An Uncomfortable Arrival in Almaty, Kazakhstan
When the opportunity came to visit Kazakhstan, I grasped at it like it was the first real source of intellectual stimulation I had ever received. A friend of mine was there to study. Originally intending to spend two years in Russia, after the war broke out that was (obviously) no longer an option. Instead he ended up in Almaty. When he invited us over I didn’t hesitate. Before I left, one of the customers in the shop I worked in overheard that I was going to Kazakhstan excitedly announced he used to live in the very city I was visiting. He gave me a rundown: don’t wander anywhere off Uletsi Lenina (Lenin Street), never walk alone, only travel by private driver. The Kazakhs, they’re lazy, they won’t capture and torture you, they’ll just fire a round right into the back of your head at an ATM and take whatever’s in your packets. Are you trained in firearms? Cause if the Kazakhs don’t get you the wolves will. Despite the warnings he could not recommend Almaty enough.
After he left I nervously called my friend, getting a little concerned about Almaty’s general safety. And how far was my accommodation from Ulitsa Lenina? Ulitsa Lenina? It hasn’t been called Ulista Lenina in decades. As it turned out my informant was living in Almaty during and just after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and hadn’t been back since. So maybe his experience didn’t quite match the modern reality of Kazakhstan. I canceled my firearm lessons and my carry-on Kalashnikov at home.
I was hoping east of Istanbul I would be safe from any suffocating in-flight small talk.Then I sat down beside her, This tiny Kazakh woman. Her face lit up when I stopped to check my seat number and she realised I was her partner for the flight. Instantly she jumped in to ask me about myself in her broken English. There is nothing worse than small talk on a plane. It’s horrifyingly claustrophobic. There’s no escape route, no clean way out once you’re trapped. Yet, in this instance it didn’t bother me. It almost felt like a privilege. My white Irish skin, practically translucent in comparison to anyone else on the plane, stood out. I felt exotic and I knew her questions came from a place of curiosity, not an attempt to pry, or forcibly brag, or whatever else that usually makes plane talk so unbearable.
The conversation started normally. We exchanged a few details about our lives and why I was going to Kazakhstan. Her English was good, but still broken, with a few translation issues. I learned she works in Germany as an electrician for The Man (assumingly either her husband or maybe the state?), but she was also an English teacher ( probably a student). I explained to her that I was visiting a friend who was in Almaty to study Russian (to her this became my friend the Russian history professor). She was entertaining, but the conversation was full of jagged pauses when she lost her words, or long silences when her comprehension broke down. Eventually we thought to ask each other our names. When I told her mine was Isaac she almost leapt straight out of her seat.
SON OF ABRAHAM!
Yeah, like the son of Abraham.
Your name is really from the son of Abraham?
I guess it is.
Do you believe in God?
Maybe?
Did you know God has a name?
Oh, Christ don’t tell me. Oh, wait, is it Christ? I don’t know if she would have found that funny. Before I could even answer she confirmed my worst fear, the answer: Jehova. My friend later told me I should have shut down the conversation by claiming I don’t talk to God any more after that little stunt he pulled with Isaac in the bible. Instead, to my own detriment, I was polite, and pretended I never knew God had a name. For the next hour she told me all about Jehova, and how when we speak to God addressing him by name our prayers are much more effective. Becoming a Jehovah’s witness I’d have direct line contact with the big man himself. However, I wanted to call this into doubt as I had just tried it and unfortunately we were both still alive.
For almost the entire flight every 15 minutes a new bible verse would be shoved in front of me. While I was trying to watch a movie, while I was eating. It didn’t even matter if I was trying to sleep. Tap tap. I want to show you this. Desperately trying to find a break in her sermon I attempted a mind diversion in the conversation by asking about the religious makeup of Kazakhstan. She proudly beamed that it was a fifty-fifty split between Muslims and Jehovah’s Christians. I knew there was no way this was true, but I later learned that Jehovah’s literature is practically contraband and unregistered missionary work was illegal.. If I had known this during the flight I would have flagged down an attendant, or better yet an undercover marshal, and reported her unlicensed proselytizing. All I wanted was a nap.
Eventually we began our descent and for once my new dear friend had stopped talking. She was mesmerised with the view. I thought about trying to finally get just an hour of sleep but eventually gave up entirely. I too couldn’t look away, as the flat steppes slowly twisted and folded into stunning snow capped mountains. Below them there were no trees, just flat dusty grassland. Slowly, the sprawl of outer Almaty came into view. From this altitude the suburbs could have been mistaken for rubble fallen from the mountainside. Scattered, and broken dust and concrete, with an evident lack of any urban planning. Settlements littered the plains like scattered debris. There were no trees, the only shade coming from towering factory chimneys. There was nothing to give any sign that life had actually taken root here. Yet somewhere down there people lived.
Finally we landed. I said my goodbyes and before she could return hers I was off the plane. All I had to do was get through passport control, find my friend in arrivals and let the adventure begin. I march up immigration, hand them my passport. Sleep deprived, delirious, and still processing all I learned from my mile high sermon, I handed my passport to the woman at the desk. I thought about tipping her off about my friend back on the plane. But I was in too good a mood I thought, live and let live. Anyway I feel like I’ve been standing here for a while now. Christ, she’s really inspecting that passport.
Is this your passport?
I stare blankly at the immigration officer. And I freeze.
Yes, it is my passport.
This isn’t you.
My heart started to race. I hadn’t slept, I couldn’t think. I stuttered some pathetic protest while she held passport next to my face, her eyes darting between my photo and me. Why is this happening to me or everyone on the plane? Don’t they know there’s a maniac Jehovah’s witness out there about to tamper with the malleable minds of the Kazakh youth! You should be after her! Still unconvinced she waved over a colleague to confer. I felt like I was standing there forever. Getting increasingly nervous under her intense stare I made the fatal mistake of looking down at my shoes for just a moment’s respite. Instantly she started screaming.
DO NOT LOOK DOWN! DO NOT LOOK AWAY! LOOK ONLY AT ME!
The shouting caught the attention of a border guard who stepped in to block my exit. He was dressed in a military outfit and equipped with firearms. For the next 10, maybe 15 minutes both me and my passport were put on trial. I was made to recite every detail I could from it, replicate my signature, and provide all possible forms of identification. As a last touch the immigration officer pulled out a magnifying glass just to really scrutinize it. Why hadn’t I gone through firearm training? Me, the guy who was too timid to argue for my aisle seat on the plane, could wrestle the gun from security and blast my way into the streets of Almaty. However, it never came to that. Eventually she was satisfied I was no threat to Kazakh national security. She flipped to the last page of my passport, stamped my visa, and handed it back to me with a beaming smile. Welcome to Kazakhstan!
I was disoriented, tired, and shaking from adrenaline. The first thing that hits you about Almaty is not the sights but the smell. A faint tang of burning plastic that hits your nostrils as you leave the airport. Kazakhstan doesn’t so much as welcome you but cough smoke into your face. I felt like I had been slapped around and treated like I just stumbled into their first BDSM session. I kinda liked it. I was exhausted after my spiritual waterboarding and my immigration experience but I was still itching like a junkie to get my hands on a sim card so I could tell everyone everything that just happened to me. Just as I was ready to step out of arrivals, I felt a familiar tap on my arm. Tap tap. I turned to see my prophet from the plane. She asked, in her broken, cheerful English, if I was going into the city and whether I’d like to share a taxi. It would be easier, she said. Cheaper. How could I say no?
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