Blown Away in Kazakhstan
How We Turned From Amateurs into Real Bikepackers
In Kazakhstan, our strength of mind and endurance
is put to the test. In addition to the unbearable heat, the brutal headwind slows us down considerably. How I become a human telephone pole, why we have to beg strangers for water and still have a blast? Find out in this Blog Post!
Links marked with (*) are so-called affiliate links. By clicking on one of these links and purchasing products from our partner website in the same session, we may receive a commission at no additional costs for you. Thank you for supporting our journey! 
Table of Contents
- Joel’s Desperate Attempts to Ditch the Bike
- 500 Kilometres into Another World
- Melting Temperatures in the Kazakh Steppe
- Seeking Shade, Offering Desert Sun
- Different Countries, Different Customs
- Old Acquaintances and a New Travel Constellation
- Cargo Trains, Camels and a New Nickname
- Only Meat and a Human Telephone Pole
- Low on Water
- European Lookalikes
- Have You Taken Photos with Camels, Sir?
Joel's Desperate Attempts to Ditch the Bike
An orange dumper truck overtakes us honking and stops about 200m ahead. Two men jump out of the truck and motion for us to stop. “Photo, photo?” they enquire. We feel oddly touched. The men want to take a photo with US? In various constellations, pictures are taken in front of the truck and Joel urges one of the men to test ride his bike. Laughing, the braver of the two agrees and sets off on a wobbly ride. He barely gets the hang of it, but manages to turn around and return the bike safely. “Too bad,” Joel sighs with disappointment, “if he’d broken the bike, we wouldn’t need to ride through the desert anymore…” It is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that Joel tries to flog his bike to locals or trade it for a motorbike.
Indeed, the desert is very challenging and sometimes drives us to the brink of despair.
500 Kilometres into another World
Two days earlier.
As we leave the plane, a whiff of hot and dry air hits us. Aktau airport is tiny. Although we only flew a distance of 500 km, the climate is completely different to Georgia. The terrain is so flat that it is possible to see for kilometres and the air is as dry as dust. To our delight, our bags and bike boxes have already been delivered into the baggage hall when we arrive – everything has survived the flight. It takes us about an hour to reassemble the bikes. Having wrapped them meticulously according to a Youtube instruction, we now remove a ton of plastic bags and cling film.
Jonas and Moritz watch the procedure sceptically – they hadn’t fussed about with overly secure packaging and are ready to set off in no time. When we finally leave the airport together in the direction of Aktau city, 30 km away, we are immediately approached by curious onlookers. During the one-hour ride, honking from the passing cars accompanies us. Display boards in Cyrillic script line the roadside. We check into our hotel – registration is compulsory for tourists in Kazakhstan – and my Russian is immediately put to the test: Hardly anyone here speaks English.
The very next morning, our stomachs are then put to their first test: The hotel breakfast consists of semi-raw fried eggs, boiled eggs, vegetables, a bright red sausage and bread. This is served with rice pudding in a bowl: A few grains of rice floating in a slimy white soup that is lightly salted and sweet at the same time. We are always open to new culinary adventures, but the porridge is really too much for my stomach. Besides, Joel also expects me to eat his 4 eggs – I have to decline. Surprisingly, the bright red sausage tastes alright!
In the afternoon we meet up with Jonas and Moritz again. We go to the Caspian Sea and jump into the ice-cold water. The rocks on the beach are home to many species of animals: We see a grass snake swimming in the water and Jonas almost catches a lobster. When we then drink beer together in our hotel room, a real holiday feeling comes over us.
Melting Temperatures in the Kazakh Steppe
Our first day in the desert starts slowly. By the time we have loaded the bikes and bought petrol at a service station (1 litre for around 50 cents), it is almost noon. We follow a dead straight road towards the north-east. It is not long before we see the first camels! We are completely thrilled! The locals honk exuberantly and even stop their cars sometimes – for a chat or a selfie.
After we leave the small town of Akshukyr, we literally melt in the heat. There is nothing around us now but the sandy steppe. It feels like we can follow the electricity pylons next to the road with our eyes into infinity. At some point we pass a cemetery with a blue container next to it. In front of it: a small strip of shade! We take a break to briefly escape the merciless sun. It doesn’t do much good, because even in the shade the temperature is 40°C. After about 80 km we find a sheltered spot for the night between the ubiquitous oil fields.
With two hours until sunset there is enough time for a quick wash and to get the cooking done. I want to start our newly filled Primus cooker* – and it doesn’t ignite. Only after several attempts and changing the nozzle do we finally get the cooker to work.
Dinner is eaten in the dark after all, but hey: At least it’s so warm that we sit in our camping chairs in shorts and T-shirts. We only put up the inner layer of our tent* and sleep under the starry sky.
