Tag Silk Road

In my youth we would visit zoos all over the world. I’ve seen some of the most amazing zoos humanity has to offer, at the top of the list comes the Paris zoo and the Minnesota zoo, both of which offer a charming and humane environment for the animals while offering prime viewing and educational material for visitors. My visit to the Ashgabat zoo was startling, to say the least, and was accompanied by such a pungent blend of foul aromas that the interior of my nose began to twitch in protest.

The Ashgabat zoo, in Turkmenistan cost 1M, which is about 30 cents, to enter. After walking through the cobweb covered entryway we first encountered a fence with various hand-painted wooden signs showing which animals were available at the zoo. We noticed that the signs were removable, in the likely occurrence that one should die. Vulture were the first exhibit. Behind a low fence with a metal tin roof (in 100 degree heat) a giant vulture sat on a rock ripping apart raw, dirt-covered flesh. We heard a chopping noise and looked behind the shed, a man had some sort of animal on a wooden block and was using an ax to dismember the creature for food. The vulture seemed happy about the noise while it made the hair on my neck stick straight up. Hand-painted signs showed a finger and the words “Ouch!” next to the cage. There was no lighting, and each cage seemed like a death-row cell dimly lit and containing a vile creature of children’s nightmares.

The second exhibit was a swampy cage where someone had patched holes in the wire with planks of rotten wood and a street sign. Inside the murky darkness we saw what appeared to be a ROUS, a rodent of unusual size. I have no idea what this mystery creature was, it looked like a rat but was the size of a cockerspaniel. One was white, with red eyes while its counterpart was black with black eyes. It had a long rat’s tail and webbed feet, and it also was ripping apart flesh with its two buck teeth under an “ouch!” sign.

The third exhibit explained one of the many foul smells, a duck pond under a low fenced roof that had not ever been cleaned. Ducks mated at random and chicks and elderly ducks lounged together in their own feces, apparently uncontrolled. The ducks far outnumbered the space available to them, and some were sitting atop others, which might have been dead.

The aquarium behind the duck pond proved the source of another of the unidentifiable aromas. The pool was open-air and contained a large and rather impressive collection of algae. Dead goldfish spotted the top of the pond while frogs and tadpoles swam around happily in their lurid haven.

Behind these wonderful exhibits was the bear, wolf and lion exhibit. Each had its own hand-made cage with sufficient room to curl into a fetus and cry. We watched for a few moments as the wolf attempted to run in place before falling over the sink used as a watering troth. The lion didn’t budge, and the bear sat picking at the goo running out of its eyes. Tears?

There was a rather odd array of happy looking porcupines. At least a dozen of them in various cages lounged in abandoned tractor tires lapping at still water and chewing on wilted carrots. They looked up at us as we walked by as if to say, “hey! Its better than being in the desert.”

There was a large collection of farm animals, especially camels and lamas, which seemed relatively content to be fed once a day and otherwise left alone. The locals in the zoo gave the lamas a wide birth for fear of spit, and did not allow their children to pet the camels, which looked past their prime and overly tattooed, a sign that these were once work camels who had exhausted their usefulness.

A bird park was the final crescendo, with turkeys, pigeons and chickens of various breed lounging around their piles of feces and still water with one eye on the man chopping meat for the vultures and the other eye on the children who tapped gently against the cage.

Despite the abysmal conditions at the zoo, I was impressed to see mothers explaining to their children what they were seeing, and those strolling around the park looked happy as they eagerly pointed at the dilapidated foxes or clapped their hands in glee at a spitting lama. It was no Paris zoo, but it will be at the top of my list of strange experiences in Central Asia.

Nissa

Yesterday we got in the 4×4 and took an off road expeditionary tour of Nissa,which was once a Parthian capital in the 3rd century BC. At one point over forty towers surrounded the small adobe fortress on the hilltop, but today there is little remaining of the once bustling capital. Atop a sloping, man-made hill rests one remaining tower which we discovered is used by several variety of bee as a giant nesting ground. A desert hedgehog had apparently gotten too close to the tower, for it lay crinkled in a ball at the base of one giant nest.

Inside the fortress itself, which is little more than a hill where the top is shaped like a bowel with a large depression on top where former royalty once roamed. Today the interior is filled with a strange crawling plant that albino lizards seem to enjoy. The locals who occupy the region directly to the north of old Nissa have erected a small adobe structure in the center where a guard lives to ensure everyone has paid the hefty 16M entry fee. We did not pay this fee because the guards at the gateway tried to extort more money out of us, so we took the off-road approach and hiked into the fortress on foot. Not an easy task in 105 degree weather in a desert without shade.

Along the western wall of the fortress was an irrigation canal where dozens of boys were swimming and washing their hair. Down the road several other children sat at small booth selling soap or sponges. There are no child labor laws here.

Nissa itself is an amazing story, set up by the Parthians, captured by local dynasties and finally razed in the 13th century by the Mongols. It was one of the more heroic last stands in Central Asia, and the more skilled and equipped Mongols took 15 days to captured the walled city, destroying everything within. Once the Mongols left, however, the site was used as a Zoroastrian temple grounds before being abandoned as the land around the fortress became arid and bleak.

Gates of Hell

Dante readers beware, the “Gates of Hell” are very real. They are located in the middle of a vast, uninhabitable desert (not unlike the Biblical desert where Satan tempted Jesus) outside Darvaza, Turkmenistan.

Locals say that someone was drilling for natural gas in the desert when the drill hit an air pocket and the friction of the metal piping exploding at massive speed out of a rock hole caused a spark to ignite the reserve of natural gas, setting it eternally alite.

Today the crater is 60 meters across and easily 50 meters deep at its furthest point. The flames burst out of the crater fueled by the natural gas, but to the casual eye it looks as if the rock and sand are simply emitting an enormous amount of heat and flame. At one point there was a thick cable circling the crater to keep curious travelers at a safe distance, but the heat of the eternal flame managed to snap the cable, melting sections of it into piles of ruble, while other sections have become fused into the landscape.

For roughly a kilometer in every direction the earth is grey and lifeless, inhabited only by beetles, spiders and perhaps a wandering lizard. A strange coral reef looking rock sticks up from the grey sand in stalactite-like formations. All attempts to identify the rock online proved futile, though I’m no geologist. The remnants of a now unidentifiable machine rest all around the perimeter, and as I circled the area I found lizards and other creatures warming themselves on the hot metallic surfaces of various engine parts presumably belonging to the unfortunate drilling device that started the whole saga.

Oh…My….God!

The wildlife around the dead ring of sand becomes more intense and is reminiscent of the creatures in Storm Troopers. Walking out to the crater at night with nothing but a flashlight and, naturally, a giant flaming crater to indicate the way, I managed to hit an angle with the flashlight just right so that in the distance I saw two tiny green gem-like lights glistening in the distance in the sand. I walked over to investigate and leaned in really close. The two gems turned out to be the curious blinking eyes of a spider the size of a golf ball, with his eight hairy legs extending out from there like so many reasons to run and hide. I slowly backed away and shined the light at the same angle across the landscape. All around me pairs of little green lights blinked like lightening bugs and panic rose in my whole body as my arms, thinking on their own, attempted to fly me out of there. I ended up with two flashlights, one scanning the distance for green gems to avoid, the other aimed at my toes so that if one came near my I could scream my farewells as my heart stopped.

50m deep crater

We decided to camp out at the crater, obviously this decision was made before I knew an army of giant spiders inhabited the warm sands around the crater. We set up our tent, started a fire of our own, and cooked a simple meal while drinking beer from the cooler. (We are Americans, after all, why not tail-gate the gates of hell?) In the distance, the crater raged seemingly out of control, the flames licking the sky as if to snap the stars right out and gobble them up. We danced around our own little fire to the tuns from the portable iPod, and listened to Mike play the guitar with the fire from the crater cracking the percussion in the distance.

Morning came slowly as the sounds of the desert kept me wondering and imaging what was happening outside the tent. We boiled water in the morning for coffee and were on the road again by 9am. Twelve kilometers from the natural gas crater lies a crater of greater depth but lesser width that is filled with water. The water emits bubbles, indicating heat, but there is little information on the spring, or why the crater is so deep (at least 70 meters). All attempts to find a boiling miniature mud crater in the vicinity were in vain.

Despite the giant man-eating spiders (that get bigger each time I tell this story, naturally) and the bubbling water that could cook you alive, or the crater of fire that form the gates of hell, I still find Darvaza one of the nicest and most interesting natural wonder I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying.

For more information on Darvaza and Turkmenistan please see read about our Second Trip to the Gates of Hell and our Turkmenistan Destination Guide.

