The photographer Andrew McConnell first went to Kazakhstan in 2015, to witness what the Earth’s primary space portal looked like on the ground. A particular corner of the remote steppe-land, near a village called Kenjebai-Samai, was where, every three months, astronauts and cosmonauts on the International Space Station fell to earth, having been launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome 400 miles to the south. McConnell had spent much of the previous years working in war zones and was keen to focus on something more life-affirming.
He discovered a curious landscape that was both on the frontier of human exploration and unchanged for centuries. Over a dozen visits in the subsequent years, McConnell became used to the rhythm of the landings. He would sleep out on the steppe in a tent with the ground crew of the Russian space agency; on hearing the explosion that heralded the capsule separating in the sky above, they would drive out over the wasteland to meet it as it landed – a vehicle no bigger than a family car.
Over time McConnell became at least as fascinated by those who assembled to watch the spacecraft descend. “On each visit I would stay in Kenjebai-Samai or explore further afield,” he recalls. “The steppe, which at first appeared as a boundless void, would over time reveal unexpected details. I found a people largely uninterested in the space travellers and yet somehow bound up in this strange ritual.” He took this picture of one of the village boys, called Roman, at a waste tip in the district in 2018, where he had come to collect scrap to recycle. In McConnell’s book, Some Worlds Have Two Suns, the images of astronauts and their mission are juxtaposed with those of local Kazazh nomads in the moonscape of the steppe.