10.6.2001 A bus to Kuchan

Cass writes…

Our ten day visa for Turkmenistan is about to begin, so we make the decision to catch a bus from Gorgan to Kuchan, a small junction town leading to the border, to save a few days ride.

Handily, our hotel's located above a tumultuous bus terminal; the tandem is soon whisked from our hands and hoisted aboard the roof of an old Mercedes, emblazoned with the ensignas 'Beautiful Bus' and 'One God! '. We climb aboard, nodding to fellow passengers - a motley crew of two venerable mullahs, a bevy of mustachioed men and an ageing but gracious Turkmen lady, clutching a grubby batch of banknotes in her ringed fingers. Women sit up front, enjoying one of the few perks in life, whilst the rest of us are left to share the sweaty confines of the springy rear seats.

With a blast of the trumpet like horn, the driver guns the bus into life and lurches into a flow of traffic. Compared to the sedate pace of cycling, watching life go by from through a dirty window is like speeding through a video in fast-forward. Climbing steeply away from the muggy plains around the Caspian Sea, we hurtle through lush forest, emerging onto a vast plateau, dry and mottled with scrub, rolling steppe to either side. Swerving to a halt, vacant seats are filled with roadside travelers and kebab breaks made in dusty, windswept towns. At every stop, kids emerge from hiding holes and scramble aboard, lugging polystyrene hampers crammed with ice-cream for urgent sales, scuttling off as our driver sounds the horn once more, a medley of deafening hoots and high pitched beeps: sounds of Asia that every cyclist fears.

Unfolding contorted bodies, we arrive in Kochan and reassemble the tandem, like a traveling act performing before an impromptu audience. Summoned to a nearby police station, passports are scrutinized by a bewildering array of officers of all ranks, phone calls made, before we' re shunted off once again, behind a police escort with flashing lights, to another building across town.

Dealing with the law in this conservative and controlling country is always tense, our tactic to smile politely and keep quiet. Sometimes we' re offered tea and fruit, at other times it's a more sombre affair. Often, it's more curiosity and the chance to break up a long day than anything else. Duly, we follow an 'English speaking' officer into an office covered with aerial maps of Iran. Sitting behind a huge desk, our passports are examined once more and the usual details - name, father's name, nationality and the like - are recorded in phonetic Farsi on a blank sheet of paper, to be filled who know where. With a nervous twitch in his shoulder, rolling it every few sections like a gymnast, the officer points to Rosal. As usual, questions are directed to me. 'Your...' There is a sustained pause as he searches for the right word, or perhaps a particular nuance he has in mind. '...Friend'? I smile back. 'No, my wife', in keeping with the standard line we adopt for brief and morally sensitive conversations.

We both nod. "And your marriage number?" Unlike Iranians, foreigners are not required to carry marriage papers for spot checks by the police. Naturally, we have no such number. We shake our heads cautiously, explaining slowly that no certificate is given in England, just rings, pointing to our fingers with a shrug of apology, and another smile. It works. 'Thank you', he says, shaking my hand warmly; our mini grilling is over. Nowadays, it's unlikely foreigners will be troubled by the authorities, particularly if the stringent dress codes are followed. But there's always an underlying feeling of uncertainty, lost in language and customs distanced from our own.

Tracking down a cheap hotel, a shift in street life is immediately noticeable, thanks to a Turkmen minority in town. Gangs of ruffian kids, grubby and dusty, stare through eyes pinched with Asiatic blood. Darker, tougher skin compliments stronger features. Patterned and colourful veils, hats - white caps and turbans - signal a blending of Turkmen and Persian culture. Supplementing the cavernous meat lockers and the ubiquitous sandwich parlours - offering the enticing concoction of sheep brains gherkins - we notice bottles of pickled crabs and vials of snakes, buckets of bloodless goat heads and trotters stacked up like tinder sticks.

Just a few hints to what may lie ahead, it's enough to set my mind roaming over the possibilities of Central Asia. Past a rank of Mad Max taxis, a cross between quads and tractors, we burn our last few Rials on army surplus trousers, ideal for cutoff shorts with their array of pockets, in premature celebration of tomorrow's departure from Iranian clothing customs.

From here we head to the border of Bajgiran, some eighty kilometres away. After riding through Eastern Turkey and around the Caspian Sea, just a short but brutal stretch over the mountains separates us from Turkmenistan.