Twilit in Astana, and the city’s lights burst to life. “Selfie… selfie…selfie plieez…” the tall bearded man on the pavement pleads feverishly, brandishing his phone and intercepting our paces at the Astana Expo, next to a sexy and silky electric BMW flaunted as an eco-friendly icon of the future.
Black people thrill folks here. “Most of them have never seen a black person,” Greg, our guide, chimes. No sooner has Greg finished than a family accosts us – for a selfie. We pose. The man flashes his iPhone. We smile. And, voila, he has captured a “precious memento,” so he enthuses through Greg.
We exit the Expo area, behind us the gigantic glass orb shimmering in its elegance. The orb is a photographers’ paradise.
Beyond selfies, Astana is bubbly. Locals fancy shopping and eating out. One breezy evening we’re at the Silk Way Mega, one of the newest shopping malls. It’s way past 11 O’clock but families are still out chattering, biting, munching and sipping.
Indeed, Astana today is a sharp contrast of its former self under the oppressive communist USSR. Where communism flopped, capitalism flourishes. Where incarceration failed, liberty reigns. In the soviet hey days, Astana was a gulag for wives and children of political prisoners.
Astana is stunning. From picking a rental bike on the streets and cycling in the beautiful city, accessing Internet hotspots even at bus parks, to awing at statues gracing intersections, Astana can be hilarious.
Here, new apartments, malls and office complexes sprout and then burst like blossoms in spring. The last I saw of such a spectacular construction marvel was in Addis Ababa.
But, if there’s anything like a futuristic city, it must be Astana, the capital of Kazakhstan. Buildings here are weird; people’s charm, enviable; the city’s order and purity, unimpeachable.
Young Astana
Astana is young literally and figuratively. Its young families cheerily stroll along
promenades flanked by young well-tented trees and flower gardens. Established just two decades ago vide a presidential decree today Astana is a hub of commerce and diplomacy.
English is almost non-existent here, but stores and clubs still play Michael Jackson, Beyoncé and Justin Bieber. “We’ve got an American dream,” Greg purrs.
Greg is right. Save for the language – Kazakh and Russian- the rest is Western Europe and America. Even when a huge population here is Muslim, you hardly get any sense of it. There’re no dreary calls from muezzin, nor do you see folks facing Mecca. Clothing too is liberal, with short dresses, a profanity elsewhere, as a lifestyle, and so is clubbing.
For a coffee junkie like yours truly, this is a little delightful paradise. Astana has taste in swanky coffee shops. At every turn there is a coffee shop and the espresso machine diligently gush latte. It’s why this evening I’m seated at the Starbucks as I bang the keyboard. This is the Mecca of coffee if you will, and I’m instinctively paying pilgrimage as it were. The smell of freshly brewed coffee bursts my olfactory faculties, thrusting me into an entrancing milieu.
Still, on coffee shops, the Black Duck restaurant holds a special place for breakfast especially for their fluffy pancakes. For me pancakes kindle childhood memories of Sunday mornings when mom was in beautiful mood and would always bake before Sunday school.
Although it may not be a home of blockbuster gourmet; still Astana offers something out of our world. Take the example of Beshbarmak – boiled horsemeat, though at Ali Baba, where we’re devouring our lunch, it’s lamb. It is served with noodles in an onion broth. “Awesome,” our Nairobi millenials would chirrup.
When I heard I’d be visiting Astana, one of the most enchanting sites I hankered to see was the Bayterek monument. I had read about it once in The Economist. Its legend raided my imagination.
Astana’s Bayterek
And then, here we’re. It’s Saturday mid-morning. The Astana sky is clear blue as the cabbie pulls by the Bayterek -a white-lattice structure rising 100 meters high with its “golden egg” iridescent high above. Below, a riot of blooms in the splendour of purple, yellow and red seem to cheer on. My heart stops a beat. Then, instinctively, my faithful Nikon is clicking away. Tourists too are busy taking selfies and buying souvenirs.
The Kazakh believe in the myth of the bird that lays the golden egg, hence the duplication of the same in form of the Bayterek tower – a national symbol.
“According to the Kazakh folklore,” mused the cabman earlier, “there is a mythical tree of life known as bayterek that grows on the World River Bank. A bird, called samruk, flies to the bayterek to lay a golden egg. The samruk is a holy bird of happiness,” he chimed, thrilled by our attention.
We gather that the egg symbolizes the sun, which grants the Kazakhs happiness and hope. No wonder the Bayterek is at the centre of Astana. And indeed, if anything, Astana is vivacious in every metric.
Now, our red double-decker has arrived. We pleasurably roll through the smooth streets of Astana -the stunning city in the sun.
A visit to Astana is more than travel. It’s much of a peek into the future as it’s going back in time of history; it’s an encounter with geography as it’s a lesson in civics and politics. It’s an appreciation of fantastic town planning and civility, all captured in one canvas like an artist’s impression.
Towards the National Museum, we pass over the Ishim River, elegantly twisting downstream. Adventure-seekers are enjoying a cruise excursion. “It’s popular with tourists,” the guide muses. I take note, may be for the next sojourn.
But if you miss the cruise, you will definitely find the Khan Shatyr Entertainment Center. The tent-shaped Khan Shatyr is more fascinating than eerie. It’s designed to withstand the Astana extreme weather that oscillates from highs of 400C in summer to -400C in winter. Moreover, it has an artificial mini-river, mini-light train and even an artificial beach club.
Furthermore, it’s tilted, cone-shaped like an African traditional hut. But it’s more of a cathedral of capitalism than a bastion of egalitarianism. Here, designer shops galore as are slick restaurants. It’s also the centre of culture and entertained with theme parks. It’s popularly known as the “world’s largest tent,” but it’s true essence is an immortalisation of the nomadic prowess of the Kazakhs.
In Astana, time flies. It’s Sunday already, incidentally a bit grey and drizzly. Eric, our cabbie, has come. We take the Manglik Yel Avenue to the airport. Eric speaks impeccable English. He spots an African lady crossing the road and breaks the long silence: “African women; I love them. They’re prettier than ours.” We all rapture into laughter. Astana, with its statues, iconic buildings, and optimism never ceases to amuse.
Yet, at 3:00 O’clock, the Airbus 320 Air Astana taxis, and smoothly takes off. Below us is a stretch of the steppe that runs to infinity. Astana too glimmers in the afternoon sun; I take a selfie, swallow hard as the city melts away. With me are the memories, and the muse. Goodbye Astana. ewamanji@yahoo.co.uk Twitter: manjis