Caspian Sea Snake in Turkmenbasy

After the very long drive from Nohur to the Turkmenbasy on the Caspian Sea, and searching for a place to stay, we all ended up at the reasonably priced Turkmenbasy Hotel.  For about $60 a night, we got a suit with a view of the Caspian Sea from the balcony.  Initially, we drove all the way out to a peninsula to get a room at one of the new “Dubai of Turkmenistan” resort hotels.  Niyazov’s dream was to make Turkmenbasy a resort town comparible to Dubai.  Let’s just say they have a very long way to go.  All of the rooms available at the partially constructed “resort” hotels were priced at over 300 – 400 USD.  So we found a nice room at the Turkembasy like I said before.

After the hot drive through the desert, we were all ready for a beer and a swim.  We grabbed a quick drink on our way out of the ground floor and walked slowly through the scorching heat down to the Sea.  Directly out in front of the hotel was shoreline however, there were only people near or in the water farther down the coast – which seemed to be the same as what was in front of us.  I walked down and started wadding around in the water.  Immediately I noticed a thick bed of weeds about 8 feet from the shore.  “That must be why all the locals are farther down the beach,” I thought.  So we walked down.  We hadn’t gotten about 5 steps when Lauren yells, “WHAT THE HECK IS THAT!”  She was referring to a 4 foot long snake that was poking its head and neck about 1.5 feet out of the water.  A longer coil was visible below the surface and was now resting on top of the weed bed.  Then we started noticing several snakes poking their heads out of the water for air.

As went continued down the beach we found a clearing and started to get in the water, believing it to be snake free.  We soon found out that this weed free area between the two weed beds was The Great Caspian Sea Snake Highway – serving as transport between feeding grounds.  After kicking the sand around on the beach for a while and contemplating swimming, we really had our hearts set on swimming in the Caspian, it was now or never.  Our friend and I stared at each other, picked up some small stones and plastered the area in front of us with a barrage of pebbles, and then dove into snake heaven face first.  That was the first time I have ever swum out of fear as I, like my childhood hero, share a fear of snakes – Ophidiophobia.  We quickly kicked out past the weed bed and tread water out in the Caspian.  Then, we realized that we had to go back.  Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, we turned back and made it through without a bite.  I highly doubt that they would attack humans, but it was still slightly terrifying.  I got out of the Sea, turned to Lauren and said, “Conquered it,” and we all went out for dinner.

The Caspian Sea

When we tell people that we live on the road, their eyes light up and they inevitably mutter, glazed-eyed: “man, I wish I could do that.” Usually we respond with an energetic pat on the shoulder and a hearty, “you can!” Naturally everyone has the reins to their own destiny, and can make of it what they want. For those of you thinking about the glamor and unending fun of a life on the road, here is a saga to solidify your wanderlust.

Two weeks ago we drove from Ashgabat to Turkmenbashi on the Caspian Sea coast. This 350 mile ride was exhilarating to me after a few dramamine pills, but exhausting and harrowing before they kicked in. Thanks, dramamine! The road, as I’ve mentioned before, was ill paved and lacking in forethought. One companion in the car called it “spine adjusting” while another prefered “joint altering.” Travel does wear and tear on one’s body. Did I mention it involved two nights of sleeping on the floor bookmarked by day long driving? Our immune systems were understandably down.

At any rate, the Caspian was well worth the adventure to get there by land. We (meaning Mike) swam with the sea snakes, we  (meaning Lauren) frolicked along the sandy beaches and we drank to the sunset and good company (all of us). But, a day later, back in Ashgabat, we were lying on the couch with our heads in an array of buckets, tubs and bags, wondering between vomits what we had done to make ourselves so ill.

Three days later we were still sick. Dysentery looks fun compared to what we were feeling. Dementia set in the third day for me, and I lay in bed,  squirming and holding my stomach wondering why Minnie Mouse was perched on the chandelier. And on the fourth day the doctor arrived with a magical array of pills and capsules and such modern devices as ear thermometers. The capsules turned out to be cypro, something I recently discovered I’m highly allergic to. So, coupled with the illness we had come to call the ‘Caspian Sea Virus,’ I also had an allergic reaction that caused my lips to swell. From the side I looked like Angelina Jolie having a really miserable day. The jokes were unending, but at least it was something to joke about! Sadly, there is no photographic evidence as I threatened to stomp on every camera that was pointed my way.

So, with collagen-infused lips (aka, allergic reaction lips), a virus that causes extreme migraines and stomach pain, nausea and dementia, we set off for a 4th of July party that was, ironically, Hollywood themed. I fit right in.

9 days later the majority of us were feeling better, though still tired. Even mid-hurl I was thinking to myself, “I’d rather be here with my head in this bucket than anywhere else on earth.” Travel provides an unending series of chances to test one’s self, and to discover one’s self while discovering the world. I discovered (this is a very Carry Bradshaw ending, I know) that I’m happy to have a misaligned spine and vomit in my hair, so long as it means I can have these things in tandem with an adventure such as the one we’ve set our course for. Sometimes things in life are as simple as black and white.

Bazaar Ladies

For many Silk Route travelers, the Push-Push bazaar outside Ashgabat is one of the greatest highlights of the road. The bazaar spans several square acres and includes a livestock bazaar, car bazaar, construction section, clothing, fabric and national arts and crafts. Anything you can imagine wanting can be found at the bazaar. Opened on the weekend and on Thursday, the bazaar is teeming with people from every walk of life in Turkmenistan. From agile old ladies grinning rows of gold teeth to young boys pushing portage carts.

I arrived with a friend at 11:00am on a Sunday, Mike having decided to stay behind for some extra computer time. The parking lot was little more than a collection of hundreds of cars in various states of disarray parked along and atop the rolling sand dunes that surrounded the enclosed bazaar. We added our jeep to the pile and set of across the dunes towards the main entrance, a lavish two story entryway crawling with people. Within moments of entering the bazaar we had been spotted by a gang of pick-pockets, who use a system of distractions and bumping to pry valuables from unwitting shoppers. I walked ahead of my friend, snapping pictures, all of my valuables in my camera bag at my hip. Behind me, my friend watched my back, turning suddenly every once in a while to catch some young man suddenly very intensely studying a tire, or fabric, or whatever was at hand. It was a hilarious parade of obviousness, with the pick-pockets eventually losing their patience and trying to blatantly reach into my camera bag. They got nothing and our system, albeit an old trick, was effective in deterring them.

The bazaar itself was well worth the visit, and remains one of the most astonishing collections of humanity and merchandise on the planet. Rows a half mile long of rugs extended several columns deep, with each carpet hand made by Afghans, Turkmen, Uzbeks and Tajiks. The carpets looked like an off red oasis amid the desert, and even odder were the old ladies with long, white braids and gold teeth, who eagerly sketched numbers in any currency you demanded, all while telling the history of each piece.

We walked for several hours around the maze of booths, from canning equipment and seeds to dresses and lace and carburetors, there was little we did not see in the bazaar, yet so much that is unexplainable, like an entire row of women, a half mile long, selling exactly the same fabric collar at exactly the same price.

Back outside the bazaar several hours later we searched the dunes for our jeep and found it along a dune that had been cut open by a small marmot. We spotted the odd creature running across the dune behind the jeep- it had the legs of a racing dog, the head of a cat and the belly of a rabbit. We ran after it, despite the 100 degree weather, and chased it into a hole that had visibly dangerous claw markings along the interior, but it was gone. We drove the jeep up and down the dunes several times on the excuse that the suspension needed to be tested. In reality that kind of off roading is exhilarating—and the suspension, we now know, is fine.

The small and relatively untouched village of Nohur rests in an unmarked valley of the Kopet Dag Mountains, which make up the border of Iran and southern Turkmenistan. The people of Nohur dress and act conservatively, and their traditions have been able to survive Turkmenistan’s modernization because of the remoteness of their village.
Descendent from Alexander the Great, the Nohurli are surprisingly hospitable. We arrived at 6pm via 4X4; the only way to reach the town is down a long pebble road flanked by shale mountains covered in lizards. As we rounded a desolate corner, we were amazed to find a small village awaiting our arrival. Damat jumped in the back seat and smiled as he pointed up a narrow alley. The engine was gunned and we bumped along on our nearly vertical assent up the northern face of a hill in the middle of Nohur.

The roads were little more than compact dirt and rocks where water had once drained from the hills, yet a village had found this method of road making suitable to their needs. Large adobe houses sat firmly on their wooden beams (though where the wood came from was a mystery is this desert landscape). Children and elders dashed in front of the 4X4 to look at our pale faces as we pushed them to the glass to return their eager stares. Finally, with Damat pointing out the window and whispering the village’s secrets in Russian, we stopped at his hill-side home.

Damat introduced us to his wife and granddaughter. His wife, an elderly woman with all gold teeth and sun-damaged skin, grasped my shoulders firmly and planted three or four wet kisses on my neck before running her calloused hands across my chest and smiling at me. I stood shocked for a moment before I could smile back—chest rubbing was not a normal Turkmen greeting, this must be native to Nohur. Damat, thankfully, just shook my hand, and his granddaughter simply hid behind his leg and peeked out from time to time to look at my reddish hair or my white fingernails. She was a beautifully, frail child of about eight, dressed in bright colored western clothes that contrasted sharply with her grandmother’s traditional dress and headscarf.

