Through the Horizons. Part 1. Escape
Алексей Бардаков
This book is based on true events and is the first part of the story about a person who, in a difficult moment, took the opportunity to radically change their life and share the consequences. It covers a hitchhiking journey through the countries of Central Asia: the gray and seemingly gloomy Kazakhstan, the Kyrgyzstan with its beautiful nature and amazing people, the sunny Uzbekistan, where the author spent a significant part of this journey, allowing them to visit many wonderful places in the country, and catch a glimpse of Tajikistan with its beautiful yet simultaneously dangerous mountain landscape.
Алексей Бардаков
Through the Horizons. Part 1. Escape
Who I was
Hello, my name is Alexey Bardakov. I'm 29 years old and divorced. I have dedicated almost 10 years of my life to working in the restaurant industry. I began my journey as a waiter in Crimea. After the first summer season, I completed bartender courses in Kyiv, which significantly changed my attitude towards alcohol consumption. Before the courses, I would drink any alcohol without thinking twice. However, the tastings conducted during the courses provided me with a foundation for developing my taste and understanding of alcohol as a form of art. Over time, I moved to the Moscow region and then to Moscow itself. I had the opportunity to work in excellent restaurants in Moscow and meet amazing chefs who had an incredible sense of taste. Most of the time, I worked as a waiter in restaurants. On one hand, it provided me with a stable income for a comfortable life in Moscow. On the other hand, I enjoyed being able to cater to the tastes of guests who were interested in my opinion about the dishes.
September 21st.
The morning began like any other workday: I woke up at 5:30 a.m., took a shower, got ready for work, and left home at 6 a.m.
As I boarded the subway train, I turned on my VPN and opened Instagram, scrolling through my friends' stories. I stumbled upon a photo from a television screen with the caption, "Address by the President of the Russian Federation." It piqued my curiosity, so I decided to go online and listen to what was being said. I had no thoughts or assumptions about the content of the address. Perhaps it was because I tried to emotionally shield myself from this war-related situation, as it had a significant impact on my work and psychological state.
After listening to the President's address, I was in a mild state of shock. Chaos ensued in my mind and soul. Feelings of fear, hopelessness, and duty intertwined into an emotional knot that hindered clear thinking. After a couple of minutes, I gathered myself and engaged in an inner dialogue about the decision I should ultimately make if the so-called "partial mobilization" affected me.
During the remaining half-hour of my commute, I failed to reach any agreement with my inner voice. Upon arriving at work, almost everyone was discussing the topic, and I, of course, took part in those conversations, which triggered my self-preservation instinct, raising alarm.
One of my colleagues and I couldn't stop talking about the situation. The fear and panic in his eyes surpassed mine, which led me to think that I didn't fully grasp the seriousness of the situation. Airfare prices to any destination were skyrocketing exponentially, and the more I interacted with him, the more I started to panic.
An hour later, my colleague decided to flee the country while there was still a chance, using any suitable means. I stayed at work, and the more I thought about this situation, the more I considered following my colleague's example.
I called Egor, a friend and also my neighbor. He was in the same internal panic as myself. Egor and I agreed to discuss this matter at home after work and decide what to do. I couldn't focus on work today, as my thoughts consumed my mind. They didn't let me go home earlier either, as there was already a shortage of people for the shift.
From seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, my productivity reached a solid zero point zero tenths of a percent. The management, seeing that this situation was occupying my mind for a long period, gave permission for me to go home and consider the pros and cons in a calm environment.
On my way home, I made a resolute decision to flee the country, as I concluded that I didn't want to go to a place engulfed in fratricidal war. I believe that, no matter the disagreements, everything can always be resolved peacefully.
Once we arrived home, Egor and I began discussing the situation and our subsequent actions with a clear head. We reached a mutual agreement that we needed to leave, and where to go was not as important anymore.
Firstly, I started packing my belongings, having a rough idea of what might be useful in the near future. Secondly, we began searching for options on how to leave the country.
Closer to seven in the evening, information appeared on the internet stating that only citizens who met three criteria were subject to partial mobilization:
Military service completion and possession of military specialization.
Health category A.
Participation in combat operations.
Upon seeing this information, Egor and I breathed a sigh of relief, as neither he nor I had participated in combat operations, and it should not affect us at this stage of our lives.
After ten in the evening, I messaged and then had a phone call with an acquaintance whose father works at the military draft office. He confirmed the earlier information and assured us that we shouldn't worry at the moment. I exhaled and calmed down. I informed my workplace that I wasn't leaving and would be back to work tomorrow.
I unpacked some of my things and started attending to household chores, preparing for sleep.
September 22st.
The morning started like any other – easy and calm. There was no trace left of yesterday's anxiety and worries. Today, my shift was scheduled to begin at 12 noon.
Everything was going well; I was working quietly and hardly recalling the events of the previous day. As evening approached, information appeared on the internet that Ukrainian hackers had hacked the website of the military draft office, and lists of people subject to partial mobilization were exposed. My anxiety began to shake my inner state slightly.
My colleague Alexander found a link to this file on Telegram and started searching for me and other guys who could potentially be subject to partial mobilization. After they didn't find me, I regained peace of mind for myself.
After a short period of time, I asked them to look for my friend Egor. He was not on the list either. Out of curiosity, I asked them to check the list for the city where I was born and where my school acquaintances and relatives lived. I didn't find any acquaintances there, but I saw my younger brother and his best friend on those lists.
In that same second, I experienced a wide range of negative emotions. Anger, resentment, outrage, horror, fear, and irritation overwhelmed me. He couldn't possibly be on those lists, and in that moment, I made a decision for myself: if it so happens that he gets called, I will volunteer to go with him. I cannot let him go there alone.
I was once again thrown off balance; I couldn't focus on work because my worry for my brother was overwhelming. After a short while, we had the idea to find those people whom we knew had received summons or were already there. Out of five people, we couldn't find a single one. In that moment, I stopped worrying about my younger brother, and a slight sense of unease for myself resurfaced. It was clear that these lists were fake, created to induce panic, and to some extent, they succeeded.
