In which we leave Iran more easily than we entered and thankfully discard our headscarfs. I have a love-hate relationship with my headscarf: first day it’s a novelty that amuses me; second day it’s a nuisance, slipping off my head and keeping me too hot; third day I’ve figured out how to get it to stay in place by means of a bun, and thus am proud of myself,; fourth day I’m so hot and bothered it resides at the far back of my head, exposing most of my hair, as done by the chic Iranian teenagers; fifth day I don it with resignation as it’s now simply a part of my wardrobe. At the border I take it off and shake myself with relief.
Getting into Turkmenistan is a slow business, our local facilitator, a portly, officious woman named Elena, guides us with as much dispatch as the tired officials at this empty post can muster. It takes a couple of hours and a couple hundred dollars in surcharges, fees, taxes and insurance before we are cleared to go. The drivers bear the brunt of the paperwork. We scarfless women have it easy, and I try to buy the high peaked military cap off the female border official who handles us, just to make things interesting. She laughs in a dismissive way, rolling her eyes to indicate I must be crazy. Then she runs her finger across her throat describing a neat slit, to illustrate what would happen to her if she parted with this piece of her uniform. Sequestered till the cars are cleared, we sit in the shade of the marble mausoleum-like post, watching the few olive drab clad guards who watch us back, mooting us to retreat with a shout, whistle and wave of their rifles any time we step beyond the building’s steps For amusement we listen to a reading of Treasure Island and I am so captivated by this classic which somehow I’ve never read, that I vow to read it as soon as I get home.
A few minutes before six o’clock the cars come through, which is a good thing as the border shuts at 6pm. Ashgebad is not far from this border, so once we are reunited with our proper vehicle and driver, we swoop down the brown hills on an empty road, into the city.
And what a city! We are at the edge of the harsh Kara Kum (Black Desert) and it’s hot even in the early evening. Ashgebad itself is the city that oil money built. It rises, gleaming white, through a dust haze as we descend from the mountain into the flat plain of the desert. Presidential palace, theater, coliseum, apartment structures, hotels, everything is made of white marble. Shrines and mosques w/gold leaf domes glint in the late afternoon light. The city shimmers in the heat of the sun. It is so blindingly white I have to squint, even with my sunglasses on.
The Turkmen government operates as a single party system which does not meet even the most basic standards of democracy. The current president controls all the revenue from natural resources and Turkmenistan ranks 4th in the world in natural gas product. So, that’s a lot of revenue to play around with. He has decreed that no one need pay for home use of water, gas, electricity. Anyone w/ a car gets 750 liters free. Fuel itself is ridiculously cheap, about $1.75/gallon. And with his remaining billions, he’s built a city of marble and gold, with streets so clean and shiny you could eat off of them, rose gardens blooming, fountains burbling, water running through false canals, trees and shrubs and grass swards bringing green to a place where none should be. Buildings stand in verdant parks, with no lines of small buildings in between. Each is like it’s own monument, with columns and archways galore, and enough gold leaf to pave Walden several times over. I’m astounded and breathless with the unreality of the whole place. Ashgebad out-Vegas’s Vegas, is more sci-fi than Dune, is such an extraordinarily lavish display of wealth and command that it leaves me speechless.
Next morning starts with a bang. Minutes from our hotel, Brunhilde is overcome with ardor for what I must say is a poor and plain Opel sedan which unexpectedly stops in front of us at a green light. Bernard is unable to restrain her from passionately embracing the Opel’s black rubber bumper with her robust brush guard. The Opel, unprepared for such vigor, crumples. (continued on Dispatch 8-Ashgebad, Turkmenistan Part 2)
For more about Brunhilde’s accident and our time in Ashegebad (spoiler alert: We make an impromptu stop to see the famous Akhal Teke horses!), read Part 2, which will be posted tomorrow.
-Dina
