Greetings from Kazakhstan. The weather has finally turned cold for good, and a white, snowy blanket stretches from the mountains of Almaty to the northern steppe. My name is Arthur Kennan, and this is the first of what I hope will be many posts on Neweurasia.

First a word of warning: I am not formally trained as a journalist, nor will I be able to reveal many sources, dates, or locations. My position here in Kazakhstan prevents a complete account of myself or my circumstances; though the government is certainly more tolerant here than elsewhere in Central Asia, they keep their eyes firmly on certain foreign nationals. I also live rather far from the two primary news-generating cities (Almaty and Astana), so timely on-the-scenes reporting on most major events is not possible.

My writing will be more experiential. I may also write more in-depth pieces on long-term trends. If either of these writing styles does not suit your tastes or your news-junky desires, I politely suggest you skip over my posts; there are plenty of other great sources of information on this website.

For my first story I feel compelled to relate an incident of about two months ago. For Kazakhstanis it is nothing, but for a foreigner like me it was nothing short of shocking- a police roadblock/shakedown. It was my first face-to-face encounter with corruption in this county, though I am sure it will not be my last.

A friend and I were taking a taxi between two southern villages. As our destination came into view our taxi driver suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. The reason was fairly clear - something nearly everyone in Kazakhstan has seen - a rather portly police officer was waving his orange stick at us, demanding we put on our breaks.

Our local driver got out of the car and walked across the road. The police, three of them, had parked their car on the other side, and were speaking with several more drivers. Our driver went over and began a rather animated discussion. He made a call on his sotku, and then squatted down on his haunches- settling in for a long haul.

Meanwhile, my friend and I waited in the back of the cab, quietly watching all that transpired. Even as his colleagues badgered our driver, the portly officer continued in his stick-waving. Soon he had flagged down a rather large produce truck. Two men got out and went to discuss their passage with the police. Their exchange was much shorter than our driver’s. Within a few minutes they returned to their produce truck. They reached into the back, got out a large crate of apples, and crab-walked it back to the police cruiser. They placed it in the back of the police car, returned to their truck, and drove away.