Tatarka
Cottages and Friendly Folks
One of Almaty's oldest neighborhoods is Tatarka, short for "Tatar Sloboda" or "Tatar Town." Wait, that didn't make things any clearer? If you're an American reader, you might not know that Tatars are Turkic Muslims who live mostly in Russia. Don't worry, I'm sure they'll forgive you. Tatars used to live mostly in this hilly corner of town northeast of the center, and by some accounts they still do. These days, Tatarka is remarkable for being one of the few parts of Almaty that actually carries a neighborhood name, and one that is known by most.
The first thing to greet me in Tatarka was the sight of a man cooking shashlyk [шашлык], or kebab, with the help of a hair dryer. Now I've seen plenty of shashlyknyks (as the chefs are called) controlling the grill's smoke by waving flaps of cardboard, but this was the first time I'd seen such an innovation. I asked for a photo, but the chef, an older Uzbek man named Said, seemed a bit embarassed that his life hack had been uncovered. He eventually relented, but only after insisting that I bring him a copy of the photo. I told him sure, I walk around here often, but he didn't buy it. "I've never seen you before!" he said, like a sentry who'd been snuck around.
The houses here were rich in wooden plats, carved eaves, and intricate windowframes. There were a lot of improvised trash cans, too, perhaps because the hilly terrain kept the roads here off of regular collection routes. I was twenty minutes walking from the center districts, but it felt like a faraway village. When I picked up a small bottle of Russian-style lemonade in a convenience store, the owner's lack of pretension certainly seemed characteristic of such a little town. "We just got those in today!" he said, and as things tend to do here, conversation soon verged from lemonade to the fall of the American empire. "If you're looking for a sparring partner", I warned him, "you're talking to the wrong guy. I'm a migrant to Kazakhstan with a thing for Russian soda."
As I wandered further, Almaty's northeastern ring road made itself known, its roar cutting through a soundscape that just minutes before was populated by clucking chickens and children yelling rules for their street games. I tried to get away; a pleasant park offered me sanctuary. The whole country has been watching the World Cup, and it seems Tatarka's kids were all inspired now to be future football heroes. A pickup game on a dirt field had two teams that seemed overstuffed, kids of all heights joining in. Across the street, more kids played, squealing at a white moth parked on the pavement, looking fluffy and supernatural.
I usually bus my way around, but today I flagged down a ride. The driver seemed stressed, cursing at another passenger we picked up. He had rolled up the window a bit, but the evening was warm. The driver was genuinely offended. "A country full of idiots!" he complained later; this time he had gotten honked at. He was a Russian living in Tatarka, but when I asked him why he didn't go back to the motherland, he said it was impossible. He made little money picking up folks in his unlicensed cab, and besides, it was a long time since his grandparents first came here. "This is my home now", he said, and I nodded. "Mine too."
The first thing to greet me in Tatarka was the sight of a man cooking shashlyk [шашлык], or kebab, with the help of a hair dryer. Now I've seen plenty of shashlyknyks (as the chefs are called) controlling the grill's smoke by waving flaps of cardboard, but this was the first time I'd seen such an innovation. I asked for a photo, but the chef, an older Uzbek man named Said, seemed a bit embarassed that his life hack had been uncovered. He eventually relented, but only after insisting that I bring him a copy of the photo. I told him sure, I walk around here often, but he didn't buy it. "I've never seen you before!" he said, like a sentry who'd been snuck around.
The houses here were rich in wooden plats, carved eaves, and intricate windowframes. There were a lot of improvised trash cans, too, perhaps because the hilly terrain kept the roads here off of regular collection routes. I was twenty minutes walking from the center districts, but it felt like a faraway village. When I picked up a small bottle of Russian-style lemonade in a convenience store, the owner's lack of pretension certainly seemed characteristic of such a little town. "We just got those in today!" he said, and as things tend to do here, conversation soon verged from lemonade to the fall of the American empire. "If you're looking for a sparring partner", I warned him, "you're talking to the wrong guy. I'm a migrant to Kazakhstan with a thing for Russian soda."
As I wandered further, Almaty's northeastern ring road made itself known, its roar cutting through a soundscape that just minutes before was populated by clucking chickens and children yelling rules for their street games. I tried to get away; a pleasant park offered me sanctuary. The whole country has been watching the World Cup, and it seems Tatarka's kids were all inspired now to be future football heroes. A pickup game on a dirt field had two teams that seemed overstuffed, kids of all heights joining in. Across the street, more kids played, squealing at a white moth parked on the pavement, looking fluffy and supernatural.
I usually bus my way around, but today I flagged down a ride. The driver seemed stressed, cursing at another passenger we picked up. He had rolled up the window a bit, but the evening was warm. The driver was genuinely offended. "A country full of idiots!" he complained later; this time he had gotten honked at. He was a Russian living in Tatarka, but when I asked him why he didn't go back to the motherland, he said it was impossible. He made little money picking up folks in his unlicensed cab, and besides, it was a long time since his grandparents first came here. "This is my home now", he said, and I nodded. "Mine too."