I worked through the rest of the evening, trying to isolate myself from these thoughts, and somehow I managed to do so. Upon returning home, I exchanged a few words with Egor and went to sleep.
September 23st.
Morning, waking up at 10:00. The worries have already faded away. Shower, breakfast, everything is going as usual. I received a call from my brother via Telegram at 10:45. Before I could answer, another call came in, this time from my sister.
In that very moment, I sensed what had happened. As soon as I picked up the phone, the first thing I asked my sister was:
Did they come for me?
Yes. Mom is talking to an officer, and there are two more people in military uniforms with them.
Mechanically, I started repeating:
I won't go there.
I had already decided for myself that it was definitely not my path and I didn't need to go there. My sister asked me what I would do, and all I kept repeating was, "I won't go there, I won't go there."
Without even hanging up the phone, I went into Egor's room, woke him up, and told him they had come for me. Egor, still groggy but with fear in his eyes, asked:
Where? Back home to Crimea?
Yes, we need to decide something quickly.
Egor called his parents, asking if they had come for him. His parents answered that everything was calm, and there was no need to worry.
I asked Egor what he was thinking and whether he would leave with me now or on his own. Egor said he would stay in Moscow for now and hide in another apartment. I decided not to delay, as there was no time for it, and this news gave me a strong push to take action.
A few minutes later, my mother called me and relayed the dialogue she had with the military personnel.
Is Alexey Yuryevich Bardakov living here?
Not at the moment.
Where is he currently located?
He is in Moscow.
How long has he been away?
He has been living and working there for a long time.
Why didn't he register with the local military office?
I don't know.
Do you know his phone number?
My mother gave them my phone number, and many people might wonder why. In such situations, it's better not to resist since they would have found out the phone number anyway. Moreover, I have never changed my number.
My mother was worried and wanted to know what I would do and what I was thinking. I replied to her, "I don't want to go there, and I have no intention to." My mother asked me not to do anything foolish and not to make hasty decisions. She suggested talking to the military office and finding out what they wanted.
Given the current situation, their intentions were clear to me. I understood that it was better not to share my thoughts and possible actions with her to avoid causing her unnecessary worry. I had already made my decision, and I had no intention of changing it.
I needed to leave immediately, and the sooner, the better. The fewer people who knew about my departure from the country, the safer it would be.
I called my workplace and briefly explained the entire situation to my manager, informing them that I wouldn't be coming in today or in the near future. They understood completely and wished me good luck, for which I am grateful.
Next, I called my father, hoping that at least once in my life, he would do something significant and help me with my journey to the Kazakhstan border. Unfortunately, I was naive in those thoughts. The only thing I heard was, "Don't be foolish, there's no need to go anywhere, call the military office, and everything will be resolved."
I realized that I would never receive any help or support from this person. Just like in the past, he had never taken any part in my life, and he had no intention of doing so now.
As I packed my things, I simultaneously searched for a car to the nearest border. I chose Saratov and then onwards to the Kazakhstan border. I found a car through BlaBlaCar at three o'clock in the afternoon, leaving me with only four hours available.
I went through the items I had gathered earlier once again. Reducing them to two backpacks, this time I only took the essentials and warm clothing.
At one o'clock, I called a taxi to arrive early at the departure point. After getting into the taxi, I contacted the BlaBlaCar driver to find out the exact address and departure time. The response to my question shocked me: "We have already left and are speeding along the MKAD." Sitting in a taxi heading to a different address, I tried to negotiate with them to wait for me somewhere. For a modest extra fee of 200 rubles, we agreed to meet at the Kashirskaya metro station at two o'clock in the afternoon.
Changing the address from one point to another naturally altered the taxi fare, and it was pointless to change cars when there was simply no time. The taxi driver turned out to be excellent. Somehow, we managed to reach the designated spot in less than an hour from the other side of the city. I called the BlaBlaCar driver, and he said he was approaching. We agreed on a more specific location for me to wait.
The driver arrived in a brand-new Toyota. I introduced myself to Dima, whose character and initial manner of communication were quite unpleasant, which increased my caution and mistrust towards him. He appeared to be no younger than 40. Dima turned out not to be alone but with a colleague, with whom they worked as long-haul truckers. His colleague's name was Artem, a young, short, and slim guy in his twenties. He had returned from mandatory military service a couple of months ago. He was extremely quiet and reserved.
Artem went to the store to buy cigarettes for the journey, while Dima and I stood outside the car, getting to know each other better, so to speak. He asked why I was going to Saratov, a question I had to lie about, which I really dislike doing, but I had no other choice since I didn't trust Dima. Without much thought, I answered his question, "I'm going to my girlfriend's relatives for the weekend."
Dima got distracted by a passing woman who appeared to be slightly over 35 years old. She approached us and asked for a light, to which Dima, being a true gentleman, helped her with this request. After flirting with each other for about five minutes and exchanging numbers, the woman went about her business. Dima's subsequent monologue about this woman was not the most pleasant. I don't think it's worth describing it here.
Artem returned from the store, we got into the car, and we were ready to leave, but Dima received a phone call. The guy who called him seemed clearly worried and pleaded intensely not to leave without him. Dima turned to me and asked if I minded waiting for the guy. I, of course, had no objections because I had been in his position just an hour ago. Dima agreed to wait for him for an extra fee for one hour. We parked near the nearest shopping center next to the metro station.
After 50 minutes, he arrived, and we set off. My fellow traveler turned out to be a young lad named Vitya, who didn't look older than 22. Vitya studied the IT field on YouTube and, according to his claims, quite successfully. He had managed to get a job at some company by lying about his work experience.
Vitya tried to conceal the purpose of his trip, but Dima quickly figured him out, and Vitya confessed that he was running away to Kazakhstan.
During the journey, Dima and Artem shared the purpose of their trip. They were deliberately heading to a military recruitment office, even though they hadn't received any conscription notices. Dima expressed approval for the events unfolding in Ukraine. For about an hour, he talked about his anticipation of an attack on Kyiv, as it was the capital and there were many places where they could find supplies. At that moment, I realized that this person was not going there with the aim of defending the borders of the Russian Federation, but rather for plunder and looting. Dark thoughts, a dark soul.
