Central Asia’s World Nomad Game and the Gates of Hell | Travel Stories from The Post and Courier

Astana, Kazakhstan, is a city of the vast, wide-open steppe, born from the imagination of people who have no limitations of space. Buildings are thrown across the land like giant dice, ignoring convention of shape and scale. Walls of blue glass to reflect the sky, built for a people who look up at night and see the entire Milky Way.

The roads are wide and straight, eight and 10 lanes in some places. The effect is that everything seems far away, and no matter how many stories the skyscrapers climb there is never canyon claustrophobia.

In Astana, you are still aware of the horizon.

The city is new, named Kazakhstan’s capital in 1997. It was born fully conceptualized as a city of the future, a utopian dream as seen through the eye of architects.

The longer you stay, the smaller you get, walking on the clean, drafting table surface of this drawn city.

World Nomad Games

We were in this modern place to learn more about the past, to celebrate the culture that was nearly erased by Stalin, as he turned nomadic herders into farmers and factory workers.

We came for the World Nomad Games. People from all over the world, including a team from the U.S., came to participate in traditional nomad sports like horseback archery, eagle hunting and falconry, wrestling and kokpar — a polo-style game with a goat carcass run between goals.

The World Nomad Games are held every other year in a different country. Turkey hosted last time, Kyrgyzstan the time before and this year Kazakhstan.

Near the stadium, we followed the smell of cooking meat on an open fire.

Fermented mare’s milk was being sold in plastic bottles with a hand-written cardboard sign. Chicken, duck and beef charred on skewers.

The mid-day sun filled the air with bright light, and we shaded our eyes as we ordered chicken wrapped in flaky large pieces of lavash, flavored with red pepper harissa sauce and a handful of potato chips thrown in for texture.

We sat on the corner of a planter, tucked in a tiny bit of shade, and each tasted the mare’s milk from a stack of cups we were given. People stopped to welcome us to Kazakhstan as we ate.

Our bellies full, we crossed the eight-lane road and headed to the opening ceremonies of the World Nomad Games.

There’s a tradition of epic poetry across the steppes of Central Asia — a telling and retelling of stories that can go on for hours. It’s been passed down for hundreds of generations. I thought of the drone of those fireside voices as dancers and singers washed on and off the stage, acting out the story of nomads, the formation of the universe, then the appearance of the first humans and the first horses, and the discovery of fire.

Horses led teams across the stage — 2,500 athletes from 89 countries. Kyrgyzstan was first to cross the stage. Large eagles spread their wings on the arms of men. Cheers erupted from the audience, a mixture of people who had traveled from all corners of the world to see this. Then the teams followed from Algeria, Albania, Ethiopia, Switzerland — some with only one person representing — and those with large contingents, like Turkey and Uzbekistan.

A team of cowboys from the United States, including some from my home state of Wyoming, rode across the stage carrying a large American flag. They came to compete in kokpar, goat polo.

In an interview with The Astana Times, the cowboys compared the skill and culture of kokpar to rodeo.

“Horses are a kind of bridge; it is what unites us all. Horses are like an international language, and that is why we are here, as cowboys, to enjoy sports and culture,” team captain Ladd Howell said.

‘Never seen men so comfortable on horseback’

I know what it looks like to see men whip their horses so that they push deeper into a crowd of other horses. Horse muscles pressed against each other. Riders ignoring the pain of legs vice-gripped between two horse bellies and of a whip meant for a horse hitting his back. As horses push, the men lean forward and reach for a headless goat carcass to throw into the goal pit.

The first morning started with Kazakhstan vs. Uzbekistan, playing on Kazakh home turf. An Uzbek rider reached for the goat, and a Kazakh horse head hit him in the jaw. He didn’t flinch.

He put the whip between his teeth and threw himself forward toward the goat. But it was too late. A Kazakh rider got control and threw it into the ring for a point.

The game was quickly over and the Kazakh team won 16 to 0.

The national team of Kazakhstan has dominated since the first Kokpar world championship in 2017, beating out Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan and China as close competitors.