At 5:30 I am awakened by bright sunlight in my face. A disadvantage when sleeping without the outer layer of the tent.
We briefly consider leaving immediately to take advantage of the cooler morning hours. It becomes cloudy though, so we decide to have a relaxed coffee! A mistake? As we set off at 9:00 in the sweltering heat, this thought definitely crosses my mind. Two hours later we pass a small rest stop, the first building of the day. Who knows when the next opportunity for a break will come? We eat a rice dish with carrots and meat (Plov) and drink a large cup of coffee with milk each for the equivalent of €7 in total. With those prices, I could stay here longer if it weren’t for the 1000 km of desert/steppe we still have to cross. The headwind is brutal. Luckily we can listen to some music* – “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen takes our minds off things.
Seeking Shade, Offering Desert Sun
The temperatures climb to 45°C in the early afternoon. Even the relentless headwind no longer brings the desired cooling. Our faces are encrusted with salt and sweat. We desperately need to get out of the sun, but for the last 20 kilometres we have not passed a house, tree or road sign that could provide us with shade. There is only the endless Kazakh steppe and the odd camel. At some point we can’t stand the heat any longer and park the bikes away from the road in the sand. We build our own shady construction out of a poncho-tarp*, stretched out between the bikes.
What a great idea, we think. But the wind is so strong that it knocks down the construction if we don’t support it with our weight. So we sit packed like sardines on our camping chairs between the bicycles and hope not to be crushed. The noise from the poncho tarpaulin, being tossed around in the wind, is so loud that we have to shout at each other. We wait for two hours like this. I’ve had more pleasant breaks. But anything is better than the relentless heat of the desert sun.
At 4 p.m. we move on. Not that it is cooler now. Or less windy. But what can we do? Somehow we have to get further. Eventually we reach the small village of Zhyngyldy, where we find a shop with drinks and snacks. A group of drunken men find us terribly interesting and try to persuade us giggling to drink vodka with them. We are simply exhausted after the last stretch of kilometres and can’t think of anything worse than drinking vodka right now.
A few kilometres later, a man waves to us from the roadside. His car is parked next to a small cluster of abandoned-looking houses with a surprisingly green garden. “Do you need water?” the man asks in English. We could actually use a bottle or two, because we don’t know when the next shop will be. Instead of giving us bottled water, however, the man points to the small garden behind him: Indeed, fresh water is flowing out of a pipe and forms a small stream! The man tells us that the water is potable, then he drives away. The little stream is just what we need. We stand with bare feet in the ice-cold water and wash our dusty arms, legs and faces. Then we fill the water into our filter bottles.
A few hundred metres away, we set up camp for the night between some grassy hills. Due to the headwind, we have only travelled 45 kilometres today. The place seems sheltered enough, but far from it: the whole night our tent is shaken around by gusts of wind. In particular, my side of the tent facing the wind literally blows in my face several times. We hardly sleep a wink that night.
Different Countries, Different Customs
The next day is also difficult: The wind blows in our faces so hard that we are only travelling at 11 km/h on level ground. For comparison: without a headwind we are about twice as fast using the same amount of effort. At the dilapidated end of a desolate village, yellowed signs indicate a long gone commercial area. Only one building is in good condition. The faded sign above the door says Magasin (shop), but the door is barricaded shut on this Friday morning. Behind the building we find shelter from the ruthless wind and first make coffee. For a cyclist, there is hardly a worse enemy than the wind. Our motivation on this dreary day is already at rock bottom.
At this moment, a water tanker stops next to us. The driver waves us over and fills up our water bottles! Once again it shows: The hospitality of the locals saves the day.
Around noon we reach the small town of Schetpe. We stock up on vegetables, cream cheese, dried fruit and nut bars, because there won’t be another town for the next 300 kilometres. We sit down in the shade of the bus stop opposite and have lunch: bread with cream cheese and cucumber. I am about to spread the cream cheese on the bread when three teenagers approach curiously. One of them speaks a little English and the three of them have a thousand questions. They inspect our equipment extensively: one of the boys tries on Joel’s sunglasses, another one tests my helmet and the third presses on my saddle.
What would be considered extremely rude in our culture is completely normal here. The boys put all the objects back neatly after a short time. We eventually get used to strangers touching and inspecting our bikes, helmets and bags. What we don’t get used to, however, is the constant spitting. Every 10 seconds, one of the teenagers spits on the ground through a gap in his teeth. Fortunately, I’m so hungry that not even that can spoil my appetite.
In the early afternoon, the distance we have covered is disillusioning: 45 kilometres in 4:30 pedaling time. The wind and the heat are getting to us. Fortunately, we pass a large rest stop. There is an air-conditioned restaurant with cool drinks, ice cream, pastries, snacks and relaxation rooms that can be rented on an hourly basis for little money. We sit down at one of the tables with leather sofas. I eat an ice cream and Joel a potato fritter, and we both down a can of iced tea.