I thought of giving Vitya some advice and handed him my phone with a note open, which read, "Try not to talk too much about the border, where you're going, and what you think about it." He wrote down his phone number and handed me my phone back. In our conversation, I told him that I was also heading to the Kazakhstan border. After that, Vitya and I decided that we would continue together towards the border because, at the very least, it would be easier and somewhat safer.
We had plenty of time to explore options for getting from Saratov to the "Ozinki" border. We estimated our arrival time in Saratov to be around three o'clock in the morning. We managed to find a driver who would take us to the border for 5,000 rubles per person. We didn't have any other choice since taxi fares were starting at 15,000 rubles, and many other temporary taxi drivers were charging at least 10,000 rubles. So we had to agree on the price of 5,000 rubles. Vitya arranged with the driver to pick us up at four o'clock in the morning at the Saratov train station.
We were driving fairly quickly and confident that we would make it on time, but we encountered some issues as darkness fell. We got caught in a major traffic jam, which later turned out to be caused by a collision between two trucks. Both of them were engulfed in flames, leaving only their metal frames behind. Besides the police and firefighters, there was no one else around. If there was an ambulance, it had likely left after taking care of the injured. Because of this traffic jam, we were already running late for our scheduled time, at least a couple of hours late, so we informed the next driver that we would arrive later.
Along the way, approximately every couple of kilometers, there were cars stuck in ditches, and the drivers stood on the roadside, waiting for someone to pull them out. It seems to me that this is due to several factors. There is no road lighting, no barriers, and, of course, driver drowsiness. These are probably the main problems during night journeys between cities. Around eleven o'clock in the evening, I succumbed to sleep, as its arrival could no longer be restrained.
September 24st.
I woke up around two o'clock in the morning due to the noise of a heavy downpour, which was so intense that the roads were barely visible. Dima asked us if we minded stopping somewhere along the way to wait out the rain and allow him and Artem to get some rest. Of course, we agreed because our goal was to arrive at our destination alive. Vitya informed our next driver that we were even further delayed and would arrive much later than planned, and we didn't know exactly when we would be in Saratov. He kindly agreed to pick us up when we arrived without changing the price.
Instead of two hours, we waited for nearly four hours and resumed our journey closer to six in the morning.
We reached Saratov around 10 o'clock in the morning, where a Kazakh driver in a Lada Granta was already waiting for us at the train station. The first thing I asked him was where I could find an ATM. Luckily, there was an ATM around the corner, just 50 meters away from us. Leaving our belongings in the car, Vitya and I headed towards the ATM.
I withdrew almost all the money, not only from my debit card but also from my credit cards. I was aware of the potential consequences this could have in the long run if I didn't repay the money back to the credit cards. Unfortunately, I didn't know and couldn't anticipate how much money I would need and whether I would be able to use credit cards once I was abroad.
After finishing this task, we returned to the car, and as soon as we got in, the driver informed us that we would make a stop at the airport to pick up three more passengers before heading to the "Ozinki" border. On the way to the airport, we asked the driver to stop at a store to buy something to eat for the journey.
A few kilometers from the airport, the driver asked us not to mention that we were paying 5,000 rubles per person because we had agreed on that price before the increase, and he didn't want to change the terms. However, the guys we were currently traveling with agreed to pay 12,000 rubles. According to him, the price had risen from 5,000 to 12,000 per person overnight. To avoid any problems with the driver, we agreed.
When we arrived at the airport, the guys were already waiting for us. They immediately started bargaining with the driver, arguing that they had been offered 7,000 rubles per person at the airport, and if he didn't lower the price to 5,000, they would go with any other driver. Our driver didn't resist for long, and after a couple of minutes, he gave in, and we set off in a cramped space but without hard feelings.
On the way, we got to know the guys, all of whom appeared to be no older than 25. Misha worked in IT, Kolya was a car dealer and importer from abroad, and Vlad was involved in some entrepreneurial activity.
We discussed with the guys the main topic of the past few days and how their parents reacted to their departure. None of the guys, except me, had served in the military, but they still worried that they might be pursued. Without any hidden agenda, I shared with them that people had already come looking for me based on my registration, and only after some time did I realize how rash it was to trust people I had just met in my life, even though I usually think several steps ahead before taking such actions.
I told the guys that I hadn't made any plans because I wanted to cross the border first and then think about what to do, as I was 99% sure that I would not be allowed to leave the country.
By 3:30 PM, we arrived at the border. The beginning of the queue was 7 kilometers away from the Ozinki checkpoint. The guys and I decided to walk to the beginning of the queue and try to cross the border on foot, as there were rumors in the chats that groups of 5 or more people were being allowed through. If that didn't work, our next option was to try and hitch a ride in a car as close to the border as possible. As we walked further, the price to hitch a ride with someone willing to make a profit increased from 5,000 to 15,000 rubles per person. Our belief that we would be allowed to cross on foot did not waver. It served as a good motivator in such sweltering weather.
After an hour and a half, we reached the barrier where the border guards turned us away, informing us that pedestrian crossing was closed. We had no choice but to begin searching for cars that could at least take us across the border.
And so the game began. We started looking for people to hitch a ride with. Any car from the higher-end segment with only two occupants and empty back seats would either roll up the windows or turn their faces away, ignoring us.
I approached a simple sedan with a young couple and a three-year-old child in the back seat. I tried to negotiate with them, and after a minute of silence, the driver's wife finally engaged in a conversation with me. Even after explaining our situation, she still hesitated and cited the visit from the military registration and enlistment office earlier that morning, expressing her reluctance to put someone else at risk if her husband was not allowed through. Left with no other option, I decided to take a gamble and share my story, as I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I told them that the same thing happened to me yesterday, so I had nothing to lose and was in the same circumstances as him. After exchanging glances and a brief discussion, they still declined, apologizing for being unable to help. I sincerely wished them well and went on to search for another car.
