Essential Tips for Dealing with Kazakhstani Police Stops

You knew the moment was bound to happen. As you drive along the highway, you see the police car in the distance. You tell each other not to look, keep your eyes straight ahead and maybe he won’t notice.

However, as you draw nearer, the yellow baton is raised in the air and your heart sinks. You are being pulled over by the police for the first time in the Mongol Rally.

How to Survive Being Stopped by Kazakhstani Police

At this point, we had driven nearly 5000 miles and avoided all stops and checkpoints. We felt proud of not having to pay bribes or fork over cash to any corrupt officials. Except for our $50 payment to Natasha in Moldova for crossing the two km stretch of tarmac to the Ukrainian border, we had been relatively lucky during the Mongol Rally.

Until Now…

I wasn’t speeding. We diligently kept track of our speed, maintaining 60 km in towns and 90 km on highways. So why was I being pulled over?

This was the second police stop for our team, Social Media Syndicate, and I wasn’t thrilled to be in the driver’s seat yet again. The first time we were stopped, I had a nice chat (in broken English) with the officer, who seemed friendly and surprisingly let us go with just a request to turn on the headlights. I breathed a sigh of relief.

However, this second stop was decidedly less friendly. This officer had something else in mind.

As I pulled over, Dave retrieved my paperwork and handed me my International driver’s license along with a copy of our ownership for the British car. The officer scrutinized the documents and began babbling in Kazakh, while I stood there utterly confused.

It felt like an intentional act of pretending to not understand what was happening.

A Little History…

Upon crossing into Kazakhstan, we experienced an easy border crossing. It was Sunday, and the guards allowed us through with minimal hassle.

Their only concern was our walkie-talkies, which we used to communicate with our convoy partners, the Fighting Trousers. We were relieved to make it through quickly, overlooking important formalities, particularly the need for insurance.

Only two days later, we arrived in the next town and realized we had no insurance and no way to acquire it. We figured we would have to wing it.

Back to my Police Stop…

I knew we didn’t have insurance, and this could turn into a significant issue. The previous day in Aktobe, a local motorcycle club leader assured us that as long as we carried our registration paperwork, we could pass through Kazakhstan without problems.

Thank goodness we met him, as he helped us sort out our registration paperwork at the police station.

So when this cop asked me for documentation, I impulsively handed him random papers.

First, my international driver’s license, then the V5 ownership papers, and lastly, a green card for Russia. He barked, “Ruskie, Ruskie! (pronounced Rooskie, Rooskie) Kazakhstani, Kazakhstani!” I feigned ignorance.

I then produced my registration paper.

He shook his head.

I smiled and said, “sorry,” while he mimicked me in a frustrated manner.

This officer was clearly agitated.

He then mimed a car crash, indicating he needed my insurance papers. I played dumb and kept repeating, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” His patience wore thin, yet I maintained a smile, leaving him uncertain of how to proceed.

Finally, I handed over my insurance papers from Ukraine. He snapped, “Ukraine, Ukraine! Kazakhstani, Kazakhstani.” I continued to act bewildered.

He attempted further explanation, prompting me to show him my passport. When he read my name and city—Corbeil, Debra – Toronto—I confirmed with a simple, “Yes.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

Sherry suggested we show him the map.

I agreed!

We laid out the map, pointing out our destination of Mongolia, showing the entry point into the country, and miming that our documentation had received a “thumbs up” for “Passport, papers, registration…”

He clearly was losing patience.

He examined the map, asking where we were heading in Kazakhstan. I indicated the capital city of Astana and our route into Russia.

He stood in silence, deep in thought, and then sighed, “Ayayaya.”

As he guided me to step out of the car and approach the back, where our route was displayed on a sticker, he inquired about Mongolia, again speaking in Kazakh, while I pretended not to understand.

He then wrote $50 very slowly on the dusty window.

I looked at him, shrugged, and asked, “why?”

He looked at me incredulously.

Frustrated, he tossed my paperwork and passport back at me and told me to leave.

I cheerfully responded with “Spasiba” (thank you in Kazakh).

He mimicked my “spasiba” while walking away in irritation.

“Stupid tourists, they don’t even know how to pay a bribe.”