Kazakhstan

 

Almaty

We live in an era where the former Soviet countries are regenerating their cityscapes. The Wedding Palaces & brutalist tower blocks are being purged in favour of a modern look. Uniformity is no longer desirable & a scatter-gun colour palette has taken its place. The monochrome USSR dress-code is out of date.

Except, Almaty has other ideas.

The city is well-dressed in its Soviet clothes. Mosaics sparkle & murals shine, restored. Statues of the old leaders are still on show in town. They’re just no longer in the centre. Now, clumped together in an outlying micro-district, Uncle Joe & Lenin look like a tribute band of gesticulating socialists.

Architects were noted on plaques in Almaty & the metro was a 15 kilometre artwork in itself. Why aren’t all subway systems lit by chandeliers?

Communication could be problematic. Kazakh & Russian the staple languages. Some English among the young & also the Chelsea fans in town for an away game. Borat jokes, mostly.

Almaty is walkable, with a canopy of maple trees & a string of mini-parks. Blue December skies & crunching snow underfoot added a pretty border to the overall picture.

It’s only when I ventured up into the surrounding mountains in search of a Beatles statue that the city lost its lustre. Looking down, chimneys smoked & cars crawled through the streets. Almaty blurred a little from above.

In the Green Bazaar, trading since the height of the silk road I bought round golden bread, fresh from a clay oven. Apples are from Kazakhstan but wine certainly isn’t, yet I was amazed at the quality in a country with such dramatic extremes between the seasons. Back in town, a small coffee scene has emerged, with aloof baristas & cosy rooms, individual in character & a respite against the cold outside. A lovely city.

Astana

Astana wasn’t like Almaty in any obvious way. No nature peeking behind the manmade. The city walker was a lesser citizen than the car driver. Squashed verges, metro-rail construction across town & a simmering aggressiveness among the drivers. Hiking the city was a challenge.

Diffuse architecture defined Astrana. Gimmick constructions with prosaic names; dog bowls & eyeballs. Elsewhere blue mirror oil HQs & Rubik pyramids sat amid an older city, already showing its age.

But away from the silliness were some gems; white-marble mosques & timber hotels hiding low-lit restaurants & wine markets.

At the centre sits the Bayterek Tower; elegant & rather pointless. This is what happens to a country when the president gets 97% of the vote. He designs his own city.