"Bodi, I'm traveling around Southeast Asia and will be in Almaty for less than 24 hours, come up and meet us! We're going to an awards ceremony, I'll get you on the list" was the approximate text message from Robb back in mid-April. It's not often I have close friends from the States on the same continent as me, let alone close friends visiting a neighboring country less than 3 hours from us, so of course the answer was, "hell yes." The rest of the cryptic details seemed intriguing, though minor, compared to the chance to meet an old friend from home in the land of Borat. And meeting Robb’s friend and travel buddy, the actress/activist Daryl Hannah, the honored guest of this mysterious awards ceremony, was no less intriguing.
Of course, the details, as they emerged, portended a surreal weekend ahead in Almaty, the former political and reigning cultural and financial capitol of Kazakhstan -- a city bursting at the seams with oil money, optimism and outrageous prices. Our plan to meet Robb and Daryl at noon in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel was in jeopardy thanks to all the border fuss and further hassles by the shamelessly corrupt Kazakh highway patrol, who accused our poor taxi driver of driving on the wrong side of the road, when his only crime was having Kyrgyz plates and Tajik parents. The charm and novelty of Almaty’s tree-lined, pothole-free streets and sanguine, vaguely European atmosphere, a marked difference from our provincial Bishkek, gave way to sticker shock when we checked into our Paris-priced boutique hotel room. Oh well, we could splurge for a night like this, though we still had no clue what lay in store.
Moments after starting our check-in, the front desk lady handed me the phone. It was Robb: "Meet at the Intercontinental, pronto. A hired car with a security detail waits for us to show us the sights of Almaty before D was due back at the hotel to give an interview. Then we'll have time hang out a bit before claiming our seats at the VIP table at the Kazakh-edition Esquire Magazine People of the Year (Chelovek Goda) Awards." If only a midget bellboy had handed the phone to me on a silver tray, I would have wondered who dosed my cola. As we scampered toward the front entrance of the 5-star Intercontinental, Robb bounded out with D. in tow, and we happily reunited and basked in the utter randomness of our circumstances. Then show business butted in.
“Ok guys, we gotta get moving, Daryl’s gotta be back in an hour, so pick a car and get in,” chirped Sam, Daryl’s agent and fixer on the scene. We had three blacked out, seemingly armor-plated SUV’s at our disposal, a coterie of stoic, thuggish yet handsomely dressed driver/guards, a PR consultant from Moscow, and Sam, an Armenian/Lebanese agent raised in Moscow, now directing talent from L.A. to Vladisvostok, from Whitney Houston to Milla Jovovich. Though a true mensch - down to earth and professional – to us he might have jumped right our of a movie like The Player. “They say you can’t get in that middle car, it’s full of guns, and we can’t have you riding in the armed car,” Sam warned us blithely. So we hurriedly jammed into the rear SUV, as if we were fleeing the palace during a coup attempt, and away we sped, up windy road from the city into the foothills of the Zaliskiy Ala Tau mountains looming over the city.
As we raced up the nearby mountainside, we quickly caught up on their adventures around Asia and got to know D as a super humble, open-hearted soul, who even offered her coat to Tuya when we reached the chilly viewpoint. But with the otherwise spectacular views of the city thwarted by thick fog, D and Robb suggested finding a nice, authentic Kazakh yurt café to see a bit of traditional culture before we get glitzed by the glitterati of the Almaty jetset later on. One yurt café coming up! Soon enough we found ourselves sitting cross-legged at a low circular table covered with bowls of tea and koumiss (fermented horse milk), lepyoshka (flat bread), borsuk (deep-fried bread), and the Kazakh national dish, beshparmak. Despite the presence of horse sausage in the latter dish, not a pleasant sight for a vegetarian horse-lover like D, we had a jolly time finally relaxing and playing catch-up. We weren't alone though; a big group of ethnic Russians sat at the other table in the yurt, and as we were leaving I could hear them wondering aloud whether they were in the presence of.... Kim Basinger's daughter!
Before we knew it we were back at our hotel getting gussied up in time for our private driver to take us back to the Intercontinental before the ceremony. Sam met us in the lobby lounge and introduced us to another one of Sam’s clients, Vania, a starry-eyed young Russian actor who’s had roles in Devyataya Rota, Russia’s second highest grossing film ever, and in the popular MTV Russia series “Club.” Vania came down from Moscow with his girlfriend Marina to join their friend Sam, who promises him a shot at the big-time in Hollywood. Vania’s gaudy lapel pin reading “Beverly Hills” either revealed his naked ambition or his odd, kitschy Russian sense of fashion.
“Cocktails are on the house, thanks to the Kazakh Ministry of Culture, so order up guys,” implored Sam. Thus the debauchery began as we waited for Robb and Daryl to appear. Before we knew it we were whisked away and dropped on the red carpeted front steps of the awards show venue. To our relief there wasn't a mob of paparazzi slithering around the entrance to the hall, but the two or three photogs who were there helped maintain the fantasy for us. Tuya was drawing attention with her classy black dress, but I felt wierdly self-conscious like had a big 'fashion sense-challenged' sign on my chest. Were our faces going to be splashed across the state-run Kazakh media? Blasted through the blogosphere? It was a little eery to think about this accidental fame, then I began to sympathize with D and the fear and loathing she must go through walking around each day. We found our way to the vip table in the center of the banquet hall and got busy with the bottomless white wine to sheild us from the stares of the Almaty gliterrati (hey, nice rhyme) sitting all around us.
The ceremony itself seemed mercifully short as far as awards ceremonies go, maybe because it was all in Russian and I caught a third of the corny commentary and bad jokes, which maybe was a good thing. Not that it was a farce, they seemed to be recognizing some accomplished Kazakhs in film, business, journalism, design, etc. Though you have to wonder how politics in this near dictatorship affected the selection of the winners. Finally D's turn to present the best actress award came up, and she took to the stage with a massive, pixelated, big brother-esque live video feed of her on the 15 foot screen behind her. I couldn't imagine the trauma for a shy person like her seeing herself magnified 20 times over her shoulder. Oh yeah, she is a movie actress... but I'd make damn sure my nose was booger-free if it was me up there. Actually, I'd probably do my tongue-to-nose trick to gross everyone out in the back of the hall.
After a drinks worth of mingling at the buzzing after hours party in the basement lounge, where Robb and I again got to laugh a bit at the absurdity of our present circumstances, we hussled back to Robb's hotel room, er Sultan Suite I should say, for the after-after party, and we quickly broke into the complimentary wine and snacks as Robb and D packed to catch their 2 a.m. flight, 20 hours after their arrival. Our mini reunion soon met an all too quick end as my good friend vanished from my remote neck of the woods as fast as he appeared. Was it all real? Our foggy heads the next day made it hard for us to believe what happened. It was not until we met our new Russian friends, Vania the actor and his girl Marina, for a late brunch that we started to believe it did. With all the racing around and schedules and flashing lights of the night before, it was nice to simply relax in the park next to the beautifully restored Nikolsy Sobor (St. Nikolas church) and watch the kids and adults whiz about on blades and boards, listen to the old folks gossiping on the benches, and soak up a lazy, balmy spring afternoon in blissful anonymity.
more almaty photos here
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