Kazakhstan > Welcome, welcome in Russia

Yesterday we discussed what to do if the rings for the motorcycle do not arrive or arrive late. We agreed that we would drive ahead in the car at a relaxed pace toward Russia. We all hope the motorcyclists can follow soon. Milko and Wilco are staying in Semey. They will also look for alternatives. Perhaps there is also heat-resistant tape for sale there, which was previously used to temporarily repair the exhaust. Maybe this could be an option to reach Ulaanbaatar. There is a KTM dealer in Ulaanbaatar. After breakfast, we say our goodbyes. We agree to turn on the satellite phone every day between six and eight o’clock so we can maintain contact if needed. Just as we leave Semey, Milko sends an update. The rings have been waiting at customs in Almaty since Friday. Sigh! We decide to go via the border town of Shemonaikha, a relatively small border crossing. From there, we want to drive inland to Gorno-Altajsk.

Kazakhstan - Crossing the fifteenthousandkilometer mark

In Gorno-Altajsk, we enter the Altai border district. From here, we follow the main route to the border with Mongolia. In the border area, it is not always allowed to travel without a permit. We do not have a separate permit for the border strip. The total route through Russia to the Mongolian border is over 1,200 kilometers. We will spend several days on this. Just before the border in Shemonaikha, we fill up the car and spend our last Kazakh money in a small shop. At two o’clock, we arrive at the Kazakhstan border. When the back door opens, the officer sighs. So many belongings. He closes the door again and says: “Drive through.” On the Russian side, things also go relatively quickly. The car registration and passport stamping go smoothly. The customs officer looks in the car, but nothing needs to be opened. “Welcome, welcome,” the officer says kindly. We drive into Russia. The Russian roads are remarkably good and even have logical traffic signs. We had doubted whether this would continue. The villages also appear much more colorful and well-maintained than we were used to in the “Stans.” We withdraw our first rubles from an ATM. We ask a passerby for the time. It turns out this part of Russia is one hour ahead of Kazakhstan. We quickly adjust our watches. By five o’clock, new time, the sky darkens. Even darker than yesterday. Thunderstorms light the horizon. We drive into severe weather. It starts to rain—very heavily. There is even hail. Two-centimeter hailstones bounce off the hood and windshield. There is absolutely no place to stop or take shelter. There is no choice but to keep driving. Good thing the motorcyclists are not on the road here today. By six o’clock, we enter the village of Krasnovyokovo. The navigation indicates there should be a hotel here. Other hotels are not found nearby. The hotel appears closed, but the door is ajar. Inside, a lady approaches us hesitantly. “Can we sleep here?” “Da, da.” In continuous Russian, she explains various things. We understand that she is from the café downstairs and that someone else handles the rooms, but we don’t understand much more. She points to a price list somewhere. The room looks simple but good enough. The landlady for the rooms has also arrived. Downstairs in the bar, we have a beer with some chips. Outside, it has started raining again. Using a pictogram, we indicate we want food. “Da, da.” In the freezer, there are dumplings. One or two portions? We think we understand. “Two, please.” The rest of the fridge and freezer are empty. The kitchen, and indeed the rest of the hotel, give the impression that guests do not stay here regularly. But who would come to Krasnovyokovo anyway?