Tuesday, 22nd July 2008
Kazakhstan Diary - July 2008
Tuesday 22nd July 2008
The flight from Almaty to Semey in East Kazakhstan was in a famous old Russian war horse – an Antonov 24. These twin-prop beasts were left behind in Kazakhstan, when the Soviet empire collapsed, deemed worthless. They are still flying today. In Semey, the usual welcoming party was waiting for me on the runway. As I walked towards them I glanced over my shoulder back towards our trusty aircraft. Two men had climbed a ladder onto the wing of the Antonov and while one held an enormous funnel, the other poured fuel into it from a large plastic container. Re-fuelling Polygon style!
The deputy Akim (mayor) of Semey was waiting for me, accompanied by an entourage of local worthies, including two local girls in national costume who thrust flowers into my arms and then proffered nuts and sweets and cupfuls of the nasty ‘kumis’ or fermented mares milk. This sour, smelly and slightly alcoholic local delicacy is gulped down with gusto by the Kazakhs, but is certainly an acquired taste.
In Semey I took a quick tour of the oncology hospital, visiting the new breast cancer wing and seeing the state-of-the-art new equipment they’ve acquired. The contrast with the way this place was nine years ago when I first visited is amazing. I was shown the model of the proposed new hospital which is yet to materialise, but looks likely to happen, then taken into some of the 4-bed wards to meet the female patients. I dismantled some of the bouquets of flowers we’d received at the airport and handed single stems to each of the patients. The experience of the Polygon is unique in global terms and should be properly documented as both a warning to others not to mess around with nuclear weapons and as an invaluable resource to show the consequences for the local population and their potential treatment if such advice is ignored.
I moved on to the children’s hospital where again there were signs of improvement, although the cratered and pot-holed access road into the car park resembles a bomb site and must be a horrendous experience for really sick children arriving for treatment. However, the corridors and wards had at least been painted and the floors re-covered. Shortcomings in the building are massively overcome by the dedication and professionalism of the fantastic medical staff. Their real love and care for their patients is quite astonishing. Again we were taken through some of the wards where mothers sat holding the hands of their sons and daughters, mostly suffering from diseases like leukaemia and anaemia and other common ailments brought about by exposure to radiation.
The hospital visits over, I set off in a Toyota Landcruiser for the five hour cross-country journey to the emote village of Kainar. It was already 4.15 in the afternoon. The heat was searing. Even with the air-conditioning on at full blast, the windows were still hot to touch. On the perimeter of Semey, next to the huge Muslim cemetery, our police escort peeled off with a wave of the hand. We were on our own. Soon the properly surfaced road deteriorated into a pock-marked assault course. My driver swerved at high speed between deep holes and cracks, sometimes jerking the wheel so that we careered off the road altogether and bounced alarmingly along the edge of a ten foot drop, before swerving back onto the broken tarmac once again. This was his way of avoiding the worst of the hazards. Now and again he was too late to execute these skilful manoeuvres and we would crunch into a deep rut or, worse still, leap into the air off a hidden undulation. After half an hour of this I felt as if I had gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson and we still had four and a half hours more to go!
The wide steppe stretched into the distance. On the horizon, black clouds were occasionally lit by flashes of lightning as an electrical storm moved slowly towards us. Wild horses grazed unconcerned as we roared past. As the sun began to sink in the west, the spectacular light show made us forget our aches and pains. Great streaks of sunlight speared through the storm clouds. Reds and pinks lit up the sky. A distant line of hills had turned a gentle orangey pink hue. We were transfixed. The breathtaking beauty of the steppe which had inspired generations of nomad poets and philosophers unfolded before us. It was all too recently that millennia of nomadic life had been rudely interrupted by the brutal oppression of the Communists and the horrors of their 603 nuclear tests.
As we drove through the dark and dusty, un-paved streets of Kainar, the local head doctor - Akimbaev - explained that the village had had no electricity for four days following a storm. We passed the large cemetery, almost as big as the village itself. We bounced and swerved across gulleys and over stream-beds, following the lights of the Akim’s Lada which seemed to power ahead with no need for traction! After ten minutes we arrived at a large yurt – a nomadic tent erected next to a stream and specially prepared for my visit. Crowds of villagers were gathered on the grass. It was now almost completely dark. Millions of stars were beginning to appear in the inky black steppe sky.
