On the surface, a Kazakhstan tourist visa should have been our easiest visa to obtain when we first visited the country. Kazakhstan is arguably the most developed of the former Soviet countries. But the bureaucratic machine still runs strong at the Kazakh Embassy in Tashkent, Uzbekistan and in Kazakhstan itself.

Fortunately, Kazakhstan visa requirements have eased and become more simplified since our first visit. But if you're curious as to how it used to be, read our Kazakh visa and OVIR registration war stories.

2018 Update: Kazakhstan's Visa-Free Regime

Starting from 1 January 2017, Kazakhstan has a visa-free regime for travelers from 45 countries (here's the full list of eligible nationalities). Under the visa-free regime travelers can stay in Kazakhstan for 30 days. If you'd like to stay longer, then you'll need to apply in advance at the nearest Kazkakh Embassy.

If you enter Kazakhstan on the visa-free regime you should not be required to register yourselves at OVIR (foreigner's police). You should receive two stamps in your passport when you enter the country – one showing the entry date and the other showing you are registered. If you don't receive the second stamp, ask for it so as to avoid any possible problems with the authorities (here's why).

For travelers who are not able to enter with the visa-free regime and required a Letter of Invitation (LOI) for the visa, they will still need to register at OVIR within five days.

What it Used to Be Like to Get a Kazakh Tourist Visa

When we first called the Kazakh Embassy in Tashkent to obtain some general information, the assistant there informed us that U.S. citizens were required to obtain and submit a Letter of Invitation (LOI) with their visa application. Every piece of information that we had uncovered prior to this call indicated that an LOI was not required. We followed the suggestion of the woman at the embassy and called around to some travel agents for help. Nobody could help us because, according to Kazakh law, U.S. citizens do not need an LOI to apply for tourist visas to Kazakhstan. One travel agent even called the Foreign Ministry in Astana (Kazakhstan's capital) to prove it to us.

As it turns out, the Kazakh monster behind the desk in Tashkent has a reputation. Apparently, we were not the first tourists to apply for a Kazkah visa only to be told that we needed LOIs, when in fact we did not.

So we went to the Kazakhstan Ministry of Foreign Affairs website and printed out the Kazakh Visa Law, updated in March 2007. When we visited the embassy, the woman told us, “No LOI, no visa!” and closed the microscopically small visa window. We kindly pressed the printed law – complete with the relevant areas (#6, for those who might need it) highlighted – up against her foggy, puny window. Vexed, she angrily opened the window and snapped our papers away from us: “We’ll consider it.”

The next day, Audrey returned to the embassy to pick up the visas. The Consul questioned her for thirty minutes as to who was sponsoring our trip and which travel agent we had engaged. Audrey explained that we were just tourists wishing to visit his country. Hadn’t he seen the expensive ads the Kazakh government placed on CNN to promote tourism? Apparently not.

After repeated rounds of questioning, the Consul began to tire. Didn’t we know ANYONE in Kazakhstan? Audrey mentioned the name of friend of a friend, whom we had never seen and who had invited us to stay with him in Almaty. Audrey didn’t have his details with her and the embassy didn't have internet for her to retrieve them from her email. The Consul finally gave up and gave in; he wrote our friend’s name into our visas and let her go.

OVIR Regsitration

Once you are in Kazakhstan, the fun continues with foreigners’ registration at OVIR. Most western visitors manage to avoid this bureaucratic check-box by either flying into an airport (where the immigration police register you automatically) or by obtaining their visas from a Kazakh embassy in a western country (where visas apparently already include registration).

Unfortunately, we didn’t fit into either of these categories. We struggled across the border from Uzbekistan and we obtained our visas from the Kazakh Embassy in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

First, we should explain what OVIR is. It's basically a bureaucratic pillar in the Soviet paranoia parade which still exists in countries like Kazakhstan and Tajikistan. Think of it as a red tape generating government tracking mechanism whose acronym officially means Office of Visas and Registration, but more accurately should read Office of the Violation of Individual Rights.

If, like us, you are unfortunate enough to have to register, here's what you need. The Almaty outpost of OVIR is on the corner of Baytursynuly and Karasay Batyr streets. Applications are accepted in the morning until noon. You will need to photocopy the application form, your passport and your visa. Bring the address of where you're staying. The clerk who handled our papers that morning was remarkably polite, friendly and helpful, going so far as to fill out the paperwork for us when she realized that our ability to write in Russian (Cyrillic alphabet) rivaled that of an infant.

