Rick Hudson - travel writer and author

Fleeced by a headless sheep.
Rick Hudson

Airplanes have a way of breaking down social barriers. Have you noticed that? No sooner have you sat down on the lumpy seatbelt, stood up quickly, cracked your head on the air nozzle, and sat down again, than the person next to you lowers his/her newspaper and says, "Hi, I'm Bob/Bobby! How are you today?"

Then, before the wheels are up, you've learned more about Bob/Bobby, their parents, their kids, their job and their pets than you'd normally learn at a dozen job interviews. Or AA meetings.

I try to be the good listener, partly because I'm a quiet sort of guy, and partly because, being a writer, I like to listen. It's all grist for future mills, if you know what I mean. You can never tell when that story about the window cleaner and the salad dressing is going to make it into an article on the decline of Canadian military power. Or something.

Inevitably though, somewhere over Greenland or Guam, my traveling companion falters, and asks the inevitable question, "So, what do YOU do for a living?"

When I was younger, I used to go for the old shock factor .. you know, saying I was a Colombian drug dealer, or a speech writer for the president (I never said which president), or, if I was feeling particularly feisty, I'd say I was in the body parts business. But these days I tend to tell the truth, and admit I'm a travel writer.

Now, I'm aware some people think being a travel writer is cool ('My, you must be so proud', one elderly lady inexplicably said to me once), but the truth is a lot more mundane. You see, most folks, when they hear the phrase "travel writer", actually hear "TRAVEL writer". Unfortunately, it's a lot more like "travel WRITER".

The reality is that when I travel, I have to write about places I don't like, whose names I can't spell, and which often have cockroaches in the bathrooms. The temperature is often way up, the humidity one step from a Swedish sauna, there's the steady roar of motorbikes/alpenhorns/concrete mixers going all night, and the local drink closely resembles something made from liquid cockroaches. But every now and then, as a travel writer, I get an unexpected break.

Europe, Russia & Kazakhstan.
For reasons that are too complicated to explain here, I went to Kazakhstan last summer. You don't know where Kazakhstan is? Go look it up on the map, same as I did.

Kazakhstan, I'll have you know, used to be part of the old USSR. It's big. I mean, really, really big. As big as western Europe. And has barely 17 million people in the entire place. That's about the population of London on a weekend. The reason for this dearth of people becomes pretty obvious when you fly over the country. The landscape is bleak. Like Nevada, but with the interesting bits missing.

I should have guessed this when I met three Calgary oil men getting onto the plane in Frankfurt. I knew right away they were from Alberta. There was something about the Bow Valley ball caps and Flames jackets that made me suspect they were from 'back home', or near enough to call home.

They were stunned to learn I was heading to scenic Kazakhstan for a holiday.

"A holiday?" One asked, incredulously. "No one goes there for a holiday!"

I nearly panicked and faked a twisted ankle climbing onto the Airbus. Instead I bluffed. "I'm going," I said more confidently than I felt, "to see a festival. And watch a game of kokpar."

I knew right away I'd got 'em. No one knew what kokpar was, and none of them wanted to admit it. If you don't understand why they didn't ask me, you must be female. Not asking questions is a 'guy thing'. Like starting wars. It's that Venus and Mars deal all over again. But I digress. As it turned out, I had a great time in Kazakhstan, but that's not the point. What I'm telling you about is kokpar, because I know you want to hear what it is, and like them, you have no idea either.

It's a traditional Kazakh game, played on horseback (the Kazakhis are great horsemen). Two opposing teams of indefinite number line up at either end of a large meadow. You sense immediately it's going to be exciting. There are no helmets, no protective pads, no gloves. And everyone carries a whip.

At an agreed moment (there's also no referee), both teams charge towards the centre of the field, where a headless sheep lies on the ground. At full gallop, the two groups converge, split, break, turn, and they're off! Someone has the sheep and is heading down field! It's Ahmed Kareavich! He has possession .. he's swerving to the left .. but two of the opposition have caught up with him. One is whipping his horse … one is whipping him!

kokpar
..not for sissies.
Now Andrey Andreyavich has the sheep .. there's a ruck … both teams are surging around ... the sheep is on the ground ... but Rhinat Molkov has it.. no, Terson Aelev has stolen it in a breakaway up the field …

If you're still having trouble imagining kokpar, then imagine a really ugly NHL game, where the bench-clearing brawl lasts 20 minutes each way. Replace the hockey sticks with whips. Make the puck weigh 35 kilos, and have it shaggy. Strike out all rules of normal engagement.

I think you're getting the hang of kokpar.

This is not a game for sissies. Players hit the grass and are over-ridden on a regular basis. A riderless horse bolts up and down the meadow, following the pack of swirling players, and adding a 'free agent' element to the play. Every now and then someone manages to get a good grip on the sheep (which usually means losing his grip on the reins) and surges down or up field, protected from the opposition by a cadre of his team mates. Since there are no uniforms, it's not always clear who is doing what, or to whom. The sheep is freshly killed, and bloody … basi zhok yeski (sheep with no head) in Kazakh.

On the sidelines, there's furious betting on the individual players, the moves, the game, the sheep. Money flies. Who knows? I don't speak Kazakhi too well, but at one stage I'm 500 tenges up, then 2,500 down. The action's terrific, both on and off the field.

Forty minutes later, it's over. Amid cries and much back-slapping, everyone retires to a yurt to drink vodka and recap the play-by-play. I'm the equivalent of 45 cents down, but I should complain … it looks like the American Ambassador is over a dollar out.

But, what's money at a time like this? I wish you could have been there.

If you go:
You'll need an 'invitation' from AsiaTour before you can apply for a visa at one of the Kazakhstan Embassies.
Austrian Airlines, British Airways, KLM, Lufthansa, Turkish Airways, China Airways, and others fly to Almaty (airport symbol ALA), which is the staging ground for most treks. Airport transport and local hotel accommodation are included in the AsiaTour package. Almaty (the name means 'father of apples', since they grow huge ones there) is an attractive city of a million, situated on the edge of the Tien Shan, like Denver is on the Rockies. The broad avenues are lined with tall trees, making the hot summer days more bearable. Pretty much any food you can buy in North America is available there (Mars Bars, powdered fruit drink, etc), but the cost of living makes things cheaper.
Although 40% of the country are Kazakhi, Russian is the language of commerce. There are 33 letters in the Cyrillic alphabet, so KAZAKHSTAN becomes KA3AKCTAH. It takes practice. The best dictionary I found on the web was E. Jones' English-Russian 500 word list. Learn those, and you're almost an expert.
There are numerous websites providing details on the country, such as Kazak Info and the US Library of Congress.