Kazakhstan Updated Apr 2026
The wind in Astana, Kazakhstan hits you like a slap from a ghost. At -30°C, your breath crystallizes mid-air and falls as glittering dust while glass pyramids and golden spheres rise from the steppe as if someone hacked a Photoshop file into real life. This is a capital that didn't grow — it was summoned.
Photo: Нурлан / Pexels
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One minute you're walking past Stalin-era apartments on the right bank, the next you're inside Khan Shatyr, a 150-meter-tall transparent tent where imported-Maldives sand stays at 35°C year-round. The city flips architectural channels faster than Netflix: Norman Foster's pyramid of peace, Kurokawa's tilting concert hall, a finance ministry shaped like a dollar bill. Locals call the left bank "Instagram" and the right bank "the kitchen" — one for showing off, the other for eating.
They'll pour you black tea until your bladder begs for mercy, then refill the cup anyway. Hospitality here is competitive sport: leave one dumpling on the platter or risk insulting the cook. Between toasts you'll learn the city's three names in twenty years — Akmola, Astana, Nur-Sultan, back to Astana — each swap a political weather vane you can read in changed metro-station plaques overnight.
Come July, the steppe erupts in green and the Ishim River fills with paddle-boarding students. Winter returns like a loan shark in October, driving life indoors to coffee roasters inside converted shipping containers and opera houses where the chandelier weighs more than a 737. Stay three days and the place starts making sense: it's not a city with history; it's a city betting its mortgage on the future, one outrageous blueprint at a time.
Where to wander, by quarter — each with its own rhythm.
Before you go
How a Cossack outpost became Central Asia's boldest capital
Stone Age herders drive cattle across the Ishim's frozen banks. Their flint tools lie scattered beneath what will become Left Bank glass towers. The winter wind that makes them huddle in felt yurts is the same one that will one day whistle through Norman Foster's steel cables.
Imperial surveyors drive wooden stakes into boggy ground, founding Akmoly settlement. Summer brings clouds of mosquitoes so thick they darken tents. Cossacks build the first wooden fort where the President's palace will stand in 170 years.
The Tsar's decree arrives on parchment, renaming the muddy outpost Akmolinsk. Siberian merchants use the new brick caravanserai to trade Bukharan silk for Kazakh horses. Population: 2,000 souls wrapped in sheepskin against -40°C nights.
The Trans-Aral Railway reaches town. Suddenly Akmolinsk grain reaches Omsk markets in days, not weeks. Red brick warehouses replace felt yurts along the tracks. You can still smell coal smoke in the old station's cracked tiles.
Bolshevik soldiers ride in from Omsk, replacing the double-headed eagle with the red star. Local Kazakh elders watch nervously as icons come down from the Orthodox church. The vodka distillery becomes the workers' club overnight.
Born in a nearby village, this steelworker would move the capital 57 years later. He'd design the city's most audacious buildings by describing dreams to architects. Every major skyline element bears his personal sketches on presidential napkins.
Leningrad factory girls arrive with sewing machines and frostbite. They turn the old Cossack stables into a textile plant, making uniforms while Kazakh women teach them to drink fermented mare's milk. Population triples by 1945.
Khrushchev's agricultural campaign floods the town with 22-year-old students from Moscow universities. They sleep in railway cars, plowing 400,000 virgin hectares. The steppe blooms with wheat for the first time in history.
Born in Alma-Ata, this diplomat's career would circle back to rename the capital three times. As Foreign Minister, then Prime Minister, he'd witness every name change from Astana to Nur-Sultan and back. His signature ended the naming carousel in 2022.
The decree arrives: Akmolinsk becomes Tselinograd, 'Virgin Lands City.' Concrete apartment blocks rise like wheat stalks. A statue of Lenin points toward the collective farms, his bronze finger green with steppe patina.
After 97 minutes of debate, Kazakhstan's Supreme Council chooses this provincial town over Almaty. The deciding factor: earthquakes. Akmola sits on bedrock; Almaty trembles. Nobody tells the 250,000 residents they'll wake up in a capital.
