Turkmenistan cont'd ...

Turkmenistan cont'd, then on to Nukus over the Uzbek' border.

The fun factor definitely took a vacation yesterday. After doing some damage to my left ankle following a low-speed tumble in Erbent, we had a long ride from half-way point Dharvaza, to the far north of Turkmenistan ready to cross into Uzbekistan.

Dharvaza

Dharvaza is known to travellers in central Turkmenistan, as a big hole in the ground out of which natural gas emanates. But gas is pretty dull, smelly and visually unexciting stuff. Put a match to it though, and you have something that provides heat energy as well as lighting up the darkness. And so here's where Dharvaza comes in, as the naturally occurring escaping gas has been set alight and (so I'm told) looks like the entrance to hell. The story goes something like: The 'Russians' discovering gas coming from an area of rough ground many years earlier, decided to ignite it (though no explanation why). It's now become a bit of a touro' must-see for anyone in the area. Though should add that anyone in the area, is going to be travelling on the one and only road either in a northerly or southerly direction. So there we were surveying the track heading off into the desert, that we'd had confirmed as the way to the gas crater. We'd heard it was a fairly spectacular sight, and with dusk and darkness not so far off it would likely be the best time to view it.

Following the track away from the road, we came to a rise partly made of the dreaded 'soft-sand'. There was no way I was going to attempt this with a bike full of luggage, as I was guarding my dodgy ankle and didn't want to do anything that risked further damage. Limping up the hill there weren't any clues which hinted that our crater was within hobbling distance, besides which had also heard it was at least a few kilometres in ... So we returned with ideas of camping for the night, and Bjorn considering he'd maybe hike in later to take some photographs. Late afternoon heat prompted a siesta and so this seemed a good time to take some much needed rest. And further, it was a chance to assess things and try to decide where where would be the best place to spend the night. While laying contemplating and drifting into something of a light doze, I spotted what looked very much like another motorbike way off in the distance. It put-putted it's way along a rise, and after a couple of minutes watching the scene realised I could make out another person. This distant individual was walking along the rise in the opposite direction towards the motorcycle. As I looked the bike and person met, then the person jumped on as a pillion and the bike continued on its way with the two people on it. With Bjorn dozing a short way over a dune, he missed the sight of this bike making it's way up the track that we'd earlier assessed as being un-rideable. It disappeared over the rise with little apparent difficulty.

Some time later noise and movement could be detected coming from the direction of the desert. In turning my head a herd of goats could be seen migrating their way across the track, and back towards the road and a Yurt we'd past on the way in. A couple of local youngsters in their early teens pulled up on a ratty old Rusky built motorcycle. It was the one I'd watched earlier. The boys were very interested in our bikes, and tried for all their worth to blag a 'turn' on ours. In return this prompted the idea to Bjorn, of blagging a lift out to the gas-crater on the back of this ancient looking bike. 10 minutes later a price and time was agreed, and the two guys left to finish their job of getting the goats back home for the night. Returning back some half an hour later, Bjorn got on the pillion and I watched as bike, rider and Bjorn wobbled their way off into the desert. I spent the next 40 minutes or so chatting with the other lad, who slowly munched his way enthusiastically through a bag of mixed nuts we'd been given back in Tehran. When Bjorn and his desert pilot returned, was told he'd managed to get some good shots that showed the gas-crater as described. A hole to hell made of fire and rock. He described the smell too, and it didn't sound like a pleasant place to camp for the night as we'd hoped. But I got the distinct feeling that the highlight of the expedition wasn't the gas-crater, but the ride in and out on that rattly sounding rat-bike of unknown age. With little in the way of brakes, and tyres 'wired' to the rims and with little air-pressure to keep them inflated, it was near perfect for getting through the much-feared soft sand. This ancient motorcycle had put our well kitted out mounts to shame here in the Turkmen' desert.

We waved these young guys off, then heard another vehicle approaching. A 4WD bus had appeared on another track that diverged from the one we'd come in on, and watched as it struggled its way up the same track, assumedly trying to take some other touro's in to see the crater. They didn't make it on their first attempt and as we looked saw them get out and push. The bus eventually topped the rise, but didn't wait for it's passengers and kept going. We'd had enough entertainment watching these other people struggle though, and headed off in search of somewhere to rest for the night. Going back to the road, we made our way up to a nearby building perched on a rise on the other side of the main road.

