The Detouring Doctor

The holiest central Asian city in the Muslim world, Bukhara’s history in so many ways parallels that of Khiva. A thriving oasis in the desert and a key city on the famous Silk road it was destroyed in the 13th century by, you guessed it, Genghis Khan. Rebuilt it became one of the three main city states that ultimately served as an almost unconquerable buffer between the Russians in the north and the English in India in the south. This jostling that occurred over almost 3 centuries came to be known as “The Great Game” and cost countless thousands of lives both of the local people and Russians and British. In the end Bukhara was the penultimate khanate to succumb to the Russians.

 Medressa

The earliest buildings here date from the 9th century and this is a city where the restoration work has been sensitively managed leaving the tourist with a more authentic appreciation of the history. This is less “theme park” and more original. As a holy city it was a centre of learning in the muslim world and there are no fewer than 100 medressas (Islamic schools) here, many beautifully ornate. This is a beautiful ancient city that rewards wandering through the bazaars and alleyways.

Bazaar with mosque domes and minaret in background

 Kalon mosque

The architectural gem here is the Kalon mosque. Built in the 16th centuries its bright blue tiled domes are exquisite. Out front is the Kalon minaret which, built in 1127 was the tallest building in central Asia. 47 metres tall it was at that time the tallest building in central Asia and when Genghis saw it he was so dumbfounded that he ordered that it be spared.

For me, though, having studied the Great Game, the highlight here was the Khan’ s palace, known as the Ark and the prison there known as the Zindon. The rulers of medieval Bukhara were every bit as brutal as at Khiva. The ruler with the worst reputation was Nasrullah Khan. There is a portrait of him in the museum here and as I gaze into his large cruel eyes the Uzbek lady watching the room says “Butcher”. To ascend to the throne he had to kill no fewer than 28 members of his own family who were either ahead of him in lineage or who may have taken issue with his rule. Known even to his own people as “The Butcher” he was expert at playing Russian off against British. In 1838 a British envoy, soldier Charles Stoddart rode into Bukhara. Nasrulla arrested him for not dismounting his horse in the city and failing to bring gifts for him. He put him into jail in a 6.5 metre deep well. The only way in or out was by a 6 metre long rope and the prison guards refreshed what was know as the “bug pit” daily with scorpions, bugs and rats. A year later the British sent Arthur Connolly to negotiate his rescue and he joined Stoddart in the bug pit. Four years after Stoddart’s arrest the two were brought out to the courtyard outside the ark. They dug their own graves before being beheaded. While the graves are unmarked all of the rest of the history is here, visible and palpable. Despite the appearance of multiple European tour groups for the first time in my travels I am able to connect with the history of this beautiful and unique place.

Bug pit

Prison

Registan, in front of the Ark, where Connolly and Stoddart were beheaded.

Strolling over the friendship bridge in no man’s land between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan I reflect back to the Russian invasion in the 1980s. They built this almost 1 km long bridge over the Amu Darya River in 1985. How many Russian tanks rumbled across this bridge? How many US tanks rumbled across from Uzbekistan to liberate Mazar e Sharif from the Taliban in 2001? I gaze across to Afghanistan and the bizarre US army spy blimp that floats across the border village of Hairattan.

I have with me on the long hot walk a Kazakh of Afghan extraction who I met on my long wait at the Uzbek border controls. He speaks a little English but he does speak Uzbek and, bonus, Afghan. He cruises through the border formalities before me but waits in the heat on the other side and he is the key to the smooth running of my time in Afghanistan.

The bridge is in good whitewashed nick until we cross the red line painted halfway along marking our passage into Afghanistan. Beyond this the paintwork has been unkempt and rust is breaking through. Nonetheless I am feeling mildly euphoric to actually be here as the anxieties and apprehensions leading up to this day have disappeared. The two Afghan flags at the end of the bridge are small and fraying in contrarst to the race of sparkling new Uzbek flags behind me.