Behind the yurt, around a dozen women had fires crackling away and great samovars of tea boiling noisily. A basin was filled with the legs, ribs, saddle and head of a forlorn sheep, waiting to be boiled. At last we were ushered into the yurt where the table, arranged in a circle with stools to sit upon, was groaning with food. We took our places and the vodka toasts and dombra music began. Soon two women carried in a large tray with the inevitable boiled sheep’s head atop a mountain of white mutton fat and scrawny bits of meat. It was set down in front of me for carving. I duly excised each ear, the juicy nostrils, the two eyes and the black skin covering the nose and forehead, until there was nothing left but the grinning skull. I speared lumps of this delicacy on a fork and passed these bits around to all and sundry in true Kazakh fashion.
More toasts were called for and more music until we finally staggered out of the yurt around one thirty in the morning. The chief village doctor informed us that we were to sleep in a wing of his hospital. We slept there last time we were in the Polygon and cynically nick-named it the Kainar Hilton. The hospital is located appropriately close to the big cemetery. Armed with a torch, the head doctor ushered us to our quarters, a wing of the hospital specially cleared of patients to make room for us. This was the same Kainar Hilton as last time, right enough; although the doctor proudly announced that they had dug a new outside toilet for us that very day in our honour. I borrowed his torch and made my way gingerly up a muddy path until I found it. Really there was no need for a torch. The stink guided me straight to it! I gagged and tried to hold my breath while I relieved myself.
A number of multi-bed wards meant everyone had to share, but at least this time the beds had been made up with damp sheets and pillows. The sole sanitary facility for the entire hospital wing consisted of a tin can suspended from the wall above an old basin. When you pushed a knob on the bottom of the tin, water dribbled out into the basin and from there into a bucket strategically positioned on the floor. Every now and again a young Kazakh woman rushed in with a bucket to re-fill this antiquated contraption. There was no soap and no towels in evidence.
Wednesday 23rd July 2008
After a fitful sleep we began to pack up our kit and carry the bags around to the hospital car park. Here we were met by a group of patients who were occupying the main wing of the building. An elderly woman rushed forward to grab me in a bear-like hug and smacked a couple of slobbery kisses on each cheek. She said “You come here more often than any of our politicians and you are the only person that represents our interests”. I asked her why she was in hospital and she explained that she had come down with a bout of flu, causing me to take a sharp step backwards!
Other patients came over to chat and shortly a beautiful young Kazakh doctor and an equally attractive nurse, both in crisp, clean uniforms, came out to see what was going on. These are trained professionals who could earn ten times their salary if they moved to the West. Yet they remain dedicated to their beleaguered people, working with poor equipment in primitive conditions and for little money. They are the real heroes of the Polygon.
Around nine o’clock, the head doctor arrived and we were once again ushered on board our vehicles for the drive back up the valley to the yurt for breakfast. But before we could take out seats in the yurt, there was an important duty to perform. This was one of the key reasons I had come to the Polygon. I summonsed the head doctor from the village and presented him with a large, presentation cheque for $5,000. This was money accumulated by the Scottish-based charity Mercy Corps from the sale of my book ‘CRYING FOREVER’. So far I have been able to hand out around $100,000 from the books sales. The money has gone to the Oncology and Children’s Hospitals in Semey and last year to buying an ambulance for the village hospital in Sarzhal. This year it was the turn of the Kainar Hospital and I secretly prayed that the head doctor might use the funds to improve the sanitary facilities.
On across the steppe to Znamenka where we were met by the village Akim, a fit and cheery man who looks younger than his 60 years. He knew us from previous meetings and explained that he used to be the Akim of Sarzhal but last year had moved to Znamenka. He ushered us into the new village clinic which, he explained, was his former home which he had gifted to the village as a new and much better medical facility. He is now living in a smaller house. This staggering act of charity really put my humble attempts to help into context. Here was a local politician really prepared to put his money where his mouth is.
The Akim explained that things are getting worse in Znamenka. This village used to have 10,000 residents during the Soviet times. Now there are only 2500 he said. Young people leave for the cities whenever they can. There is no work here. No-one will invest in the area. The pollution is too dangerous. In addition, he explained that there is no drinking water in the village. Clean water has to be transported by truck every single day from Semey, 60 km across the steppe. The local water supply is salty and completely unsuitable for drinking or even cooking. They use it only for washing. He said that the villagers also have no access to Kazakh TV. They receive all their TV by satellite and can get no Kazakh channels, so while they have been able to watch me on the television in Euro News, they don’t know what is happening in their own country.