Bobby-Joe was a big jovial sort with a natural bent for leadership. He directed a mob of guys who serviced a gas-head for supplying natural gas. And who lived in this tumbledy down concrete box of a building. After riding up to their make-shift home, they gave us a warm welcome and offered us tea. We were also offered to bed-down with them, and accepted rather than chance the unknowns of the adjacent desert. When we agreed to stay they plied us with more *Turkmen tea and questioned us with some enthusiasm, using an up till then unhelpful Berlitz Russian language book.

* They took pains to impress on us that we were drinking 'Turkmen' tea, though I for one couldn't really tell the difference.

With it being a warm night, needed little in the way of bedding. We'd been given some thick quilts to lay on top of the rough concrete slab, that served as a bed for these guy's. Looking up could I could see the billions of stars that marked the Milky-Way, and drifted off to sleep with mixed thoughts of being a long way from nowhere. My ankle hurt and was mildly nervous about the long desert ride the next day, but at that moment had found some kind of contentment with these simple yet friendly bunch of guys.

Avina'chat over a Russian language course-book. The book was crap, but was good for a larf!

Our first night under the stars came and went and I for one awoke feeling reasonably refreshed. Foregoing even a quick splash from the nearby well, or a nibble of dry bread as a hint of breakfast, we waved our thanks and goodbyes and hit the road north. The intention was to get to Kënëurgench (pron. Korny ewe gench), before the days heat melted away all our energy. Little was I to know what that day was going to bring, as we set out with an enthusiastic wave-off from Bobby Joe's crew.

The concrete box of a home to the Turkmen gas workers.

Some clues soon appeared that the road was not going to stay in moderate to poor, yet acceptable condition, as we hit the first patch of bad surface. We came across a section of newly prepared road awaiting resealing. Alongside the yet-to-be road were piles of black-stuff (asphalt), which stretched off and away into the distance. The kilometres went by, but could only make moderate progress, at best barely managing to keep in top-gear. The speed averages slowly went down, as the loose surface continued and travel times to our destination increased in proportion. Doubts crept into my mind. How long would it stay like this? Would it get worse? These doubts were soon confirmed, as it got worse. Much worse ... so much so, that further doubtful thoughts manifested themselves in the 'what if it gets so bad I can't continue' vain. Bjorn apparently seemed to be weathering the bad conditions better than me, drawing from his off-road intro' course. One reason perhaps, why I kept falling off in the soft sandy drifts of Erbent.

The piece de resistance of the day was a patch of big gravel. The size of golf-balls, it was spread right across the pathway. There seemed litte doubt, that getting across this was going to be tough on a new level. To confim my fears could see Bjorn bogged down the best part of a hundred metres in front. He was clearly struggling, his progress painfully slow. The engine of his Dakar could be heard revving, and the bike was jumping about under him. He evidently had little control and was looking for any way to get through the last few metres.

Turning attention back my own lack of progress, started scanning for an easier route through. The gravels were evenly distributed right up to the sand either side. There was no easy route through. A quick assessment as to whether the sand would be the easier option, led my mind back to the previous day, when I'd gone flying. Choosing to try and cross the sand meant the likelihood that another tumble was very high. At least this new obstacle was an unknown quantity. Just sitting there was bloody ridiculous. I couldn't stay put, so had little choice but to go forward. Steeling myself put the bike back into gear, blipped the throttle and slipped the clutch to move forward onto the untried surface. The front end bucked with me wrestling for control. I'd gone 5 metres and simply had to stop, the bike threatening to slew away from me in just about any direction. Catching my breath went through the options. There were none. It was either keep going and hope I don't end up in a heap with the bike on top, or sit there ... Burgeoning thoughts such as, “how much more of this are we going encounter, even if I can get past this part?” And, “What do I do, if I can't get past it, and there's still countless more miles before civilisation of any kind?” Bugger it! Cussing every Turkman civil engineer to his ancestors, the 'bit' was mentally shoved between my teeth. Gunning the motor, just 'went for it'. The bike, me and a load of luggage bobbed and weaved the remainder, until we arrived on the other side. I looked at Bjorn, who looked back. Crikey! He looked as frazzled as I felt. And am now sorry to say, that at the time I was thankful of it too. If he'd have looked as though he was okay, or worse still enjoying the 'challenge', I'd have been even more dejected more than I already was. We conferred, if that's the word. But to honest was more an exchange of explatives. A colourful range of profanity eminated into the air between our helmets, creating a blue haze of unrelenting swear words in a clumsy attempt to describe our collective experience. We discussed briefly the possibiltiy of how far we've got to go and the prospect of more of the crap we'd just been through, and realised it didn't matter. We had to go on ...

