I first visited Astana back in 2008 (here and here). After a year in Almaty, I finally ventured north to look for the ‘real Kazakhstan’ in the capital.  Since then I have returned several times, and finally had the chance to spend a few nights on the Left Bank proper. The Left Bank is the completely new part of the city across the river Ishym from the Soviet-era part of town (which still forms the bulk of Astana). The Left Bank is the Astana I spurned as ‘artificial’ and incomplete, calling it like a ‘movie set’. In 2008, I wanted look past this perceived ‘inauthenticity’ and instead for what I thought was more authentic; rejecting the notion that ‘plastic grandness of the Left Bank’ could be Kazakhstan. So when I traveled to older parts of the city, I noted with approval, “the neighborhood here was distinctly Kazakh. The dust of life that’s apparent everywhere in this dry country. I even saw kvass being sold on the street.”

Why was I cynical? Urbanists, and myself in the past, prioritize architecture and ‘space’ (whatever the hell that actually means) as the determinant of a city’s character. The Left Bank’s new, alien character felt out of place and disjointed. The obvious mistake of the urbanists’ viewpoint is its privilege of space and the material over the inhabitants themselves in creating the character of a place.  In my defense, in 2008 the people I looked for were not really there; and, if they were, I couldn’t spend enough time in Astana to make an evaluation on this level.

To paint a more complete picture of how Astana is developing, one must look at all kinds of ‘locality’, not just ones I, an outsider, thought more authentic. To better define local I will borrow Anthropologist Arjun Appadurai’s definition: local is something ‘self-creating’. Using this we must look at both who these new Astana citizens are, and what they are doing, making and saying.

The defining characteristic of Astana is of a corporate city. The main industry here is the state, not unusual for a capital. The citizens who epitomize the Left Bank, and the ‘new’ Astana, are the professionals, the bureaucrats, the suits, whatever you want to call them. They especially make up the working population of the Left Bank, packed full of  ministries and government-affiliated companies (like Samryk Kazyna and Kazmunaigaz). What is unique to this place versus other capitals is that in Kazakhstan the political and economic system has developed around one central figure, the President. Astana represents a kind of massive headquarters of this Nazarbaev, Inc. It is the arena in which his professionals reside, work and play.

Astana Opera House

Contrary to stereotypes, the ‘employees’ of Nazarbaev Inc., are not homogenous, nor all elite. I will highlight two portions of this professional class which show us both the continuity and change in Astana. The first group is the ‘typical’ older worker of the Left Bank, who I will dub Homo Astanus (a play on the Homo Soveticus: the idealized Soviet man). He is first of all male, and in his late 30′s to late 40′s. Educated in the late Soviet period, he quickly adapted to wild capitalism and the patron client system that harnessed it for profit. As a true company man, he knows how to grease palms to keep the gravy train running, and has a firm lifelong investment in Nazarbaev, Inc. This does not mean that Homo Astanus is always corrupt, but he does not shake the boat too much either.

Homo Astanus has been around for over 10 years, and is the old guard in Astana, but recently a new generation has begun to emerge, a generation of foreign educated young Kazakhstanis. Their youth is an important aspect, as many people studied abroad in the 1990′s as well. This group is different because they have grown up almost completely in independent and open Kazakhstan (open both in terms of travel and a globalized culture). Our sample Homo Bolashakus is bright, young (under 30) motivated, mobile and well-educated: she has studied in the west, or at a Western-style university in subjects like Public Policy, Business Administration, Finance or Accounting. A lot of hopes are pinned on this generation, that they will change things for the better.

Kazakh citizens, government officials and Western commentators all talk of a new post-Soviet Generation that will improve the country, including helping open the political system. This is not unique to Kazakhstan, as similar thinking is happening all around the post-Socialist world. For example, among the tributes for Vaclav Havel last year, I came across this speech of his referring to youth in the Czech Republic:

“The most important thing,” Havel said in his final New Year’s address as president, “is that new generations are maturing, generations of people who grew up free and are not deformed by life under Communist rule. These are the first Czechs of our times who inherently consider freedom normal and natural. It would be great if the breaking through of these people into various parts of public life leads to our society more factually, thoroughly and impartially examining its past, without whose reflection we cannot be ourselves. I also hope it will lead to our successfully parting with many ill consequences of the work of destruction the Communist regime wreaked upon our souls.”

