It took four hours of driving, two propositions from taxi drivers and one bribe to a policeman to get from Almaty to Bishkek.
This was the first part of my overland trip from my home in Almaty, southern Kazakhstan to Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan. The two cities are 862km from each other, but it’s going to take a lot longer to travel across mountains and through high valleys, not to mention a full day skirting round Uzbek enclaves in the Fergana Valley.
The first day of travelling, a 234km drive in from Almaty to Bishkek in a shared taxi, shouldn’t be too difficult as I’ve done it several times before. The journey takes four to five hours, so I’m leaving straight after work and hope to be there by around 9pm.
A room for the night?
But the trip starts badly when I call the Red Guest House, where I plan to stay in Bishkek.
“Do you have a room for tonight?” I ask.
“It’s cold,” comes the perplexing reply from the woman who picks up the phone.
“Yes, but do you have a room?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is cold. Come and see later.”
I explain that I’m a woman travelling alone, arriving in Bishkek after dark. However the question of whether I’ll get a room still seems to hinge on how cold it is. In the end I decide to turn up and hope for the best.
Then it’s a city bus to the main bus station to get a seat in a shared taxi from Almaty to Bishkek. As usual, I find a row of taxis whose drivers are yelling “Kor-dai! Bish-kek!” to passersby.
I get into one and wait for three other passengers to turn up so we can leave.
And I wait.
And I wait…
Alone with a strange man
Unlike in the morning, there are no queues of people lining up to take a taxi to Bishkek. In the end, realising it’s already late, I strike an agreement with the Mr Big in charge of the taxi and to pay the driver the price of just under three seats and off we go.
I’m not ecstatic about driving over the empty steppe for four hours alone in a car with a strange man, but the alternative is going home and trying again the next morning.
We’re barely out of the bus station when he stares at me in the rear view mirror and croons that I have “beautiful eyes”.
He’s quite small and weedy looking so I’m more uncomfortable than afraid but I fear it’s going to be a long four hours.
Trouble ahead
And so it is. When he’s not commenting on my appearance (even inventing a boyfriend doesn’t stop this), he’s warning me about the dangers to come in Kyrgyzstan.
“You mustn’t put money in your handbag,” he says. “Since the crisis there are bandits.”
It’s almost a relief when we’re flagged down by one of the voracious gai —traffic police — that haunt the road to Bishkek demanding ‘fines’ on various pretexts.
I breathe in the crisp autumn air through the open door when the driver gets out to speak to the policeman. The only lights come from the guardhouse nearby and a small settlement some way from the road. In the sky there’s a crescent moon and the stars of the Saucepan shine bright, surrounded by thousands of others.
I stare at them until the policeman comes over to inspect my documents and name his price.
Mafia town
Having paid 1,000 tenge, we continue to the border. Eventually we approach Korday, the town on Kazakhstan’s border with Kyrgyzstan, that turns out to be the driver’s hometown.
“It’s a mafia town worse than Sicily,” he says. “The town government are all mafia.”
At the border, the driver, to his credit, makes sure I get through safely then hands me over to a Kyrgyz driver on the other side to continue the journey to Bishkek.
He then ruins that helpful gesture by sticking his face through the open window of the Kyrgyz taxi and planting a wet sloppy kiss on my cheek.
The Kyrgyz driver, who I can’t help noticing is considerably younger and cuter, is watching with great interest. I direct him to the hotel.
An indecent proposal
“Let me be your guest!” he says enthusiastically.
“I don’t think the hotel would like that,” I tell him.
“They won’t care.”
“They will think I’m not a nice girl.”
“They will think I’m your boyfriend.”
“You’re not.”
But with that out the way, we moved on to a pleasant chat for the half hour it took to get to the guesthouse, though he too felt moved to warn me against going down to Osh the next day — “it’s dangerous!”
And after the delay, the bribe and the propositions, finally I had some good news, when we drew up outside the Red Guest House to see the lights were on, and — despite the cold — the owner gave me a cosy and comfortable bed for the night.
Steppe in Style 
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