PLEADING GUILTY IN KAZAKHSTAN

Kazakhstan is a vast and bizarre country. Ian McNaught Davis lives there so you don’t have to.

Every year, steppe buzzards fly from Kazakhstan to South Africa. They glide on thermals above the airconditioned shopping malls of Arabia until they’re whipped towards Africa by trade winds. They climb over the mountain peaks of Ethiopia and cruise above sunburnt honeymooners in Zanzibar, all the way to the Cape of Good Hope where they take a welldeserved nap. Ornithologists describe this feat as a phenomenon. The buzzards fly to South Africa for summer, following ancient migratory routes (not unlike German tourists). As someone who has lived in the character-building town of Aktau in Kazakhstan, I can tell you the real reason for the epic journey: It’s because South Africa is infinitely lekkerder. The real phenomenon is that the birds bother going back to Kazakhstan at all. But judging Kazakhstan by Aktau is like judging Port Elizabeth by the Southern Kings’ performance in Super Rugby. There’s more to Kazakhstan than Aktau. But, alas, Aktau is all I was given. I came to Kazakhstan in the name of love. Most foreigners come to Kazakhstan in the name of oil money. However, considering the furious guzzling of overpriced lager in expat bars, most people seem to come to Kazakhstan in the name of gout. My gout-free girlfriend works as a doctor in Aktau and we live in an ancient block of flats warmed by a steam-powered heating system. The mayor controls the temperature: If he’s had a tough