Atryau, Aktau, and The Caspian Sea - Part Three - The Sea
During the morning of our last day in Atyrau, we spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out how to get to the sea, which was, after all, our Major Goal. If you look at a map, Atyrau is, as the crow flies, pretty close to the sea. But there was astonishly little information about how to get there. We tried tourist agencies, hotels, people on the street, and the train station. We were told of boating expeditions to the Caspian, but nobody could find the phone number. We were told that it was impossible to get to the sea. Some people didn't seem to know that the Caspian was anywhere near. And there was a lot of talk, from different people, about a city called Tengiz (in Kazakh, it means "sea"), allegedly on the seashore, with beaches and hotels, and within a few hours from Atyrau. Nobody could produce phone numbers or names for any hotels in Tengiz, but we decided that this city was our most likely bet.
So we went back to the train station to ask the spravochni how to get to Tengiz. After a long runaround and many different questions, she directed us to the bus station. We went all the way back across town(about a half hour on the bus) to the location she described, and found...a long-abandoned building. An old taxi driver outside asked us what we were looking for. The bus station, we said. "Hell, there hasn't been a bus station here for years," he said. "There is no bus that goes to Tengiz. But I'll take you to Tengiz for four hundred dollars (US)." Thank you, no. But he did tell us that we could get a van from the train station, where we had just come from, for about seven dollars each.
Frustrated, we got a bottle of wine and went back to the apartment. The next day, we would try the train station again, we decided, and hotel reservation or no, would go to Tengiz to see the sea.
So we packed up everything and left the apartment the next morning. We had a brief scare in the station when none of the three station ATMs worked and we had only twenty bucks left between us. I took a bus by myself back to the city center, and the first three ATMs I tried...also didn't work. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I headed back to the bus stop, but then I noticed an single ATM for a rival bank that had a huge twenty-person line in front of it. I waited my turn, and lo, was able to withdraw money. I went back to the train station feeling like anything was possible.
Gulshat and I managed to find the van to Tengiz despite nobody admitting that they didn't know where it was, and sat down. Gulshat started making small talk with the other passengers. They were all from Tengiz. "We're going there to see the sea", she said. "The what?" they asked. "The Caspian Sea," she said. They laughed. "The Caspian is nowhere near Tengiz! In Tengiz, there's only the Tengiz oil refinery!"
Tengiz, as in the oil refinery, is pronounced "ten-giz", with the "n" and "g" separate, as opposed to "tengiz", with the nasal "ng" sound. "Tengiz" means "sea" in Kazakh. "Ten-giz" is just the name of a factory. Maybe this caused part of the confusion. But it couldn't have possibly caused all of it. A lot of people had given us completely falacious advice.
It was noon when we stepped out of the van. Our plane left in a day and a half, and there was, evidently, no way to get to the sea from Atyrau. I gave up hope, but Gulshat pulled on my arm. There was a train leaving, at that very moment, for Aktau, the famous Soviet beach resort we had wanted to go to in the first place.
We went to talk to the conductors. There were no seats available. But the conductors would sell us their coupe compartment - two private beds in the upper class car - for thirty American dollars each. We could arrive in Aktau the next morning, spend the day there, and catch the same train back to Atyrau at 7pm. They would reserve their compartment for us, though of course it would be a matter of trust - there were no tickets. If we made the connection, we would make our flight from Atyrau.
But if we didn't, we would miss it. And we would have to bribe the conductor to even get on the day-long train back to Astana. And I would not have time to go back to Kokshetau before I caught the flight back to America for my sister's wedding. The train was leaving, and I had five minutes to decide what to do.
Gulshat and I wouldn't be together too much longer, and you only live once. I decided to go.
And we made it. On the train ride down, we passed yurts, strange, dramatic white mountains, and the first wild camels either of us had ever seen. We drank wine, ate well, and slept soundly in our private cabin. The seaside was windy and dramatic, with high waves, white sand beaches, and swallow-swarmed precipitous cliffs. We drank fruit juice and ate fish shashlik and tried to sunbathe despite the cold. In short, we had our one day on the seashore.
