Kazakhstan | In the glorious land of mare’s milk and honey

How is it possible, you have to ask yourself, for the ninth biggest country in the world – a place so vast and wealthy it flew David Cameron in to open an oilfield adding to reserves so vast they’d make Middle Eastern oil sheikhs quake in their slippers – to remain so secret? So unknown to the outside world that when Sacha Baron Cohen made up his own version for Borat, we all fell for it, convinced it was the real thing?

Of all the Central Asian “istans” Baron Cohen could have chosen to ridicule, he picked the wrong one. He didn’t get the tiny little former Soviet republics run by mad dictators; they’re Kazakhstan’s pesky neighbours. He got the million square mile country that Genghis Khan all but created in the 13^th century; the land that gave the world apples, tulips and, some would argue, the horse; the place from which the Soviets would one day launch their space probes. He got just about the world’s richest country in uranium, minerals, gas and oil. He got the country that’s been paying Tony Blair $25m for the past two years for his advice on the road to democracy, and the one that’s become a major destination for world architects. He got Russia’s, and China’s, biggest neighbour.

Travelling to Kazakhstan is an adventure – one with unexpected rewards. When I arrived in the capital, Astana, I went straight to see the new opera house. The exterior is reminiscent of the Bolshoi, Paris’s Palais Garnier and the Panthéon; the interior is one of the most handsome Italian marble lobbies I’ve ever stood in. The theatre itself is acoustically perfect, visually stunning. Even before the first curtain was raised (in October 2013) it was a work of sublime magnificence. The staff are intelligent, cultured, multilingual and, dare I say it, all quite beautiful. Tickets, as you would expect, can reach $250 – but they can also be had for $3. I spoke with a former ballerina whose initial concern, she told me, was that the stage requirements for ballet and opera were so different, she had hoped there would be a separate theatre for ballet. However, she was so seduced by the sophistication of the new building, the authorities were forgiven.

The land that gave the world apples, tulips and, some would argue, the horse; the place from which the Soviets would one day launch their space probes

Just across the way is Norman Foster’s Cultural Pyramid, HQ to all religions in Kazakhstan, giving each one equal status. Around the corner are an array of designer sports stadia, modern concert halls, and a shopping mall that’s another Norman Foster creation – all of which add up to create a vast architectural toytown. At night, when the office buildings and bridges are brightly lit in broad swathes of colour, the tower blocks flicker with flashing neon, and street decorations glisten (I assumed, wrongly, for Christmas), Astana bears more than a passing resemblance to Las Vegas, minus the casinos, along with one other important differentiating feature: it is totally safe. The natives are friendly, although there remains a Russian-influenced regressiveness on LGBT matters, even though Kazahstan decriminalised homosexuality after it gained independence – a major step, like so many in this country, in the right direction.

But would you actually want to get on a plane and go? Air Astana, the national airline, is actually privately owned, half by British Aerospace, who founded it as a speculative investment and have reaped returns from yearly profits ever since. It’s headed up by a Brit, an avuncular ex-public school MD who, like the rest of his team, has run bigger airlines all over the world. As a consequence, Air Astana’s safety infrastructure is honed to impeccable European standards. Unlike certain other erstwhile Soviet states, whose inherited aircraft may not have their full complement of nuts and bolts, Air Astana has new Boeings and now flies in and out of Heathrow five times a week, so you can get to Almaty, the former capital, or Astana, the new capital, as easily as to Dubai. Just follow the signs marked “Comfort Zone: Edge Of”, then fly a further couple of thousand miles.

On the surface, you’ll recognise all the Range Rovers and upscale shops in downtown Almaty from Bond Street. You’ll recognise the models, the watches, the velvet ropes outside the nightclubs and the postmodern irony in restaurants called things like “Revolutionary Military Council”. You’ll also recognise that this place is just one generation away from having been the second-biggest piece in the jigsaw that was the Soviet Union. There are parks and trees everywhere, boulevards wide enough for military parades (ahem), and a mentality detectable in the elderly that hints at a nostalgia for collectivism, despite the deprivations the country suffered under Stalin in harder times. The young, meantime, are highly educated, entrepreneurial and raring to go.

Before, they were accustomed to vodka imported from China which had “a disgusting colour” – pink, I gathered – as well as an odd taste, “like petrol”

What you won’t recognise is the food and drink. Unlike in the UK, horsemeat is sold openly rather than concealed in frozen lasagne: it’s done a million different ways, including rather tasty sausages. They like a bit of fat on their meat, but I opted instead for a delicious, and (almost) fat-free, marinated mutton shashlik. The milk they drink is either fermented mare’s milk (kumys) or camel’s (shubat) and can vary from sour to very sour to vile. It’s an acquired taste, obviously, with the flavour of live yoghurt the closest approximation. But these are the treats, and the number and variety of “foreign” restaurants means you don’t have to go native. Stick to pizza if you want. Drinks-wise, it’s easy to understand why vodka is cheaper than wine here; it has insulating qualities in winter, and grapes are in short supply. Baghdad (a gentleman of my acquaintance in Almaty, rather than the Iraqi city) explained to me one day that the vodka Kazakhs distil themselves from wheat is now very good. Before, they were accustomed to vodka imported from China which had “a disgusting colour” – pink, I gathered – as well as an odd taste, “like petrol”. Didn’t smell too good either, apparently. Not sure I’ll be down Milroy’s asking for Chinese vodka all that soon. In Kazakhstan’s posher, ethnic restaurants, you’ll probably be drinking tea, rather than either wine or vodka of any sort. A spot of builders’ tea goes down well in Almaty, with milk and sugar: proper cuppa it is.

As a tourist, you get to see some intriguing things: Kazakhs hunting with golden eagles, ski slopes above Almaty with an Olympic grade ice rink, and, while I don’t play golf, I had occasion to visit Almaty’s version of Wentworth, a veritable nature reserve surrounded by the majestic Tien Shan mountains. In bright autumn sunlight, it almost made golf seem attractive. Almost. North of Astana, I travelled over the Steppes for several hundred miles to visit one of the northern lakes at Burabay, where Soviet chiefs once spent their summer breaks in dachas, fishing and swimming. En route, along a virtually deserted six-lane freeway, I spotted the occasional car parked by the safety barriers. These were honey salesmen, with bottles and jars of dozens of different kinds from the surrounding meadows and farmlands where bees proliferate. The product ranged in colour from golden to raspberry red to the purest white, each with individual medicinal qualities derived from the various flowers the bees had visited.

I’ll take the honey, thank you. You can keep the milk. C

Recommended further reading “In Search of Kazakhstan” by the British writer, Christopher Robbins, who sadly passed away this year, explains all you will need to know before stepping onto an Air Astana flight to Almaty or Astana, five times a week from Heathrow