The evening was another affair. Audrey found herself in the midst of another frenzied swarm of travelers and migrant workers from the former Soviet Union waiting to collect their stamped passports. Everyone was told to arrive at 6 PM, but the passports didn't come out until almost 6:45, raising the crowd's anxiety level to fever pitch. No signs indicated at which window anyone should queue. The lack of process transformed the crowd into a bunch of pinballs bouncing maniacally from window to window in search of their passports.

Audrey emerged from the office with a shaken, young Japanese tourist who imploringly asked, “Do I have to go through this in Uzbekistan?” Although Uzbekistan has its share of controls and regulations, registering at the foreigner’s police is fortunately not one of them.

The post Kazakhstan Visas and Letters of Invitation (LOI) appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Barely recovering from self-inflicted death march from Kazakh mountains. Copter airlift looked likely. Rappelling down waterfall = escape.

— Our Twitter update from Almaty, Kazakhstan on 3 September 2007

My, how things can go wrong.

Our trusty Lonely Planet guidebook told us to “skirt Pik Bolshoy Almatinsky (Big Almaty Peak) and follow the river gorge down to the ski resort of Alma Arasan.” When we came over the pass, we did that. Or, rather, we thought we did. Instead, what we committed to was a steep descent through a different – and highly unrecommended – giant boulder-filled river gorge.

It dawned on us rather early that we had chosen poorly.

Almost three hours into this downhill scramble, we hit a waterfall about 100 feet high. There was no way to climb down. Our phone had no signal, so calling for help wasn't an option. Disheartened and beginning to fear the waning light and our dim circumstances, we tried to climb around the waterfall and over the next pass 1000 feet above us. Pulling ourselves up the hill by roots, branches, and bushes, our hearts sank again and again as we stopped to take stock of our position and another way out. We faced cliff edges everywhere we turned.

Several more attempts later, we found a descent covered with fallen leaves and greens. It was impossible to tell whether a cliff lurked under each patch of loose rocks and vegetation. We were forced to inch down, testing the ground beneath us with each step. Although steep, dangerous and rocky, we managed to climb down to the riverbed again, bypassing the waterfall.

As our legs turned to lead and our movements to jelly, we knew we were in trouble. There we were on a simple hike in the Tian Shan mountains with an as-the-crow-flies view of where we needed to be, Almaty. However, with each advance seemed to come another waterfall or rockslide that would eliminate another way out. We were desperately lost, and as night began to fall, we pushed on, losing sight of both the ground beneath us and the risk we were taking with each step.

Mission Impossible in the Tian Shan Mountains?

Another waterfall 50 feet high blocked our path. Cursing and on the verge of tears, we spied a rope leading from the top of the waterfall. We had no choice, so we each hurled ourselves over the side of the rock, held on to the rope, and did our best Mission Impossible imitation, rappelling over the fall just above safe ground. The rope was not quite long enough, meaning a literal leap of faith was needed at the end. At this point, we had bottomed out physically and emotionally, but we felt the need to press on.

Our hearts soared when we began to notice trash strewn in the bushes near the stream we were following. Trash = people = we're getting close to civilization.

More good news followed as we found a walking path just as the light dissolved into a grainy darkness. We raced quickly – staggering, praying that we'd find a road…or maybe some people. Instead, the path ended in a mudslide.

We had no choice but to backtrack and return to the riverbed.

We eventually found a questionably beaten path. It was 8:30 at night and we were enveloped in darkness.

Good Fortune and a Random Act of Kindness

Then, out of nowhere, we were spit out onto a dirt road across from a rest stop serving mutton shashlik (barbecue). We tried to flag down a car in hopes that it would agree to taxi us to town. Every vehicle was full as families returned to Almaty after a pleasant day in the mountains.

After a few dozen flagging attempts, a minivan packed with several families inside pulled into the parking lot. I, exhausted and covered in dirt from all of her falls, asked the driver in broken Russian whether he was headed towards Almaty. Before she could finish, the man responded to our obvious deteriorated condition, “Do you need help?“

We imagined fitting into the back of their minivan (where luggage normally goes), but the man cleared his remaining friends and family to the back, led us to the large, plush seats up front and gave us a luxurious lift back to the safety and comfort of Almaty, its city lights, and its civilization.

To describe us as thankful for all of this good fortune is an understatement. After all, we were alive and we had a comfortable ride home. We were the very relieved recipients of a random act of kindness from a Kazakh family.

