Shopping Trip to Karaganda, Part 2

Sunday morning we woke up early so we could be out of our hotel by 8:30 am (thus paying the cheaper rate). We went downstairs and drank some tea in the hotel's 24-hour cafe and then went outside. The bazaar was closed and the sign on it said it opened at 10 am some days and 11 am other days but nowhere on the sign did it say which days.

So we wandered in the direction of the huge park. We walked to the lake and then from there to the park, where the fair rides weren't open yet, of course, but Sophia really enjoyed watching two people set up their stand for selling toys. Finally, she bought a toy.

We wandered back towards the bazaar and crossed what looked like part of an abandoned amusement park.

The bazaar was open and I wandered through the stores a while. Winter boots were on sale, of course, but I couldn't find my size.

My brother and Sophia headed back to the park while I shopped. Then I met up with Rebeca and her daughter; we bought pizza to-go and picked up our luggage and went to the park so the kids could play and we could eat. We sat by the lake to eat, and a man with a kid started talking to Rebeca. He seemed friendly enough, but it soon came out that he's been to America (New York) and doesn't like America. He left with the final question, why are so many Americans fat?

Then we got back in the car to return home. We still had enough time to make Mass at 6 pm in Astana.

The car ride was uneventful enough. The kids played and fought some, and we listened to Rebeca's French lessons tape.

We finally passed a sign that said we had 35 kilometers until Astana. Good, the steppe is getting boring!

Then, as Rebeca was passing a large truck, I heard a car honk. I looked, and a small car was attempting to pass us! This is a small, two-lane highway. So we were to the left of the large truck and to our left was this other car, halfway in the lane and halfway on the shoulder. What was the driver thinking?

The car lost control, veered in front of us and hit the truck's headlights. Then it spun around, off the road, and into the ditch.

Rebeca drove for a bit more, dazed, and finally stopped and pulled over. We sat in the boiling-hot car for a good 15 minutes, not sure what to do now. My brother said he had seen the driver, still in the car, in the ditch, and right-side up. The driver should be OK. We were not involved. We could go on.

But neither Rebeca nor I could bring ourselves to think that's a good idea. So we got out of the car and walked back.

The truck had stopped and the drivers were examining the headlights. The car and its driver were still down the hill, in the wild grass on the steppe.

Rebeca went to talk to the driver while we watched the kids. I learned from Rebeca that, yes, the driver was okay, but she thought that Rebeca was at fault. She thought that Rebeca had pulled out after her, was the reason she had lost control and crashed. So now we had to wait for the police and hope that they weren't corrupt.

We wait for maybe 2 hours on the steppe. This was good for Sophia and Alison, they got to run wild and play. It was good for me, the steppe is far more interesting when you're not just driving through it. But in general it wasn't good. The police appeared to believe that Rebeca was not to blame, but couldn't let her go either.

There was a group of horses a ways off, wandering around slowly, and we eventually noticed that a man was riding one of them. After a while, the horses ambled closer to us, and we decided to get closer. The man noticed us and started riding towards us. I warned the kids not to get too close, and wondered whether the man would be friendly towards random strangers, or not want strangers near his horses or on his land.

At least, I thought, we have Alison, who can explain who we are or what we're doing here.

As he got closer, the friendly Alison, who had been all-too-eager to get near the horses, changed her demeanor. She became a bit frightened, put up her fists, and jumped up and down, punching the air, looking quite ready to get into a fist-fight with this guy. So much for her explaining about us.

Luckily, the man was really friendly, and realized that a tiny 9-year old girl is not a threat. He encouraged her to not be afraid of his horse, and soon he put her on the horse. She was scared, and so he took her off, and Sophia and Alison spent some time petting the horse.

He rode off and we wandered back to the scene of the wreck, where Rebeca was still talking to policemen and waiting for more to show up. The other driver still thought Rebeca was at fault. We still had a long wait in the steppe.

The man on horseback was most likely following his horses as they grazed and after a while they were near us again. The flat steppe is down rather steep hill from the highway. The man and horse walked right up that hill and the horse walked up. I couldn't walk up that hill but the horse had no problem.