Nazarbayev's motorcade crawls through snow to the new Ak Orda palace. Construction workers in orange vests line the streets, still pouring concrete for ministries. The temperature: -28°C. The budget: $3.2 billion. The vision: Dubai on the steppe.
By presidential decree, Akmola becomes Astana—literally 'the capital.' The name change costs $4 million in new signs alone. Overnight, every business card, every map, every school textbook becomes obsolete.
The Japanese architect unfurls blueprints showing a city that grows like a living organism. His 'symbiotic architecture' imagines glass pyramids beside traditional yurt forms. The model sits on Nazarbayev's desk for three months while he traces new metro lines in red ink.
The 105-meter golden egg opens to visitors. Locals joke it looks like a lollipop stuck in the steppe. From the top deck, you can see the entire city—both the Soviet concrete blocks and the glass fantasies still under scaffolding.
Norman Foster's glass pyramid glints in the endless steppe sun. Inside, 1,300 delegates from world religions share a circular table. The angled elevator climbs 62 meters at 30 degrees—just steep enough to make imams and rabbis grip the handrails.
The world's largest tent—150 meters tall—unfurls above the Ishim. Inside, palm trees grow 15 meters from the steppe floor. The temperature stays 19°C year-round while outside swings from -40°C to +40°C.
Hours after Nazarbayev's resignation, the capital officially bears his first name. New signs appear overnight. Taxi drivers still say 'Astana' for months, like a habit they can't break.
After January protests topple Nazarbayev statues, Parliament votes to restore the original name. The city enters Guinness World Records for most name changes—five in 60 years. The old signs become collector's items overnight.
At 320 meters, the twisting glass tower becomes Central Asia's tallest building. Its observation deck opens with 360-degree views from Soviet-era blocks to Norman Foster's fantasy skyline. The elevator ride takes 45 seconds—faster than the train journey that took a week in 1893.
First President of Kazakhstan · born 1940
Moved capital here in 1997
He flew foreign architects in to sketch a dream city on the frozen steppe—then made himself its namesake in 2019. Revellers toppled his statue in 2022; the boulevard still carries his imprint in every angle of glass.
Japanese architect · 1934–2007
Master-planned Astana 1998
His "symbiotic" blueprint stretched the city along a ceremonial axis that feels half Tokyo, half spaceship landing strip. Walk Left Bank at dusk and you’re inside his charcoal sketches—neon tubes threading through wind-sculpted plazas.
Where locals actually book dinner — not the tourist menus.
Horse-boiled flat noodles served on a communal platter—eaten by hand, traditionally after a toast of fermented mare’s milk. Ask for lamb if equine protein feels extreme.
Air-dried horse sausage; slices are fatty, smoky, and slightly gamey. Found sliced atop beshbarmak or sold vacuum-packed at Green Bazaar stalls.
Puffy fried dough pillows drizzled with honey—street carts sell them hot outside Hazret Sultan Mosque after Friday prayers.
Perched 30 floors up Moscow Tower, the 360° view pairs smoked sturgeon with a cityscape that looks like Dubai slammed into a steppe.
Charcoal-grilled lamb skewers for 1,200 KZT each, eaten while watching the Left Bank skyline dissolve into lilac dusk over the Ishim.
Small things that change how the city treats you.
The city, as it actually looks.
Yes—if you like audacious architecture dropped on empty steppe. The city is basically an open-air expo: glass pyramids, the world’s biggest tent-mall, and a 105m golden egg you can climb for $4.
Two full days cover the Left-Bank icons and a museum dive. Add a third for a Burabay lakes day-trip or to wait out a –30°C blizzard.
No metro, no trams. Buses and marshrutkas blanket the city; download 2GIS for real-time arrivals. Anything under 3 km is walkable on the Left Bank’s heated underpasses.
Violent crime is rare, but winter ice and aggressive drivers are the real hazards. Stick to lit boulevards; cross only at signalised crossings—cars will not yield.
Flat white at Rafe: 1,200 KZT ($2.50). Local lager in a bar: 800–1,000 KZT. Expect hotel lounge prices to double.
No—tenge only. ATMs are everywhere; cards work on buses, in taxis and even market stalls. Bring a couple of 5,000 KZT notes for small canteens that still prefer cash.
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