Turkmenistan

“Closed!”, “Delete!”, “Show picture! Delete!” Crossing the border from Iran to Turkmenistan truly catapulted us into a completely different world. The contrast couldn’t have been more striking. The cities in Iran were crowded, with small streets lined with even smaller shops. Almost everyone wanted to take pictures with us (with very few exceptions) or offer help. Buildings and cars looked old and on the verge of falling apart, and people, at least in Mashhad, mostly dressed in black.

Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, was the complete opposite: everything seemed designed to impress. White marble dominated the cityscape, with wide streets and enormous buildings. People dressed in colorful clothes, with only some women wearing headscarves that covered their hair but not their necks. Female students wore red dresses, their hair braided into two plaits, with a traditional “hat” perched on the back of their heads as part of their university uniform. While there were people around, the streets felt rather empty. There were no visible shops, no one picnicking in the parks (at least when we were there), and nothing but huge white marble buildings towering over the wide streets, filled with brand-new white cars.

Tourists are not allowed to visit Turkmenistan on their own, so we had to book an expensive tour through a travel agency, which provided us with a letter of invitation (LOI). They organized almost everything for us, including a driver who helped us at the border and another who transported us and our bicycles to the hotel. However, lunch and dinner were not included, and the one thing they didn’t organize for us—perhaps because we didn’t ask—was Manat, the local currency. Thus, our first task was to exchange money, which turned out to be more difficult than expected. All the banks were either closed or didn’t exchange money. People were polite when we approached them directly but seemed to prefer avoiding interaction. Turkmenistan has one of the most extreme censorships in the world—using a whitelist instead of a blacklist—and without internet access outside of our hotel, we were a bit stuck.

We eventually found ourselves in the city’s fanciest hotel, where the receptionist suggested we visit the Russian Bazaar to exchange money. The receptionist said there would be old women or men happy to exchange dollars for 19.5 Manat instead of the official 3.5 Manat per dollar (and we had thought the difference between the official and black market exchange rate in Iran was significant!). Sure enough, plenty of old women were there, and we quickly exchanged our money.

Since our hotel was 7 km outside the city center, we rode our bicycles to get there. We asked if we were allowed to cycle, but we didn’t wait for an answer, assuming that if it was truly forbidden, the receptionist wouldn’t hand over our bikes. She did, so off we went, only to read later that the travel agency had asked the tourist ministry, which—probably for our safety—did not appreciate us cycling. However, traffic was extremely (and unusually) orderly, and we felt quite safe. Along the way, we stopped in front of a huge golden sculpture featuring horses, which seemed like the perfect backdrop for a “We’re in Ashgabat” selfie. Apparently not—immediately, a guard gestured from far away, yelling “Go, go! Closed!” So, we left (after snapping a quick selfie).

Shortly afterward, we passed another massive, elaborately decorated building with the mountains in the background. After taking a photo, a guard ran after us, stopped our bikes, and demanded that Thomas delete the picture. “Delete, delete,” he said. It wasn’t just buildings, parks, and sculptures that were off-limits for photography—people were, too. After dinner, a group of young men asked us to stop. Within moments, they surrounded Thomas, bombarding him with questions. Amused, I stood behind them and took a picture. The moment one of them saw me taking the photo, chaos erupted. Most of the group ran away, while two approached me, asking to see the picture and delete it. One inspected it closely (it mostly showed their backs), and finally said, “Okay, okay, keep it.” The others returned, continuing their interrogation of Thomas. Somewhat perplexed by the sudden attention and its equally sudden end, we cycled back to our hotel. A bizarre but certainly interesting first half-day.

The next morning, after a solitary breakfast in the hotel lobby, we were taken on a two-hour city tour. Interestingly, the entire tour took place on the outskirts of the city. We were driven from one white-golden monument to the next, with our English-speaking guide explaining why Turkmenistan’s former dictator built them or which record each monument had broken. Initially, these monuments were located in the city center but were eventually moved to “New Ashgabat” (the outskirts), as it was easier for tourists to take pictures there. In the city center, government buildings often happened to be in their backdrop, and thus photography was not allowed. To resolve this, they moved the monuments here, each surrounded by a large park where families picnic and children play in the evening—at least according to our guide. Unfortunately, we didn’t witness this scene ourselves, as we had to leave for the gas crater immediately after lunch.

Cars have luckily only played a minor role in my life so far. The few times I’ve had to use one, I always happily rode in a car thinking it has four wheels. Actually, I probably learned about the spare wheel when I got my driver’s license many years ago but forgot, since I never really drove a car afterward. In any case, I spent most of my life sitting in cars, assuming they had four wheels, without giving it a second thought. It was only on that day, when I realized that cars, in fact, have a fifth, spare wheel, that I started feeling uncomfortable, knowing our car only had four working wheels because our spare was replacing the broken left back wheel. And the road was only getting worse, with potholes so large they spread across the entire width of the road. Our driver frequently had to make sudden swerves or brake sharply. Lines on the road seemed nonexistent, with both cars and trucks dodging the holes by swerving all over the road and even onto its shoulder.

As I grew increasingly carsick (which I usually never do), my already weak conviction that the trip to the Darvaza gas crater was worth it began to fade. By the time we finally arrived and saw the underwhelming flames in the crater, I was convinced: why would anyone come here? Yet, people do. For the first time, with the exception of one other tour group we’d encountered earlier, we saw other tourists—several groups, even. Now, that might seem funny, as we came here too, but we both wondered: What are they doing here? And by here, I don’t just mean the crater, but Turkmenistan itself. If Turkmenistan hadn’t been our only option to travel from Switzerland to the Pamir overland, nothing would have brought us here. Anyway, we weren’t going to find out, as no conversation presented itself.

Returning by foot to the crater at night, we saw the flames burning in the darkness. Only then did I understand why this crater, the result of an accident during Soviet-era gas exploration, is considered a vision of hell. Perhaps it helped that the memory of our bumpy car ride had already started to fade, but standing in front of the burning crater under the night sky, I finally felt that it had all been worth it.