Turkmenebad - Mary - Saraghs
Golden Plans
After 40*, roads start to bubble and it´s hard to maintain original dash-across-200km-of-uninterrupted-desert plans.
Following Uzbekistan´s night riding, I thought Turkmenistan might be the place to set a new record. Before midday of the first day I had travelled only 30 km to Turkmenibad, where I instead found a crumbling hotel with a shower I sat under for two hours.
I told myself that even in a country so off-kilter that ´Turn left at the golden statue of our glorious leader´ isn´t so helpful a direction and where the months were named after the family of the previous leader before he himself trundled off to the great trophy case in the sky, people would have to agree that it made more sense to catch a train.
Delusion´s rarely a demotion -- people tend to think they´re Jesus more than an anonymous cross-town greenkeeper -- and it felt like it could only be delusion that could convince me to ride across an empty desert where nothing grew high enough to offer shade. Any conceits I had about adventurising, any anticipation of a struggle-marked anecdote -- none could survive contact with the heat, which fell like napalm and blew like an opened oven. Not after a month of being under a sun that could give you a persecution complex. Not when there was another, easier way.
I caught the train to Mary, halfway through Turkmenistan, slept on the floor of a house near the recently closed hostel, wandered around some more gold and marble madness the next day, and caught a taxi to Saraghs, the border with Iran.
I had waited three weeks for my five day transit visa, but I didn´t dawdle.
Central Asia down. Iran ahead.
After 40*, roads start to bubble and it´s hard to maintain original dash-across-200km-of-uninterrupted-desert plans.
Following Uzbekistan´s night riding, I thought Turkmenistan might be the place to set a new record. Before midday of the first day I had travelled only 30 km to Turkmenibad, where I instead found a crumbling hotel with a shower I sat under for two hours.
I told myself that even in a country so off-kilter that ´Turn left at the golden statue of our glorious leader´ isn´t so helpful a direction and where the months were named after the family of the previous leader before he himself trundled off to the great trophy case in the sky, people would have to agree that it made more sense to catch a train.
Delusion´s rarely a demotion -- people tend to think they´re Jesus more than an anonymous cross-town greenkeeper -- and it felt like it could only be delusion that could convince me to ride across an empty desert where nothing grew high enough to offer shade. Any conceits I had about adventurising, any anticipation of a struggle-marked anecdote -- none could survive contact with the heat, which fell like napalm and blew like an opened oven. Not after a month of being under a sun that could give you a persecution complex. Not when there was another, easier way.
I caught the train to Mary, halfway through Turkmenistan, slept on the floor of a house near the recently closed hostel, wandered around some more gold and marble madness the next day, and caught a taxi to Saraghs, the border with Iran.
I had waited three weeks for my five day transit visa, but I didn´t dawdle.
Central Asia down. Iran ahead.
'Turn left at the golden statue of our glorious leader' - beautiful.
ReplyDeleteFeel free to tattoo it across your forehead. Just don´t tell Nas it was me told you so.
ReplyDelete