Turkmenistan > Across the border to Turkmenistan

As I leave the city by bus during the morning rush, I see a learner driver on the road. I immediately feel sorry for the student. Traffic in Iran is some of the most extreme I have ever experienced. Everyone asserts their right of way, and whoever brakes last goes first. As a prospective driver, you quickly need to know the exact dimensions of your car—especially because at a three-lane traffic light, people line up with at least four cars side by side.

Turkmenistan - The wide boulevards of Ashgabat

My bus driver also weaves through traffic. He has two types of horns: a normal one and a very loud one to warn other drivers. Pedestrians don’t matter. Even when the pedestrian light is green, turning vehicles still roar past. The only solution is to jump aside in time. Outside the city, it quickly becomes quieter. It’s a several-hour drive to the border post. The landscape becomes increasingly green, and the road winds into the mountains. The higher I go, the less dry it is. The mountain ridge forms the border with Turkmenistan. Around one o’clock, we approach the border town. Long lines of trucks are waiting to cross. I estimate that the trucks at the back will be waiting for days rather than hours. We pass a line stretching for kilometers. The customs procedure at the Iranian border goes quickly. I walk with my travel bag toward Turkmenistan. The border procedures there take a little longer. I have to get a visa at the border. The application form goes from counter to counter. After more than an hour and a half, the visa is in my passport. Then my luggage has to be checked. This is extremely slow.

Turkmenistan - The palace in the center of Ashgabat

All suitcases must be opened. In front of me are Turkmen travelers. Large quantities of cigarettes are confiscated and destroyed, and they have to cut each cigarette in half themselves. My suitcase is opened as well, but without much trouble I pass the check. I am officially in Turkmenistan. Outside the customs building, I meet Maksat, the guide for the next few days, as well as Murat, my driver. Murat drives the bus to Ashgabat in about an hour. As I approach Ashgabat, I can already see the white marble buildings from the hills. My hotel, like most tourist hotels, is fairly far from the city center. To get downtown, I take the local bus 19. I pay 0.20 manat (0.05 euros) for the ride. I try to follow the bus route on my map but quickly lose track. After a while, the driver tells me to transfer to line 22 for the Russian Market. I get off at the indicated stop. Bus 22 is already waiting. With line 22, I head into the center. The Russian Market is a hub for fruit, vegetables, and other goods. When I take photos, someone comes up to tell me it’s not allowed. I don’t understand the reason. Outside the market hall, I order a large beer—wonderful, a beer again after three weeks in Iran.

Turkmenistan - The white marble buildings in Ashgabat

At checkout, everything goes wrong. The bill is incorrect. I pay for what I had and walk away, much to the waitress’s annoyance. I stroll through the wide streets and notice that there are hardly any people around. The streets are deserted. Lush greenery lines the roads, watered daily because otherwise it would be far too dry. I search for the famous Turkmenbashi statue. According to the Lonely Planet, I should be nearby. From a few young people, I finally learn that the statue has been moved to the edge of the city, and I will need a taxi to get there—something I’ll do tomorrow. I arrive at the beautifully illuminated Turkmenbashi Palace. When I ask a soldier if I may take a photo, he gestures firmly that I may not, and warns that I would be arrested if I do. He presses his wrists together as a warning. Taking photos at other buildings is also difficult. Practically every corner has a policeman or soldier. Perhaps this is why the streets are almost empty. Turkmenistan remains a police state. I look for a taxi. Passersby tell me that five manat should be enough for the ride back. When I speak to someone, she points to a few waiting cars and asks if I want sex. How direct can you get? I politely decline. I then approach a young man in a Lada. He nods when I show him a five-manat note, though he still has to call someone to ask exactly where the Ahal Hotel is located.