Safe and Reflective

Hindsight being 20/20, it would have been safer to have spent the night under the protection of a tree in the mountains and to resume our descent when we were equipped with better light and better judgment. We were very lucky. We had some scrapes and achy muscles, but things could have been much, much worse.

Hardships and poor decision-making aside, our foray into Kazakhstan's Soviet past at the observatory and Kosmostantsia provided a grounding contrast to the polish and glitz of nearby Almaty. The mountain scenery, especially around Big Almaty Lake, is striking. Our only advice before you have your own Tian Shan Mountain adventure: buy a real hiking map.

How to Visit Big Almaty Lake and Kosmostancia

• How to get there: Take a shared taxi or bus #28 to Kokshoky and follow the signs for Kosmostantsia. If hiking is not your thing, contact the Tian Shan Astronomical Observatory for transport from Almaty (see below).
• Where to stay: The observatory offers basic accommodation and food in a funky Soviet-era junkyard mountain setting. We recommend it. Domicks (10 Euros/person) are the cheapest option with a shared outhouse and sink. There are nicer rooms for 15 euros/person that include en suite bathrooms and hot water. Engage the astronomer on site and gaze at the stars using high-powered telescopes (5 euros/person). Breakfast and dinner run 4 Euros/person.
• Contact: Aivar (he speaks English): 87055222446, or email him at aivar086022 [at] gmail.com or aivar1960 [at] mail.ru.

The post How Kazakhstan Nearly Killed Us appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Sometimes we seek beauty and sometimes we find it. Sometimes we seek a thrill and it finds us, giving us more than we had bargained for. Along our journey into the Tian Shan Mountains in Kazakhstan, we encountered pieces of history, stunning landscape, a draining hike, and the softer side of Almaty. The only thing missing: a map.

The Hike to Big Almaty Lake

In an effort to get up close and personal with the Tian Shan Mountains that frame Almaty’s southern flank, we began our hike towards Big Almaty Lake (Bolshoe Almatinskoe Ozera) on a Saturday afternoon in early September.

After more than 12 kilometers of uphill hiking – some of it balanced atop a large water pipe – we finally reached Big Almaty Lake. At 7500 feet in late afternoon, the lake is small, but striking. Its bright aqua hue is well-seated in contrast to the austerity of the surrounding mountains.

We were exhausted. After taking a few photos, we resumed our hike to face a few more turns and some more elevation in order to reach our destination for the evening, a Soviet-era observatory above the lake.

Bush Legs and a Night with the Stars

We were greeted at the Tian Shan Astronomical Observatory by an eerie silence, rusted vehicles, satellite dishes and observation towers. We didn't see or hear a soul and wondered if our plans to spend the night there were misguided.

Like a scene from a bizarre science fiction film, people began to gradually appear from buildings we thought were abandoned.

Later that evening, the kitchen whipped up a dinner of “Bush legs” and potatoes. We were so hungry that we almost licked the plates clean. (For those uninitiated, chicken legs exported from the United States to the former Soviet Union in the early 90s were named “Bush legs” after President Bush, Sr. The name is still affectionately used today, so much so that our host continually teased us that the evening's “Bush legs” dinner was especially planned for “the Americans.”)

Following dinner, the local astronomer, a mad scientist looking Russian man with long white hair, powered up one of the large 2500x telescopes. After cranking open the observatory panels by hand, he led us through a nighttime tour of a series of star clusters and exploding stars. Very cool. The astronomer echoed our excitement. He told us that he's still in love with astronomy after almost forty years.

We were dragged back to earth a few minutes later when the smog and ambient light from Almaty crept in and prevented us from seeing anything more. The astronomer shook his head in sadness. “It gets worse every year,” he said.

While some do what they can to keep the observatory alive as an active scientific center, the odds are against it. The lack of funding is evident in the junkyard of Soviet-era rusted vehicles, buildings and equipment. But it's Almaty's rapid development that poses even more problems, threatening to make the observatory obsolete.

Kosmostantcia

The next morning we discussed our hiking plans with our host. “First to the Soviet-era meteorological research center Kosmostantcia and then down the Prokhodnaya river gorge to Alma Arasan ski resort,” we offered with unassailable optimism. He smiled, “You certainly like to walk.” Wondering if he knew something we did not, we set off for Zhusalykezen Pass.