The game, similar to polo in its movement and rules but with a goat carcass and hands, is played now to keep nomadic tradition and culture alive.

It’s the oldest nomadic game with a tradition on the steppe going back to the days of Genghis Khan.

Archeologists say the horse was first domesticated 5,500 years ago in Kazakhstan.

By mid-afternoon, the stands were filling up again for the much-anticipated match between Kazakhstan and the United States. The U.S. team, new to this sport but not new to horses, drew the best team in the world to play against on their debut match.

The Americans rode onto the field with the red, white and blue flag, and for a moment it looked like the opening of every rodeo I’ve ever seen. I half expected to stand for the national anthem.

One of the riders, Scott Zimmerman, is from Jackson, Wyo., and I searched him out in the lineup. We were on the edge of our seats to watch them compete.

The teams road toward each other in single file. A traditional nomadic song ran out over the loudspeakers with the buzzing of mouth harp and throat singing increasing in volume and speed as the two flags passed each other.

You’ve never seen men so comfortable on horseback.

The game began and a Kazakh rider put the whip between his teeth, reached down to the ground and grabbed the goat. He threw the goat under his right leg and rode fast toward the goal.

They were playing a version of the game called Kok Boru with raised tubs at either end of the field instead of rings. It’s more difficult and more dangerous, as riders and horses sometimes fall into the tubs when they don’t stop in time.

In these competitions, the headless goat is made from a pink mold and isn’t the traditional, freshly slaughtered goat of the steppe games. The rubbery legs of the goat bounced and stretched as the men fought for it. It fell to the ground at one point and the men reached for it between moving horse hooves.

One man fell off his horse and, without a breath, threw his leg over the saddle and was back on in one motion as the horse started running again.

Kok Boru is a fast game. Two halves of 20 minutes with a 10-minute break between.

The Americans were fast and fought hard for each point. But the Kazakhs drove the game and between each point a rider would stand in his saddle and pump his fist to get the crowd cheering.

Between points, some of the opposing players rode side-by-side back to the center and then quickly became fierce competitors again.

Americans far from home

The first American Kok Boru team formed in 2018, a group of cowboys from Wyoming, were recruited by the Kyrgyzstan embassy to learn the game and popularize the sport.

In the stands all around us were Kyrgyz people, wrapped in the red and yellow flag of their country. As Kazakhstan continued adding points to the board, one Kyrgyz man stood in front of the crowd and started chanting “USA, USA, USA” to get our energy back up.

Kazakh, Kyrgyz and American fans sat side-by-side and cheered and chanted, but there was laughter in it. The spirit of the World Nomad Games is deeper understanding and celebration of culture, and there was an appreciation in the air that the Americans had learned the game.

An American man with a huge American flag started leading the chants and waved the flag, sometimes with the help of the Kyrgyz fans.

There were a lot of Americans in the stands, even though this couldn’t be farther from home.

The announcer spoke in Kazakh and English, just for this match. The stands were electric with energy from all sides.

The cognitive shift is amazing when it’s your team. Our experience changed from being cultural observers to participants in something familiar. I recognized the men on the field, the way they rode, backs straight. I recognized the land they learned to ride on, and when I saw the close-up shots on the arena screen of their bearded faces I could see how much they wanted to win.

I could see this moment burning in their memories as they raced across the field, reaching for the goat. A foreign game on a foreign land, yet the sound of horse hooves on the sandy field wasn’t foreign at all.

A Charleston connection

On our last night in Kazakhstan, we ate at Saksaul with a group of local professionals with connections to friends in Charleston. They filled the table with traditional horse meat and beef dishes until our own plates almost didn’t fit. We drank from pitchers of camel milk, fermented mare’s milk and sweetened kefir.

As we talked, we came to understand just how vast and varied a country we were in. Kazakhstan is the size of Western Europe but has one of the lowest population densities in the world. The first man into space was launched from here. The first Soviet nuclear test of the Cold War happened here, and hundreds more after that. Hundreds of thousands were sent to gulags here. Now, the country is rich with oil and gas, and the most economically advanced of the “Stans.”

