tallest wooden building in the world. Was built with using no metal nails. Is very beautiful, this.”

“Wow. No way!” I exclaimed, turning to my brother for more information. “How is that even possible?”

“Heck, why are you asking me? I’m not an architect,” Ammon replied.

“’Cause you always act like you have all the answers, butt wipe,” I said under my breath, looking quickly to see if Arman had heard.

“If you’d just dropped me into this scene without telling me where I was,” Mom mused, “I’d guess I was still in Russia.”

“Well, this whole area used to be part of the USSR,” Ammon pointed out. “Not only Kazakhstan, but also Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and many parts of Eastern Europe.”

“A what and a who now?”Ammon had managed to confuse Bree yet again.

“They’re all countries that are known as ‘the ‘Stans’.”

“Never heard of ‘em,” I admitted.

“I’ve heard of Afghanistan and Pakistan,” Bree announced with pride before she slumped slightly, disappointed to admit, “but not Jumbo-jikistan.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve only heard bad things about them,” Ammon said, clearly annoyed with how the media had maligned the reputations of Afghanistan and Pakistan. We all nodded a bit guiltily. What were we supposed to think when that was the only news we heard about them?

“I’d rather see it for myself before I make any judgement about those countries. But they were never part of the USSR anyway. In fact, Afghanistan is one of the toughest places in history to attempt to conquer. Everyone from Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan to the British, the Sikhs, the Russians, and now the Americans have invaded, but most of them failed. I find the Afghans’ resilience quite fascinating – admirable, in fact – and I’d love to go there. I’d love to see Uzbekistan, too, now that we’re so close,” Ammon said, the tone of his voice telling us how much he wished he could pull that off. But it was a bit out of the way, it was really hard to get a visa there, and it had even fewer tourist facilities than the countries we’d chosen to visit, so we wouldn’t get there on this trip.