Upon arrival at Kosmostantcia, we were met with more Soviet trucks that looked well past their prime. The breakup of the Soviet Union froze them in time, on the edge of a much needed visit to the junkyard. In this post-apocalyptic setting, we half expected to see each vehicle commanded by a skeleton in the driver's seat – hands on the steering wheel and a cigarette hanging from the mouth.

A few humans still lurk almost imperceptibly in a handful of half-destroyed buildings. It is an immensely lonely existence. If you sent a letter addressed to Nowhere, there's a high probability it would end up here.

We continued over barren lands scattered with asbestos-covered trailers and abandoned weather station outposts towards Big Almaty Peak (Pik Bolshoy Almatinsky) at 10,000 feet.

The post Big Almaty Lake and Kosmostancia: The Hike and The Observatory appeared first on Uncornered Market.

You know you are in trouble when the only people in the place who smile at you are the missionaries.

A trip to the post office in each country we visit is pretty standard for us. We dread it because of the time it usually eats up, but we always find ourselves making the journey in order to mail backup DVDs of our photos or an occasional postcard. From a cultural anthropological point of view, however, a trip to the post office affords us another slice of real life and provides a window into how a country actually works (or doesn’t).

Shakedown at the Kiddie Painting

Almaty, Kazakhstan was no different. We stood in a line of three people at the main post office and awaited our turn as a possessed animatronic postal worker repeatedly stamped letters drawn from a stack about two feet tall. As she ignored the growing line of people in front of her, customers lingered for services and formed the typical Central Asian cloudlike queue, cutting in line while pretending to form new friendships with other postal workers behind the desk. Like an episode right out of the film Brazil, the scene reeked of inefficiency and inhumanity and the air was thick with bureaucracy.

I decided to take a break from the queue and strolled around to admire the postal aesthetic. Whether they are dim and dark or brightly adorned with Soviet Realist mosaics, post offices in the former Soviet Union are always worth a look.

On my mini-tour, I happened upon a lighthearted exhibition of elementary school artwork posted on a wall. The theme appeared to be “draw a picture of what the post office means to you.” Sunny images of postmen walking with their mailbags were hung aside remarkable sketches of postal clerks. The drawings were well done and looked likely to end up on a series of stamps someday.

I thought, “What a pleasant image, colorful and human. I think I’d like to get a photo of this to use in one of our stories.” He pulled out his pocket camera, sized up his drawing of choice and snapped a photo. The light was not ideal, so he made some adjustments and snapped another.

Not five seconds later, two men dressed in drab mono-color security wear approached him.

(Note: The conversation below originally took place in broken Russian.)

Security: “Who are you?”
Me: “A tourist.”
Security: “Why are you here?”
Me: “I’m a tourist.”
Security: “What organization do you work for?”
Me: “I’m a tourist.”
Security: “Are you a journalist?”
Me: “No, I’m a tourist.”
Security: “Where are you from?”
Me: “America.”
Security: “Why are you taking this photo?”
Me: “I think this [drawing] is nice. It’s beautiful.”
Security: “Are you a journalist?”
Me: “No, I’m a tourist.”
Security: “Well, you know we don’t take photos here…in our country, in Kazakhstan.”

After a few grumbles, neck rolls and shoulder circles, the men brushed their sleeves and left me in front of the drawing, stunned and shaken from the experience.

Who knew that taking a photo of a drawing from a 5th grader was considered a breach of high security? What a welcome.

We’ve taken photos in plenty of places where we were not supposed to, usually without being aware of it. In most cases, an official approaches us or gives us a wave or sign indicating that photos are not allowed, and does so without making us feel like we’ve broken the country’s most sacred laws.

This particular episode at the Almaty post office not only verged on the absurd, but the security guards' approach was as close to a shakedown as we’ve received on our journey thus far. No smiles, all bile.

They succeeded on one front. No, they didn’t make me delete the photo, nor did they confiscate his camera. Worse, they snatched from him the simple joy that he sought in appreciating an innocent drawing of a postal worker. If, in the furthest reaches of their suspicious view of the world, he was doing something questionable, there were better ways of communicating it.

This was unbridled paranoia at its best.

However, on a more important front, the goons’ approach backfired. When I first took the photo, he wasn’t acting as a journalist. However, the confrontation turned the experience into a journalistic opportunity of sorts, which is what the security guards were afraid of in the first place. If only they hadn’t fingered me as a potential journalist, the photo would float amongst the many in our Kazakh photo sets. Instead, you’re now reading the result of the Law of Unintended Consequences.