Thursday 24th July 2008
Today was important because it would allow me to fulfil the second key purpose of my visit to Kazakhstan. Having agreed, last year, to help the oligarch Nurlan Kapparov to fund a school for handicapped children in the remote village of Urdzhar, I had been keen to examine the project at first hand. The problem was, the runway at Urdzhar had collapsed into disrepair and there had been no flights to the village for eleven years. Urdzhar is only 50 km from the Chinese border, but is 7 hours by road from Semey. Knowing the state of the roads, I had been reluctant to undertake the journey unless more suitable transport could be found. The end result was that the local Akimat in Urdzhar invested in the refurbishment of the runway and airport and persuaded the domestic air service – Semey-Avia – to inaugurate a new thrice weekly service between Semey and Urdzhar.
Indeed it turned out that our flight was to be the inaugural flight, the first to Urdzhar for eleven years. An old Yak 40 had been specially chartered for the occasion by the sister of Nurlan Kapparov – Sandugash Ksembaev – head of the Zhambyl Foundation – a special trust fund set up by Kapparov for charitable purposes and behind the project to build the school for handicapped kids in Urdzhar. Nurlan and Sandugash’s mother had been born in Urdzhar, so there was a strong family connection to the locale.
Our fellow passengers for the chartered flight were the Akim of Semey, a film-crew and journalists who were coming to mark both the re-opening of the airport and my visit to Urdzhar. The pilot was none other than the head of Semey-Avia himself. I was ushered down to the front seat in the old Soviet war-horse, next to the Akim of Semey. The heat inside the plane was intense. Although the cockpit is tiny, three pilots are required to fly these ancient jets and they duly squeezed past me to shut themselves into their cramped accommodation. The engines roared into life and we began to taxi down the runway. Suddenly the door opened and one of the pilots emerged. He leaned over me and tried the handle on the emergency exit. He opened the cockpit door and there was a brief exchange in Russian with the other two pilots. He then lumbered to the back of the plane and did the same again at the rear emergency exit. Once more there was an exchange of views in the cockpit. This time he leaned right across my seat and although we were still taxing along the runway, wrenched open the emergency exit and quickly slammed it shut again. This time there were grunts of approval from the cockpit and he disappeared back inside and shut the cabin door behind him. The old Yak slowly turned and faced east. We roared down the runway and lurched into the air just as the tarmac ran out and the perimeter fence approached.
Half-way through the flight, with ‘No Smoking’ signs in Russian above each seat, the distinctive smell of tobacco smoke drifted out from under the cockpit door. The pilots were having a fag! God knows how they managed to breathe in such a tiny cockpit with three of them smoking? One hour later, the senior pilot announced that we were beginning our descent into Urdzhar. I could see a conglomeration of buildings below, but no sign of a runway. Our plane circled several times. “I think he’s searching for the airport” I told the Akim sitting next to me. Several of the passengers were by now on their mobile phones, perhaps asking local friends if they could shed some light on the whereabouts of the runway! At last, we found it, but still the pilots hesitated. They circled the airport twice more, cautiously checking the state of the newly tarred runway and the best way to approach. Finally the wheels came down and in we went, coming to a halt with our nose over the grass at the far end of the new runway, despite full reverse thrust after we touched down. Clearly the runway was a bit short for a Yak 40. I nervously pondered whether it was long enough for us to take off again later in the afternoon, or whether we were here for the weekend.
A big welcoming party was waiting for us on the apron. Girls in national dress were there with the usual gifts of sweets and sour kumis. The local Akim and his team were waiting to greet us and a large contingent of journalists joined up with the camera crew who had accompanied us from Semey. I did some interviews and then we were whisked straight to the existing school for handicapped children where a gauntlet of staff and kids were lined up waiting to cheer us in.
Inside the main classroom, three young children in wheelchairs burst into song as we entered, accompanied as always by an elaborate sound system and DJ. We handed over the bouquets we had received at the airport to these kids and were then shown to a table and chairs at the end of the classroom. The head teacher introduced herself and said that she wanted to tell the story of the school by showing us slides projected onto a large screen and by letting us see the children perform dances and songs and from the accounts of some parents who were also present. She explained that the present school can cater for around 50 children although there are only 37 pupils at the present time. She told us that out of a population for the whole Urdzhar region of around 95,000, there were 780 children born last year, 180 of whom had been born with inherited diseases caused by the nuclear tests. 90% of these children will end up as our patients she said, explaining that the school takes kids from age 3 to 18.
