What is happening on the border of Russia and Kazakhstan: solvers, cold, volunteers

I set myself the task of going to Kazakhstan on Sunday and getting to the place, as it were. We have a long border with this state, and there are many ways to get there. I decided to move through Samara.

I looked at the plane tickets – they cost as much as a wing of a Boeing. There were no train tickets. The service for finding fellow travelers offered many options – only one driver responded, however. The price in the ad was 2700, the real one was exactly ten times more.

“What kind of car? Who else is on the way?” I asked the usual questions. “Different people are driving,” the driver replied evasively, “yes, the price is 27,000 per seat, but we are going to the border.

Driven by greed, mixed with a sense of offended justice, I began to poke at the train I needed. For a couple of hours, I “stumbled” two SVs, as I remember, 24 thousand each, one compartment, one reserved seat. The coupe and the reserved seat left in a matter of seconds, the SV was available for 10 minutes. After poking for another forty minutes, I finally won in the speed of booking tickets and tore off quite a decent reserved seat for 3700.

But the ticket was super-burning. There was literally an hour left before the train – I managed to grab only money, documents, a change of linen and a piece of bread for the journey. I boarded the train three minutes before departure.

The car inside was truly masculine and very taciturn. I asked fellow travelers to which station and what business they were following – the usual train chatter. But they answered me gloomily and briefly: “On a tour.” A dank rain was pouring outside the window … However, not only I turned out to be a losing interlocutor – it was generally the quietest car in my life.

In Samara, I did not have to suffer for a long time with the search for further ways of transportation. It was enough to get out of the railway station, as it flew after: “Taxi, taxi, whoever needs to go to the border …” It sounded so casual, as if I was leaving Kazansky or Leningradsky, where I always bombed in abundance.

To be honest, I was sure that the prices for a taxi to the border would be exorbitant and even scolded myself that I had refused fellow travelers for 27 thousand. But no – they asked for 3,500 to the border from Samara. True, I bought five – I was somewhat in a hurry, but the driver liked me too. But in the cabin there were not four of us, but three – which later resulted in an important advantage: the road was broken in places, and it was a long drive, five hours.

– Our nearest point is Mashkovo, – the driver explained when we took our seats, – but there you will have to walk 30-35 kilometers, because there is a terrible traffic jam. There, truck drivers did not get along with the drivers of cars, who took the fashion to overtake in the oncoming lane.

Taxi drivers also kalym – they take a place in the queue for further replanting of people who are no longer able to walk on foot – such a car costs 40 thousand in full. They pass by and get back in line – they shuttle, and thus increase it. Sometimes it’s just other people who give you a lift – it’s cheaper, as you agree, but on average, five thousand.

Looking ahead, I’ll say that already in Uralsk we met people who tried to pass through this point – they reached the pedestrian line, stood for several hours, realized that they had to stand for 12 hours – in total, about 100 people gathered for the passage, but let them through slowly. And in the end, for 10 thousand from the nose, they got into a taxi at the very crossing and crossed the Kazakh border in four to five hours. Our driver immediately offered to go to another point – Warm.

“This point is farther, but it’s closer to the border there – about three kilometers, my passengers said that people pass faster at that point.”

We went. The driver was very attentive – he drove into the parking lots, giving the opportunity to buy something, visit the toilet. In one of the queues for the toilet, we discussed our destination loudly. Suddenly, a woman standing in front turned to us: “People have been standing there since Saturday and no movement!”

— How since Saturday? – we were taken aback, – a day or something?

— Already the second!

“What, did you come from there?” – I could not understand her knowledge.

We’re taking it there! – the interlocutor threw and for some reason walked away … Although women never go anywhere from the queue to the toilet …

I rushed in a panic to our driver.

“Ah, these are the solvers,” he reassured, “Now you will panic, run to look for her, ask questions, and they will offer you a car.” Up to 100 thousand disperse. Don’t believe! My passengers passed yesterday in half a day.

Half a day, of course, didn’t make me happy either, but still not two …

So we got talking almost to the very border. On the road we were met by a man who said that there was no way further by car – let’s walk. I thought in the heat of the moment that I also decided this, but it turned out that I was a volunteer.

At this checkpoint, thanks to their efforts, everything worked like clockwork. Trucks and cars, whose drivers used to also constantly engage in verbal skirmishes, looking askance at the crowbars, were reconciled here. Some lined up on one side of the road now, others on the other. Here, with chuckles, they recall a foreign car that “wanted to skip the line” and went in the opposite direction. She was simply laid on her side to rest from the hustle and bustle.

According to the tradition left over from Soviet mothers and fathers, each newcomer writes a number on his hand with a pen. Mine was close to 1800.

I arrived at the border checkpoint around 18.00. And the agonizing wait began…

But what a blessing that earlier, somewhere in some telegram channel, I miraculously caught the phrase “dress warmer!” and grabbed, running out, though short, but a faux-fur jacket, and not the usual light one, which she wore, forcefully, until the last day.

Neither the lack of tickets, nor the road to the crossing point, not various scarecrows – “they will close the border at midnight!”, “People are turned around without explanation!” – all this is nothing compared to the severe cold that fell at night on a blown piece of the steppe, where about 200 people danced (the countdown of the queue was not reset).

Until midnight people still held out. In addition, at 11 p.m. suddenly (for many) the incredible happened. They brought hot meals.

“Yes, these are just international airlines!” I was confused, looking at some people running around with trays where “gingerbread” lay. As they invite: “Go, eat! While everything is hot! They come with full, heavy packages. “Who wants water?” They even serve hot tea…

I was not ashamed and took a disposable container with disposable devices – it was wildly cold, the pre-purchased water also froze and, due to its temperature, turned out to be impossible to drink on an already icy night. But I wanted to eat and drink. The container contained hot pasta with meat. There were also manti. Who got what…

Food was brought twice, they called people: “Hey, boys, there on the mountain! Go eat! You’ve been standing there for a long time!”

“Who are the volunteers: Kazakhs or Russians?” I asked. “More Kazakhs,” they answered me, “but there are also many from our side: people work for free.”

The border guards also relied on volunteers in everything: even when two people came up with some documents and said that they were “for a funeral”, they were sent to the volunteers. They allowed people to pass through, already experiencing great grief, without a queue …

Also, Kazakhs, families with children, sometimes women were let through without a queue. Basically, the queue consisted of men aged 30 plus. Many were very well dressed, used expensive phones. The border guards were impeccably polite with everyone. The only thing they categorically demanded not to do was to take pictures and occupy a piece of land near the fence itself.

People entertained themselves as best they could: they played guitars and sang – some solo, some collectively, danced, someone put a laptop right on the ground and started an anime – younger children watched it. Three by the look of yesterday’s schoolchildren were nursing in a circle, “lighting the fire with their thoughts”: according to their phrase “it’s like when two were to blame, and the Russian girl lectured the whole class for 45 minutes instead of a lesson” it became clear that they were almost eighteen …

But after three in the morning people gave up. All that was heard was the clatter of teeth and hands on the body in an attempt to keep warm.

The queue went either quickly or slowed down, but this was not the harmfulness of the border guards. There just wasn’t enough of them at night.

They did not find fault with the documents, they asked the usual questions: at the Russian customs they asked: where did you come from, at the Kazakh one – for what purpose are you visiting Kazakhstan. In the answers to the first question, the whole geography of the country sounded, the second answer was trivial – tourism.