Almaty’s Many Faces

Almaty, Kazakhstan’s now unofficial capital (the official capital has been moved to Astana), appears to be trying very hard to become cosmopolitan. Shiny buildings are going up at a clip, international boutiques are consuming ever more street space, and spiffy malls are drawing looks and crowds. The SUV and luxury car per capita ratio is probably higher than that of most major cities and swish restaurants serving international cuisine seem to well outnumber traditional food stands downtown. Along the path to modernity, Almaty fails to hide the fact that it takes itself a bit too seriously.

Though polished and boutiquish, Almaty’s lingering air of suspicion seems to stem from both its Soviet past and its Nazarbayev (the current President) family-controlled present. Kazakhstan expends a great deal of effort in evincing its modern business sleekness and it succeeds with many of its foreign business and tour agency visitors. However, when you travel independently like us and don’t have companies or tour agencies taking care things for you, a suspicious side seems to emerge.

The post Kazakhstan’s Postal Police appeared first on Uncornered Market.

“This is a hotel, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have rooms?”

“Yes. How long would you like the room?”

“For one night.”

“The whole night? You mean until morning?” It was 11:00 P.M. The woman at the desk seemed surprised by Audrey’s response.

It did look clean and she agreed to get some new sheets and towels, so we took it. Thank heavens for sleep sacks, anyway.

“You are my first American clients,” she beamed. “If you need anything, just find me. My name is Galina.” First all-night clients, too, we thought.

Audrey paid for the room at the front desk and noticed a ledger detailing the rooms and times they were booked.

“I have a bigger room next door. It will be available after midnight,” Galina explained. Who knew midnight was such a popular time to finish up your business in Kazakhstan? The curfew time of married men, perhaps?

“Do you want to watch TV? If so, I'll ask my husband to plug it in and turn it on. Some former clients ripped it out of the wall. Now he needs to install it each time.”

A little rough-housing, we figured.

We were so exhausted from our experience at the border, we enjoyed a bit of “Dangerous Minds” on our little abused TV, put in our earplugs (the place did seem pretty busy after all) and slept until mid-morning.

After we checked-out, we elicited some strange looks from the taxis waiting in front of the hotel. “Not accustomed to clients with large backpacks?” Dan inquired. More looks. That’s the great thing about being a tourist. You can sleep at a hotel-by-the-hour and not really care what the locals think. After all, it isn’t your country and you can simply plead ignorance.

So next time you are on a limited budget and need a place to stay in Shymkent, Kazakhstan look no further than the hotels-by-the-hour near the train station. Once you overcome the initial weirdness, they are pretty clean and inexpensive, particularly by Kazakh standards ($20/night for a double). And if you want to take a nap before a train or bus, there is nothing odd in asking for a room for 2 hours. Just be sure to bring an open mind, a sense of humor, your sleep sack…and your earplugs.

The post O Brothel, Where Art Thou? appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Have you ever watched the news and witnessed escaping refugees at a border crossing, crushed against iron bars like animals in a cage? You know the scene. Now superimpose two backpack-laden white faces onto that newsreel, throw in a few cries of “Kazakhstan, Kazakhstan” amongst the shrieks of old women and children being squashed in a sea of madness, and you would just begin to understand what we went through at the Uzbek-Kazakh border yesterday.

To our pleasant surprise, exiting Uzbekistan customs and passport control couldn’t have been easier. Then – our real test – the Kazakh side. The combined wisdom of Soviet and Asian queuing techniques conspired to produce large clouds of humanity everywhere, rendering it impossible to determine where things started and where they might end.

The Crowd Gets Anxious

We joined the queue at the rear of an anxious mob – some carrying shoulder bags, many lugging sagging Chinese sacks of vegetables and melons, and others laden with all of their worldly possessions. The gate in front of this herd of hundreds was locked. As people escaped and climbed back to the Uzbek side (for what we’re not certain), the remaining crowd swelled and swayed. Those around us hung onto our backpacks and tried to maneuver where they could, even though there was nowhere to go. In amazement, Audrey asked a Russian-Uzbek woman who seemed to look comfortable in this setting. “Is this normal? Is it like this every day?” The woman smiled, and nodded “Yes. Don’t worry, a few more pushes and we’ll make it to the front.”

As the full force of Uzbek-Kazakh rush hour hit, what little space existed disappeared and the real crush began. What air remained became almost too hot to breathe. We could feel our lungs taking on the pressure and slowly collapsing under the weight of bodies around us. In one of our most physically challenging travel moments yet, fainting was a distinct possibility. Injury was certain.