Veering right off the bridge I am stratled by the sight of two American soldiers, bullet proof vests carrying machine guns. I can,t resist to say hi and ask where they are from. In a broad southern drawl one repies “I’m from Texas” It is pleasant to hear a western voice. He continues with a hint of sarcasm says “Now you enjoy your touring through Afghanistan!” I retort that I will be back and out of here this very afternoon after I have taken a few pictures and he breaks out a broad grin. I then pick my way through three parked US tanks, engines running manned with soldiers stationed with machine guns at the ready on the top.

By comparison with the Uzbek side customs takes only 10 minutes and my minder, Bashir, finds an Afghan official who speaks perfect English. I promise I will see him later this afternoon. We jump into a Taxi and Bashir does the rest.

It is a 45 minute drive from the border to Mazar e Sharif through desert. Mountains loom on the southern horizon. We pass by a US military base and I am intrigued to see the same anti suicide bomb protections on the outside that I have seen in recent Hollywood movies. The little villages along the way are few and far between but look much the same as any subcontinental road stops. The women in burkhas evoke images of dark blue ghosts.

Mazar itself is a surprise. It is Afghanistan,s 4th largest city and there is lots of sprawl and traffic. In the centre we reach my destination the shrine of Hazrat Ali and my new friend Bashir leaves me but not before paying for the taxi ride himself in a typical show of Afghan hospitality. Not only that he sets me up with the driver for the rest of my day. The driver follows me around the shrine as my “minder” and drives me the long 45 minutes back all for $20 US. It is such a godsend I do not haggle and accept immediately.

The shrine of Hazrat Ali marks the burial place of the son in law of the prophet Mohammed. The present construction dates back to the 15 th century and it is absolutely sublime! The mosque is huge and clad in stunning blue mosaics. The surrounds are all brilliant white marble and the effect is dazzling. I am so glad that I pushed through all the negative vibe and came here. The photographs promise to be absolutely stunning albeit the harsh midday sunlight will not fully do it justice.  I take time to sit on the white tile ground and take pictures of the people parade passing by. Men, women and children all captured with ease. In fact the kids went out of their way to pose for me and asking some of the bearded older men they nodded and posed for me. I was refused entry into the mosque but not because I was a foreigner, the attendant asked me if I was Muslim. Tempted to lie, I don’t think I could have effectively convinced them if I was to have to perform any prayers or devotions inside.

I bought lunch for myself and my driver and we sat down to a bowl of chips, bread and some sort of vegetarian pakoras seated at an impromptu table in the shade. A beer would have gone down very nicely in the heat. Couldn’t find one so an apple juice sufficed. As I sat and relaxed I reflected on how surreal this was. The people were lovely and friendly. Unsurprisingly I was the only foreigner there.

Back at Afghan customs, my English speaking friend wanted to see my photos before stamping my passport perfunctorily. Even the Uzbek side was quick this time and as I exited the Uzbek side a local bus pulled up as if at my bidding and it is back to Termiz.

Sitting here now and looking at my people pix I cannot but wonder. All foreign troops will be out next year. If, as many analysts and Afghan history suggests the country descends into tribal violence again how many of these people will still be alive in a year or two? For the happy kids playing andd posing for my camera today the future is truly clouded.

Khiva is a name that evokes images of desert sands, camels and caravanserais. A vital stop on the legendary silk road it has the same cachet as other forbidden cities such as Lhasa, Kashgar, Zanzibar and Timbuktu.

In the 16th and 17th centuries it became the centre of the Khorezm empire and ruled by successive Khans it achieved notoriety as the centre of the central Asian slave trade. Turkomen nomads would ambush caravans, stealing their contents and selling the traders to Khivans. The cruelty and treachery of its Khan was legendary and executions for trivial offences were the norm. Torture was commonplace as were novel approaches to killing such as being thrown off the tops of minarets, being placed in a bag filled with feral cats. How’s this for size, throw a baby up in the air for it to land on a sword and be cut in half!

A Russian force was sent in 1717 responding to the Khan’s request for Russian help to control marauding local tribes. By the time a Russian force of 400 arrived the Khan had changed his mind. Nonetheless he welcomed them and put them up for the night. They were massacred while asleep and the Russian leader, Count Bekovitch had his head sent to the neighbouring emir of Bukhara. His body was put on display in the Khiva marketplace. Ultimately Khiva was the last of the central Asian khanates to surrender to the Russians in1873.