This comes back to the idea of mentality (Менталитет) that people in the former Soviet space constantly refer to. Mentality is a broad term for a widespread way of thinking, usually used when blaming the backwards ‘Soviet’ or ‘Kazakh’ mentality for current ills (corruption, dysfunctional bureaucracy etc). Havel was hoping for a new generation  “not deformed by life under Communist rule” would bring a new modern mentality to bear on politics and society.  And it’s not just Havel. At the end of a think-tank talk after the 2011 elections, a Kazakh government representative used the Bolashak program to brush away concerns about Kazakhstan’s current political ills. He essentially said ‘Don’t worry about anything now, Bolashak will fix it in 10-20 years ” I find this eerily similar to Soviet-era pleas to sacrifice the present for a better future, but like Communism, by themselves this new generation does not necessarily represent a panacea to corruption and other problems.

It’s still much too early to tell what changes they will bring about. But we must be careful to temper our hopes a bit from Havel’s, and words. As an example let’s look at business practices in Kazakhstan. Foreign business practices can be attractive for idealists and cynics alike. For the former they provide an idealistic ‘other’, full of norms, proper practices, and transparent standards: in essence the opposite of the culture of corruption of nepotism that characterizes power in Kazakhstan. This is a worthwhile goal, improving business climate, fairness and openness. But the profit-driven nature of western business practices can also feed into the system by focusing on short terms gains/deals that enrich the elite. The profit driven techniques from the west are harnessed for the benefit of Nazarbaev, Inc, not society. This, however, is not so much an issue of mentality (how people think) as one of ideas (what people think/learn). This is an important distinction and I hope to expand upon it in the future.

There is a darker side too. Some motivated graduates become disenchanted and disengage. Others have heard enough to never even try, preferring to remain in the private sector, perhaps waiting for a time in the future when the political climate opens up. Despite this (somewhat deserved) cynicism, Astana is home to many young people working to bring a better tomorrow to their country. The city had an energy I didn’t feel in 2008, a feeling of optimism.

Kazakhstan at 20: A Bright Future?

My goal in writing about Astana has been to try to present it as a normal place, beyond the usual English language coverage that either presents it as a novelty or cynically as a location of political corruption (which of course exists on a large scale). No matter what happens in the future, Astana will be around and deserves to be considered on its own merits and faults. But in doing so I made mistake of spurning its sleek image for the more authentic. Astana is both a lived-in place and an idea. The image of the city, as a showpiece representation of the future, counts too. Many residents I spoke to were proud of the fact that they were actively building something there. This especially includes its newest generation, who, while citizens of the world, are entering adulthood in Astana and looking to make their mark. Only time will tell if they find the space to succeed in their hopes and aspirations.

However, the man who was arguably the biggest rock/pop star of the USSR is still little known in the west. Today marks what would have been the 49^th birthday of Viktor Robertovich Tsoi, frontman for 80′s rock band Kino. Born in Leningrad on June 21st, 1962, Tsoi rose to fame in the early 80′s writing songs about love, loafing and dissatisfaction in the Brezhnev era. In the mid-80′s his music turned from apathetic to political, giving a voice to a new generation thirsting for change. He died tragically in a car accident in Lithuania in 1990, but as often happens with young musicians, his early death only increased his reputation as a once in a generation artist.

The Syr Darya passing through Kyzylorda

Viktor Tsoi has a strong connection to Kazakhstan. His father was an ethnic Korean from the southern city of Kyzylorda, a place known for its brutal climate, salty earth and being ‘the most Kazakh place on earth’ (I can attest to this: when I visited in 2008 even the Russians there spoke Kazakh!). Tsoi’s father wasn’t unusual in this respect: the city is full of the descendants of the thousands of Koreans forcibly relocated by Stalin away from their home in the Russian far east in the 1930′s.

The Korkut Ata Monument Outside Kyzylorda

Tsoi also starred in the classic perestroika era film Igla (Needle), shot in Alma-Ata and out by the Aral Sea in 1987. For you Russian speakers the entire film is available on YouTube, along with most of the Kino catalog and some great live stuff (but don’t be scared off: you don’t need to speak any Russian to enjoy Kino’s music.)

