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I can’t remember the name of the village. They did tell me at the time, but I can’t remember it now. Its coordinates on Google Maps are 49.855755 and 90.885459 if you were to look it up. So…I will call it 90. Better, Ninety.

What I can remember well though is the handful of emotions I felt in the few hours I spent there while waiting for the UAZ buses, indestructible memories from the Soviet Union, which were to come and pick us up at the end of the walk around.

The Kazakh mining village was our final stop. We had been yearning for it because we had been told that a woman there would be making and cooking incredible ravioli in the only “restaurant” there. They were filled with goat meat of course, very good, nevertheless. And yes, the ravioli were great, not the same can be said about the restaurant itself as far as hygiene standards are concerned. That woman had to work hard to feed 14 Italian hungry travelers who had been eating boiled goat meat only for the last ten days.

This village is the poorest and most desperate place I have ever seen, and I have seen my share fair of poor places… Mumbai and New Delhi slums, Andhra Pradesh rural villages, industrial towns in China to name a few… These places were poor but there was still life in people’s eyes. A family event, a religious festivity or a visitor could spark up joy in no time.

This would not happen in Ninety, this was a miserable place, life had run away from here a long time ago.

Ninety is known as a Kazakh village because it is a bunch of run-down houses inhabited by Kazakh people. It is built in the proximity of a coal mine, you cannot miss the mountains of coal slag just outside the village, or the pieces of coal everywhere, or the black dust silently covering everything. Only Kazakhs work at the mine.

There is no common border area between Mongolia and Kazakhstan, but Kazakhstan is about 40 kms away and there is no fence or border control in the steppe. Kazakhs simply go to Mongolia to find work and they end up in Ninety. It is a similar destiny to African migrants who flee their country, walk through the desert and cross the Mediterranean Sea only to end up as slaves in tomato fields.

I don’t know what the coal mine is like, I would have liked to get the right contacts to get in, but I did not have enough time. Our guide would have killed me if I had tried to. Not a wild guess to assume the mine would be hell, considering the state of the village itself. Worse than hell maybe.

The village is made up of huts built with wood and mud, more run down in spirit than structure. At the entrance of the village, a very sad Soviet-like building with a grey statue and a shredded flag welcomes visitors.

Empty roads around it, dust, dust, more dust…

Old Russian cars and motorbikes, covered in dust…

Washing hanging out in dust…

Broken toys, covered in dust.

Stray dogs, covered in dust.

There are a couple of stores selling everything and anything, mostly vodka. There is a mechanic fixing all sorts with a couple of tools put together, and then the restaurant with the best goat meat ravioli and questionable hygiene standards.

There are not many people around, women, mothers, busy as all mothers are. Very few men around, elderly and drunks, very drunk…

When we got there, they must have mistaken us for Martians, aliens perhaps. No Westerner will go unnoticed here, perhaps a Russian may. Picture a group of 14 loud Italians, dangerous Martians with colorful jackets and backpacks.

The few people out and about run inside, then children slowly come out … a smile, a candy, a few ice creams found amongst the vodka bottles at the store and suddenly the aliens become humans, mothers leave their houses to greet the visitors, and then the men follow suit. The Martians don’t look so mean after all.

I roam around the tiny streets to take a few pictures. Outside a hut a young girl invites me in. It is clean and tidy inside, her mother, another kid and an old man are in there. Perhaps he is not that old, but terribly aged by a lifetime spent working at the mine. They invite me to sit on the couch. They offer sweets and that tremendously sour goat cheese. I take their offerings. “Me no Russian”, I say. They are relieved. Contrary to what is happening back home, nobody here likes the Russians. I say, “I’m Italian, Italia, Italy”. They smile, they seem happy. I would like to say “Italians Kazakhs, one face, one race” but I think better of it. The thing is, you can walk to the end of the earth and Italians are still liked, they never go out of fashion.

The old man starts making hand gestures. I don’t understand. He makes his hands into two fists and bangs them on his back. Then he points to some round candies. After a while I get it. He has issues with his kidneys and is looking for medicines. I will realize later that some other people have asked for medicines too. There are no medicines in Ninety. I don’t think there is even a doctor in town. Medication for kidneys. What should I do? Amongst all of us, we are probably carrying a pharmacy worth of medicines… But, what should I give him? How do I explain to him how to take them? No, better not… I say I have no medicines. We take a few pictures, I greet them goodbye and go back to my travel group.

The old man with sick kidneys catches up to us. I talk about him with my group, we think paracetamol and ketoprofen, these medicines have never killed anyone. We give him a bit of paracetamol and a few ketoprofen sachets. I tell the young girl who invited me into her hut how to give the medicines to the old man, a bit in Italian and a bit by hand gestures. She is the smartest of the lot. She repeats the instructions back to me, a bit in Kazakh and a bit by hand gestures, I understand that she has understood. It’s just paracetamol and ketoprofen, they will be fine…

After another round of pictures I am exhausted. I still have some time left and could take a few more pictures, Ninety has a lot to offer but I am too tired. I don’t know, perhaps the long time walking, the rain, the freezing nights in a tent, boiled goat meat… they have caught up with me…

Or perhaps Ninety is a bit too much, Ninety is a heavy burden for my heart and conscience. Ninety gets under your skin, brings up all its contradictions in one bang. If you are unlucky enough to be born here, you may have to beg strangers for some paracetamol. And the stranger will be dumb struck by the fact that you don’t even have paracetamol.

I sit on a dusty step. I may have fallen asleep for a while. Then our UAZ buses arrive.

It may sound strange, but I miss Ninety. I would like to go back there with a box of medicines and a translator. There are many abandoned huts. I could open a simple dispensary, I may be presumptuous, but I could do better than many doctors.

And then, after lunch, I would sit on the bench outside the restaurant and watch people go by. I am certain that life has not run away from here, it is only gone away for a while, sooner or later it will be back.

( a warm thanks to Yulie Monti for the English translation )