I caught up with the guys after about 10 cars. Kolya managed to strike a deal with a person who agreed to give us a ride to Uralsk for 5,000 rubles per person, four of us in his car and one in his brother's car. We agreed and divided ourselves as follows: I, Vitya, Kolya, and Vlad in the first car, and Misha in the second. By 5:00 PM, we were already in the car, with only about 20 cars left to the border.
After putting our belongings in the trunk, I took off my t-shirt and hung it on the door to dry, as I was drenched in sweat and the shirt could be wrung out. The guys and I had a snack with what Vitya bought at the store.
A few minutes later, the same woman who was with her husband and whom I tried to negotiate with approached me.
If you still need it, let's go. We can take two people for free.
Since we had already made arrangements with the driver, it wouldn't be nice to change plans. However, we decided to send Misha with her, as he was in a separate car with unfamiliar people.
We drove to the border barrier for about a couple of hours, moving at a snail's pace. During the journey, we decided to get to know the driver better. He was from Kyrgyzstan and earned a living by transporting cars from Georgia to his homeland, so Kolya had something to talk to him about, as their activities were similar.
And then came that long-awaited and decisive moment when we passed the barrier and approached the stop line in front of the border booths for personal document checks. As we sat in the car, we watched and tried to listen to the guys going through passport control ahead of us.
The queue reached the last guy from the car in front of us. The border guard came out of the booth and invited him to come forward. He led him to a man in military uniform, and unfortunately, we were too far away to hear what they were saying. We could only make out a few words spoken in an elevated tone. We couldn't make out what the border guard was saying to the guy. But the fact remains unchanged: they put him in the car and took him in the opposite direction from the border. The other guys from that car turned back and headed towards the Kazakh border.
My fears after this incident that I wouldn't be allowed to leave the country and would be taken away like that guy multiplied, and my fear increased by tens of times.
It was our turn to approach the designated spot and approach the border booth. We lined up in the queue, and since I had the highest chances of sharing the same fate as the guy from the previous car, I stood at the end of the line.
Vitya approached the window first and handed over his passport. The border guard asked where he was going and with whom, mentioning the driver's name. The border guard looked up and saw all of us standing behind Vitya. He told us to call that driver over and stepped out of the booth, took out a cigarette, and lit it. When our driver approached, the border guard asked him:
Who are they?
Pointing at us.
They're my friends.
What are you saying, and what are their names?
Our driver stopped resisting and just lowered his head. It was easier for us to remember one of his names than for him to immediately grasp four new names. Now the border guard shifted his focus to us.
And where are you all headed?
Various versions of where everyone was going started pouring out. Someone said they were going to uncles and aunts, someone to grandmothers and grandfathers. I probably had one of the best stories: I said I was going to Kyrgyzstan for a mountain hike, and I had all the necessary gear that I could show if needed. After everyone finished their stories, the border guard erupted and started expressing his thoughts loudly, almost shouting.
After mobilization started, everyone abroad suddenly had grandmothers, grandfathers, and distant relatives who urgently needed visiting! What are you telling me here?!
After his verbal tirade, my fears and anxiety increased even more. The border guard clearly vented out everything that had built up in him throughout the day, turned around, and silently returned to the booth, and we lined up again. I also took my place at the end of the line. The guys presented their passports, answered one or two questions, got their stamps, and walked back to our car, which had already passed the inspection.
And now the moment arrived when it was my turn. My heartbeat accelerated, my wrists trembled slightly, and a lump formed in my throat that I tried to swallow before approaching the window. Gathering my emotions, I greeted and handed over my international passport. Although an internal passport would have been sufficient for crossing the border, my passport had a stamp indicating that I was subject to military service, which could raise additional questions.
The border guard didn't respond to my greeting or even raise his eyes to me, not asking a single question. He simply scanned and flipped through my passport, stamped it, and returned it to me. I just said "thank you" and, with my heart pounding a million beats per minute, returned to the car where my fellow travelers congratulated me on successfully passing the border. But I still couldn't relax because I had lingering concerns related to the Kazakh border.
In some Telegram chats, unpleasant individuals wrote that Kazakhstan intends to soon close its land borders due to a large influx of people. Such news circulated throughout the following week, and occasionally, unpleasant rumors surfaced, but nobody knew how reliable they were.
We set off towards the Kazakh border. After passing the barrier, we caught sight of a new queue, which was not the only one. It began almost immediately after crossing the barrier.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and we stepped out of the car to breathe in the fresh night air and stretch our legs. There were three queues, unlike at the Russian border. The first one was for trucks, the second for cars with Kazakh license plates, and the third for cars with Russian license plates. Since we had Armenian plates, we were instructed to join the queue with Russian plates. This meant that we would have to wait for a long time, as the queue was probably 3-4 kilometers long.
I informed the guys that I would take a short walk and try to find Misha and the others who had agreed to give him a lift. I was curious about how they were doing and if everything had gone well for them. I walked about one kilometer but couldn't find them.
My search was interrupted by a phone call from Kolya, my fellow traveler. I picked up the phone, and he spoke very quickly and excitedly.
"Leha, where are you? We're heading towards the border through the Kazakh queue. Catch up with us."
I don't think I've ever run as fast as I did that day. I ran for about two kilometers, maybe slightly less, panting but managed to catch up with them.
Our car was second in line after his brother's car. I hopped inside and found out what was going on. The brothers who transported cars had managed to arrange with the border guards to pass through this queue, bypassing all the other cars with Russian plates, for a symbolic fee.
There were many dissatisfied people, even a Kazakh car that arrived after us tried to squeeze in earlier. But the bribe had already been paid, and the border guards themselves didn't allow it to pass ahead of us.
We waited for about half an hour until we were given permission to proceed. And there it was, the final step to cross the border. The document and vehicle inspection procedure with the Kazakh border guard went smoothly, faster, and easier. As soon as we entered the territory of Kazakhstan, a loud cheer erupted in the car from everyone present. Thus began not a chapter, but a new book in my life titled "The Traveler."
September 25st.
The guys agreed with the driver to go to Almaty for an additional 2500 rubles per person. However, for me, it was enough to reach Uralsk, the nearest major city in Kazakhstan near the Russian border, that night.