The man talked to the police and then returned to "chat" with us. By chat, I mean exchange a few words and then sit idly on the grass, since we couldn't quite communicate. I contemplated how vastly different his life must be from mine. Spending all day idly following horses around.

Finally, we learned that we could go. Well, not go home, but at least leave this middle-of-nowhere location. We would follow the policeman back to the main town. Although we were close to Astana, we were not in Astana's district and had about a half hour drive--away from Astana--to the town where the police station was. Rebeca would then take a drug and alcohol test. Though I hope they believed that she wasn't drunk or high since they were letting her drive to the town!

The town was dirty and decrepit. Rebeca parked in front of the police station while we waited outside. The station was surrounded by a fence. Some children across the street were playing. My brother wandered off to take pictures while I fed cereal to Sophia and Alison.

A few cars drove by, and again I contemplated how my life differs from those of the town inhabitants. But maybe not by too much, I thought as a modest 4-door car drove into the station. A young man drove, his wife and child were in the car with him. The child was maybe 2 and wore a pink coat. They looked like they could belong anywhere, not just some random town in the middle of the Kazakh steppe.

After driving through the gate, he turned his car to park but HE DID NOT STOP. The car rolled right over the parking-curb and through the fence, crashing into a tree.

At this point, I thought maybe I was dreaming.

Soon after, Rebeca came out of the station. She heard that the guy's brakes hadn't been working. But still, even with no breaks, wouldn't the parking curb or even the fence have been enough to stop the car? It hadn't been moving very fast, and it had crashed pretty hard into the tree.

We had to go somewhere else in the town for her to give a statement. By now it was starting to get dark, so maybe it was around 8:00. We were tired, dirty, hungry, and starting to get cold.

Rebeca followed the man into a building and my brother went off to take pictures of a tiny, run-down mosque. We wandered to the road and then to a small playground.

Some teenagers soon came to the play ground and overheard us speaking English. "Do you speak English?" one teenager asked me. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I do," she said, correcting me.

We had a short conversation. Her English was very limited so we couldn't say much. She wanted to know what I was doing in this town, how long was I staying? Oh well, I didn't want to tell her the real reason and she wouldn't be able to understand me even if I did.

We then wandered back to the car and then had to use the bathroom. There was a bathroom or outhouse of sorts nearby, but as we approached, the stench was so bad that I felt like I was going to vomit. I've never smelled anything so bad. So I took Sophia elsewhere and we just went behind a tree. That's not too uncommon around here, and better than throwing up!

Finally, they let Rebeca go. She said the police officer had written a statement for her, but it didn't contain much of what she had actually said, and so she had insisted on writing her own statement. They told her that for now, she was OK, but if the other driver decided to press charges, she might have to come back.

We got into the car, exhausted, and drove home. We made it home close to midnight, tired and dirty.

Luckily, the woman never pressed charges and all is well. Perhaps we learned a lesson--never try to do the right thing when the police are involved?

At least we got to see the steppe! And I'm pretty convinced that I do not want to drive a car in Kazakhstan.

Shopping Trip to Karaganda, Part 1

This past weekend (1st - 2nd May) we went back to Karaganda, this time to go shopping, though in the end I bought very little. My Kazakh friend "Rebeca" is from Karaganda and had mentioned that it was good shopping, and so we decided it would be worth a day trip. She planned on killing several birds with one stone-shopping, seeing her parents, seeing an old friend who lives in Temirtau, seeing her sister, and picking up some documents for some paperwork in Astana. A lot for a short trip!

We left at 12:30 and didn't arrive until 4:30. There were a lot of police on the road, and Rebeca is a very cautious driver (eg, slow!) I don't blame her, after the incidents with taxi drivers in Almaty, plus once in Astana she was pulled over because her car was dirty! This was right after the snow melted and left rivers of mud in the roads! Of course her car was dirty! You couldn't drive a car out of a driveway without it getting dirty!

