Ashgabat
Nothing prepared me for Ashgabat. It is out on it's own, though to give you some idea of the nearest equivalent could compare it to Las Vegas. But it didn't have the people and the neon. Then again there's some parallels with Dubai, but it sure doesn't have a fraction of that city's energy. It feels at times as if I'm walking around a city that belongs on a set for a film called 'The Truman show'. My understanding about the high degree of surveillance that takes place on the Turkmen' population, the last comparison makes this one the closest perhaps. We were to discover what affect this Big-Brother regime had on the people who lived there, particularly some of the odd individuals we encountered on the streets of Ashgabat.
Another big 'posh' building. Might've been a Palace, but just as likely a bank or Ministry of something or other ...
Ashgabat's main buildings are recent structures of typically steel-framed concrete, with a veneer of marble tiling. To my eyes they have a kind of smooth satin look to them that gives the impression of luxury. But with insufficient people out on the streets to provide balance for all this available housing of commerce and habitation, the overall feeling is that this is a city without a soul. I think to myself that this place just doesn't make any sense. Which was a thought that was to reoccur many times over the next couple of days.
First evening in a hunt for cheap food, we find ourselves in an 'English Pub' as mentioned in the trusty travel guide. Not because we crave Englishness or miss the beer, but because the write-up indicates it's got good basic food at reasonable prices. And in truth, it's not such a bad replica of an English pub. It at least equals the modern corporate approach to English pub decor. Fake everything, including stone-wall patterned wallpaper. The menu's not too far off of a corporate English pub too ... I avoid the imported prawn dish due to cost, and the same went for the fish and chips. My eyes stray to the list of burgers. Cheese, Anatolian (or was it Albanian?), and eventually go for the 'Madburger'. The description of 'mad' seems to be because they've plonked a fried egg on top of the rather thin disc of meat. I'm not sure if the name suggest's you'd be mad to eat it. Or perhaps this place is so conservative, that putting an egg in a burger is the Turkmen' idea of letting their hair down. Whatever, the bread-roll it comes in has more to do with a current bun without the currents. The meat is bland, the fried egg suggesting it came from a joke shop, and a handful of re-heated fries have got all the hall-marks of having been 'dressed' with left over chip-oil. Though the dessert-spoon sized helping of cole-slaw wasn't too bad. The whole ensemble would make an English corporate pub manager proud.
Waitresses are fairly typical of places like this all over the world, in that they don't crack a smile ... Some are vaguely attractive, but their thin-lipped visage make them appear either unwilling or unable to engage with any kind of dialogue other than asking what you want to eat or drink. When the bill came we ask for it in dollars, to which they ensure has a 20% tip built-in, when compared to the local exchange rate. We're both too tired to complain and therefore I pay without further argument, so that we can leave and get back to the guest-house for some much needed rest.
Finding Murat's guest-house
When we first entered the suburbs of this odd city, we spent an hour or more riding around in search of our 'pick' of the travel guide, Murat's guest-house. While on accommodation-search we didn't spy anything resembling a service station, neither did we see shops, either of which would seem likely places where we could get directions. So the next best thing was to stop and ask some likely looking passers-by. This tactic didn't work too well, as we mostly we got a mix of blank looks, and in the case of one lady, she looked distinctly embarrassed to talk to me. This short non-interview came about, after I'd stopped and accosted a likely looking local bloke, 'mooching' along the pavement. He shook his head after I enquired about a road name shown in our travel guide's map of the city. I tried different ways of pronouncing it to try and spark a few brain cells of savvy in the man, but to no avail. Nearby there was an attractive lady who also looked local, dressed in fresh full-length floral patterned dress standing on the corner. He nodded in her direction, and said something that I guessed to be in Turkmen' lingo. Maybe she could help me out?. My questions to her got an even cooler reception than the guy I stopped. All eye-contact was avoided, completely. She would not look at me, so much so it had me wondering if she was deaf or blind. But even then there are usually some signs, to let you know that a person with either of these conditions is paying you attention. As I continued what felt like some kind of 'interrogation', found my mind wandering towards trying to decipher her body-language. Barely raising her voice to any audible level, I wouldn't have recognised whatever it was that she was saying, even if her mumbling was in English. The eyes were downcast and a slightly worried frown stole it's way onto her brow. I was looking at someone who was 'afraid' But not of me surely? But then on reflection, I was dressed in my 'Star Wars Storm-trooper' Bikers outfit, so maybe it was as simple as that. But whatever the cause, she was distinctly nervous, and so I made my apologies, with a 'no-worries' and made to move away from her. I found that I felt sorry for her, as she was obviously feeling very uncomfortable by my presence. I went on to wonder, was this typical behaviour for the local people? Would everyone react like a startled rabbit caught in headlights, whenever we spoke to anyone out on the streets? The answer was very much a yes, and detected what I felt to be a definite undercurrent of fear in a number of those we approached ... Not everyone acted as if we were aliens about to gobble them down in one gulp though. One guy was bright and alert, and seemed to understand which one of the main roads we wanted to find, but his enthusiasm didn't match his knowledge and it resulted in another fruitless ride-around.
