My journey through Central Asia – Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, lands where the proverb "A sudden visitor is a guest from God" holds sway – continues. In [Part 1], I arrived in Almaty, Kazakhstan via Air Astana, traveled to the shores of the mountain lake Song-Kul in central Kyrgyzstan, experienced the heart of Eurasia firsthand, and fully recharged my travel energy. This [Part 2] picks up the narrative of this overland exploration.
Leaving Song-Kul
Waking up, the first thing I registered was the chill that had roused me multiple times during the night. Then came the awareness: I was inside a yurt, a Kyrgyz nomadic dwelling tent, pitched beside a mountain lake over 3,000 meters (9,800 feet) above sea level. I crawled through the small entrance and stepped outside. The morning light shimmered on the grasslands and the surface of Song-Kul. The air was crisp, the sky an endless blue. A washstand stood somewhat solitarily on the ground near the cluster of three visitor yurts. The host's daughter was brushing her teeth, her cheeks flushed red, perhaps from the cold. In the nomadic style, washing up happens outdoors.
Called for breakfast, I entered the communal dining hut to find the Kyrgyz family from the neighboring yurt already seated cheerfully. There was a sturdy father, an attentive mother looking after the family, and three boys – mid-teens, early-teens, and perhaps six years old. Their features were remarkably Japanese, making the scene resemble a morning meal back home. They had driven from eastern Kyrgyzstan, the mother explained, wanting their children to experience a traditional yurt stay.
The mother, who mentioned working at a university, spoke English, so over breakfast, I asked about Kyrgyzstan. "I heard a saying in Kyrgyzstan that the Japanese and Kyrgyz people share the same roots because of similar features – that the fish-eaters went to Japan and the meat-eaters came to Kyrgyzstan. Is that really true?" She offered a cool reply, "Well, it's an interesting story, but not everyone says that."
Fair enough, I thought (after all, Chinese and Koreans eat fish too, and look broadly similar; singling out the Japanese seemed odd). Changing the subject, I tried again, "The winters must be harsh at this altitude. What happens to these yurts when summer ends? Do you pack them up and move somewhere warmer like traditional nomads?" She stated matter-of-factly, "The yurt is traditional culture, yes, but these ones here are 'tourist' yurts for the summer season. The host family will pack everything up soon and return to their house in town."
Ah. So the "nomad children living the yurt life" I'd been sharing this space with were actually city kids, accompanying their family on a seasonal business venture, essentially enjoying a kind of camping holiday during their vacation…
Perhaps my look of slight disappointment was visible, because the previously quiet father spoke up. "Here, drink this, it'll cheer you up," he said, offering me kumis (mare's milk). It was fermented mare's milk, a slightly effervescent yogurt-like drink. Known for aiding digestion, it's perfect for travelers. It's also the base for fermented kumis (the alcoholic version), clearly a quintessential Kyrgyz beverage. The father watched with a satisfied smile as I drank it down.
Soon after, Sourgak, the driver from my journey up, arrived. He was here to drive me back down to the foothills town of Kochkor. Still a man of few words, he showed up a good 20 minutes before the agreed departure time, beaming. With his demeanor and appearance, he truly felt like a relative, my Japanese uncle abroad.
After loading my luggage and thanking our hosts and the neighboring family, we set off. Near the edge of the lake encampment, we saw people actually dismantling a "tourist" yurt. The whole family was involved, breaking down the tent into components, loading them onto the roof and into the trunk of their car. Was it my imagination, or did they look somewhat relieved that this year's summer business was finally over?
To Taraz, Kazakhstan via Bishkek
From Kochkor, it was another three-hour marshrutka (shared minibus) ride back to the capital, Bishkek. There, at the bus terminal, I sought out another marshrutka. My destination: the city of Taraz in Kazakhstan. The route led almost due west from Bishkek, covering approximately 300 kilometers (185 miles) on the highway, a journey of about four hours.
This leg involved another Kyrgyzstan/Kazakhstan land border crossing. The thought of it raised a slight concern. Since entering Kyrgyzstan, I'd encountered conflicting information about registration requirements for foreigners staying longer than four days: "It's necessary," "No, the rule changed," "Yes, you still need it," "No, it's not required anymore." Inquiries at police stations and immigration offices in Bishkek only resulted in being given the runaround, culminating in a vague, "It seems… (for Japanese nationals) it's not needed." I worried that if the issue was brought up again at this potentially chaotic land border immigration, it could become a hassle.
