Chapters 1-5: The Endless Steppe
Chapters 1-5: The Endless Steppe
Week 1 of the Silk Road Expedition
One of my favorite things about traveling is picking up phrases from the local culture. In Germany, a ‘Lebenskünstler’ is an ‘artist of life’ or someone who exudes grace under pressure. In Thailand, ‘ใจเย็น’ (Jai Yen) means ‘calm down’ - but literally translates to ‘cool heart.’ My favorite foreign phrase is ‘กวนตีน’ (Guan Teen), which describes the behaviour of someone ‘asking for a swift kick in the pants.’ Flirtation has too often earned me this playful rebuke.
In Kazakh culture, they say, ‘дастарханыңыз әрқашан тоқ болсын’ or ‘may your table always be full.’ It’s a way of wishing prosperity, but it’s also a remnant of the Kazakh people’s nomadic roots. In earlier times, one might stumble upon your yurt while riding across the steppe. If they were to stop in for rest, you’d offer the guest an abundance of food and a place of honor at the table. After all, it wouldn’t be long before you were the weary nomad, yourself.
Kazakhs have carried on this proud tradition of treating travelers with care (and delicious food). Phil and I experience it firsthand nearly everywhere we go.
Hello hello!
Welcome to our first non-emergency newsletter update from the expedition.
If you want to read about my brush with death and subsequent hospital stay, I’ll refer you to our previous email.
This time, I’ll start our story at the beginning: Our names are Carter and Phil, and we’re biking the Silk Road.
New York City:
Flight TK0030 on Turkish Airlines was scheduled for 11:50pm on April 4th. Wanting to ensure that our bikes made it on the plane without a hitch, we arrived at Newark Airport by 8:50pm - only to discover that our flight was delayed until some ungodly hour of morning. With no hope of making our connecting flight in Istanbul, the airline had to manually change our tickets.
Phil’s parents, who so graciously drove our bikes up from Philadelphia, paced the airport floor as Phil and I waited in yet another line. The lady behind the counter stared blankly at her kiosk as if she’d never seen one before. Behind her, a man in a baggy suit eyed our bike boxes suspiciously, “make sure they pay for the televisions.”
“Bicycles,” I corrected gently and checked the time. 11:56pm. It had been 3 hours, and we wouldn’t be in the air for another 4. An attendant from earlier yelled across the room, “They paid for the TVs online ahead of time!” With a sigh, I thought about my spectacular weekend of UNC basketball and heartfelt (albeit hasty) goodbyes. What were we getting ourselves into?
“I’m starting to think the universe doesn’t want us to go on this trip,” Phil mused. “War in Ukraine, canceled flights, the car wouldn’t start on the way here…”
“The universe is just triple-checking to make sure we really want to do this,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I was. “It’s too late to turn back now.”
Astana:
After an auspicious start, Phil and I finally landed in Astana, Kazakhstan. Back home, our friends and family would be sitting down for dinner. Local time was 6:00am.
As we waited for our bags, I chatted idly with another passenger in broken English. Her Russian passport was in a Hogwarts case, and she wore a golden snitch around her neck. “I am Ukrainian,” she explained. “The laws in my country, no good for me right now.” At the time, I thought Kazakhstan an odd place for refuge.
Wheeling our luggage outside, I blinked up at the dull, grey sky. My bike box had a gaping hole in the side of it. A taxi driver haggled with Phil, and I laughed out loud when he opened the tiny trunk of his sedan, motioning for us to put our bikes inside. Eventually, we found a van, and our driver expounded on the many wonders that Astana had to offer, namely: karaoke, boxing, smoking, and booty. He showed us a picture on his phone of the last, grinning wildly.
Unable to check into our room until the afternoon, Phil and I watched the championship game on his phone in the hotel lobby. It was a stinging defeat, and we decided to shake it off by exploring the city.
Astana looks like it was designed by an oligarch playing Rollercoaster Tycoon - only, with odd buildings in place of amusement rides: The glittery space ball. The giant golden egg. The volcano arena. The enormous tent. C-3PO towers.
I learned later that I was right, more or less. Astana (renamed Nur-Sultan in 2019) was a pet project of the former President. As a tribute to Kazakhstan’s wealth and power, he moved the capital to the middle of nowhere and erected an absurd city of architectural flexes. Everything is ridiculously far apart, and the many cars on the road are covered in dust and dirt from construction and crumbling infrastructure. Sterile, modern, and almost devoid of culture, the city is entirely vibe-less.
Back in our hotel, which Phil booked with points from our consulting days, we found a bottle of champagne and little chocolates waiting for us. “Dear Mr. Piasecki - We wishing you a comfortable stay and brilliant service.” We set to work, but 25 hours of restless flight time had finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep on the floor, halfway through rebuilding my bike.
Two days later, we gorged ourselves at the impressive breakfast buffet - complete with fermented camel milk - and wheeled our steel steeds out onto the road. I had never biked 130 miles in two days before. This was going to be interesting.
