Few People, Not Much Oil, and Nobody Listening

“People shouldn’t live in Kenkiyak. It was supposed to be a simple workers’ camp. Maybe everyone should move out of here,” local activist Ardak Kubash tells us.

Kenkiyak is a village in the Aktobe region, which, at 300,000 square kilometers, is Kazakhstan’s largest region, the size of Poland or Italy. The wide swathes of its steppe, however, are sparsely inhabited. The population density here (3.16 people per square kilometer) makes it the second-lowest populated region in the country. A total of 950,000 people live in the entire region, 585,000 of which reside in its capital, Aktobe.

“People shouldn’t be frightened by the idea that we’ll perish without oil. Our ancestors lived without oil, herded cattle, and worked the land,” Kubash adds. She raises her hand and points to the sands of Kokzhide, a common sight in western Kazakhstan. Vast dunes washed in blinding sun extend behind her, with small oil pumps scattered here and there–some of them idle, covered in dust and rust, while others still swing up and down.

Behind the iron cranes burn flames from gas flares. Right beneath them lies a “hidden sea,” an underground water basin known as Kokzhide, holding up to 1.5 billion cubic meters of pure, drinking water.

This is the first in a series of articles on the situation surrounding Kokzhide’s groundwater, the oil companies operating here, and the plight of local residents. 

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Kenkiyak

To reach Kenkiyak, one of the main oil nodes in the region, we drive two hours south of Aktobe.

The village is the terminal of the Kenkiyak-Atyrau oil pipeline, which operates in one of two directions, according to the wishes of the government. In one configuration, the pipeline carries oil from the Aktobe region westwards to Atyrau, where it continues around the Caspian Sea via the Caspian Pipeline Consortium or onward to Russia through the Atyrau–Samara pipeline. In the other, oil flows from Atyrau to Kenkiyak and onward to the central Kyzylorda region via the Kenkiyak–Kumkol pipeline, a primary route for exporting Kazakhstan’s oil to China, to the Alashankou refinery in western Xinjiang.

A map of the four villages we visited near the Kokzhide water basin in the Aktobe region (Vlast).

Besides being an oil hub, as is reflected in the city’s logo, with 8,000 inhabitants Kenkiyak is the largest of three neighboring villages. Shubarshi and Sarkol, where just a few thousand people live, are just a few minutes drive away.

We reach Kenkiyak with local activist Ardak Kubash. The village looks much like any other typical Kazakh village—family homes, elderly people resting on benches, people rushing to work, and windswept patches of sand.

There are no oil pumps here, but a massive oil hub dotted with containers and a pumping station looms in the southern part of the village.

A freshly paved road runs along the village’s new sports complex. The asphalt has already cracked, potholes have started to appear, but the drive is still more comfortable than in the surrounding areas.

It is difficult to call the village “oil-rich,” says Kubash.

“They poison us and they don’t give us anything in return,” she says indignantly. “Back when state-owned companies worked here, there were four kindergartens. After Chinese investors came in, these were closed. We have many children with disabilities. They could build a rehabilitation center for them at the companies’ expense. The cultural center is located in the former oil workers’ canteen. Nothing has been built in all these years, it’s a disgrace.”

The main operator of local oil production is CNPC-Aktobemunaigas, a subsidiary of China’s leading oil corporation CNPC. It also owns 51% of the shares in another oil company, KMK Munai, which operates near the Kokzhide sands. In addition to these, three other private companies operate here: Kazakhoil Aktobe, Urikhtau Operating, and Firma Ada Oil.

“In Kenkiyak and Shubarshi, the air feels heavy, sometimes there are leaks and all these poisonous gases [get released into the atmosphere], so it is impossible to breathe,” says Kubash.

She is most concerned about the water situation. Kubash says that in the past, it was as if they “were at war,” standing in line for hours in front of public fountains in order to receive water. Now there is water, but it is “black as Coca-Cola.”

“The oil companies held hearings, but not here– in a village in the Mugalzhar district, which were attended by their workers, which they brought there. We found out about it and rushed there and placed the bottles of black water that we collected from the taps in our homes right in front of them. They took it, and then what? Nothing,” says Kubash.

By evening, life in the village becomes hectic: people crowd around shops, oil workers come back and look for rooms in small local hotels, more reminiscent of hostels.

The mosque in Kenkiyak is hosted in the building of a former factory, with its old chimney now serving as the minaret.