The collapse of the USSR shortly after his death cemented Tsoi as perhaps the ultimate Soviet rock icon. Tsoi belonged, and belongs, not just to Russia but to the entire former Soviet Union. Today he remains hugely popular among the current generation of young people born after his death; and ‘Цой жив!’ (Tsoi lives!) can still be seen freshly scrawled upon elevators and подъезды from Vladivostok to Vilnius.

In honor of his birthday I  leave you with the classic Kino anthem Peremen (Changes), in a clip from Tsoi’s final concert in June 1990 at the Luzhniki Olympic Stadium in Moscow.

Перемен! – требуют наши сердца.
Перемен! – требуют наши глаза.
В нашем смехе и в наших слезах,
И в пульсации вен:
“Перемен!
Мы ждем перемен!”

Our hearts demand changes!
Our eyes demand changes!
In our laughter, in out tears,
And in the pulsing of our veins-
We are waiting for change.*

(*For more information on Tsoi and Kino check out this great thesis written by David Michael Parker Akiyoshi. The translation here is his.)

In addition to discussing historical, political and social issues, Masanov was, like me, a huge sports fan. Being an Alma-Ata native, his real love was the local football club FC Kairat. FC Kairat has fallen on tough times recently, but their futsal offshoot, AFC Kairat Almaty, is one of the best in Europe (remember – Kazakhstan plays in UEFA competitions, not Asia). They have made the final four of the UEFA Futsal Cup the four of the last six years, and this past April they finally received the chance to host the final tournament. They fell, once again, in the semis to Sporting Club de Portugal before capturing third.

So in honor of Nurbulat Masanov and AFC Kairat Almaty’s success I offer this translation of his article on the glory days of Kairat. Enjoyыныздар.

In 1961 my father – a passionate and fanatical football fan – first took me to a football match of Kairat vs Dynamo Kiev, where the Almaty team were crushed by the guests 3:0. I was shocked by the giant stadium, filled to capacity with tens of thousands of spectators. That amount of people, together expressed one voice, one singular thought, and every cell of one’s body became empathetic and responsive to each successfully executed feint, save, strike, or goal, I never saw such emotion even in the gigantic communist parades for November 7th and May 1st. From that very day I have been crazy for football, and since then going to football matches has become a regular event. Growing up our entire family loved football – my father, grandfather, all the men in our close circle, almost all my classmates and later all my university coursemates.

It was a whole ritual – we prepared for each match for 2-3 days: buying tickets, discussing the makeup of the team, tactics, the trainers, the weather (if it rains we will surely win!), the form of the team, the personal lives of all the players of Kairat; as many of the players lived in the center of the city. My father and I even wrote verse about our beloved team. The whole town lived for football, as it was the only officially permitted public spectacle. When a goal was scored, the rapturous roar of the fans could be heard on Komsomolskaya, Kommunisticheskiy and even Gogol’ streets! The story of Kairat was, without exaggeration, the happiest period in the life of Alma-Ata.

For two hours before the beginning of the match the powerful flow of the fans blocked all the streets of the city center – people went by foot; the movement of other forms of transport was completely paralyzed. Every self respecting male ‘Alma-Atinets‘ had to be seen at the match! Already on the corner of Komsomol’skaya(?) and Abai you would start to hear the never ending question: “Does anyone have a ticket?”. And if someone did, then the owner was seized upon by the crowd trying to get it. After the match the gigantic swarm of fans- silenced and woeful if Kairat lost- walked home, completely blocking Abai, Satpaev, Kosmonavtov, Mechnikov and Seifullina streets, reaching Komsomol’skaya and Gogol’, gradually dissipating.

We knew all the players by sight, loved and worshiped them. Most of all we talked about our favorites- our biggest idol of all Alma-Atintsi: the goalkeeper Vladimir Lisitsin, nicknamed “Lisa”, possibly the most effective and graceful keeper of the whole USSR. And this is the time when such bison (зубры) as Yashin, Maslachenko, Kotrikadze, Ugraitskii, Belyaev, Pazinskii, Urushadze, Bannikov, Pshenichnikov, Bauzha and others were around. We kids, and not just us, but even adults, loved to discuss our beloved ‘Lisa’: forever repeating his feats and his abilities. In terms of mastery of the art of goalkeeping, in my memory, you could have compared Lisitsin, if you wish, with only the other favorites of the public: Anzor Kavazashvili from Torpedo-Moscow and some foreign keepers – the great Ladislao Mazurkiewicz – and one of the greatest keepers in the history of world football, the unforgettable Columbian Rene Higuita.