“I think there’s a hotel next door,” Joel says hopefully. “We could just rest there for a day?” I look at him in disbelief. “I beg your pardon? We’ve only done 45 kilometres today. How are we ever going to make it through the desert if we already take a break day? Joel scrunches up his face and silently takes a bite out of his potato pie.
As a family at the next table leaves the restaurant, a male member comes over to us and offers us a half-eaten piece of cake. A strange gesture, we think, but we don’t want to complain. I look down at myself: With our clothes dusty and sweaty from the steppe, we really do look like paupers. When I look up again, there is nothing left of the piece of cake. I give Joel a shove in the side – I thought we share everything? I guess love ends at the dessert.
Old Acquaintances and a New Travel Constellation
To be honest, I had never really understood the potential of slipstreaming until now. Even on the route to Istanbul we didn’t really feel that riding behind each other saves much energy. Over the next few days this changes: most of the time Jeremy and Joel share the front position, which makes us all go much faster despite the brutal wind. It’s almost 2pm when we spot a building in the distance. Shade for our lunch break! But in the steppe, distances are much further than they seem: only half an hour later do we arrive at the small abandonned house.
We are not alone: every single passing car stops, takes a photo of the small inconspicuous mausoleum next to the house, then a photo of us and drives on. We spread our lunch on a sheltered picnic table. It’s difficult to eat when every two minutes someone asks for a photo. And I’m not exaggerating. A middle-aged man sits down with us and asks in Russian: “Otkuda? (Where [are you] from?)” I offer him some of our caramel popcorn. He kindly declines and instead reaches for Jeremy’s cheese. Jeremy just frowns.
A little later we are joined by Christoph, an acquaintance of Jeremy’s who is on his way to the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. Kazakhstan is big, but there is only this one main road to the east! We arrange to meet again that same evening and carry on in the sweltering heat. Ahead of us is the first and only climb in the entire Mangghystau region, the Manat Pass (200m altitude). Christoph easily overtakes us in meandering lines on his motorbike. Oh well, he really doesn’t know how it is.
Later I find out that according to a medieval legend, an Auliye (holy man) is buried in the small mausoleum. Those who do not stop and pay their respects to the saint are said to be in danger of having an accident on the Manat Pass. Good job we had our lunch there.
Cargo Trains, Camels and a New Nickname
In the evening we meet Chistoph in the only, somewhat shabby restaurant. We eat two portions of Plov each (!) and then set off at dusk in search of a specific camping spot in a gorge. In the semi-darkness we jolt along dirt roads that are not marked on any map. We find the gorge eventually, but it is so steep that we can’t get down with our bikes. It is hard to imagine how the people who recommended this place apparently drove down here with a car! There is no point in recking our brains though – by now it is dark and we pitch the tents at the edge of the gorge. The sun will heat up our tents from 05:30, but we are too tired to look any further.
When both tents are pitched, the next setback follows: A cargo train passes about 50 metres away, honking its horn. The noise is deafening. Until about 2 a.m. we are startled out of our sleep every half hour by another train.
As restless as the night was, the view over the gorge the next morning is breathtaking. Now we know why the trains were honking so loudly: Camels are constantly running across the tracks (you must watch this hilarious video!).
In the small village of Say-Otes we ask for a supermarket and are indeed directed to a relatively ‘large’ shop. They even have fruit and vegetables, so we can stock up.
Since Jeremy’s tyre has been losing pressure for some time, he takes the opportunity to change his tube in the shade. A bunch of children and teenagers eye him curiously. One is particularly keen and asks for our names. The children know “Jana” – after all, it is a Russian name. “Joe (l)” also works, but the kids have a hard time with Je-re-my. “Jana, Joe, John-Mee”, the boy mumbles, trying to memorise our names. John-Mee – a new nickname is born!
Only Meat and a Human Telephone Pole
The route becomes increasingly barren. It is not until 4pm that we pass a café for lunch. While we are still waiting for the lady behind the counter to take our order, a group of men enter the shop and boldly push to the front. We are slightly irritated. The men, however, seem to be aware of no wrongdoing and even ask us for a photo after they have placed their order. Reluctantly we agree, then finally we can also order food.
As so often in Central Asia, there is little point in looking at the menu. Most of the time, more than half of the dishes are not available. Today is no exception. In Russian, the elderly lady informs us that she only has meat today. We exchange confused looks. “What about Plov?”, we ask. It is the only dish we know by name. “Of course, Plov is also available!” Ok, that’s a start, But we had hoped for a different dish for a change. The lady then suggests Kuurdak, a dish made of potatoes and meat. We nod simultaneously: Sounds very good! “Well,” the lady remarks, “the problem is that she doesn’t have any potatoes, only meat.”