So, needless to say, she is concerned about the police and does everything she can to avoid being stopped. She explained to us that the police have "quotas" of how much money they must collect in a day to turn in to their supervisors--unofficial money, bribes! And how paying a bribe is a lot less time consuming and less expensive than dealing with a ticket. So most people pay bribes. But Rebeca would rather be honest. So not getting pulled over, not getting in a situation where a bribe is needed, is the best option.

Sophia and Rebeca's daughter played very well in the car. We made one stop at the same blue hotel at which we'd stopped during our church pilgrimage.

I stared out the window at the steppe, clear now of snow, vast, mostly flat, although with bits of slope, not as flat as New Orleans. The grass grows tall and yellow. The sky is immense.

The steppe is beautiful, I thought, but its beauty grows old. We went on and on and on and on and all we could see was the same yellow grass, the same mostly flat land, the same random animals and every now and then some small, decrepit buildings.

The animals did break up the monotony, though. We saw sheep, cows, and horses, and some were grazing on the highway's shoulder even! Many animals had babies with them.

We picked up Rebeca's friend in Temirtau and then headed into Karaganda. She parked by a mall and took me shopping at a cheaper shopping center next to the modern mall. We looked at winter coats. Leather and fur coats on 50% off sale cost 50,000 Tenge at cheapest. ($340) I decided I wasn't ready for that kind of purchase yet.

We crossed the street and then ate at a Turkish restaurant. Then Rebeca led us to a hotel. We had earlier decided to make this a two day trip; that way, Rebeca could see her parents. Karaganda's downtown is wonderful--it is compact. Within a stone's throw of each other are: (1) the modern, expensive, American-style mall; (2) the cheaper, Artyom-like shopping center/mall; (3) the bazaar; (3) the circus; and (4) the hotel.

The hotel was perfect for our needs and I highly recommend it for anyone looking for an inexpensive yet decent hotel in Karaganda. It has rooms without showers (that's fine, my room in a more-expensive Paris hotel had no shower or toilet!), but it also has a 12-hour deal--you pay less if you only stay for 12 hours. In our case, they let us stay for 13 hours. Plus, they will keep your luggage for free after you check out. For 5000 Tenge ($34) I got a suite--a bedroom, a living room with a pull-out couch bed, a large bathroom with a bathtub, a small foyer, and even a refrigerator in the living room. Plus a balcony that we never used.

Rebeca left us so she could visit her parents, and we wandered down the main road. We bought some delicious soft-serve ice cream. As usual, vanilla was not an option, but this time the white kind was not the very-common "creamy" but rather something called "plombir" which has a vanilla taste to it. It was delicious and even Sophia liked it.

We found an enormous statue of Lenin and had our picture taken. Then we followed streams of people and thus stumbled upon Karaganda's park.

Thus began my litany: "What is wrong with Astana?" How can Karaganda have such an amazing park and Astana not? There was a fair inside a park! On Sunday we explored it further, it is large, clean, it has play areas, it's next to a lake (with a walking trail around it), it has a ferris wheel, many other rides, many cafes. And plenty of small pink statues of animals. Seriously, what is Astana's problem? Is there another large city that is as boring and as difficult to maneuver as Astana? (Getting from one place to another in Astana can take an hour, as the buses are slow; but Astana is so spread out that you can't really stay in one place and get much done.)

We ended the night by buying some groceries from the Ramstore grocery store, and then idling watching a little TV. Sophia wanted to watch a movie that looked like the action-movie version of "Scary Movie." So we flipped through the channels. And saw porn. Real porn, not soft porn, but full-on sex. So we flipped back to the action-movie. And told Sophia that it was bedtime. (It was.)

Thus ended Day 1 in Karaganda. A far less eventful day than Day 2.

Pilgrimage to Karaganda, Part 2: Convents

The first convent we stopped at was a convent for Carmelite nuns, whom I hadn't realized are cloistered. The convent was nice-looking, small, clean, with a nice chapel. But the nuns were behind bars. They came out to the "visiting area" so we could see them (us on one side, them on the other). Usually, they don't see visitors at all (so I guess you could say they were behind walls, not bars). I was a bit shaken by it, wondering how anyone could chose to live like that.

