Gazing at a world map, pondering the question, "Where is the heart of Eurasia?" my eyes land on Central Asia. This is the region where the ancient Silk Road once thrived, an area that still feels open and connected in countless directions. Could this be a land of abundance, I wondered, a place where goods, people, and ideas constantly flow, converge, and meld? Drawn by this speculation and the allure of colors, sounds, and scents I had yet to experience, I decided to journey into the very center of the Eurasian continent: Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. My chariot would be Air Astana, Kazakhstan's flag carrier. This is [Part 1] of my travelogue detailing my overland journey through Central Asia.
My journey began at Hong Kong International Airport, boarding an Air Astana flight. A palpable sense of the exotic filled the air, perhaps heightened not just by the unfamiliar logos and markings, but also by the aircraft itself – a Boeing 757-200, a less common sight back home in Japan.
The cabin was bright, the interior sophisticated. My economy seat offered ample pitch and space, leaving little to complain about. Full service was, naturally, part of the experience; meals and even alcoholic beverages were complimentary. The personal in-flight entertainment system offered a diverse range of content in Kazakh, Russian, and English.
The crew, likely Kazakh, included individuals whose features could easily be mistaken for East Asian (like my own Japanese). They delivered every service with precision and warm, hospitable smiles. It was easy to see Air Astana as the soaring symbol of a rapidly developing Kazakhstan – an airline embracing Central Asia's rich traditions while striving for world-class safety and service quality. I felt compelled to write a glowing review almost immediately; their standards were that impressive.
Everything on board was delivered smartly and efficiently, allowing for an exceptionally comfortable and relaxing flight. I recalled learning that in Kazakhstan, hospitality towards travelers is considered the highest virtue. There's even a proverb: "A sudden visitor is a guest from God." Could this be tied to the nomadic culture, constantly in motion, or the long history of the Silk Road? Lost in these thoughts about the lands ahead, the six-hour flight passed in what felt like an instant.
After flying over Western China and the Taklamakan Desert, and crossing the Tian Shan mountains, the announcement came: we were beginning our descent into Almaty, Kazakhstan's largest city and former capital. The sheer height and blueness of the sky outside the window were astonishing, yet strangely familiar, evoking a sense of nostalgia. Soon, the plane touched down at Almaty International Airport. The relaxed atmosphere of the tarmac was dotted sparsely with aircraft from unfamiliar Central Asian and Russian airlines. The terminal building itself was modest in size, yet still projected an air of national importance and style.
Almaty International Airport
The immigration hall was a compact space, crowded with queues leading to just a few booths. The entry forms were solely in Kazakh and Russian, and the imposing design of the officers' uniforms and hats felt momentarily intimidating – a common sign in more authoritarian countries. My traveler's instinct whispered, "Don't let your guard down." After all, hadn't Kazakhstan's land border crossings long held a reputation for officials endlessly soliciting bribes from travelers?
I tensed for a moment, but the officer at my assigned booth was a young woman whose features reminded me of a classic Japanese beauty. Her eyes, however, shone with a captivating hue somewhere between hazel and blue. As I found myself mesmerized by this striking contrast, she smiled, handed back my passport, and said in clear English, "Welcome to Kazakhstan. Have a nice stay." Instantly, the tension vanished – such is the fickle nature of this traveler.
The city center was about 16 kilometers (10 miles) away, roughly a 30-minute drive. Straight, wide avenues stretched out, lined with impressively lush trees whose branches formed dense canopies overhead. The English adjective "leafy" sprang to mind. Given the region's generally arid, high-plain climate, it was easy to imagine this verdant city as a vital, massive oasis, both now and during the Silk Road era.
Almaty's central districts were well-maintained, with spacious streets and sidewalks – a legacy, I learned, of Soviet-era urban planning. Indeed, many buildings were large and imposing, embodying a style best described as utilitarian, functional, almost stark. But time marches on, and some of these structures, now viewed through a lens of simple, minimalist design, have been seamlessly repurposed for modern commercial use. The people on the streets were a diverse mix: many resembling East Asians, others distinctly Russian/European, and still others whose ethnicity wasn't immediately apparent. The melodic sounds of Kazakh and Russian drifting through the air were beautiful.
After a brief but enjoyable stroll through the calm and refined streets of Almaty, I headed to a downtown bus terminal where marshrutkas (shared minibuses common in former Soviet republics) depart. My plan was to enter Kazakhstan first, immediately continue to neighboring Kyrgyzstan, and then return later to explore more of Kazakhstan itself.
