The heat is stifling as I haul my worn suitcase across the cracked pavement. The grandeur of Almaty-2 station—Soviet-era statues and polished columns—feels distant in the 90°F (32°C) haze. A Yandex Go driver dumps me unceremoniously near the taxi rank, and the weight of my bag is a reminder: this trip won’t be easy.
I’m taking the train from Almaty, Kazakhstan’s former capital, to Oskemen (Ust-Kamenogorsk), a 26-hour journey toward the borderlands shared by Russia, Mongolia, and China. Many locals already warned me against it; flights are faster and often cheaper. Yet, for some, the train is more than transport—it’s a ritual, a link to childhood memories of fairytale journeys with family, boiled eggs, and rhythmic rocking that lulls you to sleep.
Kazakhstan’s vast railway network—nearly 10,000 miles long—carries more than just passengers. It also carries the weight of history, a story intertwined with colonialism and catastrophe. This isn’t just a trip across land; it’s a journey through the scars of empire.
A Legacy of Russian Influence
Kazakhstan’s relationship with Russia is complex. For centuries, Russian expansion absorbed Kazakh territory, culminating in its incorporation into the USSR. Russian remains the most spoken language, a lingering effect of Soviet dominance. Navigating the country requires extra time, especially for those who don’t speak the language.
The train platform is predictably chaotic. Haggling for apples is futile—food is communal here. My luggage holds essentials: a silk scarf, freeze-dried coffee, a useless diary, and a Labubu-shaped electric fan, the only practical item I bought at Almaty’s Green Bazaar.
The reality of Kazakh rail travel quickly sets in. Within minutes, fellow passengers are unfolding mattresses and sheets from overhead racks. The sheets are surprisingly clean, until I notice a brown smudge… and realize I’ve already dropped melted chocolate biscuits on them.
Between Steppe and Story
As the train leaves Almaty, I settle in with The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years, a Central Asian novel blending sci-fi, history, and folklore. The story follows Kazakh railworkers in the post-WWII era, mirroring the landscape unfolding outside. The novel touches on the brutal Stalinist purges, where “wealthy kulaks” (relatively prosperous peasants) were executed or starved during forced collectivization between 1929 and 1933. Historians now estimate this campaign killed nearly 40% of Kazakhstan’s population. The very railway I’m riding was built under Soviet sanction, a monument to both progress and oppression.
Sleep comes with a soundtrack of snores, a shrieking baby, and the whir of my trusty Labubu fan. The next morning, the carriage awakens to shared feasts of apples, Rakhat chocolates, and salty kurt cheese—a fermented dairy snack from Kazakhstan’s nomadic past.
Tradition and Discomfort
The tea flows freely, with passengers pulling out their own thermoses and cups. My coffee bag, however, has exploded, leaving a sticky mess in my backpack. Clean toilet paper remains unused; it’s unnecessary on this journey.
Alcohol, once common on these trains, is now banned. The boisterous camaraderie I’d imagined doesn’t materialize. Most passengers keep to themselves, exchanging only polite nods and the occasional cup of tea.
Outside, the landscape stretches endlessly—dry plains, small towns, and glimpses of wildlife. A steppe eagle circles a tiny graveyard by the tracks, and purpling clouds hint at a coming storm.
The Rhythm of the Rails
Near Oskemen, a group of horses catches my eye. They circle one another, nuzzling and flicking their tails in what seems like playful delight. The moment vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving me wondering if I truly saw it.
As the train pulls into the station, I open The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years one last time, rereading the opening lines:
“Trains in these parts went from East to West, and from West to East… On either side of the railway lines lay the great wide spaces of the desert—Sary-Ozeki, the Middle lands of the yellow steppes. In these parts any distance was measured in relation to the railway, as if from the Greenwich meridian.”
The steppes keep rolling on, and the journey—a blend of history, discomfort, and fleeting moments of beauty—comes to an end. The rails of Kazakhstan carry more than passengers; they carry a legacy.