While crossing the border, I contacted my friends Masha and Andrey, whom I had recently met during my first visit to Kyrgyzstan. Andrey helped me find accommodation for the night by providing me with the contacts of his friends who had crossed the border a couple of days ago.
I was dropped off near a cafe at a gas station where I arranged to meet Andrey's friends. I connected to Wi-Fi and messaged them that I had arrived at the designated spot. The guys were no longer there; they had called a taxi for me to take me to their place.
The car arrived quickly, and it was some old DEO model. I put my belongings in the trunk, sat in the back passenger seat, and noticed a woman wearing a hijab sitting next to the driver. From their conversation, I understood they were husband and wife. In about twenty minutes, they drove me to my destination. It was already past one in the morning. I was greeted by Andrey's friend, Pasha, with whom I had been corresponding.
Their house had only two rooms, a kitchen, and a living room. They paid quite a large sum for such a modest house, but due to the high influx of tourists, property prices had skyrocketed. Besides Pasha, there were about seven other people living in the house. They all worked for the same company in Tolyatti.
Pasha offered tea and cookies, to which I gladly agreed since I was quite hungry, and having something to eat would be helpful. The guys retreated to one of the rooms to discuss something. Pasha stayed with me, keeping me company. I shared a bit about myself and how I met Andrey.
After the tea, Pasha showed me to the second room with a folding couch and told me I could sleep there. There weren't enough beds for everyone, of course. The guys slept on mattresses they had laid out on the floor around the room. I had a neighbor on the couch, and there was another person on a mattress in the opposite corner of the room. There was no shower in the house, so I freshened up using the sink and went to sleep.
In the morning, I set out to find a place to buy a phone case, exchange money, and, of course, get a SIM card since I couldn't activate the SIM card I bought yesterday evening after crossing the border. It turned out that it was impossible to activate it without the SIM card box, which I, of course, threw away without realizing it would be needed.
I found a shopping center where I could find almost everything I needed, except for a favorable exchange rate. I left my passport with the girl who was processing the SIM card and followed the map to locate the nearest bank branch to exchange money. The first bank branch I entered turned out to be closed. The second one was open, but they didn't exchange rubles. I plotted a route on the map to another bank branch and set off on my way.
On the way, I had a conversation with an elderly Slavic-looking woman who asked me who I was and where I came from. We started talking, and I told her what I was doing here and where I was heading. She said she was also going to the bank to exchange tenge for rubles and offered to help each other. I decided not to refuse such an opportunity, and it would save the grandma from going to the bank. We completed the exchange at the rate shown on the internet. After thanking her and saying goodbye, I turned back towards the shopping center to retrieve my passport.
Having completed all my tasks, I called my brother on WhatsApp. After chatting for a couple of minutes, I told him that I had left the country and was currently in Kazakhstan. My brother asked me what I would do and what my plans were. Besides the small plan of reaching the city of Zhitiqara, where Masha and Andrey are currently located, I didn't have any other plans yet. I asked my brother not to tell anyone in the family about my departure for now because I planned to tell them myself when the right time came.
After ending the conversation with my brother, I called my sister. Our conversation revolved around the same topic as with my brother. I also asked her not to mention it to anyone for now, and my sister and I agreed that it wasn't necessary to directly tell our mother about my departure. My sister said she would talk to our mother about it and lead her to the decision that it would be good if I did leave. It was a reasonable approach because I wasn't ready to confess my departure to my mother yet and didn't know how she would react to it.
Upon returning, Pasha said that he had an acquaintance who could help me find temporary accommodation, and he gave me Igor's contact information. The guy was also from Russia, and he left on the first day after the mobilization announcement. He quickly found good people who could assist those who were hastily leaving the country. Thanks to Igor, I met Dasha, who allowed me to stay with her so that I could think about my next steps.
My mind was in complete disarray, with thousands of thoughts intertwined. The only thing I understood was that I should start saving money because I didn't have remote work, and I also had no idea where I would be heading or how I would proceed.
In addition to me, there was another guy named Artem in this apartment. He had been living here for a couple of days, waiting for his flight to Armenia. Dasha told me about places and things I could find, and she mentioned that there was hot water available. It was the best news for me today; I had already started to miss hot showers.
After freshening up, Dasha, Artem, and I went for a walk around the city and stopped by a local sports store. I wanted to check the prices of backpacks and other supplies in case I decided to hitchhike, as the idea had been lingering in my mind. To my surprise, the backpack shelves were almost empty, and there wasn't much to choose from. I decided to check in another city when I moved on.
On our way back, we got hungry and stopped at a place known for serving the most delicious shawarma in Uralsk. After having a snack, we headed home to rest. Since Artem and I had planned to go to the Centralized Service Center (ЦОН) early the next morning, the local equivalent of the Russian MFC, we needed to obtain a document there in order to apply for a bank card.
September 26st.
We woke up half an hour later than planned, and when we arrived at the Centralized Service Center (CSC), there was already a queue of more than 150 people standing outside in the cold. As it turned out, there was another queue inside the building, accommodating an equal number of people as the one outside. After 15 minutes, a notebook reached us with over three hundred names of people who were ahead of us in the queue, and they implemented this system. The queue was moving very slowly, and after about half an hour, a man came out of the building to whom you could ask your question.
A crowd of people gathered around him, and as far as possible, they took turns asking their questions. After 15 minutes, we managed to ask our question and received a not-so-optimistic answer. The task we were waiting for would take at least three more days, which neither Artem nor I had the time for.
Artem is leaving tomorrow, and I'm heading towards Zhitikara the day after, where my hitchhiker friends Masha and Andrey live, whom I mentioned yesterday.
I've already started thinking about where I'll go after Kazakhstan and in which country I can stay the longest and find a job in the restaurant business.
I remembered my first visit to Goa, India in 2019. It was a wonderful nine days, although I injured my foot in the middle of the vacation, and it only worsened by the end of it. Upon returning home, I had to undergo surgery due to an infection in my foot. However, this situation didn't spoil my impression of India; instead, it ignited a desire to visit remote and non-touristy places in the country.