The head teacher said that she had been told at first that it was pointless to try to educate these children and that they were better simply left at home with their parents. But she said that the school had successfully developed four separate types of rehabilitation programme and now had an excellent system suited to local needs. The system mixed education with medical treatment. The pupils are divided by age and degree of disability. They suffer from a range of disabilities including cerebral palsy and diabetes. Many are wheelchair bound, but with constant therapy and dedicated attention, they can often be taught to walk again. Several kids who performed dances and songs for us had previously been confined to wheelchairs and had now regained mobility. The head teacher explained that the school provides day facilities for local children, although they also have 11 beds for kids from more distant villages who cannot return home each night. She said the current school was her pride and joy but there was a need for a much larger facility, capable of taking 150 pupils in the first phase and with specialist equipment, staffed by both doctors and teachers. “There is no future without a past” the head teacher said. “Those who forget their past will have no future.”
After these wonderful performances by the children, I heard accounts of how good the school has been from some of the local parents. Then we sat in a class for pre-teen kids, some of whom were paralysed from the waist down, watching while they were taught the alphabet. It was striking how happy they all were. There were no tears. There were no grumbles or complaints. Indeed this has always struck me as a common factor in all of the orphanages, hospitals and institutions for children that I have ever visited in the Polygon. These are children who have been dealt a miserable hand by fate and yet the love and affection lavished upon them by their carers has given them a cheery outlook and a disposition that belies their awful circumstances as victims of the Cold War.
A tour of the school craft workshops revealed more spectacularly talented work done by the children. They auction these items every year at a local village fete to raise money for the school. The kids gave me some gifts that they had made and then I posed for a group photo outside the front door of the school with all of the children and teachers, before heading off to see the site for the new school that has been gifted to the Zhambyl Foundation by a local businessman. It is where the former headquarters of a co-operative farm was based during the Soviet era. A large 1940’s building set in around 20 acres of rich farmland and surrounded by gardens and trees. It lies just on the outer edge of Urdzhar. Already building work has begun. The existing building has been cleared of rubble and brickies were busily building a new workshop and kitchens adjacent to the main house. We were given a guided tour and the head teacher explained that the first phase to accommodate 150 handicapped children would cost a total of $650,000 to complete, including all building work, fabrics, fittings and special equipment. They hope that the initial reconstruction will be completed within 8 months and the fitting out of the building can begin later next summer.
Although not within the nuclear testing zone itself, Urdzhar suffered the consequences of atmospheric nuclear tests which were deliberately held on days when the wind was blowing towards China. The radioactive clouds from bomb blasts up to 500 km away, drifted across their village and then, encountering the mountains that divide China from Kazakhstan, settled as rain into the local lakes and rivers. The problem has been further compounded by Chinese nuclear tests when they deliberately steer their radioactive fallout towards Kazakhstan, to minimise health problems for their own local population. Once again Urdzhar was the recipient of this unwanted and lethal pollution and once again it was the children who suffered and continue to suffer. I have therefore a great sympathy and support for this project. There is a clear local need and they have the considerable financial backing of a local oligarch.
Back at the newly re-opened airport, as I suspected, the crew had decided the runway was barely long enough for a Yak 40 and we taxied right to the very end of the freshly laid tarmac and had our nose over the grass before executing a skilful U-turn and revving up for take-off. This time the pilot had all three jet engines roaring at full throttle as if we were about to lift off from the deck of an aircraft carrier. The old plane trembled and shook and then, abruptly, the brakes were off and we were hurtling down the runway at breakneck speed praying that we wouldn’t run out of road. Just in the nick of time we soared into the air and got the wheels up before we clipped any treetops. We banked sharply and turned our nose to Semey.
On landing in Semey, the cockpit door opened and one of the pilots raced to the rear exit to get down the stairs before any of the passengers. We soon discovered why. As we alighted he had to steer each of us to one side to avoid fuel dripping onto our heads from the hot rear engine. There was a strong smell of aviation spirit as a puddle of fuel formed on the tarmac and vapour rose from the red hot engine. No doubt a regular problem with the antiquated Yaks, but to passengers more accustomed to Air France or BA, a little unsettling nevertheless.
Tomorrow I would fly back to London, my latest expedition to Kazakhstan over.
