Seven days tracing the vanishing sea

We set off from Almaty at seven in the morning. Ahead of us lay 850 kilometres to Turkestan — the first long haul across half the country. Along the way, we stopped at the poppy fields near Merke: waves of red stretching to the horizon, a quick photo session, and back on the road.

A hearty lunch on the Taraz bypass, then through the picturesque Zhualin Valley, where green hills unfold one after another around every bend. Through Shymkent, we joined the final stretch.

Ten hours of driving — and there it was, Turkestan. The city greeted us unexpectedly: barricaded streets, police everywhere, motorcades. A summit of Turkic heads of state was being prepared for the following day. We found our hotel and set the alarm for the small hours — we needed to leave before the city was sealed off entirely.

An early start. We needed to slip out of Turkestan before the dignitaries arrived and the city locked down completely. Breakfast was grabbed somewhere on the highway. Through Kyzylorda — lunch, a full tank — and onwards north.

A tailwind of 20 m/s pushed us along. As it turned out, the wind would become a constant companion for the entire expedition.

We paused at the Korkyt Ata memorial complex — thanks to the wind, you could hear the steppe itself singing as air passed through the ancient structures. Another stop opposite Baikonur for a couple of photographs with the Mission Control Centre in the background.

Already over 1,300 kilometres from Almaty, we arrived at Lake Kamystybas — the beginning of the Syr Darya delta. Soft water, extraordinary sunsets. Camp on the shore. We opened the swimming season despite the chill and gale-force gusts. Supper, sunset, anticipation: tomorrow, the bed of the Aral Sea.

Breakfast on the lakeshore, then off to the Kokaral Dam. It was this dam that saved the northern portion of the Aral Sea — roughly a fifth of its former area. An information board at the site laid out the figures, and they were staggering: volumes of water lost, hectares of sea vanished, the sheer scale of the ecological catastrophe.

Then we drove across the former seabed. The vehicles raised dense clouds of salt and dust, scattered by the wind for kilometres in every direction. Horizon all around. The water had gone, leaving post-apocalyptic landscapes in its wake. We stopped at an observation tower used by wardens to monitor wildlife and fire hazards.

On the way to Barsa-Kelmes, a salt-and-dust storm engulfed us — visibility dropped to fifty metres. The salt concentration in the air was so intense that after stepping out of the vehicle for a moment, you could feel the grit crunching between your teeth. Two hours later, a raised landmass appeared on the horizon. Barsa-Kelmes Island: once a nature reserve, from which animals and birds had long since fled as the water retreated.

Wind at 28 m/s. We pitched camp at the reserve's ranger station, sheltering amongst abandoned buildings. The island's southern edge — sheer forty-metre cliffs; at the foot, an old barge half-buried in sand, with saxaul trees growing through its hull. To the north, a ship run aground, not yet reached by scrap-metal hunters. A silent witness to catastrophe, standing proud in the middle of the wasteland.

Come evening, the wind showed mercy, granting us a campfire and a telescope. Barsa-Kelmes lies far from any settlement — the sky here is perfectly clear, free of light pollution. A universe of stars.

A morning of wildlife photography on Barsa-Kelmes, breakfast, and then onwards. Ahead lay the most gruelling stretch of the entire expedition: the western portion of the dried-out sea. We placed our faith in the vehicles and the relatively firm ground. If anything went wrong, evacuation from these parts would be nigh on impossible.

We made it through. Not without mechanical hiccups and some tricky terrain, but we made it. Once on solid road, we set course for Bozoy. Along the way, herds of horses and camels appeared — a sign that people were not far off. In Bozoy: a refuel, lunch, and a final push to Kulandy.

Evening in the aul: a banya, supper at the guesthouse, sunset over the steppe. We learnt to milk camels and met newborn calves — remarkably endearing creatures. We fell asleep in an old house, on traditional korpe quilts. A day to be grateful for.

We bade farewell to our hosts in Kulandy and headed west — to where the old Aral still draws breath. The weather was foul: drizzle, fierce wind. A grey sky bleeding into a grey landscape.

The western shore. The waterline had retreated by hundreds of metres. We walked two hundred metres on foot across soft, sodden ground to reach the water's edge. At the shore — a thick foam of salt. The sea is so saline that not even brine shrimp survive here. Just three years ago, flamingos used to stop on their migration and feed on those very shrimp. Now the water has become lifeless.

We drove on to the North Aral — to see what had been saved. Akespe village: new houses, shops, a functioning fish-processing plant. The sea had given the local people a chance to carry on. We bathed in a hot spring, then pressed on to Aralsk.

Once the largest port on the Aral Sea, Aralsk now stands kilometres from the water. A tour of the museum, a walk through the old harbour. The rusting hulks of port cranes stand as a silent reminder of a time when there was deep water and a thriving port here. The guesthouse owner told us that more and more foreign tourists have been visiting Aralsk lately — and the locals have found in this a new source of livelihood. Heartening news.

We left Aralsk behind. The wind had finally died down, only to be replaced by thirty-five-degree heat. Our heading: the Karatau Mountains. Along the road we met rain and cooler air — just what was needed after the desert dust.

Six hundred kilometres, and we found ourselves amongst the scenic peaks of Kelinshektau. Camp at the foot of the rocks. A sunset without wind — the first of the entire expedition. A fine supper beneath a canopy of stars: a quiet, contemplative evening after days spent on the edge of catastrophe.

The morning began with breaking camp — and collecting the litter left behind by careless visitors. Then came the hunt for petroglyphs. A thoroughly absorbing pursuit: scouring the rocks for ancient carvings and trying to decipher what an artist depicted thousands of years ago. Our hunt proved fruitful — over twenty petroglyphs depicting hunting scenes, animal figures, and solar symbols.

Next stop: Akmeshit Cave. The scale was breathtaking. Even more astonishing were the mulberry trees in bloom on the cave floor, in the half-light beneath the stone vault. A few striking photographs, and we set our course for Almaty.

The final point of the journey. Four thousand kilometres, seven days, three climate zones, one vanishing sea — and a lifetime of impressions.