Sarkol and Shubarshi

The neighboring villages of Sarkol and Shubarshi are almost identical to Kenkiyak. They are separated by a highway, lined with oil company facilities and oil tanks.

The remains of the former state oil company’s facilities are visible everywhere. Now, most of the area is wasteland surrounded by old fences.

Local residents are concerned that the oil companies are planning to scale back their operations and move their existing operations elsewhere.

“They’ve stopped hiring people,” says 60-year-old Yerkebulan (name changed), who was born in Shubarshi.

“And besides the Chinese, there is nothing. You can only work with livestock. It’s too late for people like us, they won't hire us, we’re too old. But for young people it’s also hard. Inflation is the most annoying thing. Gas gets more expensive every month, and we have it right here, two feet away. We are swallowing this poison, but have to pay for it like everyone else.”

Most people in these three villages ask not to be photographed or have their names mentioned—they are all connected in one way or another to the oil companies they criticize.

“It’s as if we live in a foreign country. No one hears us. Everyone wants to leave.” – Makar Utegenov.

One of them, 60-year-old Temirlan, has worked in the oil sector around this region his entire life.

“I worked as a driver when the company was still state-owned. When it was privatized, everything got worse. They used to pay 70% for worker vacation expenses, but that was cut to 50%. Contractors became private, with worse conditions and lower salaries,“ says the man, then looks around and says, “Could you tell that oil and gas are being extracted here? They don’t give a damn about our villages.”

Temirlan also confirms the environmental problems.

“I worked at the wells, where they drill. When they treat the ground, they pour 350 tons of acid into it. Where does it go? It comes back to the surface. Now look at this land. We used to play football here, there was grass. Now everything is dead. We used to have a tap in every house, we got our water from there. Now it’s impossible. You probably can’t even use this water to wash clothes,” he says.

Nearby, 58-year-old Kaisar (name changed) hurries to the store. He picks up some groceries, gets on his bike, and rushes to the center of the village, where elderly men gather.

“It’s the oil, it’s destroying everything,” Kaisar believes. “When they turn on the gas [communal heating system], the whole village suffocates. They only stop when we start making noise. What a disgrace and shame, and they call Kazakhstan an oil country.”

He rides to a bus stop opposite the municipal building. About a dozen men have gathered there. Most of them are pensioners.

“You can find work if you look for it. But everything has become private,” says one of them, who also used to work in the oil sector. “Is that a good thing?,” we ask. He replies with a rhetorical question: “What's good about working for a private company?”

Another man adds that everything is “rotting” from oil and gas: “People are sick. Everyone here is sick. The water is disgusting, but what can you do? You have to drink it.”

No Trespassing

The village of Bashenkol lies 20 kilometers away. It is the closest to the Kokzhide sands.

There are no road signs from Kenkiyak and Shubarshi to Bashenkol, but several unpaved roads lead to the village. We first tried to drive on one road, which ran alongside an industrial area, but we were unsuccessful. Security guards from one oil company stopped us, and said it was a private road, and sent us back. When we asked the local administration whether the companies have specific rights on certain roads, they said: “The territory [operated by] the enterprises is not fenced off, and residents of nearby settlements have unhindered access.”

The road to Bashenkol itself takes about half an hour due to its uneven surface, which causes the car to constantly shake and bounce, and it is dangerous to drive over 40 km/h in a passenger car.

Throughout the whole trip, we only encounter a few cars, grazing cattle, and no road signs. Closer to the village, we spot the facilities of the oil company Firma Ada Oil, where a security guard operates a large barrier gate. We inform them that we are heading to Bashenkol, and the gate opens.

The Last Twelve Families

Only at the very edge of the village do we finally spot a green, rusted sign attached to an electricity pole, reading “Bashenkol”—the only sign of modernity. Seen from a distance, the place looks like little more than a few abandoned huts. Yet this is a village, home to only twelve families.

There are no roads here; we follow the tracks left by other cars in the sand near the few houses still standing. We can see the remains of two other abandoned homes. Cows and horses roam freely. Two young men are loading cargo into a truck, while their father, Arman, watches over them, holding his baby granddaughter in a Pikachu onesie in his arms.

“Look at the state of this village. They should bring gas here. Firma Ada Oil produces gas right here. They could build a road to Kenkiyak. There is no school. If we have children, we send them to live in Sarkol or Kenkiyak because there are no buses to take them there. The only thing we have here is electricity. That’s why no one moves here,“ he says, squirming against the cold wind.

