'A Turkmen's horse is his wings, water is his life and his carpet is his soul...' Central Asian saying.

16.6 to 20.6.2001 Crossing the Karakum Desert

Cass writes...

Our plans to head north across the heart of the Karakum - Desert of the Black Sands - towards the ancient walled city of Khiva are curtailed with the delay in our Uzbek visa. Instead, we settle for its fringes along the more conventional south eastern route, the highway linking Ashgabat to Buchara, once a main strand of the extensive Silk Route.

With a delayed departure to fix a broken chain and indulge in a hearty breakfast at Brendan's, the sun burns brightly overhead by the time we reach Ashgabat's scruffy outskirts. Leaving cultivated fields behind, the road opens abruptly into the desert proper, a parched plain of hardy shrubs, gnarled trees and the occasional sand dune. An unexpected headwind blusters towards us, bending shrubs and trees like bamboo shoots, swirling dust into our eyes.

Biding farewell to Brendan, cycling with us for the morning on his racing bike, we enviously watch his wind assisted return to the capital, alone once more. Sheltering under a bush, we solemnly contemplate the task ahead, disheartedly watching our thermometer register a new trip record - 49 degrees centigrade - and the wind wip a veil of sand across the road. The temptation to sneak back to Ashgabat is immense, to enjoy a evening meal and begin again tomorrow. But a sense of challenge and pride drives us on, forcing us out from the shade and into these tumultuous elements. Blustering with increasing vigour, unbatting, it' s not long before our slow progress in this ferocious heat drives us to despair. We stop to stare angrily at a Turkmen flag fluttering madly towards us. 'Why why why?!' we shout out at our ruthless tormentor, cursing as our tyres sink further into the melting tar.

To our right, a parched landscape of barren hills divide the country from Iran. Hazy layers of silhouettes, they gradually soften into the desert floor, lost in the blur of midday heat. Past ancient hilltops that once served to relay messages, the monotony of speeding Ladas and Turkish trucks is broken only by characterful Ural motorbikes and their sidecars. Ridden by aged Turkmens in oversized goggles, their enormous wool hats remind us of unkept afros, bringing a smile to our faces.

Seventy kilometres later, exhausted and beaten, we reluctantly thumb a lift with a passing truck to make up for lost time. With five days left on our Turkmen visa, it's already a rush to make it to the border. Clambering into the old Russian van, we speed through the late afternoon, watching the stars gleam in the early evening and the desert train rattle into the night. Transport in Turkmenistan is controlled for both foreigners and locals alike; as we near each checkpoint, our cheerful driver deposits us by the roadside to ride alone through the post, collecting us a kilometre later on the other side.

Our first night is spent in Tegen in an old sanatorium, shared with a few Russian youths noisily throwing back bottles of vodka. Thankfully, the wind has eased up enough the following morning to make progress slow but sure. Fed by a nearby canal, the desert here is cultivated and towns, provide stops for water and food. Each is colourfully announced with a block sculpted with art deco style lettering, a throwback from the Soviet days, weather beaten and washed out from the elements.

Past Mary, we reach the city of Merv, once 'Queen of the World'. We look out upon an eerie sandscape sprinkled with wind-eroded archways and mausoleums, lost in a haze of dust and heat. Barely discernible on the muted horizon, we ponder the desolate remains of this once thriving metropolis of two million people, a world power house in the 11th and 12 centuries, before being razed to the ground by Jenghis Khan and his golden horde. Etched now with Russian graffiti, it vanishes silently into the distance as we ride on, towards the next collection of chaikanas that punctuate this emptiness. It's just what we need. Collapsing in a canalside restaurant, we're fed fish, green tea and fresh bread by its friendly Turkmen owners. Like so often, our payment is refused, only small foreign coins are accepted instead.

Havens of life in the oblivion of the desert, other chaikanas are less peaceful. Vodka drinking is a national pastime that continues unabated with the exodus of Russians, now as strongly woven into Central Asian as any other tradition, despite their Muslim faith. Renowned for inebriated encounters, we find ourselves trapped by an obnoxious pot bellied major. Dragging the bike into the shade, we're forcefully invited to join his merry band of highway police and their drunken party. Removing shoes, we sit on tatty cushions, toasting friendship with shots of vodka washed down with beer, tomatoes and slabs of fatty sausage. Protesting as politely but firmly as the situation allows, were lucky to escape relatively unscathed, struggling to rehydrate after a morning of beating sun. Luckily, business has to be attended to; red eyed and wobbly, they soon pile into a jeep and lurch back into the desert.

Forging on, the road is cracked like an old scroll, broken and rough at the edges. Once again, cultivated fields are overrun by the Karakum. At over fifty degree centigrade, we're desperate for anything cold to drink, sipping on water bottles that reach bath temperature in minutes. Between us, we're guzzling some sixteen litres of water a day, yet my throat is parched, dry as the desert around. As the wind chaps my lips I'm barely able to swallow.

Accepting our lethargic pace, we ride without words, our thoughts our own. A few ragged camels and their miniature babies catch the eye. We pass disused factories and roadside clutter, worn out tyres, concrete bus stops and discarded Russian trucks, bonnets gaping open in abandoned surgery. Women in colourful headscarves and embroidered robes stand and watch, a mouthful of gold capped teeth glinting in the sun. Dignified old aksakals - white beards - nod as we smile, garbed in long cloaks and leather boots, heads engulfed by their sheep skin afros. Running parallel to the Trans Caspian railway line, ancient trains rattle across the desert, shunting a long line of cargo and passenger carriages. Thrown into prolonged silence in remote and scrawny junction towns, they wheeze into action once more, lost in the haze of sand and heat.

Tonight, we sleep again on the floor of a tea house. The village of Repetek is half immersed by sand dunes, encroaching like a relentless tide. A motley posse of Kazac bikers have arrived on clattering Urals strapped with bags and provisions. They sit quietly tucking in bowls of chorba, meat soup, dunked with stale bread and washed down with green tea. A little concerned by the gargantuan spiders scuttling across the desert floor, we bed down for the night to the clamour of arriving and departing trucks, exhausted once more from a long and hard day of riding.

Tomorrow is the final push to the border; our last day in the Karakum.