Atryau, Aktau, and The Caspian Sea - Part One - Departure
Gulshat and I decided to take a trip together before we parted ways. Every good trip needs a goal, the grander and more arbitrary the better, and we chose the Caspian Sea. This is the story of how we did it.
Although this all happened before my sister's wedding, I'm going to post it afterwards, because it's taking me longer to write and I want the entries together on the blog.
Since time was short and I assumed the train ride would be horribly long, we decided to fly to Aktau, an old Soviet beach resort. Gulshat called around and found round-trip tickets to Aktau for 34k tenge, or about $260, apiece. We went to the travel agent that offered this price, who proceeded to take our documentation and draw up the paperwork. Gulshat and I sat next to her and chatted excitedly about the exotic Caspian in English. When she was done, she handed us the tickets, and said, that'll be 40k tenge apiece. The total difference between their promised price and this sum was almost $100! Why the price difference, we asked? She scowled and refused to explain the difference, or even why when we had called earlier that day to confirm the price she had agreed to it. She became very rude, and our conversation got unfriendly.
Finally, Gulshat decided to call another agency that had tickets for more than 34k, but less than 40k. We called them with the desk phone of the 40k travel agent, and were told they would check, could we please call back in five minutes? Ok, we said, and hung up. Moments later, the phone of the 40k agent rang - it was the other agent, asking to buy the tickets from her!
It looked like we were stuck with the expensive price tag, and though I may have considered paying the extra money, the extroardinarly rude behavior of the travel agent made me decide not to. I told them this. Fine, they said. That'll be 400 tenge. What for? For writing up the tickets that we have to cancel now. I'm not going to pay you 400 tenge for increasing the price $100 at the last moment, I said. Then we won't give your passport back, they said. I felt myself about to lose my temper, and stepped outside to calm down.
After a few minutes in the fresh air, I felt more reasonable. 400 tenge isn't much money, I thought, it's better to pay it and be done with all this than make a scene. I walked back inside and put the money down on the agent's desk. It's 800 tenge, she said. 400 per ticket.
I lost my temper.
A few minutes later I had spoken my mind, we had our documentation back, and we had not paid them any money, but we were walking away beneath the warm summer trees to my apartment without any tickets to Aktau. I apologized to Gulshat, and she said I had done the right thing. On the way home, we talked about other trips we could take.
Back in my apartment, we laid out my map on the floor and started thinking about alternatives. Ust-Kamenigorsk? Karaganda? A little Southern village we noticed on a small country road named "Gulshat"? Noticing that there was a train line that seemed to go through Russia, but more directly to Aktau than the Almaty route I had imagined we would have to take, Gulshat called the train information number to find out how long a train ride to Aktau would actually be. To our surprise, it was only 36 hours, less than half of what we thought it would be, inexpensive, and perfectly feasible! The Sea was still within reach!
There were only three catches - the trains only left on even numbered days, which meant leaving the very next day. The tickets could only be purchased in Astana. And there was no guarantee that there would be seats left. We decided to risk it - in the worst case, we would be in Astana with our baggage, and could decide then where to go.
We stayed up late packing and putting our affairs in order. At 10am Sunday morning, we took a Marshutka (taxi-van) to the Astana train station. Our spirits were high in the line at the ticket counter. But when we got to the window, we were told that no tickets to Aktau remained. In Kazakhstan, no tickets remaining doesn't mean you can't go, it just means you might have to bribe the conductor and sleep on a luggage shelf. We talked it over, and agreed to do that. But first, we thought we should confirm that it was in fact only 36 hours, and that I would be able to take the train, since according to my map, the line passed through Russia and I had no Russian visa.
At this point, the trip's recurring theme of incompetent information ladies (called spravochnis) began. The spravochni, upon being asked the above questions, told us that there was no train to Aktau, at all. Indeed, the one working computer schedule kiosk didn't list Aktau as a destination. How can there be no trains to such a major Kazakhstan city? Thus began an infurating hour of every single person we asked giving us conflicting information about everything. The spravochni herself would give different answers time to time. In an hour in the train station, we were unable to determine whether or not there was a train to Aktau, but did find that there were two platscar tickets that got us within a couple hours of Atyrau, the other big city near the Caspian. Perhaps from there we could find our way to the sea.
By the way, I blame our difficulties getting information here and elsewhere on the trip on one Kazakhstani cultural peculiarity - the unwillingness of people to admit when they don't know something. People who obviously didn't know the answers to our questions, like the station security guard when asked about whether or not I needed a Russian visa, felt obliged to give us definitive answers. Everyone answered our questions, but they all answered differently, and there was no good way to tell who knew and who was saving face. This would haunt us again.
Gulshat and I sat on a bench outside the station, looking at the taxis, travellers, and pimps renting apartments by the hour. (Bryan and I once had a confusing and embarassing conversation with said pimps when were were innocently looking for chaste places to stay in Astana.) We talked about having a sure thing in Karaganda and Almaty, or taking a chance at shooting for our Arbitrary Goal. Gulshat, a completely inexperienced traveller, never having gone more than twenty miles from the train line between Kokshetau and Almaty besides her home village, never having even gone anywhere in her life without a plan, said she wanted to take a chance on the sea. I glowed with pride. We bought our tickets and left that evening.