“You haven’t seen anything at all. Astana isn’t like the rest of the country at all,” our host said.

“You’re right,” I said. “We’ll have to come back.”

I keep a list with the heading “Still To Do.” I made a note about exploring the mountains and steppe of Kazakhstan. At the closing ceremonies, it was announced that Kyrgyzstan would host the 2026 World Nomad Games. That would be a good reason to return to Central Asia.

“That’s the trouble with wandering. It never has an end,” said photographer and explorer Gertrude Bell.

For this trip, I worked with Untamed Borders to create a route visiting three countries: Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan.

The World Nomad Games was an attempt to celebrate and preserve nomadic culture, but it was also a chance for the Central Asian countries to solidify economic and political ties. During the opening ceremonies for the Games, the presidents of every Central Asian country shared a box above the stadium, sitting side-by-side.

As we traveled, what we learned in one country informed what we saw in the next.

Roads of Turkmenistan

Drivers in Turkmenistan know the names of the potholes on the way to the Darvaza Gas Crater — Black Hole, Rainbow — the way river guides know the names of rapids and eddies.

The road is wide and unlined, like a torn up runway. Semis driving goods from the border of Uzbekistan drove in the heat and their tires sank into the asphalt, creating giant valleys in the road that later cracked and splayed. It was a laneless obstacle course with vehicles driving right toward each other before one turning at the last minute, each knowing their role in the dance. Almost everyone on this stretch is a professional driver, transporting goods and tourists, scientists and oil men.

This is one of the least visited countries in the world. Depending on the source, the country gets between 10,000 and 29,000 tourists a year.

The lack of tourism is one of the many reasons to visit. Here, the usual Central Asian reserve falls away. The Turkmen people smile easily and love a good joke.

As we drove toward the gas crater, known to some as the Door to Hell, the Gates of Hell or the Shining of Karakum, the occasional shepherd would appear in the sandy brush on his Jupiter motorcycle, followed by a massive Alabay herding dog.

A marked vehicle that looked like an ambulance carried a dead man back to the village of his birth for burial, a government service.

Russian UAZ Minibuses, built for these roads, picked up women in their long dresses and head scarves, loaded down with supplies from the market, for the almost two-hour drive into the desert to the nearest village.

A gas pipeline snakes through the desert.

According to the World Bank, Turkmenistan’s gas reserves are estimated to be the world’s fourth largest, representing about 10 percent of global reserves.

The Darvaza Gas Crater was created by accident. During gas exploration, a massive sinkhole exposed a large pocket of gas. Soviet geologists struck a match to burn off the methane, believing the fire would go out in days or weeks.

In 50 years of burning, the gas crater has become a tourist attraction.

Our driver told us that he once picked up a Japanese couple at the border and drove them to the crater and then back again without seeing any more of Turkmenistan.

Yurt camps have been set up in the desert for tourists to stay overnight near the crater that glows round and orange in the darkness.

We dropped our bags in the yurt and walked downhill through the sand to see this beautiful industrial accident for ourselves.

Gates of Hell

In 2022, the president of Turkmenistan ordered that the burning crater be extinguished. An exploratory drilling rig was installed nearby and seems to be working. Comparative satellite imagery of the crater since the rig started working in 2023 shows the flames getting smaller.

If it works, we could be among the last to see this strange place.

Though it is the size and shape of a volcano caldera, the gas crater looks and smells like charcoal fire started with lighter fluid at the bottom of a Weber grill.

The air moves in the same way it does above a freshly lit charcoal fire. A sweet, acrid smell hangs in the air.

It didn’t inspire fear, the way an active volcano does. The only fear I felt was watching a couple influencers standing too close to the edge for a good shot.

What I felt instead was some emotion between awe and horror that I can’t quite name.

The sun set and the wind blowing across the desert was cold, mixing strangely with the warmth from the crater.

