Tales of two Kazakh cities

The place is Soho, a local pub on Qazybek Bi Street, in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The local rock band is playing Guns 'N Roses' "Sweet Child o' Mine". On the dance floor the locals are crazy dancing. I and Mark, my travelling mate, brave the throngs of revellers to get to the bar counter and shout at the bartender for two glasses of Derbes, the Kazakh beer.

"Where are you two from?" a lovely with a Paris Hilton bob hairstyle asks us in thick, strange English. She's probably dubious about an Asian and a Western man showing up in the local pub and asking for the cheap, local beer.

Mark tells her he's a writer from Bangkok.

"And you're a writer as well?" she asks me. "What do you write about?"

"I write about women," I answer.

Ha, ha, ha! She breaks into hilarious laughter and we quickly become friends. Her name is Dinara. Soon Mark and I are introduced to her friend, Aizhan. The glasses are refilled and the party really begins.

Strictly speaking, we haven't come to Kazakhstan for booze and parties. On the other contrary, we've been lured to the heart of Central Asia by the open steppe, yurts, fermented mare's milk and all the other exotica of nomadic culture.

But it turns out we're late - by about 60 years. The Kazakhs are no longer nomadic.

The "modern nomads" roam among apartment blocks in the big cities like Almaty and Astana. They drive Volkswagens, BMWs and Audis. The door into the open steppe is closed, at least on this trip, so we make the most of the cities.

First we see Almaty, the coolest city in Central Asia.

Sitting at the foot of snowcapped Zailiysky Mountain, a spur of the Tian Shan range, Almaty was founded in 1854, when the Kazakhs were still wandering.

The leafy burg has always been one of the region's most charming Russianmade cities, with long streets crisscrossing on a grid making it easy to navigate, even by the free hotel maps.

But you can lose your direction easily too, because there are no landmarks, and every street has two names, in Russian and Kazakh.

Almaty is not a "fabled" city, like old Rajasthan in India, and nor does it offer architectural wonders like Barcelona in Spain. The Kazakhs' nomadic past means they've established little architectural legacy. Most of the huge, soulless buildings in Almaty were erected by the Russians, and they're nothing to write home about.

To get a sense of the city, we stroll around the avenues near the Monument to Independence, which looks pretty much like the Washington Monument in DC.

We stop at the Green Market, its central trade zone that connects urban Almaty with the countryside via piles of nuts, fruit, smoked fish, vegetables and enormous hunks of fresh meat. You can get horse sausage too, and kumys and shubat, as the fermented mare's milk and camel's milk are called.

"The Kazakhs are nomads by nature," says the guide who helps me sample mare's milk. "We ate the food most readily available in the open steppe, and in most cases this meant horses and sheep."

With its sour taste and strong, horsey odour, the mare's milk suggests dairy milk that's been left out for three days. The camel's milk can't be much better.

A cable car hoists visitors up KokTobe (Green Hill) for the panoramic view of Almalty. To the south is the summit of Zailiysky, with the city sloping upwards toward it.

Almaty was Kazakhstan's capital since 1927, then Astana took over when the country gained its independence. Why the move? The answer depends on who you ask.

"It's better keep the politicians and the old farts up there in Astana," says Dinara at the Soho pub after we tell her we're heading there the next day. "They'll spoil the party if they're in Almaty."

Dinara doesn't even pretend to be bothered that Almaty lost its status, and her point is well taken. Almaty's fast-growing middle class has nice suburban housing, fine restaurants, chic bars and dance-till-dawn nightclubs. They enjoy life to the full.

From Derbes beer to tequila and vodka, from Soho to whatever unknown, dodgy discotheque, the city keeps Mark and me going until 4am, accompanied by Dinara and Aizhan.

It's Mark's idea to explore Almaty all night long. The city is indeed a lot more attractive by night. In the morning we head to the airport with heavy eyes and snooze until the flight attendant wakes us up in Astana.

Astana: Love it or hate it, it's Kazakhstan's capital.

The city was founded in 1830 as a Russian fortress called Akmola - "white tomb" in Kazakh.

Before it replaced Almaty as the capital, Astana was best known for its bitter winters, but since then its skyline has grown more fantastical by the year, as the government transform the emptiness south of the Ishim River with daring buildings that combine Islamic, Soviet, Western and wacky futuristic influences.

Among the "wackier" are the Biterex City Tower, the pyramid of Peace & Harmony and Khan Shatyr, a transparent, tent-like structure.

With only a day and night in the capital, we can't afford to do much sightseeing. We take a walk around the landmarks, everywhere setting off security alarms.

Kazakhstan is a "tourism virgin", and people are still getting used to foreign visitors. You can smoke in the restaurants, but you need permission to take a photo at the food market.

"Sometimes it's quite rude, since we don't know how to approach tourists properly," our guide admits.

At the departure terminal at Almaty's airport, I had to spend 10 minutes explaining to security officials why I was toting such a big camera (a Nikon D80 with 18-70mm and 50mm lenses). She eventually waved me through with no problem, but now the immigration officials won't let me out of Kazakhstan.

"You no fly today," says a young officer with a round Mongol face and a crewcut.

"What do you mean I can't go?" I demand, envisioning a missed flight.

The official can't explain because of his poor English, but keeps pointing at the visa in my passport, dated September 20. Finally he remembers the word.

"It's expired!"

Between speaking slowly and dancing rapidly around the floor, I try every way to point out there are still 10 more hours before midnight, when the visa expires. But the young official really wants to keep me in Almaty.

"Look, officer. I love Kazakhstan. Cheap vodka, beautiful woman and those horse sausages!"

He's not buying it.

"You can't keep me here - I have only 2,000 tenge!" I note, citing the cash equivalent of four glasses of beer.

Maybe he suddenly recovers his sense of time, or maybe he's afraid his young wife will have to cook me dinner tonight, but somehow the crewcut official abruptly decides to stamp me out, with seconds left before my flight.

Riding in business class about Air Astana, 30,000 feet above Kazakstan, I toast my relief with a glass of chilled champagne. Mark is sleeping, and I should do the same. We were in this odd land for three nights and slept less than five hours.

I take another look at Kazakhstan's rugged landscape - the snowy mountains