To Bishkek, the Capital of Kyrgyzstan
My destination via marshrutka was Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan. The journey covered about 250 kilometers (155 miles) on the highway and was expected to take around four hours, including the land border crossing procedures.
Though Almaty is Kazakhstan's largest metropolis, home to over 1.7 million people, just a short drive from the central bus terminal brought us to the outskirts. The nearby Alatau mountains, a spur of the Tian Shan range that had seemed so close, quickly receded into the distance, replaced by seemingly endless grasslands and steppes.
Inside the packed marshrutka, about ten passengers sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Outside the window, the landscape stretched to the horizon, almost entirely devoid of man-made structures. The sheer vastness was hard to comprehend. It's a fact that Russia's spaceport is located on leased territory within Kazakhstan, and returning space capsules descend onto these very steppes. The view was a potent reminder that I was truly in the heart of a giant continent.
Despite the emptiness, the paved highway cutting through this immense land was busy with cars and trucks speeding along. It was intuitively clear that this route has been a vital artery for logistics and trade since time immemorial. Though I was in a new land, surrounded by unfamiliar scenery, a strange sense of déjà vu, a feeling of having traveled here before, washed over me. Perhaps this was the lingering magic of the great Silk Road, the network that traversed Eurasia, carrying goods, culture, and information all the way to the far reaches of Japan.
Crossing the Border: Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan by Land
Soon, we arrived at the land border area. We disembarked the marshrutka and walked towards the Kazakh immigration building. The departure hall was crowded but housed in a reasonably impressive and orderly structure. At the booth, a smirking middle-aged officer joked in heavily accented English, "Why go to Kyrgyzstan? Stay in Kazak!" as he stamped my passport. I considered a witty reply but held my tongue, sensing it might invite unnecessary trouble.
After passing through a couple of fences and walking about 100 meters, we reached the Kyrgyz immigration building. The atmosphere shifted subtly, and the difference in the quality of the facilities was immediately apparent. The Kyrgyz officer processed my entry silently and stamped my passport mechanically. Land borders offer a stark dose of reality. They vividly illustrate the economic disparities and differing approaches to immigration between neighboring countries, experiences a traveler absorbs consecutively, allowing for direct comparison. Having cleared the noticeably more modest Kyrgyz side, I re-boarded the marshrutka. Bishkek was now just a short distance away.
For a capital city, Bishkek feels relatively small, yet it's a pleasant, compact city with orderly and attractive streets, another product of Soviet planning. It felt even more "leafy" than Almaty, enveloped in the rich greenery of its tree-lined avenues and parks. The proportion of people with Asian features seemed higher here than among the Russian/European types. Many looked strikingly similar to East Asians (like Japanese). However, the languages heard were almost exclusively Kyrgyz and Russian. English signage was virtually non-existent. It was a curious, enjoyable feeling – being distinctly foreign, yet somehow feeling strangely at home.
Bishkek has long been a crucial hub on the Silk Road, a center of regional trade. This likely explains its abundance of goods and rich culinary scene, despite being an inland city. After dropping my bags at the hostel, I wandered through the Osh Bazaar, a vast, traditional market. From fresh produce to clothing, it was overflowing with goods, primarily local and Russian, clearly sustaining the daily lives of the populace. While modern supermarkets have recently opened across the city, significantly changing consumer habits, this age-old market pulsates with the history of millennia of human life.
Seeking information for the next leg of my journey, I popped into a small travel agency. Only a few staff members could communicate in English, and a Russian-looking female manager assisted me. I inquired about Kyrgyzstan's highlights and how to reach Kochkor village and Song-Kul Lake in the central mountains, my intended next destinations. She kindly and thoroughly researched options, suggesting charter taxis or domestic flights, but unfortunately, they were beyond my budget. Feeling slightly guilty after her helpful efforts, I politely declined. She smiled graciously. "No problem at all," she said. "Travel has its challenges. It's normal to ask at agencies and not use the service." She explained she was Russian, born in Kyrgyzstan. Her parents had returned to Russia, but Bishkek was her home, so she stayed and worked there. Her parents likely moved during the Soviet era and returned to their homeland after the USSR's dissolution and Kyrgyzstan's independence – a story offering a glimpse into the complex history of this region.
