Turkmenistan

Exiting Uzbekistan was another surprisingly easy process, with no interest shown in me or my bike’s luggage for inspection. A few hundred meters later, I was swept up in the whirlwind that is the Turkmenistan entry process. I was directed (with much efficiency) to a dozen windows, making payments, signing forms, re-visiting the same windows a few times, at the end having a small stack of receipts and stamped, official-looking forms, none of which I could read. Officials were quite polite and efficient, which made the whole process less painful. Since I was entering with a transit visa, my route was established on a map I carried with me,  and I was warned that I needed to stick to it or face “big problems”. My route was also used to calculate my gas tax, which came to about US$75, to compensate for the very low fuel prices.

By the time I was accelerating away from the post, the sun was kissing the horizon and with a groan I knew I’d be riding in the dark yet again. Outside of Turkmenebat, I was waved over at a roadside office to pay some sort of tax. It was the entry process in miniature: a small, squat, block building was divided into two rooms, each with its own little window, and I was sent back and forth between the windows for various forms and payments. No one could really explain what exactly I was getting for my money. I crossed a floating bridge of metal plates (thank goodness it wasn’t raining), and at the other side was waved over yet again. “Passport registration!” said the grinning uniform as my passport details were copied longhand into a thick ledger. “Five dollars!”, he said, still smiling. I was tired and feeling cranky, so I said, “What for?” He said if I paid, I could be on my way; if not, I would have to sleep behind the guardhouse and couldn’t go on until morning. My smirking reply of “No problem” must have told them that I have a tent, sleeping bag, food and I actually was looking for a place to camp, and this would be as good a place as any.  He shook his head and handed back my passport, waving in the general direction of the road. “Goodbye! Welcome to Turkmenistan!”

I found a campsite outside of Turkmenebat, among the bushes between a cotton field and an irrigation canal. While drinking morning coffee, a group of women walked by, carry shovels and hoes, dressed in long skirts, jackets and headscarves, each happily texting away on cell phones and not noticing me. This is the sign of a well-chosen campsite.

Heading south I passed through the Karakum desert, happy to be among sand dunes and camels again (dromedary this time.) I was passed by a wedding convoy of honking and swerving Opels, Audis and Ladas, decked with streamers. One car passed me and waved a beer bottle at me and motioned for me to join them. Another cruised by with a cameraman hanging out the window, getting footage of me for the wedding video. The thought of joining the celebration was appealing but I couldn’t match their breakneck speed, and didn’t really want to be part of a convoy of drunk drivers.

I later rolled in to Ashgabat, the nation’s capital, and was stunned by the “White City” — block after block of towering, white, marble-clad apartment buildings and business offices, contrasting with the rest of the city which is more typically central Asian with Soviet-style apartment blocks, wide avenues, blaring horns and congested traffic. (Sadly I don’t have photos of the White City, sorry; a Google Images search will show you what it’s all about.) The strangest thing about the majestic White City is the marked absence of people. It seems to have been build for a large upper middle class that doesn’t exist. Streets and sidewalks were mainly empty, save for strolling policemen. Two of these chaps helped me find the only bank in the country where cash advances could be made from a foreign credit card.  The bank itself was a towering cathedral with massive doors, distant ceilings and brass and polished stone everywhere.

With cash in my pocket for the ferry, I dashed northwest Turkmenbashy. About an hour before sunset, I stopped near a truckstop for water and a stretch, and car stopped near me. A man approached me with his hand extended and said, “salaam alekum“. We chatted briefly and he told me he was a Turkmen priest, and that he had a gift for me. He went back to the car, did a bit of searching, came back and put a half-manat coin in my hand. He said “Don’t change it or spend it, it is a gift, to remember Turkmenistan”, and just like that he drove away. (I’d received a similar gift at a gas station outside of Turkmenebat.) It was a heartwarming experience and it put me in a good mood as I set up camp behind a row of dirt mounds near a pipleline project.

The next day I made it to Turkmenbashi, where I’d catch the ferry to Azerbaijan. I’d heard horror stories about Turkmenistan’s policy toward importing and exporting currency. The amount of money, in any denomination, that is declared coming into the country cannot exceed that which is taken out. Any excess found by customs upon exiting would be confiscated and fines levied, and there were tales of very thorough searches. So I got creative and found a few places to hide my excess cash (nothing like the location used for the infamous watch in Pulp Fiction, never fear).

Finding the port was a cinch, and the process again a bit convoluted but efficient. A man in a smart business suit identified himself as the customs official, took me into his office and said, “I do not want to control your motorcycle. If you give me some beer money, I will not control your motorcycle.” Well I appreciated his honesty (about the beer), and if it could mean less paperwork and hassle, a small fee would be money well spent. Or the hassle & costs of “controlling my motorcycle” could have been imagined. How can one know? I saw it as a cost of doing business, and parted with $5 for this real or imagined convenience. In my own defense, I didn’t have to deal with any more paperwork regarding the bike, and after several train cars were rolled on to the good ship Dagestan, I rode  into her dark belly and strapped down the bike.

Aboard the ship I was offered a cabin for $100 by one of the staff (no one at the port mentioned tickets at all.) It was a small, nasty space with a bare, tattered mattress the color of spilled coffee. But it did have hot water, a flushing toilet and a reading light. Thankfully, clean linens showed up, costing US$1. (There was no way I was going to put my sleeping bag on that foul mattress!) Later, when I was getting booked in to my cabin, another crew member walked by and asked if I was American. “Da“, I said. His eyes lit up and he smiled and he said, “You know 911? The towers?”, while mimicking the collapsing buildings with his gestures. I said of course, and he replied proudly, “Osama bin Laden, he’s my grandfather!” Unfortunately, this isn’t the movies, so I didn’t have a clever comeback, and I didn’t give him a punch in the throat, which he apparently deserves. I just said, “Good for you.” So if anyone reading this wants a shot at a bin Laden family member, who happens to be an asshole, this one can be found on the Caspian sea, working the Turkmenbashi-Baku route aboard the Dagestan.

Well after dark, the ship started her engines and with a nudge from a tender, we headed due west into the Caspian.