Although this all happened before my sister's wedding, I'm going to post it afterwards, because it's taking me longer to write and I want the entries together on the blog.
Since time was short and I assumed the train ride would be horribly long, we decided to fly to Aktau, an old Soviet beach resort. Gulshat called around and found round-trip tickets to Aktau for 34k tenge, or about $260, apiece. We went to the travel agent that offered this price, who proceeded to take our documentation and draw up the paperwork. Gulshat and I sat next to her and chatted excitedly about the exotic Caspian in English. When she was done, she handed us the tickets, and said, that'll be 40k tenge apiece. The total difference between their promised price and this sum was almost $100! Why the price difference, we asked? She scowled and refused to explain the difference, or even why when we had called earlier that day to confirm the price she had agreed to it. She became very rude, and our conversation got unfriendly.
Finally, Gulshat decided to call another agency that had tickets for more than 34k, but less than 40k. We called them with the desk phone of the 40k travel agent, and were told they would check, could we please call back in five minutes? Ok, we said, and hung up. Moments later, the phone of the 40k agent rang - it was the other agent, asking to buy the tickets from her!
It looked like we were stuck with the expensive price tag, and though I may have considered paying the extra money, the extroardinarly rude behavior of the travel agent made me decide not to. I told them this. Fine, they said. That'll be 400 tenge. What for? For writing up the tickets that we have to cancel now. I'm not going to pay you 400 tenge for increasing the price $100 at the last moment, I said. Then we won't give your passport back, they said. I felt myself about to lose my temper, and stepped outside to calm down.
After a few minutes in the fresh air, I felt more reasonable. 400 tenge isn't much money, I thought, it's better to pay it and be done with all this than make a scene. I walked back inside and put the money down on the agent's desk. It's 800 tenge, she said. 400 per ticket.
I lost my temper.
A few minutes later I had spoken my mind, we had our documentation back, and we had not paid them any money, but we were walking away beneath the warm summer trees to my apartment without any tickets to Aktau. I apologized to Gulshat, and she said I had done the right thing. On the way home, we talked about other trips we could take.
Back in my apartment, we laid out my map on the floor and started thinking about alternatives. Ust-Kamenigorsk? Karaganda? A little Southern village we noticed on a small country road named "Gulshat"? Noticing that there was a train line that seemed to go through Russia, but more directly to Aktau than the Almaty route I had imagined we would have to take, Gulshat called the train information number to find out how long a train ride to Aktau would actually be. To our surprise, it was only 36 hours, less than half of what we thought it would be, inexpensive, and perfectly feasible! The Sea was still within reach!
There were only three catches - the trains only left on even numbered days, which meant leaving the very next day. The tickets could only be purchased in Astana. And there was no guarantee that there would be seats left. We decided to risk it - in the worst case, we would be in Astana with our baggage, and could decide then where to go.
We stayed up late packing and putting our affairs in order. At 10am Sunday morning, we took a Marshutka (taxi-van) to the Astana train station. Our spirits were high in the line at the ticket counter. But when we got to the window, we were told that no tickets to Aktau remained. In Kazakhstan, no tickets remaining doesn't mean you can't go, it just means you might have to bribe the conductor and sleep on a luggage shelf. We talked it over, and agreed to do that. But first, we thought we should confirm that it was in fact only 36 hours, and that I would be able to take the train, since according to my map, the line passed through Russia and I had no Russian visa.
At this point, the trip's recurring theme of incompetent information ladies (called spravochnis) began. The spravochni, upon being asked the above questions, told us that there was no train to Aktau, at all. Indeed, the one working computer schedule kiosk didn't list Aktau as a destination. How can there be no trains to such a major Kazakhstan city? Thus began an infurating hour of every single person we asked giving us conflicting information about everything. The spravochni herself would give different answers time to time. In an hour in the train station, we were unable to determine whether or not there was a train to Aktau, but did find that there were two platscar tickets that got us within a couple hours of Atyrau, the other big city near the Caspian. Perhaps from there we could find our way to the sea.
By the way, I blame our difficulties getting information here and elsewhere on the trip on one Kazakhstani cultural peculiarity - the unwillingness of people to admit when they don't know something. People who obviously didn't know the answers to our questions, like the station security guard when asked about whether or not I needed a Russian visa, felt obliged to give us definitive answers. Everyone answered our questions, but they all answered differently, and there was no good way to tell who knew and who was saving face. This would haunt us again.
Gulshat and I sat on a bench outside the station, looking at the taxis, travellers, and pimps renting apartments by the hour. (Bryan and I once had a confusing and embarassing conversation with said pimps when were were innocently looking for chaste places to stay in Astana.) We talked about having a sure thing in Karaganda and Almaty, or taking a chance at shooting for our Arbitrary Goal. Gulshat, a completely inexperienced traveller, never having gone more than twenty miles from the train line between Kokshetau and Almaty besides her home village, never having even gone anywhere in her life without a plan, said she wanted to take a chance on the sea. I glowed with pride. We bought our tickets and left that evening.
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