They settled us into a small, empty room and set up a tarp on the floor. They piled bread, butter, home-made cheese and other treats on the tarp and poured us each a hefty cup of tea. Damat sat cross-legged on the floor and began to talk adamantly, using gestures as much as any homesick Italian. We ascertained that he wanted to show us around town in the morning. Since we already had onward travel plans he agreed to take us on tour of the area tonight. He jumped up and yelled for his granddaughter, and we were off.

We bumped along a dirt road that looked little used and likely to peter-out into a rock drop off, but Damat continued to point out the window and insist we crawl forward, no matter how much the Jeep leaned to one side. Though we were threatening to topple over, Damat insisted we continue to the city’s graveyard. The graves cannot be explained as we did not understand Damat’s gesturing, but suffice to say that each headstone had a ram or gazelle’s hors firmly tied to the peak, giving the cemetery a warrior-like feel.

We bumped along the road at a 40 degree tilt to the right until we reached a lone house on the hill, we got out and walked up the steep steps to find one of the oldest surviving trees in Central Asia, which is covered in bits of cloth representing villager’s wishes (mostly for a male child). The steep steps led further up the hillside so we traversed them to find a small cave claiming to be the resting place of Kyz Bibi. Legend has it that when an invading force was nearing this unfortunate woman prayed that the mountain would swallow her up rather than allow her honor to be challenged. The mountain obliged and the tiny cave that remains is testament to Kyz Bibi’s bravery.

We continued on our Nohur journey deep into the ravine and then urged the Jeep forward and onto a flat plateau. After 12k we disembarked in a small ravine filled with cows, toads and lizards and marched down the hill following Damat and his granddaughter. They led us through the brush to a clearing made entirely of rock. Damat grinned as he led us right to the edge of the rock plateau and pointed over the edge. “This is easily a 100 foot drop-off” I thought as Damat held his granddaughter’s hand so she could lean way over the edge to catch a glimpse of the waterfall. I snuck a peek as well, the water was pouring out of mountain seemingly conjured from out of nowhere. A small trickle of water ran across the top of the plateau, but this was hardly enough to feed the waterfall. Damat, though easily in his seventies, quickly scaled down the side of the rock face for a better view, with all of us skeptically in his wake. The view was dangerously beautiful, for as you looked around you started to waver from awe and could easily “ooh” and “awe” your way off the edge. We sat for a while, the lizards scurrying in the background, and listened to the falls.

Back at the house Damat’s wife had prepared plov and tomato salad for dinner. Damat waved her away good naturedly and steered us to a house nearby that was his son’s. Inside a frail but beautiful girl, his daughter-in-law, was weaving silk. The loom stretched from one wall to the other, and required amazing dexterity as she pumped the loom with her feet and passed the shuttle with her able hands. The silk takes several days to make, but they wanted only $20 per piece, which is about 6 feet long. We watched her work for several minutes and then easily coughed up the money for a fine piece of blue silk.

Back at Damat’s house, his wife had set the tarp out on the roof of the house so we could watch the sun finish setting. We all took our places on the floor around the tarp and began to eat. “What is that thing?” I yelped before I could control the urgency in my voice. Mike looked over and caught a quick glimpse, “it’s a scorpion!” We sat silently looking around, our heads rotating like an owls. I grabbed my notepad and quickly sketched a scorpion and showed it to Damat, who leaped up with an agility that shocked me, and ran to the spot. The critter was long gone, but Damat informed us that they were very bad, and we should be careful. We sat on the roof into the late evening as the sun gave way to the moon and a blanket of stars filled the sky. Nohur’s lights came on one by one as we watched, and soon the whole valley was specked with soft yellow bulbs. Late into the evening a chanting rose from the valley, the last call to prayer. We watched the stars circle the mosque as the moon dipped behind a hill, and listened to the chanting prayers of a devout village, a hidden village, as it prayed its way to sleep.

Merche Ruins

We decided to take a weekend trip out to the Caspian Sea from Ashgabat.  Leaving mid-afternoon on Friday we planned to stop in the small village of Nohur in the heartland of Turkmenistan – the Ahal Region.  Located between the Kara Kum Desert and the Kopet Dag Mountains to the South, the Ahal Region boasts a long Silk Road history as well as ties to Alexander the Great.

On the way to Nohur, we passed the ruined city of Murche that also holds the tomb of Zengi Baba – the patron of cattle breeders.  Zengi Baba comes, most likely, from the Zoroastrian reverence toward cattle.  The ruined city of Murche, crumbling mud walls, spreads the distance before the foothills of the Kopet Dag mountains in the background.  Murche was eerily silent but one of the more interesting attractions around Murche and the Zengi Baba mausoleum are the assortments of fossils.  Surrounding the mausoleum and small tree grove, sit several fossils of choral, amphibians, and even what are said to be dinosaur eggs.  Many people argue that they were cannon balls put on display.  However, one was cracked in two and the central of the fossil had what could be argued to be a yoke.

After walking through some of the ruins and picking through the dirt at the hundreds of pottery shards, we got back in the car and proceeded towards the turn off for Nahur.  Another hour or so farther down the road, we passed Archman and missed the turnoff.  Luckily, the Brandt Guide mentioned a really small green sign that marked the turnoff to Nahur.  Eventually we spotted the sign and bounced down the bumpy road toward the mountains.  We climbed from sea level to about 1000 m and saw some amazing landscape.  The people of Nahur claim to be direct descendants of Alexander and his army.  We noticed more pale blue eyes in and around Nahur than anywhere else in Central Asia.

The dusty desert slightly gave way to more mountainous terrain.  Strange mountains were widdled down to sand dunes or piles of shale.  Large lizards, only a little smaller than a coffee table were visible on the rocks.  They would dart out of view just as the jeep would round a turn or bend.  Farther up the mountains, we could see small areas of green leading us to believe there were hot springs other geothermals in the area.  After about 10-15 km we reached the city of Nahur with ancient stone buildings and homes.  It was an eden in the middle of the desert mountains.  However, we had no idea how much farther we had to go to get to the Caspian.

This afternoon we ventured out of Ashgabat to see the museum to the Turkmen’s last stand against the Russians. 15,000 men, women and children were massacred and the site was turned into a collective farm during Soviet times. Today the site is protected, and one can see soft ruins in the distance which are unreachable. In lieu of seeing the actual ruins one can check out the museum, which is a majestic work of art containing actual artifacts from the site as well as countless artist recreations of the massacre scene.

Turkmen

In the same parking lot as the massacre museum lies the Saparmurat Hajji Mosque seating 8,000 visitors. The mosque is unlike any other on earth. The former president Niyazov made his pilgrimage to Mecca and received US $10 billion in aid from the Saudis to put towards furthering Islam in Turkmenistan. Niyazov returned to Turkmenistan and erected this futuristic mosque, with quotes from the Koran intermingled with quotes from Niyazov’s own book, the Ruhnama. The centerpiece script said, “The Ruhnama is a holy book, the Koran is Allah’s book.” Niyazov insisted all Turkmen visit the mosque once a year, but that command was only loosely followed.

After touring the museum and mosque, we left with a surreal feeling, which we interpreted as hunger. Chuli Valley, outside Ashgabat , is an oasis in this otherwise sandy country. The green valley extends for less than two miles, but was well worth the visit. A restaurant in the valley served kebabs, fries and cold beer, so we eagerly partook as peacocks wandered underfoot. Sitting there stunned by what we’d seen, both in the massacre museum and the absurdity that was the mosque, we realized that Turkmenistan really is more aptly called absurdistan.

Ashgabat

From Ashgabat there is a cable car into the mountains that make up the southern border of Turkmenistan with Iran. For 2 Minat (75 cents) once can ride the 3.5k cable car dangling over precarious rock gorges and pits of gazelle bones. The cable car, which cost an estimated US $20 million to construct, takes less than ten minutes to complete. At the summit there are several points that overlook the white city of Ashgabat. From this vantage point the pine tree forests that are being cultivated in the desert sands seems even more unreal, like planting pine trees on the moon. If you were to face towards Iran, you could see small shacks extending across the ridge line where Turkmen guards kept watch. There were no roads to these shacks and I was reminded of the movie Dances with Wolves, where the lone soldier was posted in the wild. These guards, we pondered, must do week long shifts in order to warrant the strenuous and dangerous hike from where the road ends to their precarious perches along the ridge line.

