A president's dream

Two years ago I decided I had to visit Astana. In some online magazine I stumbled upon an article about this newly built city. It was accompanied by astonishing pictures of majestic views on modern architecture. I had never heard anything about Kazakhstan before, but this was definitely not what I expected. Since then, the country held a high position on my list of places to be visited. I could not guess this goal would be accomplished within the next two years, but fate, directed by my own inventiveness, brought me there during a quest for my studies.

After exploring the Caucasus I had to cross the Caspian before I was immersed into Kazakh decadency in the coastal city of Aktau. There I condemned myself to a 50 hour third class train ride among the ‘real’ people. In the middle of the vastness of the empty steppes suddenly the train arrived in the new capital. An outpost of civilization. Astana.

And civilized it was. New buses running on time, dust-bins on every street corner and decently renovated buildings, at least at the front side. The bus brought me to the administrative center at the other side of the river, the place where the president builds his own dream out of oil- and gas profits. Wandering along the broad lanes makes you feel tiny, as high glass buildings look upon you as if you were nothing. Then, in the middle of this all, the Bayterek monument appears. Lower than most of the surrounding buildings, it seems somewhat sympathetic. It looks nice; Kazakhstan’s golden egg held between white stakes. They made it their new symbol. It’s even put on their money. I made my way to it’s root and went in. An elevator brought me up into the egg, resulting in amazing views. At the east side one can see the presidential palace, guided by two golden buildings at the front and a glass pyramid a-la-Louvre and a trapezium at the back. North and southwards two major ministries reside. Especially at the south side, it becomes clear how strangely located in the middle of nothing this city is. Right behind the ministry the city makes place for the eternal steppe. Astana will not have problems to expand in the future. At the west end of the district, just behind the giant mosque, an enormous transparent tent is being build. The president looks straight upon it every time he opens his curtains after a night in his ‘white house’. Designed to contain summer-like temperatures all year round, it should become the recreational haven for the upper class residents. From what I hear, they could use one! Since residents are bored to death in this place, many of them take the train or fly back and forth to the former capital of Almaty every weekend.

Next day I took a bus in the wrong direction and ended up in the old town. There, just a few kilometres from the ‘white house,’ I find myself in a more familiar area. The regular concrete Soviet Union blocks are competing with one another in ramshackleness. Here, out of sight of the president’s eye, the ‘real’ Kazakhs live. No oil money left for them unfortunately.

Sweat dreams mister president.