We were worried. The scene was something like a mosh pit, minus the order, joy and human decency. This was humanity and human misery at its worst: everyone tries to get in and ahead and no one realizes that the system crushes everyone under its own weight. This is the worst Russified post-Soviet Central Asian madness and behavior that we could imagine.

We looked around into the eyes of the herd and we could see normal people transformed into mutants consumed by anger, their faces twisting in smiles of fatigue. And there was no reason for this madness – no war, no shortages, no violence. What was going on here? Pretty simple: this is what happens when poor organization and perfect corruption conspire to bring human misery where it simply doesn’t belong. If this represents the combined wisdom of the Uzbek and Kazakh governments, life can only get worse before it gets better.

Getting Separated in the Crowd

In an effort to stay together, we locked arms. But the shifting human mass stripped us of our ability to move on our own and we eventually separated and drifted into the crowd. More people arriving from behind meant increased pressure, sandwiching the crowd more tightly forward towards the locked gate.

Dan struggled to move beyond an old man with an overflowing sack of watermelons and a group of Kazakh women built like linebackers. Women around us yelled, “Kazakhstan. It’s our Kazakhstan. I’m Kazakh, let me in. Kazakhstan is for us.” Angry Uzbek women replied that they were just as entitled to enter. Fortunately, no serious fights broke out, but everyone’s animal instincts were turned on full blast.

Audrey Makes It Through the Kazakh Border

After three hours in this angry steam bath of humanity, Audrey made it to the front gate and caught the eye of a Kazakh border guard. Just moments earlier, he had allowed a group of Kazakh citizens to pass due to their conveniently money-stuffed passports. Armed with her American passport and a look of helplessness, she implored him to let her through. As he opened the gate he smiled ironically, “Welcome to Kazakhstan.” The teeming masses tried to follow. The guard barked at them hinting that his gun was handy and tried to slam the gate. He perched himself against a metal fence and tried to close it against the weight of the mob with the force of his legs.

The Final Challenge: To Get Dan Out

The final challenge: to find and extract Dan. The guard was not up for this challenge. Dan was still several rows back in the angry crowd. Audrey tried with another guard, assuming the role of a distraught woman in search of her husband. Dan raised his hand to indicate where he was. The guard yelled and motioned to let him through. No one moved. Even if they could, would they? As a trickle escaped through the front gate, the crowd rocked back and forth in waves. Undeterred, the guard gave his best effort and reached in. In what little energy remained, Dan surged forward. His bags twisted in the crowd and he nearly went horizontal in an unintended crowd surf. He handed his passport to Audrey over the gate and reached to the outstretched hands of the guard, who helped to pull him – scratching and scraping just like the others – over and through the mob.

Final Step: The Passport Stamp

We were both covered in sweat, dehydrated and exhausted, but we still had one more hurdle to cross – getting our passports and immigration cards stamped by the Kazakh police. The corruption factory had apparently spawned another group of lowlife entrepreneurial women who collected money-loaded passports and handed them to the front of this queue, thereby expediting them to the colluding border guard at the window. Families huddled behind, unraveling wads of money (usually between $1-$3) to tuck into each passport. Having come this far without paying a bribe, we stuck to our principles and waited it out. When we arrived at the window, we were shown to a more civilized “foreigner’s line.”

Like all perfectly corrupt systems, there is an alternative to the experience above. Apparently, for around $8 (perhaps more for non-Kazakhs), middlemen touts have an arrangement with Kazakh border guards to allow people to enter through another gate, thereby fast-forwarding them to the front of the passport queue. We had considered this, but decided on principle not to contribute to the corruption; we subjected ourselves to the madness instead. By the time we’d figured this out, extracting ourselves was not an option anyhow. And in truth, we needed a really good story after enjoying so many uneventful days drinking lattes in Tashkent.

Reflections and Gratitude

Next time, would we pay to avoid the crowd? Having woken up with our share of cuts and bruises, it’s hard to say. For those of you who have ever paid a bribe (either directly or through a company that acts as a bribe-paying middleman or fixer), you are aware how systems that embrace endemic corruption have a way of wearing down your principles.

Cuts, bruises, and reflection aside, we were very fortunate to be carrying American passports.

Otherwise, we might still be at the border.

The post Battle at the Border appeared first on Uncornered Market.