The marshrutka sped along the highway cutting through the open plains. Tall, leafy trees lined only the roadside, lending it the distinct atmosphere of a grand "kaido" (highway). Perhaps the modern highway followed the path of an ancient Silk Road route.
After about an hour, we reached the crowded border zone and the immigration area. We got out and walked towards the exit inspection booth. The queue for the narrow entrance was disorganized, and people looked confused. There were women hauling large bundles, perhaps returning from shopping trips, families, and men who looked like businessmen. A mix of Asian faces, Russian/European features, and people who appeared Middle Eastern were all jostling and squeezing together in a dense crowd, inching towards the immigration counter.
Occasionally, someone would speak to me in Kazakh or Kyrgyz. I'd reply vaguely in English. They'd get a "Oh, you're a tourist" look, ending the conversation but perhaps offering a brief distraction from the mutual frustration. "This is chaos, but it'll probably be fine," one guy remarked. What exactly is an immigration check that goes 'fine'? I mused, swallowing the urge to retort. Moving at a snail's pace, I finally reached the counter.
Inside the shabby wooden booth sat a listless-looking officer with an air of superiority. As he slowly flipped through my passport, page by page, the registration issue resurfaced in my mind, dampening my spirits slightly. "There's no entry stamp," he stated. I pointed it out. "Ah," he mumbled, then apathetically stamped my passport for exit.
Whether the registration was truly unnecessary, or irrelevant now that I was leaving, or if he simply forgot to check after finding the entry stamp, or just couldn't be bothered, remains unclear. (Author's note: Rules seem to change frequently, so travelers should always check the latest information on embassy websites.)
A walk of about 100 meters brought me to the Kazakh entry building. Just like on the way in, the disparity in national resources (primarily economic) between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan was starkly evident. The Kazakh building was overwhelmingly cleaner, larger, and had higher ceilings. As I stood at the back of the long, bustling queue, someone told me, "You, come this way," guided me to the front, and for some reason, I was immediately waved to a counter.
The immigration officer was a portly middle-aged man who resembled a corrupt magistrate from an old tale. Silently, he scanned every page of my passport, lingering on past Russian and Armenian visas, glancing up at me intermittently. Not wanting any trouble here, I was careful not to show any vulnerability, instead putting on a goofy, harmless expression. With a gesture that seemed to mean "move along," he stamped my passport. Land border crossings require a certain amount of tension and effort – I don't dislike them.
Further down the highway in the marshrutka, a large gate arching over the road appeared, bearing the name "Taraz." We had finally arrived. Inside the bus, people who had been quiet until now started chatting with smiles, happily preparing to disembark.
Taraz: A Silk Road Hub
I chose to visit Taraz because I'd heard it was a major Silk Road hub with a history stretching back 3,000 years, and that its current city center was largely built during the Soviet era and remains mostly intact. I hoped that even in a rapidly developing, urbanizing, and Westernizing (de-Russifying) Kazakhstan, I might glimpse remnants of older landscapes and ways of life.
The city center featured wide roads for both vehicles and pedestrians, efficiently laid out, interspersed with vast parks and green spaces. The buildings, though simple, possessed a solid, imposing design that conveyed dignity and character. Commercial signage was sparse. The refined urban space felt enveloped in green, almost like one giant park. Yet, just off the main areas, markets and mosques stood with an air suggesting they might not have changed much in a thousand years. People's expressions were calm, and my traveler's senses detected few reasons for unease.
In a cafe, young people chatted animatedly with friends or discussed business. Everyone seemed happy. In a public square, perhaps for a weekend evening event, food stalls and electric scooter rental booths were set up, drawing families and couples out for an evening stroll. There was a palpable energy; everyone seemed vibrant. Many young people spoke English. The city's strangely calming atmosphere seemed rooted in the blend of its historic beauty and the richness of its contemporary life. I began to understand the pride in the voice of the local who had pointed out the Taraz gate upon arrival.
By Train to Almaty
I arrived at the train station, an impressive, large-scale building. The ground floor housed information and ticketing counters, along with travel agency booths. The second floor was a waiting hall with high ceilings and large windows. While standing on a terrace overlooking the tracks, breathing the outside air and taking photos of the trains, a police officer approached, talking rapidly and sternly in Kazakh. He seemed to be saying photography was prohibited at the station. I recalled that, like airports, train stations are off-limits for photos in some countries, apparently treated as quasi-military facilities. However, he didn't demand I delete the pictures, suggesting the rule might be somewhat pro forma here.