But, as we were leaving, Natasha, who has a boyfriend, said that if she did become a nun, she would chose to be a Carmelite. So, it's not for me, but it has an appeal for some people.

It was getting dark but we still headed to Temirtau, a small city about a half hour outside of Karaganda. Temir is the Kazakh word for iron and tau is Kazakh for mountain. Termirtau doesn't have mountains, but it is where iron from other mountains is brought and processed in factories that emit quite a bit of pollution. The city suffers from intense pollution as well as depression and alcoholism--what better place for a Missionaries of Charity convent (Mother Teresa's order)? The four nuns at our church who speak English are of that order, and they were quite happy to return to the convent where they once lived.

This convent was immensely different from the previous one, more like a large and simple house than a convent or church. The nuns house previously-homeless men and care for the really sick ones. Many of the men are extremely sick, having been dirt-poor and alcoholics most of their lives. Some have been at the convent for over 10 years.

The tour of the convent included visiting these men. About a dozen of them live in one large room, and many were still in bed when we walked in. The nuns had given them some basic art supplies to help pass their time, and one man had created an amazing replica of an Orthodox church out of matchsticks. It was amazing. We took plenty of pictures of it and two of the Filipinos had their picture taken with the man.

At first, I felt odd and uncomfortable--did these men like us showing up here as part of a "tour"? Do you like others gaping at you and taking your picture when you're living in a homeless shelter?

But the others did not feel uncomfortable. They laughed and joked with the men and treated them just as they would treat anybody. Sure, the Filipinos took tons of pictures, but they are always taking tons of pictures. Why change just because you're around homeless people?

The men seemed happy to have company, happy that somebody wanted to know their name. A man who spent a lot of time making drawings saw Sophia and instantly offered her his drawing of a tiger. She was extremely impressed.

In another room were the sicker men. Men whose livers were shot due to alcoholism. One very sickly man was thrilled to see Sister Joanna again, he held her hand and smiled as she talked to him.

We left the men to have some tea and snacks and then it was time to return home. We did not get home until close to midnight, but luckily Father Pavel drove us right to our apartment. We were exhausted and hungry, but it had been quite the experience!

... And, to make a long story short, I have pictures but can't get to them currently, hopefully I can post some soon!

Pilgrimage to Karaganda - Part 1: Cathedrals and Gulags

Sometime in March our church organized a pilgrimage to Karaganda, which is a medium-sized city about a 2 1/2 hour drive from Astana, a bit to the south-east. Karaganda is a factory town and does pretty well economically, and was on the list to become the new capital when the president was looking for a new capital 10 years ago. I think he chose Astana because Astana was smaller and less-defined.

Around 1954, a Polish priest, Vladislav Bukovinsky, was sent to Kazakhstan (I think forcibly, by the Soviet Union) and later on he chose to stay in the area. I believe he spent quite a bit of time in a gulag as well. He died in 1974 in Karaganda, and is in the process of becoming a saint.

Kazakhstan currently has 4 Catholic dioceses, I think, with Astana being the seat of one of them, of course; Almaty the seat of another; Karaganda, another; and somewhere in the west, the fourth. The Soviets shipped a ton of Germans (who happened to also be Catholic) to Karaganda and the surrounding area, and while many Germans have since returned to Germany, this is where, I believe, the "strong" Catholic presence comes from. I say "strong" because there appear to be more Catholics in Karaganda than in Astana, but this still doesn't meant there are a lot!

So, we were going to Karaganda to visit the tomb of this priest, as well as to see the new cathedral that they are building. We arrived at the church at about 7:45 in the morning, worried that we were late because the Number 2 bus didn't start running until after 7:30. However, we weren't late. It's hard to be late in Kazakhstan.

There was one bus and two vans. The Russian Catholics boarded the bus and the foreign Catholics split up between the two vans. I was in a van with Father Pavel, our priest; a young Russian, Natasha, who speaks English and frequently attends the English Mass (I think that's so she can sleep in on Sundays); a Sri Lankan woman; the two male Filipino teachers from our school; a Polish nun; my brother; and Sophia. The Filipino women chose to ride in the other van because the Russian priest driving that van was young and good-looking.