We were getting hotter, and it was beginning to feel like my body was gradually desiccating like a piece of fruit left in the sun. The heat came in hot-blasts that surprisingly meant it was more comfortable to ride with the visor down. One of the joys of motorcycling is that on hot days any breeze normally has a cooling affect. But in this case the air movement was searing and so afforded no relief from the heat. Temperatures had reached a level of cherry-red hotness and the word 'cool' only applies to a 'dude' with a laid back demeanor, who's wearing Chino's and shades. This was full-on furnace-like heat with no respite while we were out in the sun. On a couple of occasions I did try to get some lubrication into my parched throat, by grabbing the emergency Sports-bottle water rations strapped to one of the panniers on the side of the bike. Popping the top, pulling the 'teat' I could feel the water trickle down my gullet. But instead of refreshment it was more like hot-lava. Somewhere over the course of the day it had gone from tepid to half-way boiling.
I'd guessed we'd reached and passed the point where eggs would cook on the pavement, if that is, you fancy a pavement cooked egg. Which at that moment was the last thing on my mind. I wanted shade, but most of all a cool drink of some kind. If we could have seen a shop or supermarket would have raided whatever was in their drinks chiller. But all we had was US dollars and would need to negotiate some kind of money exchange for some local currency first. Besides which out of all the buildings we were passing, we were unable to see anything that resembled and kind of retail establishment. At that point it still seemed easier to try to find the guest-house. But as more time went by visions kept floating in front of eyes, of a huge beer glass filled with lager that had ice crystals on top and condensation running down the side. In this vision the perfect pint would be sat on a white patio table under a shady tree. We continued to ride up and down one of the many wide avenues of Ashgabat and failed to see any shops, let alone somewhere selling cold drinks. Had I come across a heaven sent vision such as I described, would have avoided all financial negotiations to find out how much, and paused only long enough to grab every bank-note in my wallet and throw at whoever was in attendance, before guzzling it down to the last drop without coming up for air.
Bjorn had some GPS co-ord's given to him by one his German biker acquaintances, which if accurate should have pin-pointed the exact location of the guest-house. But it became clear that unless the Garmin units had been calibrated, there would be an error of some kind. In the maze of side-streets 30 metres could be crucial. After getting to within a few paces of the supplied GPS data, Bjorn finally spotted what looked like a corner shop, and once again asked for directions. The all too familiar question marks appeared above their heads, but then someone had a brain-wave of telephoning to ask directions, if we had a number for said hostelry. Bjorn started digging into the depths of his panniers, to see if he had it. And with me near collapse-point, rather than sit about waiting decided to try a few of the other side-streets in the vicinity myself. And promptly got myself lost ... Eventually I managed to find our helpful corner shop again, but by this time Bjorn had gone. After more enquiries, it became evident that one of the locals had driven there in a car to show the way, with Bjorn following on behind. Some 10 minutes later the car returned, and with me having what must have appeared to be a face of desperation, managed to persuade the driver to do the same for me too. Bingo! With a grateful heart interred myself to Murat's and nearly fell off the bike with exhaustion. Making a cursory attempt at unloading the bike, ripped off the bike jacket and strides, replaced 'em with shorts and t-shirt before hot-footing along to the nearest shop. Along with Bjorn threw 'em some dollars in exchange for Turkmen' Manat, and grabbed a big, and more importantly cold bottle of fizzy water. I couldn't actually see it, but knew there was steam coming from my mouth as the water hit my parched throat. We'd landed in Ashgabat.
This is the revolving restaurant, on top of which sits a statue of Türkmenbaşy (self-named 'Father of all Turkmen'). This statue is programmed to always face into the sun. I think the word 'Megalomania' very much applied, when this guy was alive ... One of his other claims to infamy, was in formally announcing that a man-made canal which had been carved through the country, was now in fact a natural river!
