A rugged canyon, an extra-terrestrial encounter, and fermented horse milk. Here it is, the finale of the hitchhiking across Kazakhstan mini-series!
If you have already read parts 1 (The Road to Saty), 2 (The Lakes), and 3 (The Canyon) then thanks so much for keeping up with my turbulent tale. Without further ado, here's how the final leg of this journey kicked off in Charyn Canyon.
Waking in the sticky heat, the sun crept through the cracks in the rooftop with a carnal ferocity. I was still too fatigued from the misadventure of the night before to entertain the idea of facing the sunlight. I instead wallowed across the bed like a sorry sardine on rye bread. It was inevitably the incessant whining of mosquitos that encouraged movement. An amalgamation of aggressive bites populated my limbs and forehead - the rumours are true; repellent is most effective when you actually apply it. Though I’d curse the itching for days to come I didn’t have the patience to be cross with myself for surrendering my flesh as an all you can eat buffet. I’d been too concerned about defending myself against beastlier things - like impromptu marriage suitors and snakes, for example, to be frank deet wasn’t an immediate priority at the time.
The previous day’s displays of near athleticism and escapology had well and truly caught up with me. Contorting my aching limbs to apply bite relief cream I was brutally reminded of every step, lurch, and ill-calculated leap. These were just the first of many mundane bug bites to come on my three-month trip but what I found on my forearm both puzzled me and filled me with a deep sense of satisfaction. A smudge of colours in the form of a bruise, it didn’t hurt but looked like I’d had a very flamboyant injury. Finding absolutely no other explanation for my new look I can only assume it was the branding from an alien abduction whilst I’d been slumbering.
Satisfaction? Of course, I want to believe. The bites however were merely an occupational hazard of trekking through the desert at night and being a crusty madventurer such as myself. So feeling slightly better about life, I was one of the aliens’ chosen ones, after all, I turned my attention to the new day’s challenges: Enjoy the canyon whilst staying off the menu and hitchhike my way back to Almaty before dark. Any leads on alien-gate 2019 would be a welcome bonus.
Granted, the canyon was more impressive in the daylight. Warm ochre tones blended up into crumbling gingernut peaks, some mighty enough to provide a smattering of shade but others neglecting the precious little vegetation sprouting miraculously from the barren earth. Charyn Canyon is worth the arduous journey but my advice is to arrive earlier in the day, it’s quieter and you’ll be able to maximise on the “anything is possible, I’m in a desert” vibes. If you’re too are a budding conspiracy theorist then you’ll enjoy scouting out all the potential signs of alien existence amongst the rocks and caverns.
Once content with my explorations, though admittedly disappointed by the lack of cold hard proof of my abductors, I let myself cave in and pay for the shuttle to take me and my rucksack back to the top of the canyon. I wasn’t expecting it to be a smooth ride but I struggled to see the funny side when I had to fling myself out of the vehicle to catch my bag several times. As we snaked along the track I was impressed that I’d managed to trek the whole way in the dark the night before, let’s not forget that it was a phantom cocktail that served as my primary motivation, however. When we pulled up at the end of the track I climbed out and looked ahead of me. The mythical staircase I’d been searching for in desperation - the one that would have allowed me to float down into the canyon like an angelic vision - draped itself down the rockface snootily. 🙄
Reaching the top feeling triumphant but looking tragically tired I remember a bead of sweat making its way to the small of my back, lovely. I needed to keep moving though, it was already approaching mid-afternoon and I was keen to avoid hitchhiking in the darkOn reaching the permit office the guard who had chuckled at me the night before regarded me with a reassuring awe today. He knew a survivor of a midnight canyon descent when he saw one I suppose. It took me by surprise when he took an interest in the mysterious smudge on my arm, just as all leads in the conundrum had seemed to dry up. He asked if it was a tattoo but his interest piqued when I explained I’d just discovered it that morning. He called his workmates out from the office and the four of them took it in turns to exchange expressions of “hmm, that’s weird isn’t it”. I joked that I suspected aliens had given it to me, but instead of laughing they just nodded in agreement - not what I expected, to be honest but as I said, I want to believe! The guard who spoke a few words of English helped me to flag down a car to let me hitch back towards Almaty. It took a while to find someone willing to pick up a straggler with a reputation for being abducted but an enthusiastic Kazakhstani family came to my salvation and invited me to join them.