Strange climbing clothes

When looking north, the Kopet Dag mountain range, which constitutes the major land mark of the Turkmen-Iranian border, is also the perfect place to view the Health Walk. This structure is, perhaps, the most famous of Turkmenbashi’s pet projects. The health walk is a concrete staircase extending from the outskirts of Ashgabat, up the Kopet Dag mountains and then along the border before cutting sharply west and ending on the highest summit overlooking the city. The walk is 37k, although now they have built a more manageable 8k extension. Turkmenbashi insisted that in order to keep his ministers and parliament members honest they should do the health walk once a year. They, and thousands of other civil servants, school children and others, would set off in suits and ties as Niyazov waved. He would then jump in a helicopter and meet the exasperated climbers when they arrived. From the cableway you have a panoramic view of this idiosyncratic project, which looks like a white Great Wall spanning the desert. Keep in mind that average temperatures reach into the 100s daily, so the health walk is more of a health risk than anything else.

Perhaps keeping in line with Niyazov’s wishes that everyone dress in their finest to scale the Health Walk and cable way, two women who ascended as we did were dressed in skin-tight skirts and see-through shirts. These ladies were a marked contrasted to the normally modest and conservative Turkmen women.

Niyazov Gold

Laid out in 1993, two years after the Turkmen claimed independence from the Russians after the fall of the Soviet Union, Independence Park is a testament to the strangeness of the country. The park is 2km long and 1km wide, the center is entirely planted in non-native pine trees, a passion of the former President’s. The pines require constant watering, difficult in the harsh desert climate that is native to the area. Locals say the plan is that the trees will alter the climate, thus bringing coolness to Ashgabat. This is unlikely to occur as the trees continue to die. The entire circumference of the park you will pass a small fountain the size of a bus every twenty feet. Each waterfall has a leaping plaster dolphin in the center jumping through the fountain’s spurts of water. It is fair to say there are over 100 fountains in the park, a park which rests, I will remind you, in the middle of the desert. If you ever wondered where the Aral Sea went, this is your answer. Canals built to fuel the dolphin fountains in Ashgabat have contributed largely to the Aral Sea’s demise.

While the interior is dying a pine-tree-in-the-desert-death, the outskirts of Independence Park, are here to stay. Along the western side runs Ruhnama Park, a small homage to the former President Niyazov’s book of sayings and revision of Turkmen history. The Ruhnama, it is said, will guarantee your way into heaven should you read it three times through. The people we have met so far, have not completed that arduous task. In the center of the park sits a giant sculpture of the Ruhnama in all its pink-green glory. The book sits atop a giant fountain on a metal track. In favorable weather (of which there is none) the book can open along the track, displaying a TV screen inside. Around the giant Ruhnama sit a plethora of flag poles bearing the Turkmen flag, and an array of small pavilions and water fountains.

At the southern end of the park rests Independence monument, which locals fondly call ‘The Plunger.’ This giant monument doubles as a flag holder and a base for 8 smaller waterfalls. The monument reaches 118m, significant because Turkmenistan gained independence on 27 Oct, 1991. 27 +91 =118. Along all eight sides neon strobe lights have been installed pointing upward so that in the evening from nearly everywhere in the area, one can see a giant, neon, wet plunger sitting in the middle of a dying pine forest. We were bold enough to venture for a closer look, and discovered that the entire area around the plunger is guarded by large, bronze statues of famous Turkmen with weapons or books.

Across the park, on the northern side, sits a monumental achievement locals call 5 legs, for it is a five-sided structure. Naturally all five sides double as raging waterfalls. Inside the monument is a mall called Altyn Asyr, or Golden Age. You can take an elevator to the 6th floor for an amazing panoramic view of the neon park, where a beer will help put your aching mind to rest- there need not be logic in Independence park.

The highlight of the park, however, is along the western side past the giant Ruhnama statue and before the neon, 118m plunger. Here a pure gold statue of Niyazov himself stands with his arms outstretched, a cape billowing in the wind behind him. Two unfortunate guards stand post, without moving or blinking, 24 hours a day. This golden monument sits atop a waterfall, the waterfall is surrounded by five-headed eagles also made of gold.

Arrival in Ashgabat

Originally, the trip was planned as a Shanghai to Ashgabat adventure. Well, we have an announcement to make—we have decided to keep on going. Since this was our original destination, here are some updates on the stats so far.

Total miles by land: 13,136 miles by land
Number of countries visited: 4
Total amount spent: $882 per person
Number of days on the road: 43
Amount spend per day based on total amount and days on the road: $20.50
Total number of currencies used/traded: 6 (RMB, KZT, USD, UZS, TMM, AZM)
Number of lost items: 3 (Mike’s sandals, Mike USB, Lauren cell phone (later recovered!)
Number of mosquito bites: Lauren 14 and two bee stings, Mike 6
Number of bouts of food poisoning: Lauren two, Mike one
Bribes paid: Two (Kazakhstan)
Number of trains taken: 7
Number of border checks: 6
Number of crappy batteries gone through: 6
Number of cities seen: 10
Number of buses taken: 5
Number of pictures taken: 3,800 (14.3 GB), 95 in Shanghai, 56 + 77 + 43 on the rail, 259 in Urumqi, 422 in Kashgar, 96 in Yarkand, 307 at Lake Karakul and Tashkurgan, 100 in Almaty, 394 in Tashkent, 142 Chorsu Lake, 661 in Samarkand, 647 in Bukhara, 523 in Khiva, 378 at Urgench Fortresses
Number of cars taken: 29 (cabs, mostly)
Number of guesthouses/hostels: 10
Number of hotels: 1
Number of other American travelers we’ve met: 3 (two traveling male friends starting law school soon and one very interesting woman traveling solo for over a year

Strange sign

After recovering the cell phone in Bukhara, we decided it was time to move on as we had been in Uzbekistan for almost 25 days and in Bukhara for 7. We checked out of our hotel and we were not surprised when they tried to add on several different expenses that we had never agreed upon. After renegotiating what had already previously been negotiated and saying a farewell to Bukhara, we strapped on our packs and headed for the local bazaar to catch a marshutka (shared mini-bus) to Alat and then from Alat, to Farap – the border crossing into Turkmenistan.

We were immediately hassled by several taxi drivers saying they would take us all the way to Farap for 30, 40, and 50 USD. Eventually we found someone who offered 3000 SUM per person, which is what the cost should be for a shared cab. (This is equivalent to about 2 USD per person.) Multiple guide books confirmed this, as well as personal experiences earlier. To clarify we asked the driver to write it down and re-stated that this was for each person all the way to the border crossing. He nodded his head and wrote down 3000 SUM. This was a fair price for this ride as we paid the same for a ride to the bus station in Urgench from Khiva and the ride lasted the same amount of time. After about a half hour, we approached a road block with several soldiers sporting machine guns and a barbed wire blocking the way. Our driver crossed his arms together in the air making a giant “X” and said HET, pronounced “Knee-Yet”, which means no.

Immediately as we got out a huge group of people surrounded us trying to get us to take their cab for God knows what reason because it is a 1 km walk through the desert to get to the customs center from that location and cars are not allowed through. I handed the driver the 6000 SUM for the two of us and, just like I had expected – then came the scam.

Now before I go any further, I want to mentioned that I really enjoyed the sights and traveling in Uzbekistan. We have tried not to use our blog as a means of complaining or grumbling about the difficulties of travel. However, it is also necessary to give a fair account of our impressions as well. That said, Uzbekistan is one of the few places I have been in which I would recommend going with a tour group for one reason: money. Everything you do, comes down to it and it is exhausting to deal with in this country. You literally have to go through an entire menu, if they have one, and ask the price of everything before you order. Otherwise the bill will be outrageous. If you forget to ask the price of, lets say peanuts, you will have a bill that states 3 dollars for the meal and $10 peanuts. Moreover, you shake hands on a deal at a certain price and then get in the car 5 miles up the road the driver will ask for more money and then insinuate that if you don’t agree he will kick you out in the middle of nowhere. After 25 days of this bickering over every meal and ticket, I was a little burnt out and was not in the mood.

So as I handed the 6000 SUM to the driver, a puppy dog look came over his eyes, which was speaking, “Oh, no! What a terrible mistake has been made. I meant 30,000 not 3,000 sorry I left off a zero. Moreover, I mean 30,000 per person.” My patience was 100% gone. In a barrage of madness, in front of border security guards with automatic weapons, I threw down my bag and pulled out the notebook in which the driver had scribbled 3,000 SUM. He grabbed it out of my hands before the circle of other taxi drivers could see what he had written, took the pen, and added a zero to the end. After about 5 minutes of him yelling and kicking in the sand that he wanted 60,000 SUM. We grabbed our bags and headed for the border guards – who do not get involved in these sorts of squabbles. They visibly did not know what to do. Only about 18 years old, the guards looked at Lauren’s visa and passport and completely forgot to look at mine. Then we walked through the crossing.

