We know that the cloggies of ABN Amro and ING Barings are deadly rivals the world over and eat each other's client lists for breakfast. In Almaty, Kazakhstan, that competition extends to the bankers' leisure time. And these aren't even Dutchmen, they're Kazakhs. They issue mad challenges to each other: downhill racing, skeet shooting, computer warfare, it's all in a day's fun.
I encounter the ING Barings downhill ski team limbering up at Chimbulak - an acceptable 2,300 to 3,200 metre resort with four lifts - just 20 minutes out of town.
At around $20 a day you can equip yourself with boots and skis, not the latest parabolic shape but decently maintained, and the lifts cost 100 tenge ($1) a ride. The jeunesse dorée of Kazakhstan are here sporting the latest gear. Is that Nurdin Damitov in a dashing blue-and-yellow jacket? Surely only yesterday he was nursing a damaged knee in frozen Astana, the new capital, 1,000km away. Don't bureaucrats like him need special permission to weekend in Almaty? So what's he doing here looking fit and well? It turns out he's Nurdin's brother Erken, who works at Halyk Savings Bank. "We're always being confused with each other," he says.
Expatriate ski bums tan on the sun deck, while others check out the remnants of powder in hidden gullies. As we ride the chairlift, Celine Dion blasts over the mountain from friendly loudspeakers - in the old days it would have been the Red Army choir. What's that other noise? Not the twitter of mountain birds? Timur Issatayev, chief representative of ING Barings, fumbles for his mobile. It's only his compadre Arman, three chairs up, checking on his state of health. At the top, in the biting wind, an enterprising soul sells hot chocolate and Snickers bars.
Unfortunately, there isn't an ABN Amro man or woman in sight. So the ING crew content themselves with a few quick runs before adjourning to Timur's dacha 8km down the valley. The villa is under reconstruction to include a sundeck and an open fireplace - despite the heating provided centrally to this clutch of dachas. (This is called "keeping up with the Kononenkos", who have the spread next door.) Oleg K is the acceptable face of Kazkommertsbank, which bought these villas and a bigger guesthouse up the hill. They were once the haunt of the Party faithful, now they're being upgraded by Almaty's new elite.
The ING boys are keen to complete the biathlon today. We call at Timur's uptown apartment and raid the fridge. I notice the place conveniently overlooks ABN Amro Bank's Almaty headquarters in Khadzhy Mukana Street. "Of course, Mr Bond, my laser-based surveillance equipment picks up all de Bruijn's conversations with important clients," Timur explains.
Soon the Cherokee jeep is pounding the airport road pumping out Beatles songs. It's good to be alive in 1999 Kazakhstan. That feeling is marred only for a second by the sight of a three-storey poster boasting: "ABN Amro is at your service everywhere." Beyond the civil airport is an army base darkened by rank upon rank of mothballed Mi-24 helicopters and Antonov transports, veterans of the Afghan war. And beyond that is the shooting school. Timur unslings his 12-bore and practises on a passing rook. Alexei, the instructor, may look a little past it now - he's at least 30 - but he was a skeet champion in his day and can still hit a doublet of clays firing from the hip.
The skeet range is semi-automatic - you press buttons and the clays whizz out from two towers. Later I discover that concealed in each tower is a sad, cold-looking, Kazakh soldier, who responds to the buzzer like one of Pavlov's dogs.
The second part of the biathlon begins. Timur and Arman solemnly step out onto the first of eight positions on a semi-circle. They call for each launch with a shout of "Die!", which I feel is rather bloodthirsty. (I later discover this is the Russian for "pull".) The clays shatter into powder more often than not. These guys are good. I fear for ABN Amro.
That evening at Mad Murphy's there's a live band to celebrate St Patrick's day. It's hardly a place to talk business, but the hamburgers are good. Madina Dushimova, Kazkommerts Securities' secret weapon, has taken time out of her punishing schedule to relax and drink coke. Madina was at the London School of Economics and worked with USAID in the early days of mass privatization, helping drivers to privatize their trucks. "Every so often I'm down in the market and a truck driver hails me," says Madina. "Then I recognize the truck number and think proudly 'I privatized that'."
Madina, who heads research at Kazkommerts Securities, finds herself talking to overseas clients at weird times. US ones sometimes call at 2am. "Now the government has moved to Astana I seem to be acting as their spokesperson too," she says.
We have more opportunity to talk at the current fashionable spot, Olde England. Medina steers me towards a traditional Kazakh dish, beshparmak (five fingers) - fine if you like boiled meat on a bed of noodles and cabbage. The French wine and the blini (pancakes) to follow are excellent. The duck and the pasta are good too.
I never get to try horse meat, which is cooked in many exotic ways. The most edible local dish is shashlik, meat grilled on a skewer. The best place for that is the Café Inara in Tolebi Street. It's a prefab building with plastic saltcellars, but the tables are patronized by serious eaters including Chas Alexander of HSBC. Or there's the Line Pub, a Belgian bar, where shashlik flames on a central fire before your eyes. John Mann of the improbably named Golden Eagle Partners (is it a PR firm, is it an investment bank?) comes for a beer and stays for the full menu.
My best eating experience is l'Ermitage - French food, candlelight and a pianist who must have trained at the Moscow Conservatoire - although by 11pm the waitresses are politely waiting for the last guests to leave. Finally one evening, when the snow is too deep, I am forced to sample the exclusive dining at my own hotel, the Dostyk - exclusive because, although 40 tables are laid and five waiters are on standby, nobody dines there.