It doesn't show a lot, but it's a nice sunset. I recall, it was bloody hot at the time of taking this shot ...
We never intended staying too long, in this the capital city of Turkmenistan. And even if we did, there wasn't really too much to keep us here, so two nights and we were ready to leave. We did hunt out Internet on the 2nd night and was surprised to find that even in one of the main hotels, the 'net connection speed was as slow as an old mangle. They had two PC's that were locked in a swish looking office on the 1st floor. But there was nobody around to either use it or monitor it's use. We paid for the hours use, then left. On the walk home had what I momentarily thought was my 'best offer for a long time'. A very pretty young lady of diminutive stature, but adequate proportions and wrapped in a well fitted dress with brief hemline, was seen walking in my direction. Instead of weaving to one side, as I would normally expect, she kept her line and at the last moment veered slightly towards me and stopped. Being an apparently forward young lady, she beat me to an opening line. “Do you want something?” she ventured in heavily accented English.
Now, I'm fairly confident that if me & Brad Pritt went out for a night on the town, even back in my hay-day would not have expected to give him too much competition. But here in the middle of Ashgabat and further heading towards my mid-fifties, am well content in the fact that an evenings promenade, rarely leads to any ladies swooning as I walked past. In fact if I want to be completely honest, the only time this has happened was when a lady fainted next to me on a boys-night in down-town Bristol many years ago. At the time my mates tried to tell me that she was under considerable alcoholic influence, but personally I'm still convinced it was my dynamic presence that did it! So apart from the possibility of over-tight corsets, do not expect ladies to go weak at the knees in my presence. To further confound my logic, I was out with a younger and arguably better looking man, so would have expected to be 2nd best to Bjorn, who it appeared was more in this lady's age-group. All comparisons put aside then, I would have thought she should have found him more attractive. But no, her come-to-bed gaze and body-language was directed at me.
Shaking myself out of my trance, suddenly realised it was the bulge in my back-pocket she was interested in. This lady was a 'professional' and I was simply a prospective meal-ticket. In resisting the more obvious “Boing! Time for bed, said Zebidee” retort, left her with a simple “No thank-you my dear”, and continued on my way.
Nothing prepared me for Ashgabat. It is out on it's own, though to give you some idea of the nearest equivalent could compare it to Las Vegas. But it didn't have the people and the neon. Then again there's some parallels with Dubai, but it sure doesn't have a fraction of that city's energy. It feels at times as if I'm walking around a city that belongs on a set for a film called 'The Truman show'. My understanding about the high degree of surveillance that takes place on the Turkmen' population, the last comparison makes this one the closest perhaps. We were to discover what affect this Big-Brother regime had on the people who lived there, particularly some of the odd individuals we encountered on the streets of Ashgabat.
Another big 'posh' building. Might've been a Palace, but just as likely a bank or Ministry of something or other ...Ashgabat's main buildings are recent structures of typically steel-framed concrete, with a veneer of marble tiling. To my eyes they have a kind of smooth satin look to them that gives the impression of luxury. But with insufficient people out on the streets to provide balance for all this available housing of commerce and habitation, the overall feeling is that this is a city without a soul. I think to myself that this place just doesn't make any sense. Which was a thought that was to reoccur many times over the next couple of days.
First evening in a hunt for cheap food, we find ourselves in an 'English Pub' as mentioned in the trusty travel guide. Not because we crave Englishness or miss the beer, but because the write-up indicates it's got good basic food at reasonable prices. And in truth, it's not such a bad replica of an English pub. It at least equals the modern corporate approach to English pub decor. Fake everything, including stone-wall patterned wallpaper. The menu's not too far off of a corporate English pub too ... I avoid the imported prawn dish due to cost, and the same went for the fish and chips. My eyes stray to the list of burgers. Cheese, Anatolian (or was it Albanian?), and eventually go for the 'Madburger'. The description of 'mad' seems to be because they've plonked a fried egg on top of the rather thin disc of meat. I'm not sure if the name suggest's you'd be mad to eat it. Or perhaps this place is so conservative, that putting an egg in a burger is the Turkmen' idea of letting their hair down. Whatever, the bread-roll it comes in has more to do with a current bun without the currents. The meat is bland, the fried egg suggesting it came from a joke shop, and a handful of re-heated fries have got all the hall-marks of having been 'dressed' with left over chip-oil. Though the dessert-spoon sized helping of cole-slaw wasn't too bad. The whole ensemble would make an English corporate pub manager proud.