By now, the mod of taxi drivers had dissipated but our cab driver pushed through the guards and followed us through the crossing. He started pulling at my pack to hold me back and yelling and screaming. I took out the rest of the SUM I had in my pocket, which I shouldn’t have, and offered him the remaining 12,000. At first he refused, but then he took it. Now, still grossly overpaid for the ride, he continued to follow us. He even stepped in front of me, glared, and then pushed me in the chest as hard as he could. I flew back a few feet, as I had about 80 pounds of gear strapped to my back. That was it. I turned around, stared at him. Unclipped my bag and let it drop to the ground. I walked right up to him nose to nose and treating him like an infant, pointed back to the barbed wire fence. As I stood there staring him in the face, three of the boarder guards raised their weapons and yelled at the man. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away laughing.

Mike

Somewhere in the ruins of the Urgench fortresses the cell phone dropped out of my side bag and into the hot, desert sand. It was not until we were half way back to Khiva in the car that I reached down in a panic and noticed the phone was gone. It could have fallen out anywhere! I grabbed my camera and flipped through the pictures, pausing at each picture of me wearing the side bag and then zooming in to see if the phone was still a black bulge in the side pocket. With this method, I managed to narrow down the area where the phone was probably lost to two giant fortresses and a long dirt road path leading to a lake, an area covering several miles, at the least, and several hours in the opposite direction.

I sat back in the seat as the car bounced across uneven roads toward Khiva, and after a while whispered to Mike that the phone was gone. Strangely enough, the girl next to me, Olga, was going through her bag in a rising panic and eventually announced that her mobile phone was missing! We tore through the car, reaching under the back seat (I think something is living down there!) and under the front seats, shoving empty water bottles around as we peered underneath—neither phone was located.

Back in Khiva, Olga and I sauntered off with our heads hung low and waved goodbye at the driver, whose puzzled look Mike tried to quell with an explanation and a good-natured shrug. While Olga later found her phone in her room, I was not so lucky. Here is what became of the phone after it was deposited unknowingly in the sand.

Back in Bukhara two days later I got word that someone had found the phone and pushed redial: which directed them to a friend of ours in Tashkent. I heard all this via email, where my friend eagerly explained that they were waiting in Khiva with the phone for us! Khiva is 5 hours away and we had just come from that direction, luckily the finders of the cell phone were coming to Bukhara in a few days. I tried to call the phone but the call would not go through, I tried from various phones in Bukhara and ran around the city pouring sweat until one fluent local explained that I was trying to call an in-network phone from an out-network number—“Impossible!” So, I located an in network phone (which, incidentally, is a bee-line cell phone) then called only to get the message, translated to me, “Your phone is power off. Have a nice day!”

Before the phone mysteriously went to power off I had sent a few messages through to my friend in Tashkent about the tentative plant to exchange the phone, he had, in turn, passed parts of the message on the finders of the cell phone in Khiva. Long story short, we did not know if or when they would be in Bukhara, but Mike and I waited by Lyabi-Hauz pool from 5:30 until 9:00pm for two nights in a row wearing the clothes described to the finders, and running around to every British face asking if they had an excess of cell phones. We now have a reputation as crazies in Bukhara who wear the same clothing multiple days on end and rush around to every occupied table with wide, hopeful eyes.
It was heartbreaking to lose the phone and then the brief, glimmer of hope that had us running around in 90 degree weather and waiting anxiously by the pool for hours on end has left us even more defeated and cell phone-less.

This story, miraculously, has a happy ending. The British girl called in one final attempt as she was leaving Bukhara and left the phone at her hotel’s front desk. She even paid for that phone call since the battery on the cell phone had died. What a nice lady! And now we have the cell phone back and a great saga to tell of our first lost and found item.

Lauren

Shopping in old town Bukhara is an expensive endeavor. A meter of fabric is $8 USD, “hand made! Very beautiful!” while a T-shirt is $20USD and a carpet over $1000. Looking around in the souvenir bazaars there was nothing I could afford other than overpriced postcards. We decided to walk to the local’s market to see what locals paid for things and to stock up on snacks for the long train ride to Ashgabat.

The local market, the Kolkhozny Bazaar, is located on the extreme west side of town down several long, narrow roads closed to thru-traffic. We hiked down there one afternoon in sweltering heat, on the off chance that we could afford a token of our travels from this gathering of merchandise.

Walking into the bazaar from the eastern side we were shocked by the smell of rotting flesh. It was thick in the area and palpable—it is a smell unlike any other and one that will stay with you once you encounter it. We pushed through the smell and emerged on the other side in a matrix of alleyway shops all made of white plastic with snickers advertisements in the windows.

Walking through the matrix we came to an exit and walked out into a vast courtyard with the longest strip mall we’d ever seen in the distance. This strip mall housed food, clothing, shoes, household supplies and baby toys: everything you could imagine. It extended from one horizon to the other as far as we could see. We picked a direction and walked until our feet were sore, Mike bought a pair of 6000CYM plastic sandals and I was ecstatic to find that 2 meters of rich, patterned fabric cost 2,400CYM ($1.20USD). I bought some fabric and we picked out snacks for the border crossing and headed back to the hotel with our arms loaded down.

Back in old town prices for escalated the closer to the town center you got, and we smiled with the knowledge of our secret bazaar on the western fringes of Bukhara.

Bukhara market

For those of you who got the reference above to Tolkien, I salute you. (and for those of you who got the ‘I salute you’ reference from Gladiator, I…. well, awesome.) Having travelled from Bukhara to Khiva, we decided after several days in the walled city to return to Bukhara before making our grand entrance into Turkmenistan.

The route from Khiva to Bukhara, which we had done not a week earlier, was easier on the return as we knew quite well what to expect: cramped conditions, sweltering heat, screeching Islamic music, a driver screaming on his cell phone, and multiple security stops. We bargained for quite a while with various drivers until finally one agreed, the largest and most intimidating of the lot, to take us for $18 USD a piece. We had heard others bargain for $15 a person, but standing in the 90 degree heat with all of our bags on did not inspire me to drag out the process. We later found out that the average price is $20 a seat, so we had done well to get $18 for a 5 hour cab drive across the desert.

You may be curious as to why I’m quoting in US dollars. Believe it or not, Uzbekistan runs nearly entirely on US currency. Everything in Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva is quoted in US prices and you negotiate in dollars, even if you end up paying in CYM (the Uzbek currency). We wrote before that there were two rates of exchange in Uzbekistan, the official rate (1,400 CYM to the dollar) and the black market rate (1,800 CYM to the USD). Everyone uses the black market rate when talking about USD. It is amazing to me that everyone in this country uses the dollar. It’s a testament to how stable they think the US is in comparison to the limited faith they have in their own economy. You’d think the government here would focus on stamping out the USD in the country, as it’s a bit embarrassing for them as well. However, at a restaurant owned by the president’s daughter, prices are in Euros, not CYM—not a very good sign.

This time we were ready for the ride to Bukhara from Khiva, and I had taken a Dramamine in preparation for the bouncing (the cars have no shocks) and jolting that would occur for the next 5 hours. What I wasn’t ready for was a neon-yellow bee to fly into the window, into my shirt and sting me in the ribs. This neon buzzing machine scared the hell out of me for its intimidating color and twitching buttocks. Luckily, I’m not allergic to bees, having been stung literally hundreds of times in my life—twice already on this trip. We arrived without other incident and met up, accidently, with the German-Russians (whom we had met on the fortress adventure in Khiva) at Lyabi-Hauz, where they told us that Olga was popped on by a bird as the car sped through the desert (which is considered good luck in Russia!) while the window was mostly rolled up.

One of the Elliq-Qala

Just a daytrip away from Urgench or Khiva, the “Golden Ring of Ancient Khorezm,” should not be missed. Although some may disagree or are less willing (Lauren) to venture out into the middle of the Southern desert of Karakalpakstan in the middle of June… I was excited. If you can find enough people to fill up a car, for as little as $15 per person, you have a driver for the day to take you out to all of the ancient, but recently rediscovered, ruins of the ancient Khorezm. Now deemed UNESCO heritage sites, the sand castle forts just north of Urgench vary in size, but several are over 2000 years old and still standing. All of the names of the fortresses are in Karakalpak, so please bear with us for pronunciation and translations. We were fortunate enough to have some great company for this trip, Olga and Torstan, both who translated from Russian into German and then into English. Therefore, some things may have been lost in translation, but perhaps they may see this post and add some extra details in the comments.

After a few hours of driving and crossing a temporary bridge over the Amu-Daria – which flooded unexpectedly and not in aid of the withering Aral Sea – we arrived at the fort of Guldursun. All that we left of Guldursun was the massive city wall around the city, still intact enough to walk on top of the wall. According to our guide, until about a century ago, tunnels led from the nearby village under the wall and into the ancient city fortress. Guldursun even has a Karakalpakstan Romeo and Juliet..ish fable.

The fortress and the nearby city were feuding – probably over tax issues. However, a young man from inside the fortress was deeply in love with a young woman named Guldur. Guldur lived outside the fortress walls in the nearby town. Each night the young man would leave the gate (or possibly secret tunnel passage) open for Guldur to come see him. Distraught over their love, but from two feuding families, the young man agreed to leave the gate open for Guldur. Betrayed, the city stormed the fortress and both Guldur and the young man were beheaded outside the gates. The city / fortress now has the name Guldursun.

