Kazakhstani Kidnapping - a True Story of Stupidity and Confronting Death

My Kazakhstani Kidnapping - part 8 - Vodka Terrorism

My Kazakhstani Kidnapping – part 8 – Vodka Terrorism

My Kazakhstani Kidnapping – part 8 – Vodka Terrorism

First I found myself in a small photography shop. This was where the official wedding photos would be taken. A man had a basic camera on a tripod, there was a multi-coloured crepe-paper background, and that's pretty much it. Gradually all the wedding guests were ushered in for their photos. In every photo were the bride and groom, wearing their finest clothes, standing looking terrified. Also in every photo was the grubby foreigner, in jeans and T-shirt with a small rucksack still hoisted over one shoulder, looking bemused.

After the photos, we were all driven into the middle of nowhere. Then a little further to the very edge of nowhere. Then to somewhere beyond. We arrived at a remote farmhouse where two long wooden tables had been set up in the farmyard. The tables were laden with all manner of Kazak culinary delights: pickled foods of all shapes and colours, meats, cheeses, deserts and vodka. Quite a lot of vodka. The bride and groom were seated on a leopard print sofa at the head of proceedings where they continued to look terrified. Everyone else got on with the party. This involved largely, three things: one, ignoring the bride and groom; two, asking lots of questions ofthe guest of honour – me – via my university translator girl; and three, drinking vodka. A lot of vodka.

The farmhouse was fairly basic and very dirty but a fascinating place, tucked out in the countryside. The air was fresh, the food was good and the hospitality was humbling. For people who were clearly not wealthy, they would have literally given me the shirts of their backs. At one stage I visited the toilet. Best not say too much about that. When not chinning vodka, I spent most of the time answering the quick-fire questions. They were all fascinated in the foreigner. Where you from? How old you? You married? Kids? What?!? Not married no kids? Always the same amazement. You could see them thinking, what's wrong with him?

There was a microphone which a compere passed around. Everyone took it in turn to stand in the middle and propose a toast to the (still-terrified) bride and groom. After every toast there was an obligatory vodka shot. Pretty soon things became a little blurry. But, never one to miss an opportunity to embarrass myself, I took my turn in the centre, grabbed the mic and gave a toast. I don't remember if my translator girl translated it, but everyone seemed to understand the gist. Well, they cheered anyway. Only now, thinking back, why oh why did I not grasp the opportunity and sing them a song. Imagine, a drunk random foreigner in their midst, suddenly and inexplicably singing (very badly) a song to the bride and groom. After all, he who holds the mic holds the meeting. Oh wasted opportunities...

Finally I decided it was time. I had no hotel booking and I needed to get to the border and continue my journey. Immediately several of the other guests offered me beds for the night. I kind of think there would have been offers of their daughters' hands in marriage if I had pushed it. Here, you stay in my house. No stay in mine, my daughter is a beauty. No, stay in mine, I have a prize cow as well. You can imagine how it went. Again, the hospitality of these people is truly stunning. Again, when they're not kidnapping you. For some reason I refused. I needed to continue my travels. Again, wasted opportunities.

So, it was a while later, a taxi ride and a drunken wait in the sun for a bus, and I found myself at the aforementioned border, full of vodka and bonhomie and a new-found love of the people. The most hospitable and loveliest people on the planet. When they're not...

Antony J. Stanton
Author of award-winning post-apocalyptic thriller
"Once Bitten, Twice Die"
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