Arman lived nearby and moved here two years ago to graze cattle. He now has six cows.

“It used to be a beautiful village. But then, when hard times began, everyone left. If things improve, people will come back,” he believes.

When asked about oil production, he says that they are used to the tough local conditions and that Firma Ada Oil helps the residents in every way possible.

“They hire us. They give us three tons of coal a year. If you need equipment or a tractor for your farm, you can go and get it. When there were floods, they helped us save the village with their machinery,” he says.

Yedilkhan, a 65-year-old man who was born here, walks over to us, shifting heavily from foot to foot. He is wearing the oil company’s work clothes.

“I've been raising livestock all my life. But now everything is empty here, there’s just nothing. In spring and autumn, it’s impossible to walk, it’s muddy everywhere, and in winter there are blizzards. If you get sick, the ambulance won’t come,“ Yedilkhan smiles. “This is my home. All my family moved to Sarkol. But I can't leave. This is my home.”

The People’s Mayor

Makar Utegenov is perhaps the most famous person in any of these villages. He was formerly the mayor of Kenkiyak, and is now the owner of a farm and the informal leader of local civil society.

Almost every resident of these villages directs us to Utegenov for answers, whatever the issue or topic.

We drive up to his farm, 10 minutes from Kenkiyak, in the middle of the bare steppe. Trucks are parked in front of the small house where his workers live. One of the workers, an elderly man in overalls, asks Utegenov for permission to leave, saying that “he is urgently needed on duty.” Utegenov waves him off with a smile.

For our interview, 62-year-old Utegenov leads us into the living room, where he sits down on the sofa, beneath a large embroidered portrait of his parents.

“My father ran the farm when he retired in 1997. Five years later, he died, and I couldn’t give it up. We have camels, cows, rams, sheep, and horses,” says Utegenov, who spent most of his life working in the oil and gas industry.

“Now I just deal with the farm. It’s enough for my family. And I don’t have any other job right now. I was fired from government service… It appears that I lacked the necessary knowledge for the job.”

Utegenov was elected mayor of Kenkiyak in a direct election in 2019. He subsequently ordered for streets to be paved, dilapidated houses to be renovated, and proposed a nine-point master plan for the village and surrounding area’s development. When he presented his ideas to the regional and district administration, they were shot down.

The Just Journalism YouTube channel has a recording of Utegenov’s meeting with local residents, where he informed them that the district administration did not support his initiatives. The crowd, so large that it could not fit in the building, was upset, but applauded him in support. Salamat Amanbayev, the governor of the Temir district, who was sitting next to him, nervously shook his head.

“The locals asked me to run for office because the village had become completely neglected. If I were one of ‘them’ and just done what they wanted, I would still be in office,” he pauses and looks around. “I never realized that we had such a shambles of a civil service. There is corruption and fraud everywhere. They have no plans, nothing. They wait for orders from above. No one does anything of their own initiative,” Utegenov says.

He is indignant that the village has no fully functioning hospital, as, due to cutbacks, the existing clinic has become “just a simple medical center.”

“Everything has been concentrated in Shubarkuduk, the district center. If we need treatment, we have to drive 125 kilometers to get there. Then, we get there, and they say: ‘The doctor is not in, come back tomorrow.’ Such is life. People have gotten used to it, they’re completely exhausted,” he explains.

Utegenov also speaks to us about the reconstruction of the water supply system in the village, which began under his leadership. According to him, at every stage he had to fight to ensure that the work was carried out in compliance with the rules and using the latest technologies.

“And it turns out that I was the only one who was against all this bad decision-making,” he adds.

Dissatisfaction with standards of living and spare investment in the region has led to protests on several occasions. The largest of these took place during Qandy Qantar in January 2022, when oil company workers stopped work and local residents took to the streets.

Utegenov, then the mayor of the village, managed to stabilize the situation by gathering the protesters’ demands and, together with other activists, including Ardak Kubash and Yerlan Yelamanov, chairman of the independent trade union, presenting them to the governor of the region, Ondasyn Orazalin.

Utegenov also shares his concerns about the groundwater in Kokzhide.

According to him, residents have long petitioned the regional government and state-owned oil company Kazmunaigas to improve it, but “in 35 years, no one has done anything.”