Modern Khiva reflects extensive reconstruction since that time. It is all a bit reminiscent of a Hollywood set for Sinbad or Arabian nights.  While there are no truly ancient buildings here it is nonetheless atmospheric and very worthy of a stopover to wander the winding alleyways within the crenellated city walls.

The Aral Sea was, in the middle part of the 20th century the world’s 4th largest inland sea. Apart from being a haven for bird life it supported a large fishing industry with the fleet and cannery based in Moynaq.

The drive to Moynaq, some 210 km from here takes 2 and a half hours generally through barren scrub. Just out of Nukus a wide bridge takes us over the Amu Darya River which is the water lifeline for central Asia. Known to the European explorers as the Oxus it arises in the Tajikistan Pamir mountains, hugs the northern borders of Afghanistan and Turkmenistan before turning north to empty into the Aral sea. Yesterday I crossed the Amu Darya some  200 km upstream, it was an impressive navigable waterway. Downstream where the flow should be greater it is reduced to a trickle.

In the 1950s when tyrant Stalin ruled over the USSR and central Asia he decided to expand cotton production here in Uzbekistan to meet his growing needs. Cotton is a thirsty crop and these are arid lands. The solution, divert the waters of the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya rivers the only inflows to the Aral Sea through a series of irrigation channels. As a result between 1954 and 1985 almost no water flowed into the Aral Sea. Now neither river joins the Aral.

A bright and cheery sign still greets visitors to moynaq with the logo of a fish in water. This despite the fact that where once the Aral sea lapped against buildings in the main street now it is over 100 km away. The sea has lost 70% of its size in the last 30 years leaving behind a white sand desert strewn with seashells. The town itself is eerily quiet and a small museum retells the poignant tale of environmental vandalism.

I walk down onto the sand that was once a sea bed and stroll through the rusted hulks that comprise the ship’s graveyard. Once this was the lifeblood of the local community. I stare at the horizon and words fail me as I contemplate human folly.

Igor Shavitsky was a Russian artist sent to photograph an archeological dig here in Karakalpakstan in the 1950s. He fell in love with the landscape and his paintings capture the harsh light and pastel tones of this untamed landscape. He never went back to Moscow. This was at a time when Soviet art had to reflect the ruling party’s ideals and society so approved art at that time featured scenes such as peasants working, factories and the military. All other art was censored. Out here Shavitsky was remote enough to stay under the radar. He went further and started an art collection that now numbers over 4000 works that were painted by other Soviet artists but banned by the government. A small proportion of these are exquisitely displayed in the impressive museum here in a physical not just cultural desert at Nukus. This must be the most remote fine art gallery on the planet. It is interesting to reflect that the same inasane repressive political system can lead to such a sublime uplifting experience albeit unintentionally. What a contrast to the Aral debacle!

Arriving in the city of Urgench in Uzbekistan at 11:30 am I need to get to the far west city of Nukus, the capitol of the province of Karakalpakstan. Try saying that after a couple of vodkas! Soit is the usualbackpacker argy bargy at the bus and shared taxi stand. None of the drivers speaks English and at first I am tempted to jump on a bus, but the lack of local currency and my need for speed to get me out there has me back with the jostling cabbies I write down $20 US on a bit of paper. There is some argy bargy but I know it is well over the odds and eventually I get my cab and for a 2 hour trip across the open roads it is actually good value and gets me here in good time. The guide book’s preferred hotel, Jipek Joli now sports a Tripadvisor logo on the door and wifi! The basic room is $40 US and it looks great! There is free internet on a home computer and large courtyard for dining. The vibe is comfortable backpacker. The satff even speak passable English. I hate to say it but it is a pleasant change from Turkmenistan where any independent travel is extremely difficult.