In the evenings, I read information about the countries in Southeast Asia, the climate, ticket prices, and accommodation. After deciding to choose India, I started filling out the application for a five-year visa. After a couple of hours of leisurely completion, I finally managed to independently finish filling out the application and proceeded to make the payment. I couldn't pay the fee with my Russian bank cards, and I hadn't obtained a Kazakhstani one yet. I had to postpone this endeavor for more favorable times.
September 27st.
Artem left in the morning, and my day was dedicated to planning how I would get to Zhitikara. There were no bus tickets available, and the train wasn't suitable either because it goes through Russian territory, where border guards inspect documents. In the Telegram chats, there were already reports of cases where people were removed from the train. I didn't want to take any risks, so the only option left was to find a car through Telegram channels heading in the direction I needed.
The whole day was spent searching for a car because everyone was traveling to Almaty and didn't want to take passengers halfway. The price for such a service was astronomical, of course. However, I managed to find a car for tomorrow to the city of Aktobe, which was 470 km away from Uralsk, for one and a half thousand rubles. It was the best price available at that time and in the direction I needed, from where I could try to find a bus to Zhitikara. So, I didn't waste any time and started packing my things in the evening, making sure not to forget anything.
September 28st.
Morning came, and I was ready for the next stage of my journey. By 10 o'clock in the morning, the car arrived, I said goodbye to Dasha, and set off on my way to a new city called Aktobe. While I was in the car, I had time to search for accommodation. I didn't know where I would stay or if I would find anything for the night because even a week after the announcement of partial mobilization, there was utter chaos in the chats, and housing prices remained astronomical. After a few hours of unsuccessful searching for accommodation, I finally received a long-awaited message from some guy.
Hello, can I help you?
Hello, is it about accommodation?
Yes.
Is it in Aktobe? What's the price?
Are you a girl or a young man?
I'm a guy, alone.
How should I address you?
My name is Alex, and what's your name?
I'm Timas. You can call me Tim for short. We have a two-bedroom apartment. We're students. There are three of us, and we can arrange ourselves in the living room while you'll have the bedroom. There's a double sofa in the room. If you want, there's a bathroom you can use. We'll also provide food and drinks, don't worry. As for the price, I don't know. Let's talk about it in terms of what you're willing to give, whatever you can afford. I just want to help people.
I agree to any accommodation conditions, even if it's on the floor. It doesn't matter to me. I'll arrive in Aktobe at 6 o'clock in the evening from Uralsk. And in the morning, I'll be looking for a way to continue my journey. I just need to know how much money to offer you… Around 5-6 thousand tenge?
Well, if you're willing, we'll be waiting for you.
I'm willing.
Regarding the price, as I said, whatever you can spare.
Alright, thank you so much. I can be driven to the address. But I'll be there around 5-6 in the evening.
Address: Toleu Aldiyarov 6, Sazdi District.
Thanks again.
Alexey, sorry for the silly question. But could you tell us a little bit about yourself so we know who we'll be spending the night with? How old are you, where are you from, and so on?
I'm 29 years old, divorced. I'm from Moscow, lived there for 10 years, worked in the restaurant industry as a waiter, bartender, and manager. Originally from Crimea.
That's all good, we'll be waiting.
While we were driving, I spotted a couple of sports stores and a bus stop in the city of Aktobe, where I definitely needed to stop by.
As promised, I arrived at six in the evening. Timas, a tall Kazakh guy of average build, greeted me and helped with my belongings by taking one of my backpacks.
When I entered the apartment, I was greeted by two more guys, Arthur and Baubek. Arthur is not tall and slender, while Baubek is of the same height as Timas but more athletic. It's evident from all of them that they are native Kazakhs.
They fed me and served tea, just as they promised. I shared my little story and what is happening at the borders. I talked about my future plans, my thoughts of traveling to India, but for now, I haven't resolved the issue related to visa payment. The guys said they study at a medical university, and I immediately understood that there must be Indians studying there who could potentially help me with visa payment through their card. I asked the guys if they could introduce me to the Indian students, and Timas said that tomorrow they would take me to the building where the Indians study and introduce me to someone who can assist me.
By 10 o'clock in the evening, we were still sitting, chatting, and getting hungry again. Arthur and I went to the nearest shawarma place. When we entered, it was packed. With that many people at this hour, it was evident that the food was really good. We ordered four shawarmas and two two-liter bottles of Coca-Cola. I paid for the order, thanking the guys for providing me accommodation. With our order in hand, we returned home to the guys.
After finishing the shawarmas, we continued our conversation. The guys told me that they are being evicted from this apartment due to an increase in the number of tenants and rising rent, which they cannot afford. Arthur said he would move back to the dormitory, while Timas and Baubek would rent a one-bedroom apartment for the two of them. I was surprised by the behavior of the apartment owners, but the guys were still willing to help people like me. Before going to sleep, I took a shower and went to bed in the bedroom they gave me, while the three of them slept in the living room.
September 29st.
The next day, Arthur helped me to get to the building where the Indian students study. First, we went to the guys who had a class. Arthur went into the classroom and asked the professor when there would be a break so that I could talk to the guys about my visa payment question. He granted permission but said we would have to wait for about half an hour, and to avoid waiting in the corridor, we could sit in his office.
We entered a small office opposite the classroom, with a model of the human body in each cabinet and posters detailing the organs of the human body. Overall, it was quite an intriguing read.
As soon as the class ended and the guys were free, we approached them, and I began stating my request.
Guys, I need help with paying for my visa to India. I was told you could assist me.
We are not from India, but from Pakistan.
Oh, I apologize. Have a good day.
Same to you.
Pakistan and India have had a long-standing armed conflict between them, but it is mostly on the political arena. Outside their countries, Pakistanis and Indians interact with each other normally. Even in India, I have heard from Indians that Pakistanis are good people, and these wars mostly benefit politicians.