We stood at the oracle edge of the fire as darkness fell, unable to look away. It shouldn’t be beautiful. It shouldn’t be a place for tourists to gather. But it is both.

The lights of the drilling rig came on.

The moon was full. I walked up a dune outside of our camp and from that perch I could see the moon, the drilling rig and the crater, all three glowing in a row. For the first time, it sank in that we were camping in the oil field, on a work site, but also in the remotest corner of nature in one of the most isolated countries in the world.

I slept on the floor of the yurt in a sleeping bag. Outside, the rig sounded like a passing train that never passes. The din comforted me and I slept deeply through the entire night.

In the early morning, the dunes were covered by small animal tracks and the gas workers were lighting the cooking fire for the morning tea.

The sun lit the cooled dunes of the Karakum Desert.

A lone camel browsed the branches of a Fire Bush, chewing slowly, the only thing breaking up the flat horizon. I looked at his dark brown fleece and calloused knees. Here, camels are no longer the long-distance cargo haulers of the Silk Road but are raised for their milk. (Later in the trip, we bought a bottle of fermented camel milk in a village near the Aral Sea, and I was surprised at how refreshing the fizzy drink was in the desert heat.)

The blessing of bread

We stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant. A white herding dog the size of a stuffed chair wagged his tail as we walked toward the door.

Men were leaning on their elbows next to low-lying tables, drinking green tea. They looked up at us, confused but welcoming.

A woman invited me to wash my hands in the kitchen sink.

There were trays of freshly cooked somsa, dough envelopes stuffed with beef.

We ate soup full of beef, potatoes, carrots and noodles. I tried to slow myself down as I ate, but I was ravenously hungry.

We drank salted yogurt and green tea. I watched out of the corner of my eyes as the men slipped off their shoes next to our table and disappeared into a closed-door prayer room.

Something about all of it made us comfortable because it felt like the reason we all travel — to feel away from home in order to feel at home.

“What do you miss when you leave Turkmenistan?” I asked.

The bread, a man said.

A basket was delivered to the table with a flat circle of bread, crispy on the bottom and soft on the top with a flower stamped in its center. I tore it into pieces with my bare hands so everyone could take a piece, as is the tradition all over Central Asia.

“When you are out of the country, if your mother sends you homemade bread, that’s a blessing that you’ll be coming home.”

The Australian women pulled out packets of Kent cigarettes and lit up at the table because it’s illegal to smoke outside.

I filled their bowls with tea.

“Tea is good company,” an Uzbek woman said to me.

There’s no better feeling than realizing you have a lot to learn. The border of Turkmenistan was also the edge of what I knew about this part of the world.

To the north is Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. To the west is Georgia and Azerbaijan across the Caspian Sea. Afghanistan and Iran draw its southern border.

Ancient city of Merv

Before we got to Turkmenistan, it was like a black box. There’s little written about it, except for criticism of the isolationist government.

As we crossed the border, a lone Uzbek woman was making her way through the maze of metal railings ahead of us and we followed her.

I used some Turkish words I learned years ago to greet her and she responded. This was once Turkistan, after all. This is the land of the cartographer’s eraser and pencil, but also the land of constant movement of people and cultures, goods and food.

The air smelled of dust and exhaust.

I warned my mother that she probably wouldn’t hear from me while we were in Turkmenistan. It’s one of the few countries where AT&T doesn’t have an international calling plan. Social media and WhatsApp are banned. The only way to communicate is through email and text on the rare occasions there is WiFi.

We piled into a four-wheel drive Nissan Patrol and started the long drive to the ancient city of Merv. An owl talon hung from our driver’s rearview mirror for good luck. The ‘80s Russian band Nautilus Pompilius was playing on the radio.

Central Asia and the Silk Road that stretched from China to Rome is the stuff of storybooks. Woodblock images of men in turbans on camels planted the seed in my childhood mind that this was the exotic land of far away.

We pulled off the road toward the mud-walled remnants of the ancient city of Merv.

The sun was preparing to set. I climbed alone to the top of the wall.