Over lunch I note that they do tours here and I scamper back to the desk to ask about Aral Sea tours. The answer is yes and they already have 2 people going tomorrow. What a stroke of luck as the cost is $450 per vehicle and is holds 3 people! I have scored myself the trip at $150, bargain. It is a real bonus as I had only intended a day trip to Moynaq 2 hours drive up from here figuring that I would not get onto an Aral sea tour which goes a further 3 hours along and has us camping by the shrinking Aral sea.

I finish my lunch, its my first dose of the Uzbek national dish called plov. Surprisingly it is actually quite tasty a large plate of lightly fried rice and carrot strips with some roasted mutton chunks on the top. It is better than it sounds!

My last task for the day is to get some local currency. The Uzbek currency is the som and the official exchange rate is $1US is 1400 som. Now the black market rate is 2600 som and everyone uses the black market it is standard here so I head off as instructed by the receptionist to the local bazaar. I wander through for about 10 minutes and try to look like a tourist who wants to change money illegally. Unlike anywhere else in the world noone approaches me at all. I wander into a slightly seedy little shop with 3 guys in it and say change dollars? No response. Standing well away for a quick getaway I wave a US dollar note at them and they say “Oh money change, one minute”. One of them races off and brings back the money changer. It is now I discover that the maximum note is 1000 som and my $100 gets me 265 bills! I am handed a brick that is 200 notes and he quickly counts 65 more and he is gone. Bewildered I figure that I had better just stuff my “stash” into my camera bag and then move on.

Unfortunately my luck changes as the Malaysian couple who were to be my companions for the 2 day trip to the Aral Sea pay me a visit to tell me they have decided not to do it. As that adds $300 to the cost of the trip I decided to just share transport with them to Moynaq which was my original travel plan anyway. Such is life!

My final 24 hours in Turkmenistan begins with a visit to Konye Urgench, the final and the prettiest of this country’s archeo;ogical sites/ In the north of the country this was the centre of the Khorezm kingdom in the 12th century. In a familiar story it was sacked by the Mongols in the 13th century. Rebuilt soon after it was once again destroyed this time by Timur from Samarkand in the 16th century/ The buildings here are especially pretty for the ornate blue tiling which was the precursor for the magnificent buildings subsequently built in Samarkand.

Our drive then to my hotel in Dashoguz is punctuated by a stop at a cotton field where I get to see and pick cotton, its quite a weird crop when you think about it. My final photo here is as the sun is setting on Dashogus town square, the ubiquitous larger than life golden statue of the president with white marble collonade and buildings around (what else?). As I am lining up a shout from one of the workmen has me wheeling around expecting a rebuke for taking the photo. On the countraray the fellow asks “tourist”? I respond in the affirmative and he asks “American”? My response of Australian yields the standard response, yes, you guesssed it “Kangaroo”! He waves his hands broadly all round and says “Turkmenistan”? When I gush that I love Turkmenistan with a thumbs up his face lights up and we shake hands like brothers!

This morning it is off to the border for my first land crossing here. The Turkmen customs don’t want to see my back pack just all the electronic stuff. They speak no English so it turns out to be an exercise in charades, most of which was lost on them. One of them provokes my anxiety when he starts looking through my 500 photos of this trip. I am anxious because I did sneak a couple of photos of the President’s palace and the Parliament which is forbidden. Fortunately he gets bored before those pictures and inwardly I breath a sigh of relief. While the tone was friendly these searches are always intrusive.

It is an 800 metre walk through no man’s land to the Uzbek side. I am initially struck by the fact that unlike Turkmenistan they all spoke a little English. They even had English versions of the customs forms. I was told to epect that they will count every bit of money you bring in and if you have added it up and quoted on the form incorrectly they will hassle you. Amazingly customs just scribbled and stamped my forms and beamed at me and said “Welcome to Uzbekistan”.