Waitresses are fairly typical of places like this all over the world, in that they don't crack a smile ... Some are vaguely attractive, but their thin-lipped visage make them appear either unwilling or unable to engage with any kind of dialogue other than asking what you want to eat or drink. When the bill came we ask for it in dollars, to which they ensure has a 20% tip built-in, when compared to the local exchange rate. We're both too tired to complain and therefore I pay without further argument, so that we can leave and get back to the guest-house for some much needed rest.
Finding Murat's guest-house
When we first entered the suburbs of this odd city, we spent an hour or more riding around in search of our 'pick' of the travel guide, Murat's guest-house. While on accommodation-search we didn't spy anything resembling a service station, neither did we see shops, either of which would seem likely places where we could get directions. So the next best thing was to stop and ask some likely looking passers-by. This tactic didn't work too well, as we mostly we got a mix of blank looks, and in the case of one lady, she looked distinctly embarrassed to talk to me. This short non-interview came about, after I'd stopped and accosted a likely looking local bloke, 'mooching' along the pavement. He shook his head after I enquired about a road name shown in our travel guide's map of the city. I tried different ways of pronouncing it to try and spark a few brain cells of savvy in the man, but to no avail. Nearby there was an attractive lady who also looked local, dressed in fresh full-length floral patterned dress standing on the corner. He nodded in her direction, and said something that I guessed to be in Turkmen' lingo. Maybe she could help me out?. My questions to her got an even cooler reception than the guy I stopped. All eye-contact was avoided, completely. She would not look at me, so much so it had me wondering if she was deaf or blind. But even then there are usually some signs, to let you know that a person with either of these conditions is paying you attention. As I continued what felt like some kind of 'interrogation', found my mind wandering towards trying to decipher her body-language. Barely raising her voice to any audible level, I wouldn't have recognised whatever it was that she was saying, even if her mumbling was in English. The eyes were downcast and a slightly worried frown stole it's way onto her brow. I was looking at someone who was 'afraid' But not of me surely? But then on reflection, I was dressed in my 'Star Wars Storm-trooper' Bikers outfit, so maybe it was as simple as that. But whatever the cause, she was distinctly nervous, and so I made my apologies, with a 'no-worries' and made to move away from her. I found that I felt sorry for her, as she was obviously feeling very uncomfortable by my presence. I went on to wonder, was this typical behaviour for the local people? Would everyone react like a startled rabbit caught in headlights, whenever we spoke to anyone out on the streets? The answer was very much a yes, and detected what I felt to be a definite undercurrent of fear in a number of those we approached ... Not everyone acted as if we were aliens about to gobble them down in one gulp though. One guy was bright and alert, and seemed to understand which one of the main roads we wanted to find, but his enthusiasm didn't match his knowledge and it resulted in another fruitless ride-around.
We were getting hotter, and it was beginning to feel like my body was gradually desiccating like a piece of fruit left in the sun. The heat came in hot-blasts that surprisingly meant it was more comfortable to ride with the visor down. One of the joys of motorcycling is that on hot days any breeze normally has a cooling affect. But in this case the air movement was searing and so afforded no relief from the heat. Temperatures had reached a level of cherry-red hotness and the word 'cool' only applies to a 'dude' with a laid back demeanor, who's wearing Chino's and shades. This was full-on furnace-like heat with no respite while we were out in the sun. On a couple of occasions I did try to get some lubrication into my parched throat, by grabbing the emergency Sports-bottle water rations strapped to one of the panniers on the side of the bike. Popping the top, pulling the 'teat' I could feel the water trickle down my gullet. But instead of refreshment it was more like hot-lava. Somewhere over the course of the day it had gone from tepid to half-way boiling.
I'd guessed we'd reached and passed the point where eggs would cook on the pavement, if that is, you fancy a pavement cooked egg. Which at that moment was the last thing on my mind. I wanted shade, but most of all a cool drink of some kind. If we could have seen a shop or supermarket would have raided whatever was in their drinks chiller. But all we had was US dollars and would need to negotiate some kind of money exchange for some local currency first. Besides which out of all the buildings we were passing, we were unable to see anything that resembled and kind of retail establishment. At that point it still seemed easier to try to find the guest-house. But as more time went by visions kept floating in front of eyes, of a huge beer glass filled with lager that had ice crystals on top and condensation running down the side. In this vision the perfect pint would be sat on a white patio table under a shady tree. We continued to ride up and down one of the many wide avenues of Ashgabat and failed to see any shops, let alone somewhere selling cold drinks. Had I come across a heaven sent vision such as I described, would have avoided all financial negotiations to find out how much, and paused only long enough to grab every bank-note in my wallet and throw at whoever was in attendance, before guzzling it down to the last drop without coming up for air.