The fortress of Qoy Qyrylghan Qala, (4th century BCE) which translated to something like “goat death fort,” has some disputed historical attachments. It is, however, the oldest fort in the region so far discovered. The fortress contains several dugout compartments in which archeologists have discovered hundreds of goat / sheep skeletons. Locals claim that farmers kept their flocks there and a flood caused them to drown. However, some archeologists believe it may have been a pagan ritual temple. This was off the beaten track but still had several pottery shards and fragments sticking out of the mud.

One of the most impressive of the forts was the Ayaz – Qala, which is near a yurt village on Lake Achka-Kul. This is actually a collection of three forts with still accessible tunnels and mud bricked hallways. This fort offered amazing views of the lake and the lower surrounding forts as well as the road to nowhere, which is 400 km of nothing until one reaches Kazakhstan. However, my personal favorite was the Toprak Qala. The Toprak Qala was a massive complex that was the temple complex of Khorezm rulers in from 300-400 C.E. This qala had massive storerooms, streets, doorways, and rooms that were still intact. It was an amazing experience to look over the fort from the wall and see where the top had collapsed into hidden chambers below that have yet to be excavated. Full rooms were intact with visible fireplaces dug into the walls. The Elliq-Qala were definetly the highlight of the area and there was undiscovered history below our feet as we walked around inside of some of the oldest ruins on earth.

On our drive back, we stopped near on the of “Virgin Lands Campaign’s” canals – which has diverted the water away from the Aral Sea – and went swimming in the cold branch of the Amu-Darya.

Khiva was once renowned for its exotic and plentiful slave trade along the silk route. Slaves were captured in distant lands and marched across the harsh desert to Khiva, where they were put on display and sold. The slaves were usually from neighboring countries (in modern lingo) or from opposition regions, but generally from within Central Asia. As you enter the city from the east gate you are reminded of its ancient trade. The east gate is a long tunnel with prison cells on both sides that could hold up to seventy people per cell. To enter the market people had to pass through this tunnel of slaves, where sellers would shout out bargain deals on humans. Once in the east gate you were routed to the main bazaar area (although today there is a restaurant blocking the direct path) where you could buy vegetables and fruits, but also livestock and handicrafts.

If you were to enter the city from the west gate you might have a totally different experience in Khiva. This is where grand entrances are made, as this is the largest and most stately entryway into Khiva. The west gate enters near the Khiva Ark, which is where the ruling family lived. The multi-story complex they occupied boasts some of the most fascinating architecture in Central Asia. At the base of the Ark was the prison (of which we took a modern-day tour). The prisons in Khiva were never full for long, the reason being that the rulers employed professionals to do away with the prison’s inhabitants in ever more gruesome and creative ways. For example, a woman and man found to be in an unmarried relationship were killed, naturally, but here is the ‘Khiva catch’: The man is slowly hung from a platform in the city square while the woman is buried in the square up to her head and then slowly sawed in half while the dying man watched. In another twisted punishment, a woman who commits a crime is put in a bag full of cats (Mike thought they were snakes) and then the bag is hit with a bat. Finally, men are buried alive vertically, with their feet sticking up into the city square as a reminder. In Khiva, they were on the one strike system.

If you enter from the south gate, as we did, you will have a rather simple experience as that is where many locals chose to put their modest dwellings. Once inside the rather non-descript gate you will be greeted by local stray dogs and cats, and can peruse the alleys talking with the children. If you head west you’ll find the city’s graveyard, which is a cemetery that scales up the side of the city wall, the city’s oldest locally used mosques and medrassas are here. If you head east from the south gate you’ll find a long winding road that leads to more housing.

Finally, the north gate. In modern times this is the transportation hub, with buses to and from neighboring cities. There is little of interest other than a small restaurant outside the walls. In ancient times this gate served a different purpose: sanitation. The city was once fueled by a canal system bringing water in and sewage out: this was the out. There was also a pool outside the north gate where people could bathe and cleanse themselves as well as take a short-cut to the bazaar. This was the most lively and active gate for locals still living in the city and tourists trying to get out. From here you can also climb up on the twenty foot wall of the city and take a semi-circular tour of the city from above.

Khiva is a must-see on the silk road for its absurdities, its amazing architecture and the extreme dichotomy of the walled city. Owing much to its importance as a trade center until recent times, and then to the Soviet preservation of the city, Khiva has remained relatively unscathed by the 21st century (though you can find internet near the minaret by the west gate).

Khiva Shared Taxi Ride

Having decided to leave Bukhara, we endeavored to find a way to Khiva, a city on the western side of Uzbekistan. There was a train, but it took 24 hours and would depart from a city an hour from Bukhara at 3:00am. If one wanted to jump a bus to Khiva, you should wait on the side of the street and wave down passing busses and inquire if they were headed towards the west. The third and final option was to hire a shared taxi, which is to say that one driver will sell seats in his car and leave when all the seats are full. Our B&B owner knew a man who was leaving for Khiva that afternoon at 5:00pm, so we said we’d tag along for $18 USD. It would be a five hour ride.

The driver arrived and was a giant man with a square jaw and veins protruding from his forearms. HE had already found another local man heading to Urgench, a city near Khiva, and suggested we either pay for the empty seat or wait at the bus station to find a fourth person. We opted for the later. The car itself was a tiny Nissan with no seat belts and back windows that did not budge. There were no head rests and the air conditioner had been removed to make way for a large CD player, which jiggled around in the dash board while we drove. At the bus station we picked up a scrawny fourth traveler, who looked sickly and slightly drunk. We peeled out of the bus station, sending rocks flying up behind us. The driver and the two local passengers then did a short prayer together using the phrase, “inshallah” which means, “God willing.” This did not seem like something a driver should say about a straightforward drive to another city, they all bowed together and did the traditional prayer gestures (note that we had not stopped the car and now the driver was closed-eyed doing 100kph).

What should have been a straightforward ride turned out to be a test of my inner most patience. We were stopped by cops seeking bribes as well as several internal customs and border checks (regional rather than national). Before and behind our car people were crying as the seats were ripped out and their baggage overturned. For some reason, perhaps the fact that our driver knew every guard along the route, our car was sparred.

After 4.5 hours in the car we stopped and the driver told us we were then in Urgench. He told us to get out and threatened to leave us where we had stopped, which was in the middle of nowhere at a local family’s home and diner. We got on the phone right away with the lady from the B&B in Bukhara. She saved the day and negotiated for the driver to take us from where we were directly to the front door of the hotel we indicated for $5 USD. Seeing little alternative we agreed, though the extra $5 was pure robbery. Once at the hotel in Khiva, though, he demanded $5 a person, not $5 all together, and made an ugly grimace with his misshapen head as he continued to stick out his fist for more money. It was at this point that I lost it and barked out a stream of unintelligible information to this man and demanded that he get in his rickety little car and drive off before I really got angry. He thought this was cute, but seeing as veins were now popping out of my forehead he got in his car and left. The owner of the hotel demanded a ridiculous sum to spend the night, and I also snapped on her and told her I thought that the money grubbing was getting out of hand. We ended up paying $10 USD for the night at the hotel.

In all, it was a great test of patience for me, while Mike’s mid-western charm was turning from charming to placating.

The Emir's Ark in Bukhara

It was in front of The Ark that Stoddart and Connolly were executed at the Emir’s request in 1842. It had all started innocently enough when Colonel Stoddart was sent to Emir Nasrullah’s domain to reassure him that the British invasion of Afghanistan would not continue into his fair kingdom.  Stoddart arrived with a letter from the governor general of India (rather than the Queen) and, contrary to custom in Bukhara, rode into the castle on horseback rather than walking. These were his two primary offenses to the Emir, who promptly threw him in prison for his disgraceful entrance. This was no ordinary prison, the Zindon prison has a special cell for the worst offenders that is lovingly referred to as the bug pit. This pit is roughly twelve feet deep and only accessible by a rope lowered down through a hole in the center of the ceiling. Into this hole the prison guards gingerly poured daily doses of scorpions, rodents and other vermin. Stoddart was to languish in this pit alone for a year.

In 1841 Captain Conolly traveled to Bukhara to request Stoddart’s release, but, likewise threw the man in prison on trumped up and ridiculous charges.  At least now Stoddart had company in the infamous bug pit of Zindon. Likely the Emir would have let the two languish in the pit indefinitely had the British forces in Afghanistan not been repelled and defeated in 1842.   Believing the British to be a weak nation with an unsuitable army the Emir, nicknamed “the butcher,” paraded Stoddart and Conolly through a large crowd in front of The Ark where they were instructed to dig their own graves, and on June 24th had them executed via beheading to the sounds of drums and reeds.  The Emir’s calculations about the British proved correct as no reprisal for the executions came from the British government.