In Bishkek, one can savor a variety of Kyrgyz dishes, typically centered around lamb and vegetables. The cuisine feels like a harmonious blend of Chinese, Russian, and Middle Eastern influences, creating flavors unique to this land. Aside from the occasional stubborn sinew in the fresh mutton getting caught between my teeth, the tastes were generally agreeable to the Japanese palate. This is undoubtedly the culinary manifestation of a cross-cultural heritage born from its position as a trading hub.
Kochkor: A Silk Road Nexus
Ready to venture deeper into Kyrgyzstan, I boarded another marshrutka for a three-hour, roughly 200-kilometer (125-mile) trip to the mountain village of Kochkor. My ultimate goal was Song-Kul, a high-altitude lake exceeding 3,000 meters (9,800 feet), where I planned to stay in a yurt, a traditional nomadic dwelling.
The road the marshrutka traveled was paved, cutting through flat grasslands. Tall trees lined only the immediate roadside, creating a picturesque "kaido" (highway) scene. This very path, I was told, was once a major route of the Silk Road.
Before long, the road began winding through steep, rocky mountains, and my simple altimeter showed we had climbed to 2,000 meters (6,500 feet). The rocky slopes were largely devoid of tall vegetation, indicating the arid, desert-like conditions. Above, a cloudless, deep blue sky stretched endlessly.
Kochkor village itself is another Silk Road junction, still serving as a trading center for central Kyrgyzstan. However, the village offers few attractions for visitors. My destination here was the CBT office. CBT stands for Community Based Tourism, an organization dedicated to developing tourism as a local industry in partnership with residents. The Kochkor office arranges stays for travelers in yurts owned by local families on the shores of Song-Kul Lake (about 80 km away) and connects them with private drivers for transport.
I quickly arranged a two-night yurt stay and set off towards the lake in a Toyota driven by a local man named Sourgak. The Kochkor townscape quickly faded, replaced by a region dominated by red earth and rocky mountains. Immense rock formations, reminiscent in color and shape of Australia's Uluru (Ayers Rock), stretched endlessly. Rivers and the road snaked through the gaps, and sheep grazed on the sparse slopes. My driver, Sourgak, looked remarkably like one of my own uncles back in Japan from my childhood. The paved road soon turned to gravel, and the Toyota hurtled along the rough mountain track, where few trees grew. The surrounding peaks surely surpassed 3,000 meters. The sky remained intensely blue and high. Uncle Sourgak gripped the steering wheel with all his might throughout the drive, perhaps to maintain stability.
Song-Kul: A Mountain Lake of Primal Silence
After about three hours, we arrived at the shores of Song-Kul. This mountain lake, covering 270 square kilometers (a little over a third the size of Lake Biwa in Japan), boasts incredibly clear water. It's encircled by high mountains, and the only man-made structures in sight were the nomadic yurts. The only sounds were the wind and the lapping waves on the shore – a place that felt both primal and cosmic.
I would spend two nights in one of these yurts. As traditional, portable dwellings of nomads, their facilities are предельно (predel'no - ultimately) simple. Electricity came solely from a small generator next to the host's yurt, providing meager power for a single small lightbulb during meals and for a few hours after sunset. Cell service was almost non-existent; wandering the grasslands might occasionally yield a single bar of signal. Data connection and internet access were completely unavailable.
My driver, Sourgak, had already returned to his own "home" yurt. Only my hosts – Diliya, her husband, and their child, who provided meals – were nearby. Besides them, only cows, horses, and chickens roamed the pastures and lakeshore. There was nothing material, nothing "to do" except walk or perhaps ride horses. Yet, the raw, majestic, and utterly untouched nature spread out before me, the crisp air, and the wind itself – these constituted an irreplaceable richness felt deep within my being.
Watching the sun sink behind the mountains across the lake, I felt as if I were truly at a nexus point of the Eurasian continent, that the very source of everything in this world might reside here. Twilight quickly yielded to pitch-black darkness, and a crescent moon began to glow ethereally in the sky. I knew that soon, countless stars would blanket the entire heavens. The clamor of Japan and Hong Kong International Airport, the gentle bustle of Almaty and Bishkek – deep down, I knew those belonged to a distant, separate reality. With that certainty settling in my chest, I returned to the yurt and lay down on the mattress. Drifting off to sleep, the faint, rhythmic sound of the lake's waves was the only thing reaching my ears, a soothing lullaby in the profound quiet.
To be continued in Part 2.