I get to the wonderful town of Kosh Agach in a Lada, accompanied by Maria who is going to sell her indigo paint and grass brooms on the local market. She sits down in the dust at the entrance of a little bazaar, telling me to leave my bag with her and go and explore the village. I return with a water melon I bought from a Russian truck, and we eat, surrounded by the Kazakhs who are obviously wondering what brought us together.
As in most Siberian towns, Lenin still stands, but the House of Culture and the Friendship football stadium have seen better days.

I follow a horseman heading for the mountains. After a couple of hours walking I turn around, unfold my map of the Altay Republic, and try to recognise the pattern of snowcapped mountains in the South, in the Chinese province of Xinjiang and Kazakhstan. Through the plain a lonely road leads East to the Mongolian border. A Lada approaches and leaves me in a cloud of dust. On the top of a hill the family gets out and starts staring at the mountains. Their faces are weathered like the surrounding landscape. They watch me from a distance, too puzzled to ask the obvious question.