What looks like mud from afar is the erosion of handmade bricks, stacked here more than 900 years ago. This was the capital of the Seljuk empire and was once the largest city in the world.

Once in Iran, now in Turkmenistan, the city was a garden- and tree-filled oasis in the Karakum Desert fed by a series of canals. It was the golden age of astronomy, math, art and poetry as intellectuals and artists moved here.

In the citation for the UNESCO World Heritage designation, it says there is archaeological evidence for 4,000 years of human habitation on this site.

I looked out at the remains of the city. The ruins of a mosque, Buddhist stupa and Christian church.

There were sunflower seeds on the ground near where I was sitting, evidence someone else had been in this spot before me.

All around, there were rocks leaned two against each other to make a triangle. The habit of making these little triangles is a small remnant of Zoroastrianism, which was born here.

Led by the son of Genghis Khan, Mongols destroyed Merv in 1221, killing most of its residents and burning it to the ground.

I thought about how many places along the Silk Road met the same fate and, for the first time, I wondered skeptically about the legacy of Genghis Khan, who amassed the largest contiguous empire in world history.

The empty sea

As we left Turkmenistan for the Uzbekistan border, the desert turned to cotton fields. The depression between the fields and road was white — salt that rained down from the dry bed of the Aral Sea, our next destination.

Starting in 1961, water was diverted from the Aral Sea into canals for cotton fields. There isn’t much water left, just a salty expanse in the shape of a sea that is now busy with gas exploration. Drilling rigs running, refining flames burning.

There’s a little museum there with black-and-white photographs of fishermen and the fish cannery that used to employ the people here and Lenin’s typewriter inside a glass case.

We drove for hours across the empty seabed, and when we stopped the silence was so quiet that it made my ears ring. The silence became so loud that someone finally had to say, “It’s so quiet here.” And we breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, that’s what the sound is. It’s us, listening.

At our feet, coming up out of the salty packed dirt, were hundreds of small seashells.

The Silk Road

Of the three countries we visited, Uzbekistan has built the best tourist infrastructure. A well-traveled trail has been created from Tashkent to Bukhara, following the Silk Road through Samarkand and the jewel-box walled city of Khiva. Elaborate mausoleums, mosques, caravanserai and religious schools have been carefully restored, one UNESCO-blessed blue tile at a time.

Of all that, I was most amazed by what I saw in a temperature-controlled display in a library in Tashkent.

I’ve seen ancient manuscripts before and admired their beauty, but never like this.

My eyes moved across the pages of the Quran of Uthman, commissioned soon after Mohamed died around 632 AD in an attempt to collect and codify his teachings that had been held in oral tradition and scattered records until then.

But it wasn’t the intent that captured me looking at the ancient Quran. It was the humanity of handwriting, the simple legacy of author and paper.

The pages are wide, at least an arm’s length and made of animal hide. They have curled and torn at the edges, but not as much as you would expect after centuries of being transported on camels and horses and stored without climate control, after surviving wars and politics and the creation and dissolution of empires.

The script is thick, pigment from a brush, and the penmanship stretches the connected letters into long words.

And on one page, there is the faint stain of what is said to be blood. The man was killed while he worked.

The book has been carbon dated between 640 and 765 AD.

The Quran is in a glass case, sheltered from the overhead light by a black blanket. A soft glow within the case lets you look at the book and the writing.

There was a line of tourists to see it. Shoes were removed at the door. Most people looked for a couple seconds and then walked away.

The salty soil

We stopped for lunch, and I could smell the onions cooking among the smoke and charcoal and meat. I could smell the yeast of bread on my fingers from pulling the hot round loaf out of the basket and tearing it to pieces so we could eat.

I smelled the dill sprinkled in a thick layer over our tomato salad. The tomatoes here taste amazing. They thrive in the salty soil.

I poured myself a glass of fresh cherry juice and thought about how much I would miss the taste when we got home.

No one was in a hurry, pouring bowls of tea until the pot was empty.