I had purchased my ticket to Almaty the day before at a travel agency in town. The owner's comment remained memorable: "A Japanese person came and bought a ticket! Today is a historic day!" he had laughed. The ticket was personalized, printed densely across two A4 sheets. Journey time: approximately 12 hours. Fare: 1500 JPY (about $10 USD). Distance: over 500 kilometers (310 miles).
At departure time, I boarded the designated carriage. It was a sleeper car, with compartments containing two bunk beds on each side. My compartment mates were a trio: a grandmother and her two grandsons, who looked bright and intelligent. They spoke little English but showed no wariness, nor were they overly intrusive. We shared a natural distance, occasionally chatting or sharing fruit.
Outside the window, the endless steppe unfolded. The railway track itself felt like the only sign of human endeavor. The grandmother passed the time occasionally making tea, nibbling snacks, or dozing. The boys, however, were restless, moving about in the corridor, stretching their legs. Perhaps they had told other children about the "Japanese person," as unfamiliar kids sometimes peeked into my compartment with curious expressions.
Time passed peacefully, accompanied by the rhythm of the train and the sound of the wind. On train journeys in foreign lands, I feel that simply being left unbothered, acknowledged, safe, and comfortable is already a form of welcome. My journey on the Kazakh railway was exactly that.
While flights connect Taraz and Almaty, the extensive railway network built during the Soviet era remains functional and serves as a vital means of domestic travel for ordinary Kazakhs. However, Central Asia's rail network was designed within the Soviet framework. In today's region of complex, intertwined borders, straight railway lines sometimes unexpectedly cross into a neighboring country, only to return to the original country a short distance later.
Apparently, immigration checks occur at each crossing, but altering the tracks or borders isn't feasible – a legacy of modern history, perhaps. Fortunately, the Taraz-Almaty line runs entirely within Kazakhstan, barreling eastward without such crossings. The towns where we occasionally stopped appeared like desert oases, patches of green flourishing amidst the low grasslands. The station buildings were invariably large and stately.
As dusk turned to night, the wind blowing through the open window grew cooler. City lights became more frequent, signaling our approach to Almaty. Just after 11 PM, the long journey concluded as the train glided into the platform at Almaty-2, the central terminal station. While preparing to disembark, a young man, a freshman at an Almaty university originally from Taraz, struck up a conversation in English.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “Traveling from Japan,” I replied. “But why Kazakhstan?” he tilted his head. “For vacation, you should go to Europe. I hear it's wonderful, unlike here, they have everything,” the student remarked. He aspired to become an engineer in Western Europe after graduation. “Well,” I countered, “Kazakhstan has lots to offer, I'd never been, the people are great…” but he wasn't really listening. Twenty-six years since independence, I felt the overflowing, outward-looking energy of the youth in a young nation forging its identity, achieving economic growth, and culturally looking westward.
Back in Almaty
I spent several more days in Almaty, wandering its beautiful streets daily. The word "leafy," which had come to mind upon first arrival, echoed in my thoughts. The green-canopied city center, with its well-designed blocks, parks, and large buildings, was clearly home to people enjoying a prosperous urban life. As is typical of cities, many people seemed cool and reserved at first glance, yet it was striking how often, when asked for directions, they would diligently use their smartphones to help or even walk me part of the way.
A cable car ride took me to Kok Tobe, a hill 1070 meters (3,510 feet) high on the edge of the city, offering panoramic views. Gazing around at the 360 degrees of clear blue sky, I realized that ever since arriving in Central Asia over ten days prior, every single day, in both Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, had been perfectly sunny.
Come to think of it, my phone's weather app had consistently shown nothing but sun icons for the current day and the entire week ahead. Had I ever traveled for so long under such perpetually blue skies? I recalled that the base color of the Kazakh flag is a light blue and that many symbols representing the country feature shades of blue. I imagined that this very deep blue sky I was looking at was the true emblem of the nation.
Having arrived suddenly in this Central Asian crossroads, a place traversed by diverse peoples since antiquity, had I truly become a "guest of God"? The infinite blue sky stretching across the heart of the Eurasian continent, and the dry air itself, seemed to hold the answer.