Karagandy:
As we approached the next city on our journey, the road suddenly filled with traffic. I hugged the shoulder and noted the drivers’ complexions. Russians!?
It didn’t take long to recognize the USSR’s influence in northern Kazakhstan. Soviet statues littered the streets. Russian bars and clubs abounded. Everyone spoke with an unmistakable accent. Lo-fi beats played in the park. This was a Russian town.
Our much needed rest day was made special by the few locals who attempted communication: A kindly restaurateur, whose staff was learning to make Parmesan from an Italian cheesemonger. The baker, who gave us free sandwiches for the long road ahead. Phil’s Russian sushi princess - a gorgeous hostess who explained that, regrettably, she didn’t have any tables available for us. Upon seeing the eyes she made at Phil, I could only assume the remorse was real.
As we made our way out of the city a day later, my sandals came unstrapped from my rear pannier. I backtracked to search for them, pedaling an extra 12 miles in vain. It was going to be a long day.
The R-181:
After yet another hard day of riding, we stumbled past a row of giant dump trucks to the only building in sight. Two men peered at us from the window, and we asked pitifully if we could set up our tent nearby, out of the wind. To our surprise, they invited us in, offered us tea, and set out piping hot bowls of chicken noodle soup. It tasted magnificent. The chef gave us a wide toothless grin, and his companion ushered us out to a long row of shipping containers. Inside, we found plywood quarters with 6 bunks and only modest piles of rat poop. “How much do we owe?” Phil asked.
“I am Kazakh,” he said proudly, thumping his chest. “No pay.”
For the next two days, wind was our foe. 45 mph gusts buffeted us back, and we made little progress. Running low on fuel and water, we stopped in a ramshackle town and asked if we could get a ride to the next gas station on our map.
Yet again, I was struck by the generosity of the Kazakh people. Within the hour, our bikes were strapped to the top of a car, and we found ourselves seated at a family tea party. Despite its rusty exterior, their home was finely furnished. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Crystal bowls of cakes and candies crowded the table. A kitten purred in my lap.
The hour-long ride to Aktogay was another vibe entirely. Our new pals bought beers and cigarettes, smoking and laughing as we careened over the uneven pavement. Kazakh rap and Eminem blasted over the speakers. The car bounced violently, and I looked down at the tallboy in my hand. If I felt at all unsafe, I was having far too much fun to care.
The following day, the sheer enormity of the steppe became clear. Arid grasslands extended as far as the eye could see in every direction. No matter how long we biked, the horizon remained the same. This was the very heart of the vast, unforgiving steppe.
Just as I began to despair, a remote cafe appeared in the distance. Parking our bikes in the shade, we turned to see a woman leading her horse in our direction. Headscarf wrapped so that only her eyes were visible, she looked like a sand-bender from Avatar, The Last Airbender - which makes sense given that their garb is inspired by turban-veils called litham (لِثَام). The cafe was closed, but she invited us into her home all the same. We’ve learned to always say yes to tea.
The bubbly woman treated us to a standard affair of pastries, jellies, and candies. Then, she whipped out milk, fried rice, and still-steaming freshly baked bread, which she slathered in home-churned horse butter. Phil and I agree, it was the most delicious bread we’ve ever had. Her husband offered us a ride on their horse and, when we politely refused, insisted we take his picture. Not a moment later, he was posing in the window, looking regal astride his mount.
As we bid our goodbyes, I dug for the spare portable charger that was taking too much precious space in my pack. She clutched the gift excitedly, and I was glad to not have to throw it away. I hope it brings some small amount of convenience to her life on the steppe.
Balkhash:
Like everything on the steppe, Lake Balkhash is huge. It’s one of the largest in the world, and it takes the crown in Central Asia. Smokestacks line the edge, but after 500 miles of dry riverbeds and tumbleweeds, it seemed an oasis - beautiful and lush. The waters reach out into infinity, its southern shore hiding far beyond the horizon.
When we arrived, the beach was deserted, but as we sat there, a single car pulled up behind us. A man got out and carried his child across the sand, gingerly dipping her toes in the water. She shrieked with glee and clutched at her bucket hat.
I think I’m beginning to understand this place a little better.
Lake Balkhash
We’ve marveled at architecture in the streets of Astana
kept pace with wild horses on the great, endless steppe
to sit by these turquoise waters, contemplative:
~
Is this empty blue can
bobbing in the waves
a Bud Light?
~
How on Earth did you get here?
~
The can submerges
and we are alone again
refuse from a far away culture,
adrift in foreign waters
Til Next Time!
As always, please reach out with questions, suggestions, and recommendations of any kind. Whether you know someone in Kazakhstan, have a great audiobook for us, or just want to say hello, we’d love to hear from you.
Reply directly to this email, or hit me up on social media.
Onward,
Carter 🌸
P.S. Follow me on instagram (@carter.life.crisis) for pictures and videos from the trip! Watch our stories to stay up-to-date.
P.P.S. If you want to support our little adventure, you can buy me a cup of coffee for those cold Kazakh mornings. Here’s the link to donate :)
Click here to read posts from earlier in our adventure.
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