The music-makers with Tsars in their eyes

Kazakhstan's cultural influences come from both Asia and Russia. Michael Church travels to the capital, Almaty, to hear their song

Arriving at the Tan Sholpan hotel – 10 storeys of grim Soviet concrete on the outskirts of Almaty – I'm asked where I'd like to sleep: judging by the fact that every key is on offer, I assume I must be the only guest. High up please, with a view. And when the clapped-out lift finally gets me there, what a view: behind the low roofs of the city stretches a wide horizon of sun-kissed, snow-capped peaks.

I'd made allowances for exaggeration in my guidebook's claim that here "every car is a taxi", but when I flag down a newish Mercedes containing an entire Kazakh family, I discover it's actually true. As we make our way towards those peaks, they ply me with the questions I shall find myself answering many times over the next fortnight: what brought me here, do I like it, and why do so few other Europeans come to visit? Answers: (a) to record Kazakh music, (b) very much indeed, and (c) because they generally don't even know where Kazakhstan is. When you tell them the country's the same size as Western Europe, they stare in disbelief.

A heavily loaded cable car swings me to the top of the nearest snowy peak, where I have further encounters. Two teenage girls are eating their horsemeat lunch under a tree whose branches bear hundreds of coloured ribbons: every one represents a wish, they explain, according to ancient shamanistic lore. Then a retired postal worker and his wife emerge from Orthodox mass, and their English is infinitely better than my creaky Russian. As we speak, the sound of a muezzin wafts up from the mists below. I share cognac toasts out of plastic cups with a shopkeeper and his family, who ask in a puzzled way why democratic Britain is following Bush on Iraq: this may be a predominantly Muslim country, yet they're anything but fanatical and, so far, this looming division has not damped their overwhelming friendliness towards the West.

But who are these people? Their country was created in the Twenties when Stalin carved up that vast territory known as Turkestan, in which the Kazakhs were nomads without a state of any kind. The streets of Almaty are filled with broad faces suggesting Chinese origins, plus a liberal smattering of Koreans (Stalin forced many ethnic Koreans to settle there in the Forties), plus a fair number of blond and blue-eyed Russians. Hence the mixed social signals on that mountain top.

Moreover, the architecture of Almaty – which was flattened by an earthquake in 1911 – still shows strong traces of the Tsars in its broad straight avenues; other buildings reflect its former status as a favourite holiday haunt of the Soviets. To get my bearings, I stroll through Panfilov Park and admire the piquant contrast between the massive war memorial and the ethereal beauty of the marzipan-coloured Zenkov Cathedral. As it's Sunday, all the world is strolling with me. And sliding – every child has its toboggan, with the adults taking their turn as well. The sun may be shining, but the snow is deep, the ice is rock solid, and it's very, very cold.

The streets are notably quiet, partly because the snow deadens all sound, and partly because the Kazakhs are careful drivers who never use the horn. Partly, also, because there are police at every crossroads, waiting to pounce on putative offenders and fine them on the spot. Police wages are low, like everyone else's in the state sector, and this is their traditional way of augmenting them. Striding among the vehicles is the occasional camel: ship of the desert, but also of the snows.

One pretty building with killer icicles proves to be a musical instrument museum: the outside world is entirely unaware of the glorious sophistication of Kazakhstan's musical heritage. Until the Soviet era, Kazakh society was in large part pre-literate, and its culture was therefore oral: nomadic bards purveyed epics and ballads, and functioned as newspapers. Their weapons were the two-string dombra lute plus a variety of harps and flutes; village shamans cast their spells with the aid of a two-string horsehair fiddle called the kobuz, whose mournful timbre is closest to that of the cello. Such things loom large in the museum, and in pursuit of my recordings I find them elsewhere in vigorous use. The singers have fantastic charisma, and the dombra players extract a huge variety of sounds from their two nylon strings. When the Jew's harpist has finished his recording, he suggests we meet in the local jazz café. And there he is at the microphone, using his tiny instrument to dominate guitars and drum 'n' bass.

In fact, I'm so captivated by the dombra that I decide to buy one, and I'm advised to look for it in the Green Bazaar. There, for $30 (£18), I get a lovely new instrument, though it's going to take me a while to get used to the fact that its frets are spaced for quarter-tones. With Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan so close, it's no surprise to find those countries' traditional garb on sale there, too.

As befits the most prosperous city in central Asia, Almaty has a gorgeous opera house where on successive nights I catch Madam Butterfly and Swan Lake. It's also got many restaurants where $12 will get you a superb meal for two. I don't probe the casinos or the club scene, which look much like such things do elsewhere; ditto Almaty's mafiosi. American "culture" is, alas, on the march even here, though to make your way comfortably around you still need to know some Russian.

The high point of my stay is another foray into the mountains: by bus to a hamlet called Butakovka – passing two of the city's vast sports stadiums – then upwards on foot. The snow is two feet deep, with freezing streams rushing beneath; the chaste white purity of the landscape is breathtaking. In the distance are skiers; occasional signs sticking up through the snow forbid hunting, lighting fires, and picking flowers. But that's for the summer, when trekkers take this route to Kyrgyzstan. With luck, I'll be there to join them.

The Facts

Getting there

Visits to Almaty as part of a trip to Kazakhstan are available from Steppes East (01285 651 010; www.steppeseast.co.uk). A 14-night trip costs from around £2,500 per person.

Further information

UK citizens require a visa to enter Kazakhstan. For details and forms, contact the embassy (020-7581 4646).