And not by accident was Lisa named the fourth keeper of the USSR in the list of 40 players for the World Cup in 1962. It was the recognition of our Kairat!

But the most beloved player of Kairat in the 60′s was indisputably Vadim Stepanov, who fans adoringly called Stepa, or simply Vadik. He was, without a doubt, the God of our city. Tall, strong, a little slow, with a walk like a waddle (which all the boys imitated), and sure in himself, the strong Stepa personified everything manly and aggressive. He was a pillar in defense, our leader and the biggest hope of the team. When a goal was needed, then the whole stands would chant: Stepa, Stepa, Stepa!” and he would go forward and score. He especially mastered taking penalties, he scored them simply on strength alone, and we were sure that if Stepa hit it straight to the keeper, then they would fly into the back of the net together with the ball. Being a central defender, Stepanov scored no fewer goals than a forward. He played like Moore, Beckenbauer, Krol, Baresi and other world class stars would later play. For more than one person it remained a mystery why Vadik was never taken to the USSR team.

From the newspaper ‘Доживем до Понедельника’, 16 February 1996: ‘Football is my Love’ (Моя Любовь – Футбол. Нурбулат Эдигеевич Масанов)

Despite their best editorial maneuverings, an excerpt one of my earliest posts was selected for the Kazakhstan chapter. The book is available in both English and Russian, and contains a lot of fascinating writing, most more substantial than the musings on sidewalks and football you find here in Molapse. A hearty молодец! to everyone there for their great work, and to the Hivos organization for sponsoring it.

Оқыңыздар!

Springtime is here in Almaty and that means more 2010 World Cup Qualifying matches for Kazakhstan. The squad entered the year second from bottom in Group 6. As I said before, KZ has had a history of playing tough at home over the past two years, beating Serbia. In 2008 they began by demolishing perennial giants Andorra 3-0 in August. However, following this good run of form KZ couldn’t quite compete with Ukraine, falling 3-1 to Shevchenko & Co. in October.

On the road they have the habit of running their asses off for the first 45, then falling apart in the second half. In October they surprisingly held England scoreless at Wembley(!) for 52 minutes.The next qualifying match, and first in 2009, was against another former Soviet Republic, Belarus. Played on Wednesday April 1^st. Also of note as being the penultimate home match before England will come to visit in June. Molapse was there…

On match day I arrive about one hour early, despite my bus getting caught in Almaty’s horrific rush hour traffic down Satpaev Ave. I flash my shiny new СМИ (press) pass and get waved in by the blue-camoflauged cadets who control the southern gate of the stadium grounds. The pass comes from my gig as a news correspondant, a glamourous way of saying I get paid send SMS updates to European website for every goal, card and sub.

Before heading into the stadium I thought it best to take advantage of the restroom facilities myself before the match began. Near the southeastern corner of the stadium grounds. I spot a round two story structure housing the toilets. I make my way in after paying the 25 tenge ($0.17) fee, and wonder how the English fans coming in June will react to being asked to pay (in Russian) this nominal sums to answer nature’s call. Perhaps the British Embassy should sponsor free use of the restrooms in hopes of avoiding an international incident when the Russian Babushka gets between the bathroom and John Smithwinkle after a one or a dozen pints.

On the second floor I enter a labyrinth of still sparkling white porcelin. There are  different rooms branching off like an ivory honeycomb, each containing rows of gleaming white, almost brand new urinals (sponsored by the British Embassy?). Before I can snap a picture a teenger enters my cell. After getting business done he awkwardly decides to speak to me, «Казахстан победит, да?» (Kazakhstan’s gonna win, right?). Feeling optimistic, I answer with a hearty «Ну, конечно!» (Of course!), adding, «2-0». My friend raises me one, « 3-0 даже!» (Make it 3!) before exiting down the stairs to the grounds. That about sums up the attitude of the Kazakhstani fans.

The view from the press box.