Outside customs there is only one taxi otherwise the whole area ids deserted. I have no choice but am heartened when he quites me the same price as the guide book and everyone on the Turkmen side said was the fare namely $10 for the half hour trip. It was though too good to be true and the warnings I have had about Uzbek taxis being extortionate came true at the other end when he said he wanted $10 per bag! I snatched the $10 back from him while abusing him and waiting till he opened the boot. I was surprised to see that he did not respond aggressively and I gave him the $10 and walked off

Darvaza means gateway in Turkmen and the ex town of Darvaz was the gateway from one province to another. In 1971 a Soviet drilling team was routinely drilling for gas here. It is said that sink a pipe anywhere in Turkmenistan and you will strike natural gas. We do not know what went wrong here as the Soviets were never a wrap for transperency but the drilling here resulted in the earth collapsing and a massive crater forming. Gas was escaping through the collapsed earth in the crater so someone decided to light it, the thought being that it would burn itself out in a couple of weeks. 40 years on it is still burning and represents a unique and bizarre tourist attraction!

The road north of Ashgabat is an uneneding straight line through the desert. The countryside is monotonous scrubby desert broken by the occasional “Lawrence of Arabia” classic sand dune. The 200 odd km drive takes 4 hours with a detour to wander through a local village on the way. The turn off to Darvaza is unsignposted and the township itself is long gone a legacy of the dictator Turkmenbashi’s visit during the construction of yhe highway. He found the town to look scruffy so on a whim he sent the bulldozers in and razed it to the ground.

The crater is an 11 km desert “bush bash” and my driver tackles it as if he were doing the Paris to Dakar rally. I am relieved to get out at the crater and walk the rest of the way to our campsite.

From afar the crater looks unremarkable during the day. It appears to be the size and shape of the MCG. Up close the view is jaw dropping. The hole goes down some 30 metres and the scorched black earth is pockmarked with flames leaping through invisible pores through which the gas is escaping. Around the periphery the flames only dart up a couple of metres seemingly dancing with the breeze. In the very heart of this inferno are two large vents propelling flames a good 10 metres into the air. All around there is the smell and sensation of getting too close to a lit natural gas oven. I watch the sun slowly set before heading back for a BBQ chicken dinner and some porty tasting Turkmen wine. As the night takes hold the crater glows a bright gas flame orange. I revisit the crater in the dark and the vision of hell is complete. The demonstration of natural forces at work is truly awesome!

Back on our camp mats sipping vodka and eating melons the milky way splayed above us with a clarity that I have not seen before. Unfortunately the northern hemispheric stars are foreign to me but I am sure I spotted the constellation of scorpio on the northern horizon. An early night and off to an uncomfortable and colds night sleep in the desert. A final dawn view before it is off to leave this stunning and remarkable place.

Ashgabat apparently means city of love in Turkmen, but more rececntly it has been renamed the white city and I am told has an entry in the Guinness book of records for the number of white marble buildings. In contrast to yesterday the sun shone brightly lifting my mood. Overnight I have also rejigged my itinerary to accommodate the blip in the Uzbek visa. It does, though, mean that I will cross into Afghanistan. I must admit to having second thoughts lately but I will literally day trip across and not stay a night. I am comfortable with this plan.

Today was a long walking day and after 7 hours non stop I have seen and photographed all there is to see here including a couple of surreptitious ones of the parliament and presidential palace which are no go zones.

The buildings here are really mindblowing. They are massive and ostentatious in size and design and the white marble with gold trim means everything literally sparkles. The only problem is they look so out of place here recalling more Europe than central Asia. As I can’t put my photos up at this time have a look online yourself, this site has a good collection: http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2013/06/the-city-of-white-marble-ashgabat-turkmenistan/100528/.

As I wander from building to monumental buildings the amazing thing is that there is no sign of life in any of them. Apart from the occasional gardener working outside there is noone. The ticket office to the Palace of fine arts is empty there are no punters here nor at the museum at the monument of Independence. The surrounding car parks are empty. The parklands are also devoid of peolple enjoying them and weeds are in the ascendant in many of them. The parks also reveal Turkmenbashi’s other fixation apart from marble and gold namely fountains and in many areas it looks a bit like waterworld!

The large amusement park lies empty and pathetic in the heart of town and judging by the weed overgrowth it has not been used for years. The giant white marble gates stand empty, the ticket offices closed. The car park around the white marble pyramid shaped shopping centre is almost empty. There are anly three shops inside the complex, one is closed. Most of Turkmenbashi,s magnificent creations are sterile.