After that, Arthur and I headed towards the Indian hostel, but before we reached the hallway, we bumped into a guy who was already in his final year, and Arthur was certain he was from India. So we approached him and introduced ourselves. His name is Jim. He was slender, of average height, wearing a suit and shoes. You couldn't immediately tell he was a student; he looked more like a young professor.
I'm planning to go to India, and I need help to pay for the visa.
Yes, of course, I can help.
Arthur hurried off to his classes when he realized we had found the right person. Jim and I tried a couple of times to pay for the visa using his card, but unfortunately, it didn't work. After that, he told me not to worry and invited me to go with him. Leaving the building, we headed to the hostel where his compatriots lived. The slight drizzle outside didn't seem to want to stop.
At the entrance of the Indian hostel, we were greeted not only by a 55-year-old Slavic-looking female guard but also by a multitude of mixed scents and aromas of spices. The guard was so surprised to see a white person in the hostel accompanied by an Indian that she bombarded us with numerous questions: who, where, why, and what for? While answering her barrage of questions, I also faced a flurry of inquiries from passing Indians who stopped to ask my name, where I was from, and what I was doing there. I was fortunate to have Jim with me. He did his best to help me fend off these questioning people while simultaneously calling up all the guys and asking if they or their relatives had an AXEL bank card.
In the span of an hour, we attempted to make the payment more than a dozen times, but all our efforts were in vain. I never found out the reason, but it seemed that I didn't need a 5-year visa to India after all.
I thanked everyone who had participated and apologized to Jim for taking up so much of his time, and he apologized in return for not being able to help me. I saw how much he wanted to assist me, gathering more and more of his fellow countrymen to my cause, even approaching people who were just passing by, and they all tried their best to help me. It was very heartwarming, and it seemed that such gestures could only happen in India.
After bidding farewell, I headed back to the apartment to collect my belongings and say goodbye to the guys. I walked through half the city to "Sportmaster" to check the prices of backpacks, being confident that they would have them in stock. However, just like in Uralsk, the shelves with backpacks were practically empty, and the one-hundred-liter backpack didn't suit me. Although all my things would fit in such a backpack, and it would be easier to move around with one sturdy backpack instead of two smaller ones.
While strolling through the shopping center, I searched for transportation to Zhitikara and thanks to Instagram, I learned that my friend and former colleague Maxim was currently in Aktobe. We used to work together at the "Pino" restaurant in Moscow near Patriarshiye Prudy. I met up with Maxim at the food court in the shopping center. We exchanged stories about our recent days and how we crossed the borders.
Maxim managed to leave the country only on his second attempt because he wasn't allowed to exit due to a small debt. He had to return to the city to settle that debt before heading back towards the Kazakhstan border. I couldn't even imagine the emotions he must have experienced. His further plan was to fly to Saudi Arabia for work and then go to Brazil for a while.
For me, it was simple: first, reach Zhitikara, and then decide where my desire would take me in India. After we said our goodbyes, I went to the nearest bus stop to inquire about the bus schedule. But, just like in Uralsk, there were no buses, and no one could give me a proper answer about the possibility of taking a bus. Carrying my two backpacks, I returned to the shopping center and continued posting in Telegram that I was looking for a ride to Zhitikara or Kostanay.
I was already considering reaching out to the guys I stayed with and asking them about accommodation for another night, but a miracle happened, and at half-past five in the evening, I received a long-awaited message from the driver.
Hello, I have a car going to Zhitikara.
Good day, how much?
20,000 tenge, leaving right now.
20 is not for me… Maximum is willing to pay 15.
Okay, let's go.
Alright.
Where are you?
I'm at Keruen City Mall.
I'll be there in 15 minutes.
Alright, I'm waiting.
The driver arrived after half an hour, and I had started to think that he wouldn't come. I quickly went downstairs, and we set off for Zhitikara. It turned out he was a taxi driver, and he was transporting a client who also needed to go to Zhitikara, so he didn't mind taking a fellow traveler.
We departed from Aktobe at half-past six in the evening, embarking on a 600 km journey. I mapped out the route to Zhitikara and saw that it would take us 10 hours, but the driver was convinced that we would arrive in 6, maximum 7 hours. I informed Andrei and Masha that I had gotten into the car and, based on the driver's assurances, would reach Zhitikara by midnight.
I couldn't shake off the thought of how slim the chance was to find a car that would take me directly to the city I needed, which was off the beaten path and inaccessible by transit. Zhitikara was 80 km away from the main road.
More than half of the journey was accompanied by rain, and time was nearing midnight while the road still stretched ahead. At three o'clock in the morning, we finally approached Zhitikara, and it started snowing. By the way, it was only September 30th! Eventually, I was dropped off right at the entrance only by 4 o'clock in the morning.
Andrei hadn't really slept during this time and was waiting for me, for which I'm truly grateful. It turned out that apart from me, another guest from Russia had arrived that night. He was already asleep, so our introduction was postponed until morning. Andrei prepared a mattress for me on the floor in the same room where the stranger was sleeping. So, I quickly freshened up and collapsed into sleep after an incredibly long journey.
September 30st.
In the morning, I got acquainted with a stranger named Vitya. He is 25 years old and slightly taller than me. He doesn't drink or smoke and has never used anything like that, a sporty guy. We bonded over this topic since I myself am not interested in such things. The only thing I occasionally allow myself is to have one or two cans of beer, and I used to smoke a hookah occasionally, once or twice a month, but it already feels like a past life to me.
Neither Vitya nor I have ever used any form of drugs. Mainly because I knew myself and understood that what I like would be very difficult to quit. So I decided not to start that game.
Vitya and I took on the responsibility of cooking and buying groceries since we were staying with the guys for free. Thank goodness, I knew how to cook and enjoyed it. After breakfast, Vitya and I went to the Centralized Service Center (CSC) to obtain Individual Identification Numbers (IIN), and I hoped that I would succeed on my second attempt.
After we finished submitting the documents, we walked around the city with the guys during the day, and in the evening, we watched a movie together and smoked a hookah, everyone except Vitya, of course.