I pass through the new special designated press entrance (through the stadium’s offices, rather than the general seating) and four (4!) more security checks before entering the press section in the middle of the west stamnd. Several Belarusian journos are seated in the covered press box (with tables and outlets for laptops), but I take a seat in front of them. First things first, I needed to send the lineups to Europe Central, and I borrow a copy of the from one blond haired visitors. Having, to my knowledge, never met a Belarusian, he is exactly as I pictured one to be. Average height, a little slim, with medium length bright blond hair. To complete the look he is wearing rectangular, shaded eye glasses and a bright red Belarus football scarf. Like a Russian, but somehow even more russian.

Before the match begins I take survey of the stadium. There’s almost as many people as for the Ukraine match, but whereas the Ukrainian fans had a decent showing, there’s hardly any Belarusian supporters. Behind me is the covered West stand, with the «VIPs» shelling out up to 3000 Tenge ($20) for seats for tonight’s match (Note: the prices for the England match would be much higher). Across the field, in the East stand, sit some of the organized fan groups.  Some clever supporters put up a banner punning the fact that both teams have German coaches named Bernd:

I spend the next 20-30 minutes frantically typing the player’s names into my cell phone, and with last names like Nusserbayev, Zhumaskaliyev and Verkhovtsov among the ranks, this is no easy work. Sasha, the FFK’s Press Officer, asks me why I’m standing, and tells me that my pass allows me to sit in the press box. Not wasting such a privelege, I take place between a local reporter and an older Belarusian journalist. This one fulfulls my other stereotype of Belaus, old, stern and authoritative, complete with a moustache…hm..no it couldnt be…

"So then I says to Mabel, I says..."

The match begins, with Kazakhstan in home blue and Belarus in bright white. The latter display some crisp passing early on but stumble in front of the KZ goal and, on the counter it is the home team’s Rinat Abdullin who strikes first! Being awhile since Kazakhstan have enjoyed a lead the energy of the crowd picks way up. Another quality chance for KZ quickly follows: after a second Belurusian goal mouth scramble the blues respond with a break away down the left. They have a 2-on-2 in the Belarusian 6-yard box but the weak centering pass gets intercepted by the defender and cleared.

By about the 30th minute another unforeseen problem enters my mind. While being mindful enough to go to the bathroom before the match, I forgot to eat dinner. Vendors walk through the stadium selling beer, juice and water in large plastic cups, but no food. And I can’t leave the action until the break due to my ‘serious’ journalistic responsiblities. Luckily the remainder of the half is uneventful. The crowd, similarly looking for their own excitement, start the wave at the 37th minute, making 3 full passes around the stadium.

At the halftime whistle it’s 1-0 to Kazakhstan, and I run out to beat the crowds and get some grub. The stadium grounds holds several food stalls, and at one I drop 170 Tenge ($1.12) on two pirozhkis (fried dough stuffed with minuscule amounts of meat or potatos). I  quickly devour them. Like most meals in KZ, my palatte is unsatisfied, but I’ve gained enough calories to keep me alive. Coming back to the press box I take a seat, wipe the oil of my hands and start texting my friend, asking if he wants some doner kebab after the game. I am hardly finished when two minutes in Alexander Cleb (as spelled on the official team sheet), pounces on the ball to strike the equalizer for Belarus.

It just gets uglier from there. It seems to me that instead of spending the halftime break strategizing, the Kazakh team instead scarfed down greasy pirozhkis. Seven minutes later Belarus scores another goal. In the 57th another. In the 64th a fourth is added. Four goals in 16 minutes put an end to any Kazakhstan hopes. The sudden swing of events creates tension on the field, including some minor scuffles. Our referee is a bit tolerant, and the teams escape with two Yellow Cards. The Belarusians stick the nail in the coffin in the 88th minute with a fifth goal. Despite the fact that doner is still on my mind, and the fifth goal not making much of a difference, I feel the responsibility to send the goal report immediately. Somewhere in the world (I imagine in some dark and windswept Antarctic Research Base) are Belarusian following the match. These poor lost souls, far from home, are depending on my SMSes to bring them some cheer; and an excuse for another celebratory shot of vodka.

The match ends 5-1. The crowd files out. They seem justifiably more subdued than after the loss against Ukraine, losing more handily to a lesser opponent. Even so, there were still some chants, screaming and honking along the streets as I made my way for some long awaited doner.

