Nurlytau
A Finger of Almaty in the Foothills
There was a time when you could hardly call Almaty a mountain town. Its initial neighborhoods were fairly far north of the Zailisky Alatau, built at a point where the foothills have mostly flattened out into steppe. Only recently has the urbanity crept upwards in pursuit of cleaner air and clearer views. During the Soviet period, there were satellite villages at higher altitudes, dacha zones or collective farms, but now Almaty has grown so prodigiously that the city's borders have been expanded by decree, and those hilltop neighborhoods have been swallowed up. I wanted to see what it was like in this mountain frontier, where separate towns had recently lost their sovereignty and become new fingers on the Almaty beast. It was one of the longest walks I've ever taken.
The problem was that the closest bus stop to this part of town, as far as I could tell, was in Kazakhfilm, the microdistrict just above the Al Farabi highway. To get up so high in the foothills, I had to first trek through the Alatau neighborhood (which I profiled before) before getting to anywhere new. I was rewarded by the realization that the Bolshaya Almatinka, a giant canalized trough in the city, was indeed an actual river, one with rocks and riparian shrubs and quaint gurgles. It was still lined with concrete here, but it was a curious hybrid, not so industrial as in the middle of town. It was lined with newish houses, whose owners had built parking platforms out over the banks of the river.
The problem was that the closest bus stop to this part of town, as far as I could tell, was in Kazakhfilm, the microdistrict just above the Al Farabi highway. To get up so high in the foothills, I had to first trek through the Alatau neighborhood (which I profiled before) before getting to anywhere new. I was rewarded by the realization that the Bolshaya Almatinka, a giant canalized trough in the city, was indeed an actual river, one with rocks and riparian shrubs and quaint gurgles. It was still lined with concrete here, but it was a curious hybrid, not so industrial as in the middle of town. It was lined with newish houses, whose owners had built parking platforms out over the banks of the river.
After climbing for quite some time, I realized I better head back downhill or else I'd soon be an alpinist. The roads up here were sparsely driven, and the atmosphere was quiet. I could understand why a newly-monied city dweller might look at this corner of town for peace and salvation. Eventually, the silence became bizarre. A cemetery was on my left, a fallow field on the right, and the whole scene was smothered in fog. A pack of stray dogs were the only souls around. There are some parts of town where people squat on corners and you can feel the constant surveillance. Here, the feeling was just the opposite but equally unsettling. Nobody was watching, and I felt like a trespasser. The place was empty, but the folks could come home at any moment and I'd be busted.
The funny thing is that because of the fog, I could hardly tell I was close to the mountains, and that's the hood's whole selling point. I imagine on a clear day, it would be a spectacular place to walk. This time, I was unlucky with the weather and grew weary of the muddy streets and still air. In these neighborhoods of private homes I love looking at old cottages most of all, but in Nurlytau they were all new and Chinese and depressing, and after almost ten miles of walking I was happy to finally be back in the cold concrete embrace of a Soviet microdistrict. Kazakhfilm, with its lively bazaar and kiddie-filled playgrounds, was a real, live community. The fog no longer stifled sound but, hemmed in by the close quarters of nine-story apartment blocks, reverberated the urban din. My paranoia faded. I was back in the beating heart.
The funny thing is that because of the fog, I could hardly tell I was close to the mountains, and that's the hood's whole selling point. I imagine on a clear day, it would be a spectacular place to walk. This time, I was unlucky with the weather and grew weary of the muddy streets and still air. In these neighborhoods of private homes I love looking at old cottages most of all, but in Nurlytau they were all new and Chinese and depressing, and after almost ten miles of walking I was happy to finally be back in the cold concrete embrace of a Soviet microdistrict. Kazakhfilm, with its lively bazaar and kiddie-filled playgrounds, was a real, live community. The fog no longer stifled sound but, hemmed in by the close quarters of nine-story apartment blocks, reverberated the urban din. My paranoia faded. I was back in the beating heart.