Having visited The Ark and Zindon, we were shocked at the horrible conditions of the bug pit, but more so by the giant debtor’s prison cell which, at any given time, was completely packed with people owing money to the State. A small museum on the premises showed how the Soviets later used Zindon for political prisoners.

In another part of the city the world’s tallest minaret was erected by Arslan Khan in 1127 called the Kalon Minaret. Having killed an Imam after

a fight, the khan was terrified when the Imam appeared to him in a dream and demanded that his body be buried where no man could walk on it. Thus, the terrified Khan commissioned the minaret. Legend also says that when Ghenghi Khan invaded the region he was so stupefied by the sight of the tower that he had it spared while the rest of the city was burnt to the ground. In later times, this happy and historical minaret was used to execute prisoners, who were tossed over the side into the public square below.

Bukhara

We arrived in Bukhara this afternoon and were a bit shocked by the strange reception we received. Having met the owner of a B&B on the street in Samarkand, we decided to accompany her to her place in Bukhara.  We were going to the city anyway and she was very friendly. This morning she drove past us in a cab, waved when she recognized us and then jumped out and offered to share her taxi to the station.  We were in the middle of negotiating a fare with another cabbie but decided it was wise to just go with her, as it would be quicker.  She talked with the various cabbies on the street a moment and then hurriedly got in the cab.  Once we drove off, she looked over at us and said, “that man said he would kill me.”  We asked what she was talking about and she said, “he said if I took his tourists away (meaning us) he would come to the hotel and kill me.”  It was an odd thing to hear so suddenly so we, naturally, agreed when she followed this up with, “perhaps he crazy. I don’t know. I hope he no follow us to the train station.”  And that was all it took to have me death gripping my bags and looking out the window behind us the whole way to the station.
After arriving in Bukhara safe and un-murdered, we decided to stay with her one night and explore the city. As we were leaving her yard, she ran up and gave us a series of tips that effectively scared us off walking around at night.  Essentially, she told us not to talk to any man in Bukhara because they could not be trusted. Especially a man named Niecco down at Lyabi-Hauz, who had pot marks on his face. Niecco was fond of taking tourists to his house for tea and dinner and then robbing them and beating them silly. Our hostess also explained to us that if we wanted to take a cab anywhere we should use one of her neighbors because every other cabbie was corrupt and would either fight us and steal our money or else cause a scene until we agreed to pay a ridiculous sum to shut him up.  We were informed that the police would be of no help. As she walked us out the door she told us a story of how she had to hide from a murderous cab driver behind a dumpster so he wouldn’t find out where she lived. Fun.   Before you start to wonder where we booked ourselves for the night, her hostel is in the guidebooks and came highly recommended by other backpackers, its full of letters previous visitors have sent her and her young children were climbing the mulberry tree in the courtyard when we walked in. As we set of through the courtyard she yelled after us a final reminder, “Remember, don’t talk to anyone! And, don’t let anyone follow you here!”

Out for the afternoon we encountered no problems and were not particularly worried about running into Niecco or his friends. However, as we walked around The Ark we found that the backside of the building is the hottest spot in Bukhara for junkies. The area is littered with needles and, strangely, lice combs. We also walked past the hood of a car overturned behind this world famous monument completely engulfed in flames. It started to get dark so we set off in the direction of our B&B when I started to notice that all the street lamps were off, looking at the base I noticed that the wires had all been pulled from the poles. It was ‘Uzbekistan’s Children’s Day’ so the streets were teeming with children and ice-cream wrappers, yet the city had an eerie abandoned look because there were no adults, it was as if the children from The Lord of the Flies had built up a massive castle in the desert and were now running around the alleys playing games.

Did I mention that Bukhara is world famous for its torture, prisons and public executions—but that’s another story. Needless to reiterate, our first night in Bukhara was a bit strange.

Ulugh Beg’s Observatory

After taking a walking tour of several mausoleums and the ruins of Ulugh Beg’s (the famous Central Asian astronomer) observatory, we decided to search for the tomb of Daniel as well as an archeological museum around Samarkand. Walking in front of Timur’s family mausoleum, we saw a vast cemetery on the outskirts of Samarkand. Tombstones with engraved images of those buried below stared back at us during the long walk through the desert between Samarkand and the observatory. On the way, we saw caves and holes in the cliffs upholding the cemetery. It was easy to imagine people being put to rest all over the surrounding valleys hundreds of years ago. Long funeral processions probably carried bodies to these ledges by cart or human and paid enormous sums of money to have their loved ones placed on the hill overlooking Samarkand.

After a long walk in the sweltering heat, we arrived at an oasis of sorts, full of trees and shade. At the top of a long row of steps was the remaining wall of Ulugh Beg’s three story observatory, unearthed in 1908. A small museum with records and information about Ulugh Beg and other Central Asian / Middle Eastern mathematicians and astronomers stood on the north end of the hilltop. The only thing remaining of the observatory was the rail upon which the telescope rolled. It was quite impressive, standing at the top observing the curved stone rail with notches of grooves from the top, as well as the ancient stairs leading down into the chamber.

After a while spent admiring the observatory, we took the wrong road north after the observatory and walked an additional 3 km. Once we found the right road, we walked down a nice lane with tree rows planted on the sides and cotton fields spanning out into the distance. On the corner stood the Hazrat-Hizr Mosque, which was built in the 8th century and mistakenly was not facing Mecca. Later, an architect corrected this mistake and has since, been deemed a prophet. Ghenghis Khan burned the mosque, along with several of the cities’ inhabitance, to the ground in the early 13th century as the Mongol hordes made their way West. Down the road, Lauren noticed a small sign marked “mausoleum” in Uzbek. We walked down the long winding road along the banks of the river and discovered a tomb on top of the hill and a natural spring at the base. Several people were washing in the spring and drinking the water. Now, I would have considered taking a drink from Daniel’s spring if I was 100% sure that it was Daniels tomb – I enjoy taking a leap of faith occasionally. However, there are a reported six tombs of Daniel spread throughout the Middle East and Central Asia.

The Bible places Daniel from Daniel and the Lion’s Den, in Babylon – modern day Iraq – at the time of his death. Similar accounts also state that the location of his body is in Susa, as well as two other purported locations in Iraq, and one in Iran. Uzbekistan claims to have the real body of Daniel because a legend states that Timur (Tamerlane), unable to conquer modern day Syria, believed that the body of Daniel was preventing his success. After a successful battle, Timur apparently ordered the body exhumed and brought back to Samarkand for good luck. After burial a natural spring sprouted, which locals claim has healing powers. However, this is simply local lore and I grew even more suspicious as we viewed the tomb marker.  I ducked my head under a doorway and entered an elongated room that contained a 90-foot burial marker. My jaw dropped. The guard then explained that each year the body grows “x” amount. One person told us, 2 inches a year. If this were the case, the body would be more than 2000 inches long, which would be much longer than the marker. I have attached the picture of the tomb and I am curious to hear comments on peoples’ belief or non-belief of this miracle or mockery, depending on your perspective.

The Tomb of Timur

Down the street past the Registan, near a huge monument of Tamerlane, sits the Guri Amir Mausoleum. The mausoleum was a huge complex with a domed roof. As we approached, the entry arch of the mausoleum was under “restoration.” This consisted of locals hammering away at the mosaic and tiled facades of the archway with chisels. Pieces of fired and kilned tile were falling thirty feet to the ground and shattering. I am not sure when the last restoration occurred, possibly after the great earthquake in the early 20th century, or perhaps they were very old. With history much longer than Americans can sympathize with, it is difficult to choose what is better for these sites: allow them to decay, but maintain their antiquity, or keep them restored in a state of what they were once believed to look like.

Either way, Tamerlane is the heroic icon of Central Asia, but a villain throughout most of the Arab world and parts of India. Creating a huge empire that stretched from near Kashgar (in Western China) to Turkey, the Caucasus, Iraq and Pakistan, Tamerlane was feared throughout the region. Using vicious propaganda campaigns and disseminating information in target cities to bring down moral before his arrival, Tamerlane was a great planner. He organized his campaigns years in advance – enough so that he planted barley for his horses 2 years before the campaign all along the routes to victory. In an unusual winter campaign, Tamerlane died of fever and plague in the farthest reaches of the Syr-Daria in 1404. He was campaigning to attach the Chinese Ming Dynasty and many historians argue that East Asia may have been a very different place (Muslim) had Tamerlane not died in this winter campaign.