We took a cab from the sparkling new city across the river to the Right Bank, where most of the city lies. Before the beginning of the current remont Tselinograd was a fairly standard Kazakh/Soviet city. From all the pictures/materials that I’ve seen (mainly the odd ‘Akmola Encyclopedia’ published in the mid-1990′s) it had the same square, theater, roads etc that you’d find elsewhere. So heading to the older neighborhoods I was very eager to find that familiarity lost in the plastic grandness of the Left Bank.

New construction on Sary Arka

The cab was, like much else in Astana, overpriced: 500 tenge (about $4.15) for a 10 minute ride that would cost 300 in Almaty. Strangely, taxis in the Almaty, the richest city in Kazakhstan, are the same price or cheaper than many other places. The minimum fare is 200 tenge, which is identical to that in a regional center like Kizilorda. I’d put it down to simple economics: in a system where literally any driver can decide to be a ‘taxi’, Almaty has the greatest supply of drivers, so competition keeps the fares down.

Our first stop was the real downtown around Republic Avenue, the western part of the city. This part of the city has also undergone a facelift, with many new buildings or fresh coats of paint, especially around the waterfront. The Ishim river runs through Astana, and has been augmented/reformed to give it a nic breadth through the center. Conversely, no major body of water is to be found in our fair Almaty.

Indeed after living there for a year and driving by man-made Lake Kapchagai (some 130km north) I nearly wet myself. So Astana’s waterfront is aesthetically very nice, especially on a warm, clear summer evening. During the other nine months of the year it’s probably not as pleasant. The area also had a ‘movie set’ feel to it, but on a different scale. I saw 2-3 story buildings, quaint side streets, small freshly planted trees (for another comparison, Almaty has absolutely monstrous trees) under streetlights. Almost Americana.

One other impression I got around this neighborhood was of a cold place. Not so much cold as in impersonal, but as in ‘holy #$%@ this place is cold in winter (although it’s very likely the two are related). Maybe it was the hard angles of the white, rectangular slabs of apartment blocks resembling chunks of ice. Or the flatness of the terrain harkening the emptiness of the steppe.  The breeze was constant, and, I can imagine it sweeping through in January or February like an atomic blast, only freezing rather than melting everything in its path.

Republic Avenue

Republic Avenue is the main thoroughfare here, wide and open with set back brightly painted apartments containing shops on the street level. The space is large and comfortable; the air fresh. Life is organized and settled, even a bit sterile. Things become more interesting, however, as we made our way east to the older part of town (remember, ‘old’ in Astana is a relative term, think Soviet). And while on the Left Bank the only remotely familiar sight was a branch of the supermarket chain Gros, filled with comforting Maxi Chais and Pirozhkis; over here signs of the Kazakhstan I know began popping up.

Balcony Life in KZ

We had to switch buses on while on the way to Eurasia University, and I spotted a grilled chicken stand (1000 tenge for a whole bird). The buildings were smaller and a faded beige/clay color or brick. They reminded me of Taraz in the south, but really it could’ve been anywhere. What I love about these buildings is that, thought uniform in design and construction, each has evolved by continuous remont, visibly by the widely different styles of balconies.  As a matter of fact, a balcony was being redone as we were standing waiting for the bus.

Fishin'

We continued East, near the the University, and approached the balka, or canal, that comes up from the River Ilysh. A statue of a playful Pushkin looks over the water besides Ablai Khan Avenue. People were enjoying the day off by fishing, but it was otherwise quiet. As it was June, school was out and the campus clear of students. Crossing back east over the balka we spotted an unusual sight in Kazakhstan: a synagogue, bright blue, shiny and new, situated next to a just as modern highway overpass.

Kvas for sale

The neighborhood here was distinctly Kazakh. The dust of life thats apparent everywhere in this dry country. I even saw kvas being sold on the street. A traditional Russian carbonated beverage, usually made from bread, kvas is usually sold from big yellow barrels like this one on the street.

Time came to head back, so we got into another overpriced taxi and started back to the western side of town. Driving along Abai I could see the creep of the modern construction seeping into the older parts of town.  Dust, dirt, metal fences enclosing the sites, wooden planks over the roadside irrigation canals acting as improvised sidewalks.

