Shangyraq and Aigerim:
A Squatter's Frontier with a Violent Past
If I invited the eight boroughs of Almaty over to my home for dinner, Alatausky would be a little pissed. Medeusky and Bostandyksky would be the centers of attention, for sure, flashing their new Apple Watches and name-dropping Kazakh celebrities. Almalinsky and Auezovsky would be your average office-cogs, straight-laced with dated sweaters. Turksibsky would be a little scruffy, but congenial, because I've spent a lot of good times with him. Zhetisusky would be there in his overalls, a little drunk because he just came back from his factory job, and he'd be cooing a little too aggressively at Nauryzbaisky, the baby born just last year. But Alatausky would be making a scene, because in the two years I've been hanging out with these folks, I'd hardly given him the time of day. He's a teenager, wearing sweatpants that need to be washed, and I imagine him pulling off the tablecloth. screaming "Where the hell have you been?!"
"Alatausky, Alatausky, calm down, man," I'd say, and I'd patiently explain the situation. I've always lived closer to the center of town, and Alatausky is real fringe territory, the true periphery, an hour by bus sometimes. A trip to visit Alatausky could be a half-day ordeal! Plus, it was the part of Almaty that was considered truly slum-like: mud roads, no running water, patrolled by strays. Then I heard about the history, about the neighborhood called Shangyraq where squatters seized small plots after independence, proclaiming their inalienable right to Kazakh land. When the mayor brought in the police and bulldozers to take it all back, neighborhood males locked the women and children in their homes, cordoned off the streets and hunkered down for war. When it came, molotov cocktails and rocks were their weapons. A police officer was burned alive. Shangyraq became legendary in local minds as a place of violent resistance.
Yet my dinner party guest was upset, and if you looked at my walking map, you'd see that Alatausky region, despite its generous size, was a place I'd hardly touched. So I got on the bus and headed out, and what did I find? Perhaps the most scenic neighborhood in all of Almaty.
"Alatausky, Alatausky, calm down, man," I'd say, and I'd patiently explain the situation. I've always lived closer to the center of town, and Alatausky is real fringe territory, the true periphery, an hour by bus sometimes. A trip to visit Alatausky could be a half-day ordeal! Plus, it was the part of Almaty that was considered truly slum-like: mud roads, no running water, patrolled by strays. Then I heard about the history, about the neighborhood called Shangyraq where squatters seized small plots after independence, proclaiming their inalienable right to Kazakh land. When the mayor brought in the police and bulldozers to take it all back, neighborhood males locked the women and children in their homes, cordoned off the streets and hunkered down for war. When it came, molotov cocktails and rocks were their weapons. A police officer was burned alive. Shangyraq became legendary in local minds as a place of violent resistance.
Yet my dinner party guest was upset, and if you looked at my walking map, you'd see that Alatausky region, despite its generous size, was a place I'd hardly touched. So I got on the bus and headed out, and what did I find? Perhaps the most scenic neighborhood in all of Almaty.
It's a kind of paradox that when you're in center of town, closer to the mountains that are Almaty's calling card, you hardly ever see them. The buildings there are taller, the trees are denser, and you're just too close, close enough to see a peak here and there but not enough to see the whole range. When you step back far enough to a place like Shangyraq in Alatausky, the mountains are breathtaking, one epic peak after another dominating the horizon, especially on a clear spring day. It seemed suitable that the region would take its name from this lineup, the Alatau, so insistently did it pop into pictures on my walk.
Yet the streets here felt as exposed as the mountains, naked without the center's tree cover, the roads themselves without any legitimizing asphalt, houses and sheds cheaply built and open to the elements. Even I felt vulnerable. I knew it was wrong, because I have walked all over this town and have not once been touched, but here I felt like I could no longer blend in. Right away, I was spotted: a man saw me taking a picture of his roadside display of various motor oils, and called me over. When I told him what I was doing there, he actually smiled and grew congratulatory, "Molodets, molodets" over and over again, meaning "Good job!" or "Atta boy!". When he invited me in for tea, I had to refuse, but I smiled, because I understood that this neighborhood, famous for being homogenously Kazakh, really set itself apart in its hospitality. It was the first time anybody has ever asked me in for tea in all my time walking Almaty.
When I asked this man where I was, by the way, he proudly told me Shangyraq, but when I looked at the address signs posted on homes down the block, they said I was in the microdistrict Aigerim. I walked through the dirt roads to the very edge of Almaty, a place where the city actually falls away, and kids were playing soccer in an expansive green valley beneath power lines. South of here, the streets became paved again, and there were patches of trees here and there, and there were even some older cottages: it seemed I was out of squatterville, back in a neighborhood that had been settled for at least a few decades.
After this one walk, long overdue, I have to say I was pretty hooked. Here is a region, often ignored, with scenic views, dramatic river valleys, different architectural ecosystems (squatter's shacks, older cottages, even a newer high-rise development), and a quiet that comes from its place in the margins. Despite its rough reputation and its violent past, it seemed things here had settled down, and for walking, it was as inviting a place as any.
Yet the streets here felt as exposed as the mountains, naked without the center's tree cover, the roads themselves without any legitimizing asphalt, houses and sheds cheaply built and open to the elements. Even I felt vulnerable. I knew it was wrong, because I have walked all over this town and have not once been touched, but here I felt like I could no longer blend in. Right away, I was spotted: a man saw me taking a picture of his roadside display of various motor oils, and called me over. When I told him what I was doing there, he actually smiled and grew congratulatory, "Molodets, molodets" over and over again, meaning "Good job!" or "Atta boy!". When he invited me in for tea, I had to refuse, but I smiled, because I understood that this neighborhood, famous for being homogenously Kazakh, really set itself apart in its hospitality. It was the first time anybody has ever asked me in for tea in all my time walking Almaty.
When I asked this man where I was, by the way, he proudly told me Shangyraq, but when I looked at the address signs posted on homes down the block, they said I was in the microdistrict Aigerim. I walked through the dirt roads to the very edge of Almaty, a place where the city actually falls away, and kids were playing soccer in an expansive green valley beneath power lines. South of here, the streets became paved again, and there were patches of trees here and there, and there were even some older cottages: it seemed I was out of squatterville, back in a neighborhood that had been settled for at least a few decades.
After this one walk, long overdue, I have to say I was pretty hooked. Here is a region, often ignored, with scenic views, dramatic river valleys, different architectural ecosystems (squatter's shacks, older cottages, even a newer high-rise development), and a quiet that comes from its place in the margins. Despite its rough reputation and its violent past, it seemed things here had settled down, and for walking, it was as inviting a place as any.