Bjorn had some GPS co-ord's given to him by one his German biker acquaintances, which if accurate should have pin-pointed the exact location of the guest-house. But it became clear that unless the Garmin units had been calibrated, there would be an error of some kind. In the maze of side-streets 30 metres could be crucial. After getting to within a few paces of the supplied GPS data, Bjorn finally spotted what looked like a corner shop, and once again asked for directions. The all too familiar question marks appeared above their heads, but then someone had a brain-wave of telephoning to ask directions, if we had a number for said hostelry. Bjorn started digging into the depths of his panniers, to see if he had it. And with me near collapse-point, rather than sit about waiting decided to try a few of the other side-streets in the vicinity myself. And promptly got myself lost ... Eventually I managed to find our helpful corner shop again, but by this time Bjorn had gone. After more enquiries, it became evident that one of the locals had driven there in a car to show the way, with Bjorn following on behind. Some 10 minutes later the car returned, and with me having what must have appeared to be a face of desperation, managed to persuade the driver to do the same for me too. Bingo! With a grateful heart interred myself to Murat's and nearly fell off the bike with exhaustion. Making a cursory attempt at unloading the bike, ripped off the bike jacket and strides, replaced 'em with shorts and t-shirt before hot-footing along to the nearest shop. Along with Bjorn threw 'em some dollars in exchange for Turkmen' Manat, and grabbed a big, and more importantly cold bottle of fizzy water. I couldn't actually see it, but knew there was steam coming from my mouth as the water hit my parched throat. We'd landed in Ashgabat.
This is the revolving restaurant, on top of which sits a statue of Türkmenbaşy (self-named 'Father of all Turkmen'). This statue is programmed to always face into the sun. I think the word 'Megalomania' very much applied, when this guy was alive ... One of his other claims to infamy, was in formally announcing that a man-made canal which had been carved through the country, was now in fact a natural river!
It doesn't show a lot, but it's a nice sunset. I recall, it was bloody hot at the time of taking this shot ...
We never intended staying too long, in this the capital city of Turkmenistan. And even if we did, there wasn't really too much to keep us here, so two nights and we were ready to leave. We did hunt out Internet on the 2nd night and was surprised to find that even in one of the main hotels, the 'net connection speed was as slow as an old mangle. They had two PC's that were locked in a swish looking office on the 1st floor. But there was nobody around to either use it or monitor it's use. We paid for the hours use, then left. On the walk home had what I momentarily thought was my 'best offer for a long time'. A very pretty young lady of diminutive stature, but adequate proportions and wrapped in a well fitted dress with brief hemline, was seen walking in my direction. Instead of weaving to one side, as I would normally expect, she kept her line and at the last moment veered slightly towards me and stopped. Being an apparently forward young lady, she beat me to an opening line. “Do you want something?” she ventured in heavily accented English.
Now, I'm fairly confident that if me & Brad Pritt went out for a night on the town, even back in my hay-day would not have expected to give him too much competition. But here in the middle of Ashgabat and further heading towards my mid-fifties, am well content in the fact that an evenings promenade, rarely leads to any ladies swooning as I walked past. In fact if I want to be completely honest, the only time this has happened was when a lady fainted next to me on a boys-night in down-town Bristol many years ago. At the time my mates tried to tell me that she was under considerable alcoholic influence, but personally I'm still convinced it was my dynamic presence that did it! So apart from the possibility of over-tight corsets, do not expect ladies to go weak at the knees in my presence. To further confound my logic, I was out with a younger and arguably better looking man, so would have expected to be 2nd best to Bjorn, who it appeared was more in this lady's age-group. All comparisons put aside then, I would have thought she should have found him more attractive. But no, her come-to-bed gaze and body-language was directed at me.
Shaking myself out of my trance, suddenly realised it was the bulge in my back-pocket she was interested in. This lady was a 'professional' and I was simply a prospective meal-ticket. In resisting the more obvious “Boing! Time for bed, said Zebidee” retort, left her with a simple “No thank-you my dear”, and continued on my way.
1 comment:
Ha ha Len. You are a truly lucky man having Kim and so don't go getting any funny ideas!!!!
Post a Comment