Cranes, cranes everywhere...

Just visiting there’s no way to tell how much of the construction was ongoing, and how much frozen. The financial crisis and extreme mismanagement have meant a lot of building firms have gone under in the country, and in the two largest markets especially, that means a lot of unfinished projects are left waiting.

These neighborhoods revealed another Astana. One not worried about, plans, progress or politics. One more concerned with getting by in 2008 than in 2030 (referring to the well-publicized strategic development plan of the President). A place worn, lived-in. But just as the new overtakes the old, the same signs of life that existed here will spread into the new neighborhoods. What the city needs is time, and people.  The former will come of course, and the city will evolve naturally. But the latter? It’s hard to say.

One thing that is sure is as more and more native-born Astanites grow up they will make the city their own. Many will be sons and daughters of the internal migrants coming from nearby regions. Just as Almaty’s population is booming with people from Shymkent, Taraz and the south, Astana’s growth has been fueled by incomers from the surrounding area. Many people I met were from Karaganda, Semipalatinsk or Kostanai, for example. Residents who moved earlier, 6-12 years ago, are already local.

This is one reason Astana is not completely damned to be an administrative hole like Canberra or Brasilia. The fact is that it is already the ‘Second City’ of Kazakhstan, having surpassed Karaganda in population, though not yet vibrancy. (If Almaty is New York and Shymkent Dallas, then Karaganda would be Chicago) It will continue to pull in these migrants as long as the situation remains stable. While the same government ‘elite’ who were forced to move from Almaty will continue to have roots there, the new core will remain. Much like Washington DC has dual populations: one is always shifting, in and out, either students (like I was), or those working in the government, policy or international sectors (like I may be someday). The other is native born and stable.

Young Astanites

Both populations will be critical to building and shaping the city’s character as a whole (which so far is still lacking). For better or worse Astana is also linked to the future of the country. Nazarbaev often calls it his ‘dream’, in speeches and writing. But it is also useful as a barometer of Kazakhstan over the next 20 years.

The biggest concern is the overextension of development because of poor regulation. Some people criticize the city as being generic and planned, but the real threat is overdevelopment, and useless building projects harming the city life. Astana will likely never be as big as Almaty, or at least not for a long time, but the rate of construction has been just as high. Just who will fill up these new living and business spaces?

Four days in Astana, and only 1 1/2 to snoop around, are not enough, and I look forward to my next visit, later this month, to explore some more of the neighborhoods, and see even more bizarreness (like the Pyramid). I also want to check out more of the Northern identity. Kazakhstan, like the US, is has two distinct regions: a more traditional south, and the heavily Russian-influenced north. Just this past week I was meeting some friends from Taraz (southern), and some people from Semipalatinsk (northern). I can’t quite describe the difference yet, but it was clearly felt. Astana itself is a bit of a bubble in the north, so it was hard to delve deep into the matter. The only quirk I noticed was Kazakhs using the Kazakh greeting of ‘kolaisin’ more often than the standard russian ‘privet’ heard in Almaty. In both cases, however, the speaker will most likely continue in Russian.

While my stay was short, this piece has also been written from the past year of experiencing the Astana mythos publicized by the government. Astana is not just a city, but a brand, being advertised and sold on billboards, songs, magazines. In July, the month of the city’s 10th birthday, there were an even higher number of fluff reports articles thrown out. Even in the first day of school all across the country, a lecture was devoted to tell the student’s about this ‘ideal’ city. This is why people have very strong opinions about the city, because these artificial expectations are so high. I’ve tried to ignore not only the propaganda, but also the simple criticisms and comparisons people make about Astana.

When I was studying and work I was working in Washington, DC, I often heard people (of the in-and-out type I described above) comparing DC to New York City. But for me (sometimes nonjudgemental to a fault) it doesn’t seem fair to compare a city of 10 million to one of 600,000. The same thing happens in Kazakhstan, and Astana will never be Almaty, and shouldn’t try. This being said, many of the complaints hold true: there’s not as much to do, expensive, the winter weather is atrocious (although the air quality in Astana seems to be much healthier).

In the end, regardless of whether you prefer Astana or Almaty, there’s one thing we can agree on: they are both much nicer places to live than the original capital, Kizilorda!