A few minutes later, the same woman who was with her husband and whom I tried to negotiate with approached me.
If you still need it, let's go. We can take two people for free.
Since we had already made arrangements with the driver, it wouldn't be nice to change plans. However, we decided to send Misha with her, as he was in a separate car with unfamiliar people.
We drove to the border barrier for about a couple of hours, moving at a snail's pace. During the journey, we decided to get to know the driver better. He was from Kyrgyzstan and earned a living by transporting cars from Georgia to his homeland, so Kolya had something to talk to him about, as their activities were similar.
And then came that long-awaited and decisive moment when we passed the barrier and approached the stop line in front of the border booths for personal document checks. As we sat in the car, we watched and tried to listen to the guys going through passport control ahead of us.
The queue reached the last guy from the car in front of us. The border guard came out of the booth and invited him to come forward. He led him to a man in military uniform, and unfortunately, we were too far away to hear what they were saying. We could only make out a few words spoken in an elevated tone. We couldn't make out what the border guard was saying to the guy. But the fact remains unchanged: they put him in the car and took him in the opposite direction from the border. The other guys from that car turned back and headed towards the Kazakh border.
My fears after this incident that I wouldn't be allowed to leave the country and would be taken away like that guy multiplied, and my fear increased by tens of times.
It was our turn to approach the designated spot and approach the border booth. We lined up in the queue, and since I had the highest chances of sharing the same fate as the guy from the previous car, I stood at the end of the line.
Vitya approached the window first and handed over his passport. The border guard asked where he was going and with whom, mentioning the driver's name. The border guard looked up and saw all of us standing behind Vitya. He told us to call that driver over and stepped out of the booth, took out a cigarette, and lit it. When our driver approached, the border guard asked him:
Who are they?
Pointing at us.
They're my friends.
What are you saying, and what are their names?
Our driver stopped resisting and just lowered his head. It was easier for us to remember one of his names than for him to immediately grasp four new names. Now the border guard shifted his focus to us.
And where are you all headed?
Various versions of where everyone was going started pouring out. Someone said they were going to uncles and aunts, someone to grandmothers and grandfathers. I probably had one of the best stories: I said I was going to Kyrgyzstan for a mountain hike, and I had all the necessary gear that I could show if needed. After everyone finished their stories, the border guard erupted and started expressing his thoughts loudly, almost shouting.
After mobilization started, everyone abroad suddenly had grandmothers, grandfathers, and distant relatives who urgently needed visiting! What are you telling me here?!
After his verbal tirade, my fears and anxiety increased even more. The border guard clearly vented out everything that had built up in him throughout the day, turned around, and silently returned to the booth, and we lined up again. I also took my place at the end of the line. The guys presented their passports, answered one or two questions, got their stamps, and walked back to our car, which had already passed the inspection.
And now the moment arrived when it was my turn. My heartbeat accelerated, my wrists trembled slightly, and a lump formed in my throat that I tried to swallow before approaching the window. Gathering my emotions, I greeted and handed over my international passport. Although an internal passport would have been sufficient for crossing the border, my passport had a stamp indicating that I was subject to military service, which could raise additional questions.
The border guard didn't respond to my greeting or even raise his eyes to me, not asking a single question. He simply scanned and flipped through my passport, stamped it, and returned it to me. I just said "thank you" and, with my heart pounding a million beats per minute, returned to the car where my fellow travelers congratulated me on successfully passing the border. But I still couldn't relax because I had lingering concerns related to the Kazakh border.
In some Telegram chats, unpleasant individuals wrote that Kazakhstan intends to soon close its land borders due to a large influx of people. Such news circulated throughout the following week, and occasionally, unpleasant rumors surfaced, but nobody knew how reliable they were.
We set off towards the Kazakh border. After passing the barrier, we caught sight of a new queue, which was not the only one. It began almost immediately after crossing the barrier.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and we stepped out of the car to breathe in the fresh night air and stretch our legs. There were three queues, unlike at the Russian border. The first one was for trucks, the second for cars with Kazakh license plates, and the third for cars with Russian license plates. Since we had Armenian plates, we were instructed to join the queue with Russian plates. This meant that we would have to wait for a long time, as the queue was probably 3-4 kilometers long.
I informed the guys that I would take a short walk and try to find Misha and the others who had agreed to give him a lift. I was curious about how they were doing and if everything had gone well for them. I walked about one kilometer but couldn't find them.
My search was interrupted by a phone call from Kolya, my fellow traveler. I picked up the phone, and he spoke very quickly and excitedly.
"Leha, where are you? We're heading towards the border through the Kazakh queue. Catch up with us."
I don't think I've ever run as fast as I did that day. I ran for about two kilometers, maybe slightly less, panting but managed to catch up with them.
Our car was second in line after his brother's car. I hopped inside and found out what was going on. The brothers who transported cars had managed to arrange with the border guards to pass through this queue, bypassing all the other cars with Russian plates, for a symbolic fee.
There were many dissatisfied people, even a Kazakh car that arrived after us tried to squeeze in earlier. But the bribe had already been paid, and the border guards themselves didn't allow it to pass ahead of us.
We waited for about half an hour until we were given permission to proceed. And there it was, the final step to cross the border. The document and vehicle inspection procedure with the Kazakh border guard went smoothly, faster, and easier. As soon as we entered the territory of Kazakhstan, a loud cheer erupted in the car from everyone present. Thus began not a chapter, but a new book in my life titled "The Traveler."
September 25st.
The guys agreed with the driver to go to Almaty for an additional 2500 rubles per person. However, for me, it was enough to reach Uralsk, the nearest major city in Kazakhstan near the Russian border, that night.
While crossing the border, I contacted my friends Masha and Andrey, whom I had recently met during my first visit to Kyrgyzstan. Andrey helped me find accommodation for the night by providing me with the contacts of his friends who had crossed the border a couple of days ago.