As an overview of this ex Soviet nation I am happy to report that despite the millions that have been wasted on the folly of these buildings to satisfy the ego of a dictator, the people here seem happy and enjoy a good standard of living. everything is westernised, there is plenty of food and almost no beggars here. The economy should be strong on the back of massive reserves of natural gas. While they are all state owned and are used to support the lavish lifestyle and the massive marble palace that belongs to the president, some must trickle down to the people.

The locals are also very curious of tourists and are friendly and accommodating. Yesterday a guy drove me to the bank for my payment for the Uzbek visa. I assumed he was a taxi (they are completely unmarked here) but when I went to pay he refused and shook my hand. The restaurant owner 2 nights ago shouted me a beer just because I am a tourist. He speaks no English and I speak neither Russian nor Turkmen so I still don’t know why. Speaking of restaurants, the food is also a surprise, lots of BBG meat, shashlyks etc but also great Russian food, not at all what I expected.

I may be offline for a few days as I am heading out into the desert. The feature here is the Darvaza gas crater where I will be camping out overnight. Now if you didn’t look at the Asgabat link, please do have a look at this one, its awsome: http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2013/06/the-city-of-white-marble-ashgabat-turkmenistan/100528/

The most ethnically remote part of the Soviet Union in many ways suffered more repression than most. The practise of their muslim faith was severely repressed and this far flung desert out post yielded prolonged resistance against their occupiers. In 1995 the unknown Saparmurat Niyazov was elected General Secretary of the Communist Party of Turkmenistan. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, Niayazov declared independence for Turkmenistan and so was born an even more repressive and bizarre rule than was enjoyed by the Kims in North Korea!

Of course he banned all other political parties and started a cult of personality with the order that everyone henceforth call him Turkmenbashi which, translated, means “leader of the Turkmen. Suddenly golden statues of him appeared everywhere and plastered buildings with his image. His slogan ‘Halk, Watan, Turkmenbaşi’ (‘People,Nation, Me’ – an eerie echo of Hitler’s ‘Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer) was ubiquitous.

He bulldozed cities and suburbs on a whim and without regard for the peoples he displaced and replaced them with grandiose white marble edifices glorifying his own reign. He assumed total control of the media. He banned ballet and the listening to music in people’s cars. He renamed the months of the year and days of the week after members of his own family and replaced the bible and the Koran with his own version of “how to live life” known as the Ruhnama. He declared himself President for life, a term cut short by his death in 2006 from a heart attack.

Niyazov’s successor as dictator has relaxed most of the excesses of Niyazov. Even the massive gold statue of Niayazov in Ashgabat which rotated to follow the sun has been dismantled. Nonetheless Ashgabat is still one of the strangest cities on the planet.

Ashgabat has been rebuilt out of the devastation of the earthquake that levelled the place killing 110,000 people in 1948. In Soviet times a grey bleak outpost it has been rebuilt in the last 20 years all in dazzling white marble. There is no high rise but rather massive white marble edifices, often covered  with gold domes and gold trimmings. Bellagio style fountains abound. Individually of themselves beautiful but the massed effect of  large city where every building has a similar theme is less than beautiful and more plain crazy.

My first task is the ever recurring theme of visas. I arrive back mid afternoon and it is off to the Tajik embassy first which is in the same suburb as my hotel, but where? I have no map of this area and noone at the hotel I am staying at speaks English nor cares. Finally another chap in the lobby gives me directions in broken English. Twenty minutes later in the 40 degree heat I find it. Finding a gate ajar I walk through the green, leafy garden and walk into the modest mansion into a sitting room area beneath the stairs. There is no office, desk or counter here so I sit on the plush sofa and arrange my paperwork for the visa on the coffee table. I clear my throat to alert themm i am here and a welldressed lean young man emerges from another room with a faint note of surprise in his eyes. I say “visa” and he sits down examines my documents asks for $50 and goes into another room. Minutes later I am the proud owner of a Tajik visa!  As I leave I now see that the gate has been locked and someone has to let me out. I reflect on my luck, any other time and the gate would have been locked and I would have failed in my mission/

