There’s a unique kind of joy in traveling solo—navigating new cultures, making spontaneous connections, and, of course, discovering new ways to embarrass yourself on an international stage. My contribution to this tradition was falling into a freezing lake in Kazakhstan.
During my senior year of college, I spent my final semester wandering through South America and Central Asia. Kazakhstan quickly became one of my favorite stops. On my first day in Almaty, I ventured to the mall in search of a SIM card, where I immediately stuck out like a sore thumb as the only black person in sight. A friendly Kazakh family took it upon themselves to ask me about my visit to Kazakhstan, and in the process, they recommended I visit Sharyn Canyon and Kolsay Lake National Park. They even went so far as to call a local tour company and book me a trip. I was elated because the tour was very affordable since it was geared towards local tourists.
Fast-forward to the day of the tour. I found my bus, settled in, and realized that in my quest for an affordable, local experience, I had neglected to consider one crucial detail: the entire tour was in Russian. A small price to pay for adventure. I muddled through, making friends with two Kazakh girls who spoke just enough English to communicate through Google Translate. They were theater students on vacation, and we quickly became photo buddies. I took their pictures; they took mine. It was a symbiotic relationship of the highest order for any solo traveler.
The first stop, Sharyn Canyon, was stunning—like the Grand Canyon’s lesser-known but equally gorgeous cousin. But Kolsay Lake was the real showstopper. The water was impossibly turquoise, the air crisp, and the scenery straight out of a desktop wallpaper. We quickly headed down to the the lake for the requisite photoshoot.
Then came my moment of infamy.
One of my new Kazakh friends suggested I sit at the edge of the pier for the perfect shot. Her friend clicked away in front of me while she stood behind her, demonstrating the exact poses I should copy. I, ever the cooperative model, followed their instructions. After a solid ten minutes of intense cross-legged posing, my legs were well on their way to complete paralysis and I attempted to get up, so we could find a new photo spot. One moment, I was on solid ground; the next, I was flailing backward into the icy depths of Kolsay Lake.
Panic. Cold. Disbelief.
As I splashed around, I locked eyes with my photographer friend, who was now half in the water herself, one arm desperately reaching out for me, the other holding my phone aloft like a sacred relic.
With some scrambling, I was pulled out, drenched, while the entire tour group stared at me—the sole English-speaking tourist who had managed to fall into a perfectly still body of water. The two Kazakh girls hovered over me, concerned and entertained. “I thought she was going to die,” one of them said, pointing at her friend who had been taking the photos. “She tried to jump in and she cannot swim.”
“I was scared,” the non-swimmer added, “but I also did not want your phone to touch the water.”
And if that isn’t the purest act of kindness in the digital age, I don’t know what is.
Shivering and dripping, I trudged up to the restaurant near the lake, where Coca-Cola-branded blankets were available for dining guests. The tour guides insisted I take one, wrapping me up like a soggy burrito. I spent the rest of the tour bundled in that blanket, riding horseback through the park, taking photos as if the bright red accessory was a deliberate fashion statement rather than an emergency anti-hypothermia measure.
…
I had mostly forgotten about the incident until a few days later, back in Almaty, I received an unexpected call. It was the father of the family that had helped me book the tour. Apparently, the tour company had reached out to him, informing him that I had walked off with the blanket.
The blanket. The one I had clung to in my soggy embarrassment and taken all the way back to the city, now sitting beside my suitcase as an unintentional souvenir. Luckily, it was my last day in Kazakhstan and I was able to get it to the father, who returned it to its rightful owners.
After I got back from Kazakhstan, my friend, flipping through my travel photos, jokingly referred to me as Little Red Riding Hood. I laughed, knowing that beneath that cozy red cape was a story about a dramatic tumble into the lake. And, of course, a reminder that no matter how far you travel, you can count on a good-hearted stranger to save you from a broken phone, hypothermia, or, in this case, an unintentional petty theft charge.
Love this! Travel is such an amazing thing – at its best it can restore your faith in humanity😭
Totally! It’s really good to know there are more nice strangers than bad ones.
This had me gasping for air 😂😂
This had me gasping for air 😂😂
hahahahaha. That was me as I fell into that lake!