We got to the train station about an hour and a half early, and the train was fifteen minutes late, which made me want to gnaw my knuckles. But true to their word, the conductors saved the cabin for us, and we made our plane. It was the first time Gulshat had ever flown. And you probably know, I made it to my sister's wedding, with a story about the sea.
So we went back to the train station to ask the spravochni how to get to Tengiz. After a long runaround and many different questions, she directed us to the bus station. We went all the way back across town(about a half hour on the bus) to the location she described, and found...a long-abandoned building. An old taxi driver outside asked us what we were looking for. The bus station, we said. "Hell, there hasn't been a bus station here for years," he said. "There is no bus that goes to Tengiz. But I'll take you to Tengiz for four hundred dollars (US)." Thank you, no. But he did tell us that we could get a van from the train station, where we had just come from, for about seven dollars each.
Frustrated, we got a bottle of wine and went back to the apartment. The next day, we would try the train station again, we decided, and hotel reservation or no, would go to Tengiz to see the sea.
So we packed up everything and left the apartment the next morning. We had a brief scare in the station when none of the three station ATMs worked and we had only twenty bucks left between us. I took a bus by myself back to the city center, and the first three ATMs I tried...also didn't work. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I headed back to the bus stop, but then I noticed an single ATM for a rival bank that had a huge twenty-person line in front of it. I waited my turn, and lo, was able to withdraw money. I went back to the train station feeling like anything was possible.
Gulshat and I managed to find the van to Tengiz despite nobody admitting that they didn't know where it was, and sat down. Gulshat started making small talk with the other passengers. They were all from Tengiz. "We're going there to see the sea", she said. "The what?" they asked. "The Caspian Sea," she said. They laughed. "The Caspian is nowhere near Tengiz! In Tengiz, there's only the Tengiz oil refinery!"
Tengiz, as in the oil refinery, is pronounced "ten-giz", with the "n" and "g" separate, as opposed to "tengiz", with the nasal "ng" sound. "Tengiz" means "sea" in Kazakh. "Ten-giz" is just the name of a factory. Maybe this caused part of the confusion. But it couldn't have possibly caused all of it. A lot of people had given us completely falacious advice.
It was noon when we stepped out of the van. Our plane left in a day and a half, and there was, evidently, no way to get to the sea from Atyrau. I gave up hope, but Gulshat pulled on my arm. There was a train leaving, at that very moment, for Aktau, the famous Soviet beach resort we had wanted to go to in the first place.
We went to talk to the conductors. There were no seats available. But the conductors would sell us their coupe compartment - two private beds in the upper class car - for thirty American dollars each. We could arrive in Aktau the next morning, spend the day there, and catch the same train back to Atyrau at 7pm. They would reserve their compartment for us, though of course it would be a matter of trust - there were no tickets. If we made the connection, we would make our flight from Atyrau.
But if we didn't, we would miss it. And we would have to bribe the conductor to even get on the day-long train back to Astana. And I would not have time to go back to Kokshetau before I caught the flight back to America for my sister's wedding. The train was leaving, and I had five minutes to decide what to do.
Gulshat and I wouldn't be together too much longer, and you only live once. I decided to go.
And we made it. On the train ride down, we passed yurts, strange, dramatic white mountains, and the first wild camels either of us had ever seen. We drank wine, ate well, and slept soundly in our private cabin. The seaside was windy and dramatic, with high waves, white sand beaches, and swallow-swarmed precipitous cliffs. We drank fruit juice and ate fish shashlik and tried to sunbathe despite the cold. In short, we had our one day on the seashore.
We got to the train station about an hour and a half early, and the train was fifteen minutes late, which made me want to gnaw my knuckles. But true to their word, the conductors saved the cabin for us, and we made our plane. It was the first time Gulshat had ever flown. And you probably know, I made it to my sister's wedding, with a story about the sea.
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