“Can you imagine, they are carrying out acid fracturing, pumping in over a thousand tons of various solvents. The water we take from Kokzhide is black. What does this mean? We have polluted this basin. And this is supposed to be the cleanest water in the region. This water is on our conscience today,” says Utegenov.

He also talks about hydrogen sulfide emissions from the processes of oil production.

“You know, I’m the last oilman in my family. A relative, also an oilman, died as soon as he retired. Hydrogen sulfide is a very dangerous gas, it just doesn’t leave the body. After we die, we probably won’t even rot because we’re stuffed with this hydrogen sulfide,” Utegenov laughs.

“Is anyone researching our health? No. Who needs that? Chinese companies will come and do whatever they want, because everything has been agreed at the top,” Utegenov says as he glances at the window. Outside, the yellow grass sways in the strong steppe wind, stretching to the horizon.

“It’s as if we live in a foreign country. No one hears us. Everyone wants to leave. But where will they go? Except for [former President Nursultan] Nazarbayev. He can leave and live. It makes no difference to him. Although I wouldn’t want to hide like him at 80 years old. It’s stupid,” he admits.

Air Pollution

The Aktobe regional department of ecology has confirmed atmospheric pollution and hydrogen sulfide emissions in several villages. However, according to deputy head Talap Usnadin, identifying the exact source is difficult due to the large number of industrial enterprises in the area.

“When we go out to conduct inspections, we cannot determine which area the emissions are coming from, because air does not remain in one place,” Usnadin explains.

According to Usnadin, the department and the regional government have signed new agreements requiring companies to plant green belts around residential areas, and reclaim former excavation pits for eventual regeneration.

“That’s because emissions are released from these pits, and we have set a deadline of 2025-2026 to ensure that all processes in the pits are carried out through internal combustion,” he said.

However, the companies themselves deny exceeding air pollution standards. CNPC-Aktobemunaigas stated that emission levels at the Kenkiyakneft facilities are currently decreasing, thanks to “measures aimed at minimizing the impact of industrial activities on the atmosphere.”

“Kenkikyneft conducts regular environmental monitoring, while specialized organizations carry out annual and quarterly measurements at the edges of residential areas in the Kenkiyak, Sorkol, Shubarshi, and Kumsai settlements. According to results from these tests, the level of pollution here does not exceed the maximum permissible limits,” the company told Vlast.

The same was reported by Firma Ada Oil, which added that “Kenkiyak and Shubarshi are located about 18 km from our company’s production facilities and are not within its area of influence.”

Companies

Oil companies operating near the Kokzhide basin say they are doing enough to contribute to the region’s development.

“It is important to foster an objective perception of the role of subsoil users, not as a source of threats, but as partners of the government and local communities that ensure development and the sustainability,” said Joshi Deep Chandra, CEO of Firma Ada Oil, in a written response to Vlast’s inquiry.

CNPC-Aktobemunaigas said that, over the years, its tax contributions have reached as much as 58% of the regional budget. Between 2020-2024, the company directly allocated 9.9 billion tenge ($19.8 million) to the budget of the Temir district. As part of its corporate social responsibility efforts, CNPC-Aktobemunaigas has contributed a total of $44.7 million to date.

“The activities of subsoil users are aimed not only at developing the oil and gas sector, but also at maintaining the region’s social, economic, and environmental sustainability,” Firma Ada Oil said.

The company added that it has built a kindergarten in the region, carried out major renovations of educational institutions, restored water intake facilities, developed telecommunications infrastructure, and supplies local communities with coal and street lighting.

“In the event of a large-scale reduction in the activities of subsoil users, the region could face job losses, a decline in budget revenues, and a degradation of infrastructure,” the company warned.

At KMK Munai’s headquarters next to the Aktobe regional administration building, we meet vice president Samat Berdenov. He said that about 30% of the company’s workforce are residents of the Temir district. The company employs around 275 people, excluding service-company staff, and produces about 56,000 tonnes of oil annually across three fields: Kumsai, Mortyk, and Kokzhide.

“We allocate funds to the local budget for social development in the region. In addition, we provide targeted support: when the population asks for help, we provide equipment, and during floods we assisted in building dams. We also give out New Year's gifts and help schoolchildren from disadvantaged families with supplies. This on top of other agreements and sponsorship programs,” he says.

We sent requests to all companies operating in the area, but received no response from Urikhtau Operating, while Kazakhoil Aktobe declined to answer our questions.

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