Chatting with the family I found myself having to think inventively explaining why I’d ended up in Charyn Canyon on my own. In the end, it was easier to answer their questions about my life with a series of “I just go with the flow” facial expressions. The nappy-less toddler clambering to and fro from the backseat to my lap was the most entertained by this. We all started to feel peckish around the same time, this is when the roadside snack stops started. My new friends were kind enough to provide me with some traditional Kazakhstani dairy based delicacies. The rock solid balls of soured cheese, kurt, were eye-wateringly sharp, and solidified milk - not unlike play dough in consistency - was manageable but it was the mildly alcoholic beverage that would be my biggest challenge. I’d survived the journey to the canyon and probably extraterrestrials, now all I had to do was get to kymyss (kummus) down my gullet - and keep it there. Notorious amongst travellers in Central Asia, the traditional fermented mare’s milk offering is the quintessential display of hospitality that this region prides itself on. To explore this part of the world with being offered a serving just isn’t fathomable so be prepared to smile through the sour notes or know how to convincingly excuse your dairy allergy in the local language. It will happen to you just as it happened to me, I’m going to be very honest with you so you know exactly what you need to prepare yourself for!
I peered inside the feeble plastic cup, the cloudy cocktail glared back at me repugnantly. All of a sudden I was somewhat un-thirsty. The aroma when I lifted the cup to my face in an attempt to find some common ground was a challenge to behold. The car lurched forward, then back which became the theme for the journey. I was going to have to knuckle down and think of cherryade lest my cup overflow - a risk they’d just buy more. I wasn’t feeling optimistic about the taste but what I wasn’t ready for was the uncomfortable warmth, fizz, and saltiness. The aftertaste was like that feeling when you walk into a lecture woefully late after psyching yourself up for a good five minutes. Now imagine that every single one of those not angry, just disappointed faces, is that librarian you never returned ‘Cheeses of the World’ to in year nine. “Yeah, that feeling.
"Oh come on Liv”, I hear you sigh. I know it was merely a liquid, dastardly and ready to curdle my innards - but a mere 250ml at worst. I don’t know how I did it... but did it I did. After careful analysis, words I wouldn’t use to describe kymyss include: sublime, splendiferous, and moreish. Honestly, I’ll take the alien abduction over another cup any day but watching the expectant faces of my hosts burst into joy and pride as I got the last drop down my burning gullet made every threat of gagging worth it. This is what travelling the hard way is all about after all. Some things you push through, others you resourcefully negotiate past - and for anything else there’s mouthwash.
Once the post snacking adrenaline had subsided I spent another couple of hours on the road before rolling back into Shelek where I negotiated a ride back to Almaty for just the equivalent of £2. The conversation didn’t take long to turn to “why aren’t you married at twenty-four?”, “what do you mean you’re travelling on your own?” but I’d come to expect this. Admittedly, I love the look on people's faces when they realise I'm probably as wild as I look after three days winging it on the steppe. By wild, I do indeed mean feral in my case. I can’t deny the close calls that could probably have been avoided if I'd had an accomplice but I’m a glutton for the femme fatale ego boost. This was another successful day and even though I’d found nothing to support my theory of abduction I recalled that anything is possible when you’re thirsty enough. My experiment in hitchhiking and saving money had been also been roaring success - not forgetting the mishaps of course. Sure, I had to get out and push a car in the middle of nowhere several times, I escaped my impromptu wedding, found myself stranded in the desert in the middle of the night, was potentially abducted by aliens and my stomach became dangerously close to erupting onto someone’s windscreen - but that’s what Wilderliv adventures are all about. What’s a road trip without a modest smattering of drama anyway? I’d reached the places I’d aimed for, had a wild solo traveller experience and saved the money I was hoping to which I’m defining as a success.
The lights of Almaty didn’t beckon me home as a hero, but I gave myself a smug nod in the mirror that night. My purse was only £120 down vs the £450 the tour would have cost. Winner winner this is probably chicken dinner.
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