The contrast with this morning could not have been more stark. Uzbekistan has been the thorn in my side and I catch a taxi down town bright and early. This morning the receptionist in the hotel speaks English so I get her to teach me the word “embassy” in Russian so that I could ask the taxi driver. The Uzbek embassy is an ugly grey concrete jungle and there are 30 people milling outside 30 minutes before opening. Lucky it is an overcast day the temp would only be just on 30 degrees today. Bad photography weather but good visa weather. A tiny side window facing onto the street opens and the crush begins. Mine is the only foreign face and the embassy official with calls from a preexisting list of names. This goes on for 20 minutes and as the crowd thins I get right up to the window and a guy looks at my documentation and I am allowed inside the building. All goes well except that to pay for the visa I have to go on a 20 minute trip to the bank by car. A nice local drives me over and refuses to accept payment. In the bank the queue is only a short 5 people in front of me but it still takes 40 minutes all up to pay and then it is a taxi back. I am apprehensive, though, as the payment was only $75 when it should have been $190. I noticed on the paperwork reqest done by the agency that the 14 day period and double entry was specified but in the length of time section it had 7 days. The guy asked and I explained that I wanted 14 days and in that time to go out to visit Afghanistan. I get my passport back and have an Uzbek visa but it is for 2 batches of seven days and I have to leavve the country in between. Not a good fit for my plans. Back to the drawing boards!

4 hours drive east of the Turkmen capitol Ashgabat is the ancient city of Merv. Established over 2000 years ago it reached its peak in the 11^th and 12^th centuries AD when, as a major centre on the silk route it stood alongside Damascus, Baghdad and Cairo as one of the great Islamic cities of the world. It is said that Merv was the inspiration for Scherezade’s One Thousand and One Nights. In a story that is to be repeated throughout central Asia, in the 1200s Merv was approached by envoys of the Mongol ruler Genghis Khan. They demanded grain and a pick of the city’s most beautiful women in return for protection. Merv’s rulers responded by killing the envoys. Three year’s later Khan’s son arrived at the head of the mighty Mongol army. Merv surrendered and all 300,000 of her citizens were rounded up and slaughtered by the Mongols who then destroyed the mighty city.

I meet my guide for the next couple of days a burly middle aged Russian called Oleg. He tells me later he is actually one of the partners of Stantours. He has a passion for archeology and really brings these lifeless that otherwise would look like rubble and sand to life. His English is good but literal and, unsurprisingly, does not read nuances very well. I also found a cultural barrier of some sort between us that made him very hard to read.

First afternoon we head off to the complex of Merv. The heat was a reasonable 37 degress outside and s this complex covers hundreds of hectares we drive between monuments. there is a surprising amount left standing with tombs, mosques and palaces in evidence. The photography was magic/

The next day it was a 3 hour each way bone jarring 4WD out to the 4500 year old ruins at Gonur. The lack of anything than an unsignposted dirt track through the scrub is surprising for such a significant archeological site. What is even more surprising is that there is a little withered old man in a mudbrick house out there to collect an entry fee! All around is flat desolate and sandy. The temperature today is over 40 degrees but as we walk through the ruined foundation Oleg brings to life the buildings and the culture and customs of people who thrived here in an era that was as far removed from the birth of Christ as we are today. Most impressive are the massive pottery kilns and everywhere are shards of exquisite ancietn pottery work. We go into a mudbrick hut one of only two buildings in the ruins to see the well preserved ecavation of horse and sheep bones. All around there is a ledge filled with the best of the intact pottery. We are free to pick them up and examine them. 4500 year old pots in my hands, museum pieces!!! I’m glad I didn’t drop one!

Well satisfied we head back. I have “rescued” a couple of pottery shards from the thousands laying unloved on the ground that are classified as archeological junk. Hopefully I will get them home intact.

Dear reader I do actually have some photos to accompany this article. Unfortunately the internet cafe here has blocked me from uploading any onto the computer. I will try elsewhere later, until then I am sorry