10 minutes later we all eat a bowl of Plov. You can imagine our bewilderment when we see a man ordering Pelmeni* (Russian dumplings) 10 minutes later!!
It may seem like I’m just writing about cafés in this blog entry. You might have a point, the cafés are often the highlights of this route! We continue to cycle along the same road in the same steppe with the same headwind and honking of the passing cars. At some point – surprise – there is yet another café! We don’t really need anything, as we have bought enough water for the day.
Nevertheless, we don’t waste the opportunity and buy a bottle of iced tea from the freezer. The slushy-like drink is the best iced tea I’ve ever had. If we had known that this would be the last shop for the next 150 km, we probably would have bought more of it… Instead, we pull off the road and set up the tents a little later. A few days ago, I had promised my friend Franzi to have a chat as soon as the internet allows. I look at my mobile phone: once again no network. I can’t even tell her that it’s not working again today. It is still light out, so I decide without further ado to go looking for reception. The tyres roll well on the dried sand, so I cycle a little way back to the road, mobile phone in hand.
John-Mee joins me to call his girlfriend. And indeed: after some time we find a spot about 1 m above my head where the mobile phone shows 4G reception. So there I stand, arms stretched upwards holding the phone while I excitedly talk to Franzi. Back at the tent, we turn up the music* as the sun slowly sets over the steppe. What a feeling of freedom!
One of many Cafés on our way through the desert
Low on Water
We have only ridden a few kilometres when we spot two silhouettes in the distance. As we come closer we can hardly believe our eyes: two bikepackers? Yes, indeed! It’s Moritz and Jonas, with whom we flew from Kutaisi to Aktau a week before! Kazakhstan – endless expanses and yet just a village! We decide to cycle together to the next town, Beyneu (pronounced Beanie-You).
Our water supplies are running low, so we hurry to stock up at the next café. To our disappointment, however, the building is abandonned. It is the last café on the way to Beyneu, 100 kilometres away. We have no choice but to continue in the blazing sun. Every now and then, drainage tunnels about 1.5 m in diameter run beneath the road. With no other shade available, we take a short break in one of these pipes full of horse dung.
50 kilometres further on, our water supplies are really gone. We have only one option: begging for water from the passing cars. Generally, this is not an unusual thing to do in this area of Kazakhstan – there is even a special technique. While standing at the side of the road we wave our empty water bottles. The sixth car that drives by actually stops. We are very lucky: the family from Aktau is on their way home and has a large water tank in the back of their car. They fill up 2-3 litres of water for each of the 5 of us. But that’s not all: After we have taken a selfie with the family, the woman hands Jonas a bulging plastic bag. Inside is the family’s lunch consisting of bread, meat and canned fish and vegetables! We are speechless.
After more than 100 kilometres in the blazing sun, we reach the outskirts of Beyneu. Without hesitation, we enter the first café we see. 10 minutes later we are sitting in silence at the table, a collection of bottles in front of us: Coke, iced tea, juice, water. Each of us drinks at least 2 litres of liquids within the next fifteen minutes.
European Lookalikes
Finding a hotel in this provincial town that is not fully booked turns out to be more difficult than expected. Finally, in the third hotel, we are in luck: for 7000 Tenge (14 €) we book a double room with private bathroom. Our air conditioning doesn’t work, but I still wouldn’t want to swap with the boys: The smell of three male, sweaty bikepackers is almost unbearable!!!
Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing Asian people by their facial features. Cross-racial identification actually is a scientific research field! It seems to be similarly demanding with Caucasian faces for the Kazakhs. After we have checked into the room, Joel asks at the reception for a remote control for our air conditioning. The receptionist looks for the right remote control, shows Joel the empty battery case, shrugs and puts it back. All right, Joel thinks, I’ll just buy batteries and check again later. He also asks for a kettle, to which the receptionist doesn’t reply. Later, during dinner, John-Mee tells us surprised: “The lady at the reception is great! First she turned on the air conditioning and then she even brought us a kettle!”
Have You Taken Photos with Camels, Sir?
After two days of regeneration, John-Mee and us set off together towards the Uzbek border. Moritz also decides to join us so that now there are four of us. Shortly before the border we find a Soviet-style park with a covered stage in a village. We have lunch and take a long break to avoid the heat of the day. While Joel, John-Mee and I lie around lethargically, Moritz strikes up a conversation with a group of teenagers who question him with the help of Google Translate. One of the hilarious questions is read out by the typical Google woman’s voice in German: Have You taken photos with camels, Sir?
Finally proper food in a restaurant in Beyneu
Moritz is chatting with a group of teenagers
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Just read through this again Jana, cracking read and wonderful experience for you
Aido x