After the movie, we discussed our future actions. I shared my thoughts on where and how I planned to travel and asked Masha and Andrei about a hundred questions regarding hitchhiking since they had been doing it for a while. The guys told us about how they communicate with drivers, where they look for accommodation, and which mobile services they use.
I was confident that I could travel by hitchhiking alone, but an internal feeling told me that it would be better to travel as a pair, so I offered Vitya to join me. He agreed without much hesitation. It was his first trip abroad.
On that day, Vitya asked me to call him Richard instead of Vitya, although he didn't want to explain the reason. It was very strange and incomprehensible to me. A person hiding behind someone else's name and unable to explain the reason didn't inspire trust, and it was the first sign of concern for me.
Masha and Andrei were also considering warm countries in Asia, particularly starting with India. We began planning our trip that evening. First and foremost, we focused on the price of plane tickets, and the best price for a ticket to India was from Tashkent on October 30th. This meant we still had a whole month before the trip to India. Before purchasing the tickets, we needed to apply for visas and pay for them. Knowing the approximate date of departure, we decided to start submitting visa documents the next day.
If nobody minds, I would like to introduce you a little more closely to Masha and Andrei and also tell you how I met them.
In late August 2022, my colleague Anastasia and I flew to Kyrgyzstan for about a week to explore the nature and countryside of the country. In Bishkek, we rented an SUV for our mountain trip.
Since I didn't have a driver's license, Anastasia was behind the wheel throughout the entire vacation, so I suppose only my time off could be considered a full-fledged vacation. Well, I didn't have the time or the need to get a license. Sometimes, there's a certain advantage in that.
On the sixth day of our vacation, we reached the Barskoon Gorge, where we picked up a couple from Kazakhstan along the way. The Barskoon Gorge is one of the most beautiful mountainous places in Kyrgyzstan, with numerous stunning waterfalls. After Anastasia and I hiked to one of the waterfalls, she was already a bit tired and wanted to turn back. I didn't want to give up; I still had enough energy, and I planned to reach the remaining two waterfalls with their beautiful names: "Champagne Spray" and "Tears of the Snow Leopard."
I continued the ascent up the mountain. At first, it was relatively easy, with plenty of trails, but the higher I climbed, the steeper the incline became, the trails became scarce, and the solid ground gave way to loose soil. At some point, I veered off the correct trail and ended up on a less popular and riskier path leading upwards.
For the second time in my life, the Maps.Me app let me down. It works well in offline areas, but sometimes it glitches and can lead you astray, which happened to me once again. I decided not to turn back and instead continue along this, so to speak, path upwards.
I was dressed in long pants, a t-shirt, a cap, and had a camera slung across my chest. The sun was scorching mercilessly, and there was no shade anywhere nearby. I began to realize what a huge mistake I had made by starting the ascent without water, and it was too late to turn back. The trail I needed was running parallel to the one I was climbing, but there was no way to cross over; everything was densely overgrown with shrubs.
Exhausted and thirsty, I spotted a thin stream of water trickling down a sheer cliff directly ahead. Glinting on a rock, it offered a glimmer of hope. Continuing my ascent towards the water, I encountered a large rock blocking the path, and there was no way around it. Without much thought, I began to scramble up it, gripping the edge and pulling myself up. As I felt my grip slipping and started to slide, I realized that I would be rolling down at a steep angle for quite a distance. I don't know where I found the strength at that moment, but my fingers clung to the rock as if it were my last chance, allowing me to complete the ascent.
After ascending a little further, I came across a small stream trickling down a rock. I could only cup my hand under the thin stream of water, but it was more than enough at that moment. After quenching my thirst and splashing water on my face, I continued on. I had just a couple of meters to reach the sheer cliff from which the water flowed. My plan was to walk alongside it in the direction I needed to go, so I could reach the proper trail leading to the upper waterfall.
Almost reaching the sheer cliff, I scanned for the trail I desperately needed and spotted a tent with two people nearby. They were at least a hundred meters away from me, if not more. It made sense to assume that there must be a trail somewhere near them, or they could provide directions on how to reach it. The goal was clear; I just had to reach them. There was only one path, straight through a hundred thorny bushes, and I couldn't find any other way.
The prickly barriers didn't intend to let me pass without souvenirs. They lightly scratched my hands, ensuring I wouldn't forget about this path. Approaching the guys, the first thing I said after greeting them was:
Do you have any water? Or better yet, an empty water bottle?
The guys gave me water and cookies, offered breakfast and tea, but unfortunately, I couldn't stay long. Anastasia and the couple from Kazakhstan were waiting for me below, and I still had to finish the ascent.
I told them about my relatively easy route to this point, and I was shocked by how they managed to climb such a steep and loose surface with their backpacks. Even without a load, some parts were challenging for me, but I had a slightly different trail. I descended along the path they had ascended. It was somewhat easier, but still not an easy task to conquer such an ascent with a backpack.
After chatting with the guys, we exchanged contacts and Instagram handles so that I could follow their journey, as I was interested in how they traveled hitchhiking. I continued upward with an empty water bottle that had clearly seen better days.
That's how I met Masha and Andrey, who saved me from thirst on that scorching day in the mountains and, less than a month later, provided me with shelter and support during a difficult time for me.
Now, let's go back to Kazakhstan.
October 1st.
In the morning, as planned, we all started filling out the visa application for India together. This time, like everyone else, I applied for a one-year visa instead of five years. Masha had money on her local card, so after completing the application, she tried to pay for the visa along with Andrey. The payment was accepted for both of them on the first attempt without any issues.
While Masha and Andrey went to visit Masha's relatives, Vitya and I headed to the ATM as soon as we finished filling out the forms. We needed to deposit the required amount into Masha's bank card to pay for our visas.
After depositing the money onto the card, we went home. As we walked through the courtyard, we stumbled upon a group of ten-year-old kids. They were sitting on the ground in a circle, energetically playing with chips. I couldn't believe my eyes. The chips they were using were exactly the same as the ones I played with in my childhood.
Seeing our interested faces, they proudly showed off whose chips were cooler and who had more than the others. It felt like I was immersed in my childhood during those few minutes spent with them.
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