| Home | Previous | Next |
I knew the day would be full of adventures, and I wasn't disappointed. Praskovaya and her husband picked me up in front of my apartment complex and we drove to the office. A well worn microavtobus awaited, stuffed with all sorts of paraphernalia. Almost everything, as there would be nothing where we were going. Six of the young women that work at Praskovaya's workshop joined us for the day, and one little girl, Olga's daughter. Other than the driver, Praskovaya's husband was the token male to our ensemble of ladies.
Lake Balkhash lies between Almaty and Astana in the Eastern part of Kazakhstan near the Chinese border. Lake Balkhash is unique for its length as well as viscosity: half the lake is salt water and the other is fresh water. Early and already hot in the mid-August desert, we began our drive to the former vacation resort. The bus was quiet, almost too quiet, and while most of us were anxiously looking through the dusty windows at the surrounding desert, eyelids were heavy and heads began to bob up and down.
Not more than 30 minutes into the drive, I thought our sleepy eyes would settle into a monotonous drive-induced coma, but I was completely mistaken as Oxsana pulled out a small clear bottle from the depth of one of the several cloth bags that were packed around our cramped legs and with a wicked grin on her lovely face, she broke the silence with davai, insighting us to drink!
I knew I was in for a long day as we opened one of many bottles of vodka to come and it was only 8 a.m.! The mixed reactions of my comrades gave me little comfort, as Oxsana has quite a strong personality and at nearly 30, she was the elder in the crowd. Oksana had never been to the lake before, a mere 4 hour drive from Taldykorgan. So, I think she was in a celebratory mode. We passed the bottle around several times, followed closely by black bread and pickles. As the warm potent liquid coated my throat, leaving my stomach feeling as if I swallowed a match, we were all transported into a deep relaxed state of bliss, sharing stories and laughing at each other as the bus continued to bump along the pockmarked asphalt towards the lake.
I don't recall much else of the scenery from that point onwards. We made one stop along the way: cigarettes, petrol and water donuts. The small decrepit village had only 5 buildings and a small outdoor market. I wondered how these people survived out here in the desert, where growing food must be a challenge. The quantity and quality of available goods was rather limited and a man standing on the corner with his camel was curious about my camera. I don't believe that many foreigners make it this far. Although during Soviet times, Lake Balkhash was the exotic resort where all the local Kazakh apparatchik vacationed. It has been abandoned since 1991 and now seemed like a ghost town, stripped quite literally of itŐs former glory, even electric and phone wires missing from the poles dotting the desert road.
Suddenly, almost like a mirage, we were there! There was nothing to mark our arrival, except a T intersection where we could advance no further along the highway. Sand and brush, a natural wall, extended for miles in either direction. We turned left and followed the road to an unknown destination, passing several openings onto to the beach. There were no signs and just how our driver chose which entrance to take, I don't know. When our driver did finally turn into a passageway, I was amazed to find life on the other side of the brush. Dozens of cars were parked directly on the beach, blankets were laid out, tiny beach umbrellas provided the only protection from the scorching August midday sun, now directly above us. We had arrived.
Our driver drove a few yards to the left and parked the poor worn out vehicle facing the lake, kindly giving it the scenic view it had earned. Tumbling out of the over cramped monster like an army of nesting dolls, we hit the hot sand and gratefully inhaled the intoxicating fresh lake air, counterbalancing the effects of the other intoxicants already entrenched in our blood streams. Oxsana and Olga didnŐt wait for permission or directions and took off into the lake, splashing around like preschoolers in their clothes.
Praskovaya and her husband, a pair of 40-something grandparents, began to set up our home away from home on the beach. Pulling items out of the depth of the bus with the efficiency and speed that would put Mary Poppins to shame, we soon had a twenty foot by 8 foot banquet blanket set up near the grill. Coals were dumped on the grill, a can of liquid of unknown origin was poured over them and in one quick flick of a match, our grill was flaming three feet into the air. This was no ordinary day. Praskovaya was up half the night marinating mutton shashlik with the prerequisite white onions. We must have had 3 or 4 watermelons, 2 dozen cucumbers, a bucket full of tomatoes, half a bakery worth of lavash and several bottles of wine, soda, vodka and cognac. Within feet was the largest lake in the entire country, and we had no water to drink! When will I ever learn to carry a water bottle with me? Oh, well, clear liquid at 40% or 0%, there canŐt be that much of a difference, or is there? That depends on who you are.
We swam, we floated, we managed to squeeze into the child-sized donuts, we ate, we drank, we slept. It was a lovely day and I managed to sleep off the effects of each round of vodka and refresh myself with a dip in the cool clear lake. The horizon was like any ocean I had encountered and the number of beachgoers alongside all sorts of Russian-made cars, to the left and the right could be seen as far the eye could see. I took a walk with the other Oxsana, and we stumbled across a former cement building that was once either a hotel or a restaurant. Piles of trash strewn the beach amidst rusted 8 foot high metallic beach umbrellas. A half dozen cows meandered through the trash, grazing on discarded watermelon rinds and bread crusts. The reckless abandon and carelessness with which the current residents treated this area, I wondered what long-term environmental repercussions would be for this massive desert lake. Perhaps the lack of packaging with which products are sold here is a good thing, as the possibility of reusing or recycling is far from a reality.
At one point, we managed to lose Larissa, the six foot tall young attractive blonde Russia girl. As we gathered all of our belongings and squeezed them all back into bus, I wondered how we managed to eat all afternoon and still not have any space left over in the bus. Getting off the beach was not quite as simple as our entry, and it took about 5 of us to push the bus out of the ditch. It seems the bus had plans to become a permanent resident of this lovely resort. We were nearly ready to leave when a head count still found Larissa missing. Fortunately, we found her encircled by a battalion of young Kazakh and Russian men, cross-legged in the sand, pickle in one hand, shot glass in the other. With a bit of effort, we managed to convince her that a drive back with us would be in her best interest.
Three blind seamstresses all in a row, sleepy from playing in the sun. As the sun set on our bus halfway back through the desert, I drifted away as my eyes passively fell upon the lone electric poles, standing disconnected from one another, isolated and abandoned from years of neglect. Their threads of life once vibrant and alive, stripped away by thieves, now a mere memory of their former place in the hierarchy of Soviet life. I counted them like sheep as I sat awake on a bus filled with deep breathing and the occasional snore recirculating vodka and pickle breath through the stuffy, sticky and sweaty cabin. I began to reminisce about the day gone by, the sheer joy on Oxsana's face as she kicked lake water all around her, the giggles from Olga's daughter, wrapped in the mickey mouse donut, the look of pride on Praskovaya's husband's face as he attentively perfected his shashlik, the half smiles and dreaminess in the sleeping faces of all the girls at one point or another throughout the day, the bobbing up and down at shoreline of a small juicy watermelon, subservient and awaiting it's time, and the cows, oblivious to the people around them, catatonically knawing the remains of watermelons. It wasn't like a day at the lake where I am from, but it's one I will carry with me forever.