Kazakhstan > We are not allowed to pay

Breakfast at eight o’clock. Just at that time, a large—really large—group of Kazakhs arrives for breakfast. I think they stayed overnight for a conference or something similar. The line for the breakfast buffet remains long. The enormous dining hall fills to the last chair. Fortunately, the buffet is restocked fairly quickly. Although? The buffet isn’t particularly special. In the supermarket, we buy food for the evening. If possible, we want to camp by Lake Alakol. The road north is sometimes very good, but just as often it’s full of ruts and potholes. This is easily solved: a sign is simply placed saying “bad road” for the next ten kilometers. Within this distance, there is usually a new sign. When the navigation instructs “keep left” and to enter a roundabout, it turns out that keeping left would be against traffic.

Kazakhstan - A simple shop in Kamiskala

Immediately, a police car with flashing lights appears. “Documents!” Using a booklet with traffic signs, it’s explained that we were on the wrong side of the road. We realized that quickly ourselves. While watermelons—taken as a fine from another victim—are being loaded into the back of the police car, the game begins for us. “Step into the car,” the officer requests. No, we prefer to play the game outside the car. He gestures that the driver’s license will be confiscated and a report must be written. After twenty minutes of trying and threatening, we’re allowed to continue. Laughing, the officer says, “You are a bad driver!” At a small restaurant, we meet the motorcyclists again. They had passed us during the police check. Coffee is served with a large plate of cookies, cakes, and sweets. Everyone wants to know where we’re from. The first, somewhat shy waitress asks if she may take a selfie with each of us. Of course. By the second cup of coffee, a plate of carrot salad and a large dish of lamb with potatoes appear. The entire table is full. We hadn’t ordered anything besides the coffee. They also insist that we try some horse milk. We let that sour substance pass. When paying, we don’t have to pay anything. “You are our guests.” Even when we try to insist, the family insists we don’t pay. We thank them very warmly. What hospitality! We still have over 180 kilometers to drive to Lake Alakol. We refuel. This is a tricky process. First, you must pay, then you can pump fuel. This means you have to calculate yourself how much fuel the tank can hold.

Kazakhstan - Overnight stay in Kamiskala

You can’t just fill it to full. We decide to take forty liters—more than enough for today. Lake Alakol is a nature reserve east of Usharal. The village of Akakol itself has barely twenty houses. When we reach the waterfront, the area looks more like a garbage dump. It probably rained heavily recently, as puddles are everywhere—not exactly an appealing camping environment. The dog from a nearby house seems pleased we’re here. He comes to greet us enthusiastically, but we think differently. Further along the route is another village by the lake: Kamiskala. This village is a bit larger. In a small shop, we try to buy bread. “Njet.” Maybe in the magazine further on? The saleswoman points to a dilapidated building. The door is open, but the rest looks severely run-down. Inside, however, there is a small kind of supermarket. We would never have found it ourselves. Unfortunately, they don’t have bread. The employee goes to the back and comes out with a piece of bread—her own. We are allowed to take it. When we try to drive to the lake, the road ends. On the other side of the water, the road continues. There is no connection anymore, a lady at the side explains. We understand that there used to be a bridge or ferry. Now you have to detour over three hundred kilometers to reach the other side. She also warns us that there are a lot of mosquitoes by the water. That’s a shame, because the lakeside is a very nice camping spot. The mosquitoes swarm around us as soon as we step out for a moment. We decide to set up camp on the side of the village. With great effort, we gather wood for a campfire. In the evening, we cook the chicken over the fire—our first barbecue of the trip. Several people come to see what’s going on. “Selfie?” they ask. Of course. “Instagram, Instagram,” they probably post several photos of us. Although the weather has been threatening all evening, it remains dry until we go into the tent.