For our third weekend in the country, we went from Almaty to Astana by rail, the most popular way to get between the two cities. The two largest cities in Qazaqstan are pretty far apart. It took us about 15 hours both ways, maybe a little more since we got 30-45 minutes behind schedule each time, which really made me feel like I was right back at home on Amtrak.
The ride on the train itself was almost more memorable than Astana. Astana is… Modern. Very modern. In keeping with modernity, it’s boring. Well known architects designed a lot of the buildings in the city, making it look really non-distinctive. It feels like the essence of 21st century architecture that’s so boiled down that it feels like you could find the city anywhere in the world.
As for our lovely two train rides, I slept for about 6-8 hours each time. So, I had a solid 7-8 hours of time both ways to spend staring out the window, talking, reading, and even writing.
Windows XP screensaver vs my (minorly color-adjusted) photo of the Steppe
The train itself is a very strange place. It has its own social rules, its own hours of operation, its own universe. It’s a long metal tube, in which we’re all stuck, 4 to a room. I don’t need much privacy, so I felt perfectly fine, but it seems like a nightmare for those who need to be alone. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t find yourself alone.
In the midst of a density of beds unmatched by even the most adventurous of college dorms, nobody wants to take advantage of the hallways. Let me tell you, the train hallway at 7am, sailing through the middle of nowhere, is one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever found myself. I was bothered only occasionally by someone passing, until a small child woke up around 8:30 in the room nextdoor. Before that child decided to turn the hallway into a place to practice the 100m dash, I spent over an hour just staring out the window. The early morning sun shining over the bare steppe makes everything else feel absolutely irrelevant. Why do I care about anything else?
A sunset or sunrise – this is left as an exercise for the reader
On the flip side, the nightlife on the train is quite something. On the ride up to Astana, me and a few friends went for some late night snacks in the restaurant car, and found a few friends already there, who had met this ethnically Russian guy, Nikita. He was hammered. He asked for our names at least twice, was incapable of understanding why someone would be vegetarian, and gave me his phone number. He’s definitely one of the drunkest people I’ve had the chance to talk to in Qazaqstan. Then on the way back to Almaty, two of our groupmates had the luxury of sleeping in a car with a very talkative drunk man. The next morning, I got a very long and detailed account of the conversation. It’s too long to describe in any detail, but my favorite part is how after two hours of talking with some Americans at a pretty late hour, this man decided it was the right time to ask, “what’s the meaning of life?”
Me drinking Tashkentsky chai while writing in the restaurant car
When we finally got back and had our first literature class, Victoria gave us a poem, Состепье Стрельца, from Anuar Duisenbinov. He wrote on the train between the two cities. It’s quiet. It finds itself on the steppe, on the roads and paths that lead through its endless expanse, and especially on the train. It’s the middle of night, and he’s watching everyone sleep, while he’s stuck awake.
Why? Because he’s a poet, and there’s something about this damn train, in this damn endless steppe, in the damn middle of the night. He’s right too. There’s something inescapably and viscerally incomprehensible about sailing across the steppe and seeing the same horizon, the same grass, the same constellations for hours on end.
I loved this poem, partially because I wrote a very similar poem between 8 and 11am on the train, and partially because it demonstrates a how this train between the two major cities in the country fits into the imagination of the steppe. It’s a nation which came from the steppe, from horseback riding. The existence of major settled cities in the region is very recent. Both Astana and Almaty were first permanently settled as Russian military outposts. So to be riding a train through the middle of the steppe, between these two cities, poses a strange question about how one should feel connected, or disconnected from the steppe. This poem was an expression of the question this train ride posed, rather than any attempt to answer it.
Personally, this ride was enlightening. As someone who does not live in the steppe, it’s an ocean. You can see the entirety of the sky, and the horizon makes a ring around you, and you’re just there. So, if I can say one thing about the train between Astana and Almaty, it’s definitely the most awe-inducing train ride I’ve ever been on.