A few K' after that lot, we came to sealed road. I could've stopped and kissed it, I can tell ya. But again it didn't last and was just a tease of solidity and smoothness. A couple of minutes later and it went back to the loose-stuff once more. Not so bad this time. The sealed surface reappeared. Pot-holed with broken edges, but nevertheless solid. Eventually we limped into Kënëurgench. We'd made it through the broken landscape of the Turkmen'' desert.

But our day doesn't quite end here in Kënëurgench, because a quick survey found that there was really little there. Ghengis Khan had evidently devastated this place as an ancient pilgrimage site, when he'd swept across Asia. He'd done a bloody good job as the march of civilisation over millenia in the rest of the world and following decades of Soviet rule showed that this place still hadn't yet caught up. No hotel could be easily be detected during our ride through. And a few Q's to the locals as we passed, told us the only place to stay was not too good. The Lonely Planet info' advertised that the only accommodation in the town, was a guest-house that was reputed not to have any running water. And after a ride like we'd had, was determined to have a good scrub-up under a shower. Even a mean guest-house with a dribble of a shower would suffice. But a doucheless stoppover at that point held no appeal whatsoever. There was one more LP listing of a home-stay, on the road out of town. But when we eventually found it, the place appeared to have been converted into barracks for local police or the military. It was decided that Bjorn would ride back to the other side where we'd come in for a photo-shoot of one of the old pilgrimage sites, then head for the border and get the heck out of Turkmenistan.
But the country had one more sting in it's tail, before it let us out. It came in the form of a good grilling from a bunch of security guys, who came in two cars.

At the time, I was dozing in the meagre shade of a partly built service-station. The bike had been left parked in a place that could be seen by Bjorn, so he wouldn't go hurtling past on his return. I think that the two cars pulling up at the same time was a coincidence, as they had been passing in different directions at the time of spotting my bike. Pulling up one behind the other within a few seconds, the occupants got out. An odd looking bike and rider were too good an opportunity to break up their mundane daily grind, of giving the locals a hard time over nothing whatsoever. Before speaking with me though, there seemed to be some sort of negotiation between them. Once the hierarchy had been established the non-uniformed pair approached first. Vaguely threatening, neither cracked a smile as one of them babbled enquiries at me. This had all the hall-marks of becoming difficult, so a well placed smile and direct eye contact projected a good bit of 'bull-shit' confidence to try and show that I'm not going to be easily intimidated. Making sure the smile didn't falter, reached around behind with both hands to retrieve my passport that was zipped into the rear pouch of the jacket. The slight delay and my silence seemed to put the nearest guy on edge. He looked at his mate, then back at me. I volunteered “passport?”, which appeared to relax him. The usual Q's and A's followed, but was quickly learning it was a good thing not to appear be too understanding. Some well-placed shrugs in answer to anything that resembled a sentence, ensured they would be in no doubt that any interrogation was going to be hard work all the way. Over the space of ten minutes, three separate guys peered at my passport and the papers I'd been given at the other border, and all the usual inane questions were answered, along with a part mimed explanation to describe my trip. By now I'd learned to say that I'm from 'Anglia', and that I was going to 'Uvstralia'. I was a Tooreest, and to get here had ridden through Fransay, Sviss, Germania (with a 'g' as in gorilla), Awstria etc, etc. I was also learning the subtle art of body language and some of the better strategies to deal with security guys who were clearly not above bullying tactics, if they could get away with it. After half an hour managed to shuffle myself into a tiny bit of shade, leaving them in the sun. All but one gradually migrated back into the sanctuary of their air-conditioned car, leaving one uniformed guy to continue the interrogation. With beads of sweat forming on his brow he soon tired of the sport too, and eventually turned and walked back to the open door of his police-car. To this day am not quite sure of its meaning, but he left me with a kind of *grunt! Continuing the pantomime, I gave them a hearty wave as each of them drove off, and slowly felt the tension melt away as their cars receded. With their departure all was quiet again. The silence was bliss and peace reigned once more.

*On my life yer honour! With no thoughts of associating the police with pigs in mind at all, he really did make what I can only describe as pig-like grunting sound.

The last twenty minutes saw me dozing back in the shade, though guessed the temperature was still creeping over the 'forty' mark, even there. I was dog-tired and drifting in and out of sleep, feeling I could stay there forever. Eventually the unmistakable putt-putt of Bjorns bike returning, pulled me out of my half-dream. It meant I could finally saddle-up and we could head towards the border. The prospect of a cool-shower, food and beer had me buzzing again.