Statue of Amir Timur

Although remembered in Iraq for erecting pyramids of 40,000 and 70,000 human skulls, Tamerlane rests a hero in the Guri Amir Mausoleum. Buried with several of his sons and grandsons, as well as his teacher (another descendent of the Prophet Mohammed), beautiful marble tomb markers fill the domed room of the mausoleum. Timur’s (Tamerlane) sarcophagus was once split in half by a Persian king who invaded several centuries after his death. The king’s son fell deathly ill and religious interpreters and sorcerers advised that the king return Timur to his rightful resting place. Soon after, the kings son healed, but the casket was in two pieces after being damaged enroot. A Soviet anthropologist, Mikhail Gerasimov exhumed the body of Tamerlane in 1941 and confirmed that Tamerlane may have been a decedent of Ghengis Khan because of several of his Mongol features. Tamerlane was 5’8’’ (tall for his time) and suffered a lame hip so he more than likely walked with a limp. After opening the tomb Gerasimov discovered an inscription on the tomb, “Whomsoever opens my tomb shall unleash an invader more terrible than I.” Only a few hours later, the Nazi Army launched its invasion of the Soviet Union.

When traveling you get to met people from every walk of life with all kinds of beliefs ranging from the mundane to the insane.  In Samarkand one evening, Mike and I were sitting on the benches in front of the Registan people watching. We watched dozens of people try to sneak in without paying, all but two were caught by the guards. While we were watching an eight year old boy and his two friends walked by, the most flamboyant of them walked past, stared at me and said, “hello, baby!” We burst out laughing, but the boy was not amused, he took a seat next to Mike and proceeded to talk to him in Jar-Jar Binks tones, not saying anything but rather making noise, all the while he winked and nodded his chin at me.

In Kashgar, Xinjiang we were sitting in the courtyard enjoying the local tea when a very sick looking French man approached us and reported that he was recently quarantined in a hospital for people with suspicious illnesses. He then stuck out his hand for us to shake.

In the tomb of Tamerlane in Samarkand I was sitting alone in the corner trying to ease drop on a local woman giving a guided tour to an elderly man in English. A young girl came up to the old man and asked where he was from, whereupon he launched into the following: “I’m from a tiny island called Britian. We are a monarchy, our queen is the only queen and she rules many countries.” The little girl walked away and I burst out laughing again while the Uzbek guide glared at me.

In Urumqi we were taking a break in the hostel one rainy afternoon and put in a DVD while we were doing some writing. A young man traveling from Israel sat down to watch with us. We were watching, ‘Charlie Wilson’s War.’ At the end the man asked what we thought of American policy back then.

In Kashgar we were sitting at John’s Café after arriving, having starved on the train for want of variety. We encountered two Australians eating alone who invited us to join them. Conversation twisted and turned, but throughout we discovered that the two Aussies had travelled the globe in the 40 years on the planet, including 3 separate excursions to Antarctica.

Walking down the streets of Samarkand a local with all gold teeth approached us and said, “hey guys, where ya from?” We were so shocked to hear English with an African American accent come from this man that we stopped dead in our tracks. He looked straight at Mike and said, “yeah man, I used to live in New York, I drove a Cadillac. P.I.M.P, man…. Yeah, I had lots of black friends.” He actually spelled out pimp. Here is the clincher- he is the city’s foremost English instructor. Perhaps he taught the eight year old to greet women with a feisty “hello baby!” and a wink.
Also in Samarkand we met two Spaniards biking from Spain to south-east Asia by land. These interesting folks had really seen the countryside, the cities and were doing an A-rate, year-long trip. There is no funny story here, but this folks were just plain fun to talk to and hang out with. They had met an Italian economist who we spent dinner with the following night, another very interesting fellow.

Sitting at the hostel for breakfast one morning we met a man of about 27-29 who was living in Samarkand for a year cataloging the archives at the regional museum. He spoke Uzbek, Russian, English and could read Arabic and Persian. He was the most quintessentially British person I’d ever met, because although it was 90 degrees outside he was wearing a button-down shirt and a sweater vest.

We have met several other, very interesting people on the trip so far, this is just a taste of the type of people one encounters when traveling the world. Its amazing the stories we hear and the lives some people lead and these are the moments that make one realize that our lives are so much more than everybody’s quest for life insurance and a good job.

The Registan

Our first day in Samarkand left us spell bound and awe-struck. There is no exaggerating this place, because exaggerations are impossible here. Our train from Tashkent left at 7:00:01 on the spot and arrived in Samarkand at exactly 10:30:19am. This was the shortest train ride we’d had on the trip so far, but the one that yielded the most drastic difference from departure to arrival. At the Samarkand station we easily found a local driver to take us to the B&B we picked online called Bahodir B&B, Bahodir himself met us at the door and, after a round of handshakes and bows, directed us to his nicest room for $20USD a day including breakfast and all the tea we could consume. Our room had a double bed and two single beds, a small wooden table, perhaps built by Jesus himself it is so old, and a tiled bathroom with a toilet and a sink which has an extension so you can hold out a rod and shower under it. It is much more than we expected and when we discovered the grape-vine shaded courtyard we were ecstatic about the find. The Lonely Planet does not recommend this place, but we beg to differ. For starters, it is located within spitting distance of the Registan, Samarkand’s biggest attraction and, according to locals, the only reason people come to Central Asia.

The Registan is a three building complex which was built between 1417 and 1660. The Ulugbek Medressa is the oldest of the three structures and was completed in 1420 as a school where Ulugbek himself was rumored to have taught mathematics. In 1636 the Emir Yalangtush completed the Lion Medressa, which is opposite Ulugbek’s and world renowned for the lion image on the front façade. In between these two is the Tilla-Karri Medressa completed in 1660 and famous for its gold-topped mosque.

We walked around the Registan in awe, not only because of the amazing architecture, creative and dazzling designs and unending variety, but because of when it was built and how well it has stood the test of time. A woman selling tickets told us it was 7,000 CYM a person to enter, but for locals the price is 600 CYM. We decided not to go in, as it was crowded and, we thought, a bit pricy. Instead, we strolled all around the complex. A guard came up to us and offered to take us to the summit of one of the mighty pillars if we returned at 6pm for 3000 CYM.

We left the Registan without entering, and decided to grab a bite with a view nearby. At a highly recommended eatery we had lamb kebab and bread. Afterwards we walked in 90 degree heat with no itinerary in mind. We strolled aimlessly past the art museum and down Tashkent Road, which ended up being the best place to be. We went into a mosque and then into a bazaar, afterwards we strolled down a large hill to the Shah-I-Zinda Mausoleums. This was the second most astonishing thing I’d seen on the entire trip, after the Registan that is. While the whole complex was rebuilt very controversially in 2005, I found it a delight to see. Here is why I do not disagree with their renovation. For starters, if things were not maintained or renovated they would deteriorate entirely, and though a history major and a history buff, I feel that preservation in the West means alienating a thing and trying to protect it from the natural decays caused by gravity and weather. Out here, history is still alive. The restorations done in 2005 are no different than repairs made to the Coliseum while it was still in use. Locals respect and adore their history and culture and want to keep it alive, lively and worthy of the fame it already has. The restoration artists retained before and after pictures of the complex and, for the most part, stayed true to the original designs, structure layout and floor plan.
We walked up adobe stairs and into several mausoleums with markers for where the tombs are located. The exterior of the mausoleums are covered in intricate patterns using blue, teal and white tiles forming designs, flowers, and images of the sun. The interior was usually simple brick with an even more simple white marker bearing no script or indication of who lies beneath. Each mausoleum had its own collection of pigeons jealously guarding their territory. One would think that such beauty and intricacy would become dull over time, but this is not true. My eyes watered from strain, but could not look away. We went in every room, climbed every set of stairs and even walked behind every structure. The complex is set on a hillside where thousands of others are buried with simple marble markers overlooking the complex. Each tombstone of black shiny marble in the surrounding cemetery has an etched carving of the person beneath it wearing their finest clothing, and it is a bit eerie to walk around seeing faces you know are beneath your feet.

The complex houses one of the most religious places in Sunni Islam, the burial site of the Living King, the grave of Qusam ibn-Abbas, a cousin of Muhammad who supposedly brought Islam to the area in the 7th century. While there, we watched a local woman prostrate herself in his attached prayer hall. At 5:00pm we were still in the complex and heard the men chanting their prayers and watched them gather in the entry halls.
While we were advised to dress conservatively and for me to wear a head covering, once in the complex we discovered none of the locals cared. My head was uncovered and no one glared or gave strange sidelong glances. In fact, as we were leaving several Muslim women approached and asked if we would take a picture with them. Three women crowded around me and held my arms so tight they left white knuckle prints on my sun burnt skin. They were incredibly friendly. Unfortunately my camera is like Blade’s sword, only I know how to use it, so I could not get their friend to take a picture with my camera. Nevertheless, it is a happy memory I’ll retain just as vividly in my mind.

Back at the B&B we chatted with two men from Barcelona (the day after the Manchester United – Barcelona game on the 28th of May) who were riding their bikes around the world. They left four months ago and have eight more months before they return home. They were an interesting duo. As they were headed for China and we are headed, eventually, to Azerbaijan, we did a quick money transfer with them at the B&B, which proved to be much easier than getting rid of RMB anywhere else in Central Asia.