21.6.2001 - Over the border into Uzbekistan

Cass writes...

We've reached another border... I'm now sitting in our unexpectedly palatial room, in a hotel just a few metres from customs. Two garishly golden fans, a plush sofa set, dinner table and chairs, hanging carpets and a fake marble fitted bathroom, all for three dollars. We're both sunburnt, underwatered, undernourished and very glad to have arrived.

It's been a gruelling few days, a battle against a soul destroying headwind across the South Eastern fringes of the Karakum Desert; past rolling sand dunes, lone camels, forlorn bus stops and ramshackle trainstop towns to emerge into the industrial sprawl of Turkmenabat - a haze of chimneys and crumbling Soviet-era factories rising from above the dusty veil of the desert.

We stop for 'shashlyk' in a typical tea house, chewing on skewers of kebab mutton chequered with succulent fat. Then quench our thirst with gazly su', shots of carbonated rusty water sweetened with a squeeze of syrup, sold in booths all over the region. With a wad of spare 'manat' to burn, I delve quickly into a covered market and stock up on fresh apricots and a bag of sugar coated peanuts. Outside, the tandem and Rosal are soon lost amongst a horde of people, including half the stall holders and an English teacher acting as translator. The Turkmens are as friendly as ever. When they find out we're on our way to Uzbekistan, we're offered both coins and a cassette of local music to remember Turkmenistan.

Slowed to a tragic crawl in the face of this unrelenting headwind, our potholed road, melting like marzipan in the midday sun, culminates finally in a score of checkpoints manned by disinterested guards, watching us over their rotund bellies. Border formalities pass smoothly, our bags subjected to the most cursory of inspections and a potentially worrying medical certificate waived in exchange for a test ride across the compound. The tandem is a great ice breaker and the perfect prop for jokes, winning a smile from even the most sullen of guards.

It's been a tough slog. After several hundred kilometres in a 50 degree furnace subjected to a sandblaster style wind, we inspect ourselves in the distorted bathroom mirror. Sand has permeated our every pore, gritted in teeth and buried in earholes, gathered in the folds of our clothes and swept into pockets in memory of our crossing.

Sadly, our ten days visit to Turkmenistan is over; crossing the fringes of the Karakum Desert has given us a taste of what this country is really about.