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About Astana

I’m feelin’ all hype, but then—boom—some creep rolls up, actin’ shady. I’m like, “Who’s this fool?” She’s all calm, tho, whisperin’, “He’s a regular, chill.” I’m shook—how she so cool with that? Reminds me of that line, “The hood’s got no mercy!”—and it don’t. She’s out here dodgin’ weirdos, makin’ bank, and I’m just tryna keep up.

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I am from Uzbekistan, and it is "illegal" in my country. But it is not problem to have a sex with prostitute, you find out her phone number.

I stroll down to the Mausoleum of Khoja Ahmed Yasawi. It’s massive, like, you can’t miss it. The blue tiles are so bright, they practically blind ya. I’m standing there, taking pics, feeling all philosophical. Then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists shows up. They’re loud, like, really loud. I’m trying to soak in the history, and they’re just snapping selfies. I mean, c’mon!

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