I have never been on a pilgrimage before, and this trip consisted of rosaries, prayers, and singing. I think Father and the nun were a bit disappointed in how un-energetic we were; however, the van was loud and I was sitting in the back, so I really couldn't hear to participate well.

The 2 1/2 hour drive was interesting in that, the priests driving the vans were in a competition with each other--who can drive faster, who will be first? After arriving in Karaganda, we went to a lot of different places, and it always was a race. When we passed the other van, we cheered and waved at the others; when they passed us, they did likewise. Our van was in a bit better condition than the other, so we frequently were ahead. However, the priest driving the other van works for the Vatican Embassy and thus has "diplomatic papers" and doesn't have to worry about being stopped by the police. Both vans had radar detectors, and when ours beeped, we had to slow down, while the other van whizzed past us.

Halfway there, we stopped at a blue hotel to use the restroom and buy food and drinks. A lot of buildings are painted blue.

We first arrived at a seminary in Karaganda, where we took a quick restroom break before getting back inside the van (time to race!) and headed to the cathedral-under-construction. It really was under construction, and the steps to get into it were a bit unstable. The inside was gorgeous, and the stone used to carve the pillars looked a lot like wood (but wasn't, I think.... This is what happens when you wait so long to write about something! You forget!)

We went to the basement, and the floor was covered in pipes. These would be under the final floor and would be filled with hot water, as a means of heating the church.

A talk about the construction of the church was given in Russian and Natasha did her best to translate for us non-Russian speakers.

We then headed back the seminary where we ate lunch and drank tea.

After lunch we took a quick tour of the seminary--the room where they study, a library with books in many different languages, the chapel with a painting that was a gift from Pope John Paul II--and then we hurried on to the current cathedral for Mass.

This cathedral was much smaller than the one under construction, but still amazing. The inside was very elaborate, full of beautiful paintings, even on the ceiling.

The Mass was in Russian, with one reading in English, thanks to me. I had brought along my Sunday Missal, and that was used so we could have one reading in English. The homily was given by the bishop, I think, with Father Pavel doing his best to translate. The bishop paused every sentence for the translation, and it was very broken up; towards the end, he asked permission to finish his thoughts, and the final translation we got was simply a quick summary, rather than a word-by-word translation.

Father Vladislav's tomb is inside the church, and after church we were given a talk in Russian about his life (translated by Natasha). I didn't hear much because Sophia had had too much being still by then.

Then we went to the gulag, some ways outside of Karaganda, near a tiny village. The building we went to just looked like a country mansion, inside it wasn't impressive or depressing. Later I learned that the soldiers lived on the ground and 2nd floors. It was the basement where the prisoners were kept.

The basement was definitely different than the upstairs, a narrow passageway and rooms that were more like cells. One room held a well, where prisoners used to be put and tortured. I learned that the locals used to be terrified of this place (and who wouldn't be?) The labor camp encompassed an area the size of France. Even if you wanted to escape, you physically couldn't. The Kazakh steppe is a great place to keep prisoners...

Once again, Natasha did her best to translate, but we weren't always standing next to her. Sophia began to feel sick (she gets carsick and we'd been in a car for too long that day) and we stepped outside for a bit. We stayed in the van when everyone else hiked to see a nearby former hospital (just a small building). A hospital were everyone knew, that if you went there, you wouldn't come out alive.

After that, we had to leave the tiny village and get back to the main road. It was still winter, of course, but a bit "warmer" than previous months, and the village roads were bumpy and full of slush and potholes. The van got stuck in snow and slush and who knows what else, and so everyone had to climb out of van and push. Sophia was still feeling sick, so we stayed inside. It was an interesting sight, to see a Franciscan priest and a frail Mother-Teresa nun pushing a van out of the snow.

We got to the main road and Father Pavel rolled down the window to ask directions from a pedestrian. The man corrected Father's Russian, and as we drove off Natasha teased him about his Polish accent.

It was getting late, but we still had two more stops--two convents.