Wednesday, May 8, 2013
KAZAKHSTAN: TRUTHS AND MYTHS
What do I know about
I ask myself. Nothing, nothing at all. Kazakhstan
I keep probing. There had to be something, and there was … a few vague scraps, the sum total of my knowledge of a country I was about to spend two months living and working in. Scrap Number One:
Kazakhstan is a small . Two: its people
are in the grip of Islamic fundamentalism. Three: Kazakhs are famous for their
thigh fortifying dance. And Four: they love horses … to eat. Central Asian
At that stage I hadn’t heard of Borat,* so I was puzzled when a number of friends laughed and clapped me on the back with a smirk, “You’re going to Borat land, ha ha!” I lacked the courage to admit my ignorance, so I sneakily turned to my Google contacts and asked, “What is Borat?” Failing to get a satisfactory reply, it occurred to me to ask “Who is Borat?” From what I could make out, whoever this Borat person was, he’d clearly done something to upset the Kazakhs. Just as well I had no time then to pursue the matter because it could have made me feel uneasy about my decision to accept a post in
Even before I arrived at my destination, I’d learned that “Scrap Number
was completely wrong. Kazakhstan
is not some small republic, another puzzle piece in the map of Europe somewhere
It is a country the size of Western Europe that borders Poland China to the east and to the north. For hour after
hour I stared at those borders on the passenger flight screen, watching the
image of my Air Astana plane winging its way eastwards though the night.
Further east, beyond Russia Moscow, Istanbul
and Iran we travelled,
dwarfed all the while by the vast plains and mountains of below. Kazakhstan
In Astana, snow and ice blind me; the runway is a glacial sheet, blurring at the horizon with a luminous white sky. Ground control staff, dressed like astronauts, are buffeted by powerful gusts. One of the marshallers is blown sideways, as if he had stepped on to an invisible conveyer belt. He struggles on toward our aircraft, his yellow batons flailing in the wind. The temperature, I'm told, can plummet to -45º C. The North Pole or the capital of
, I wonder. I clutch my winter coat tightly, aware that it
is no defence against an assault this overwhelming. Kazakhstan
A further flight south and westward takes me to my final destination, to the oil-rich city of
not far from the northern coast of the Caspian Sea. http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=es&tab=wl The climate is more benign here than in Astana and my Irish winter wardrobe
turns out to be adequate, particularly given that it is spring now and I only
have a ten minute walk from my new home to the college where I’ll be teaching. On
Monday morning I leave at 8.15, in the company of the other four teachers who
have been recruited for this project. We walk through, what seems to me, the
bleakest of landscapes, of grey-brown sand-dust stretching far beyond where the
eye can see, out to the steppes of Central Asia.
I’m staring at Nothing, at Nothingness. There are no mountains, no trees, no
paths to focus the line of vision. I’ve never been confronted by such emptiness
before and it’s disquieting.
When the wind blows it ushers in a storm from the vastness. On that first week I see what I believe is mist approaching from the distance, a dense mist. But it’s a wall of sand/dust advancing toward us. With my sunglasses protecting my eyes and covering my nose and mouth with my hands, I now understand why desert nomads swaddled their heads in metres of cloth. My students tend to use Palestinian style Keffiyehs and they urge me to buy one too.
The course I’m teaching on is an entirely new project, financed jointly by the Kazakh government and a Kazakh oil company. It is an endeavour to train more young people from the country to become professionals in the burgeoning oil industry. Students recruited for the course pay nothing for enrolment and live on site at no cost to themselves in specially built residences. Many of them want to be engineers and many of them are young women.
It turns out that the students, with their sense of humour, enthusiasm and kind heartedness, are the highlight of my time in
On the first day, when I cannot get my tongue around her unpronounceable name –
Aiymgul - the young woman volunteers
the English translation, “You can call me Moonflower, if you prefer”. I’m impressed. A culture that names one of
its daughters Moonflower must have a poetic soul. Kazakhstan
When I explain to my class that this is my first experience of their country, they ask, “So what do you know about
omit Scrap Number 1, because that is an error too embarrassing to divulge. Young
women make up half of my class; they are beautifully dressed in the latest
fashions, and with no headscarf to hint at their Muslim faith. Fundamentalism?
I very much doubt it, so I bypass Scrap Number 2 and leapfrog on to the thigh
fortifying dance routine. When the students have finished laughing at my mimics
they shake their heads solemnly and point out that I am referring to Cossacks,
not Kazakhs. Kazakhstan
The young men in my class also know how to dress to impress. Some of them arrive in suits, ties and waistcoats, and even a briefcase dangling from their hands. Admittedly, they do look slightly uncomfortable but it’s their way of honouring the importance of the occasion. The honour, however, is mine. I feel privileged to be among these people. They are endlessly courteous and grateful. On the Nauyrz feast day, the most important in the Kazakh calendar, they invite me into a traditional banquet. The spread is laid out across tables inside a yurt** and it is here that Scrap Number 4 is confirmed. A variety of meat is neatly presented on large platters and some of it is indeed horsemeat, a staple in the highly meat-oriented diet of Kazakhs. I’m thinking it’s ironic that I should be here, where equine flesh is prized as part of the local cuisine, while there is a national scandal raging back home about how traces of horsemeat have been detected in products sold by major supermarket chains. But I’m vegetarian, so I politely decline.
Toward the end of the course, some of the students invite me to a meal, a pizza, “100 per cent vegetarian,” they assure me. In the midst of the general banter at the table the dreaded “B” word is mentioned. And yes, I quickly realise it was in a question directed at me. I turn to Miras, Yesbol and the others; they’re staring at me expectantly. I take a deep breath and search for the words that will lead me into an anodyne response. “Borat? I’d never heard of him until I was about to leave home … and now I don’t like him. Kazak people are not like him, not at all.”
“It’s okay, you know. Don’t feel bad. Some of us laugh at him too, precisely because that buffoon does not resemble us. Anyway, in the end, Borat has been good for us. Tourism in
increased as a result of the curiosity he has provoked in our country. So, here’s
to Borat.” Kazakhstan
We all raise our Coca Cola glasses in a toast that says so much about the tolerance and good nature of the Kazakhs I’ve encountered during my stay in their homeland. Maybe they are the undiscovered treasure, the most valuable asset the country possesses, more valuable than oil even. For me they are priceless.
* Borat is the main character in a comedy film entitled, Borat: Cultural Learnings of
America for Make Benefit
Glorious Nation of .
portrayal of the fictional character of Borat, a Kazakh journalist, caused
controversy, not only in Kazakhstan ,
but in a number of other countries too Kazakhstan
** A traditional tent-like dwelling used by the nomadic peoples of