I’m back in the land of the most beautiful women in the world who wear no underwear underneath a thin layer of flowing dresses.
I’m back home. I look at the people around me and feel an inexplicable inner peace. Like I’m in the right place right here, right now. All the fairy tales and books from my childhood are merging with reality. A boy is lying on the sand next to grazing sheep and I can see how he was lying in the same place thousands of years ago, with the same sheep and the same stubborn look on his face. When will this country at least open up a little so I can arrive somehow normal and feel at home again in my life.
If I were a man, I would be the absolute most disgusting filthy sexist gushing sleaze and vulgarity over the beauty of moving asses. Thank goodness I’m just a fragile, decent woman who, with her restrained and chaste gaze, can (just as fragile and decent, of course) appreciate the subtle beauty of other women. Female homosexuality does not exist in Central Asia. And how beautiful they are! Turkmen women and Turkmen men. The most beautiful people in the world.
Some random numbers: petrol costs 1.5 manats. I asked about milking cows but didn’t get an answer. I’m here on a tourist visa with a guide, and he’s from Ashgabat, so he knows a lot about marble and sights, but nothing about cows and horses.
The guide and driver are absolutely the best I could arrange. No starched-looking busboy who will spend an hour telling you the history of some random mishmash of dirt and then take you to a souvenir shop like he’s selling pots to Czech pensioners (and until you buy a plate, we’re not going to the next monument), they make me puke. They giggle and poke around like teenage girls. One is thirty and the other is thirty-five. But they still act like high school classmates when that cute tall blond guy from senior year comes up and gives them a cursory glance. They elbow each other and giggle all the time. Of course, we’ll go through Konya Urgench with a nice tour. But otherwise they’re pleasantly informal.
“This is a mausoleum. This is the gateway to the excavations. This is a minaret from such and such a century, and there’s this and this story attached to it.”
“And what’s that holy place over there where the local lady goes on pilgrimage with strips of shawl?”
“There’s nothing there, I think that’s where she just goes to take a shit.”
I wonder if that’s what they always do, or if it’s just today, that they only have one, in other words one girl to look after, who they almost accompany to the toilet. I feel like I’ve been put in charge of a bunch of two fifteen year old teenagers going out on their own for the first time, and despite the hormones, they don’t know which one beats the other. “Wow, c’mon, DJ eyeball, why are you wearing that jacket backwards, I don’t follow modern trends in dressing up. Shit, it gets in the blood faster that way. Yeah, we’re totally juiced, Mr. [Bleep].” As Peterson Jr. would say. They’re driving up the stairs in the mall, and the milky testosterone just squirts out in all directions from their gestures. But it’s very sweet. I hate formal tour guides.
Otherwise, the marble and gold buildings are beautiful. Cities have such a specific charm with them, and the Turkmen national symbol that appears on every building, on every fence and at every bus stop gives each Turkmen city its own fairy-tale atmosphere. I think it would be easy to get used to, driving around in fancy new white cars with beige leather upholstery, the cleanliness of the streets, the delicious food in the upscale restaurants and relaxing in an air-conditioned hotel. Although I preferred to experience the normal bus, train and everyday life in the city and village. I hope I never get comfortable and lazy like some fat, bloated postman’s ass. When I get to a four-star hotel one day, turn on the air conditioning, stretch out on the couch and turn on the TV in boredom, please shoot me as a precaution, I don’t deserve this world anymore.
After Konya Urgench, we stop for lunch. Randomly, which is lovely. We don’t have any pre-selected places to eat, we arrange everything on the way. We choose a scruffy roadside shack with a sign that says “samsa”. I’m glowing with happiness. I’ve pushed both poor people out of the mall a while ago because A) I hate malls and B) I sat in different cars for a long time yesterday and I just want to walk aimlessly down the street for a few hours normally.
The booth has one table and surprisingly good air conditioning. It’s about 40 outside.
“What do you have to eat?” I ask, my heart nearly bursting with joy. I can finally practice my hard-earned Turkmen! I’m a total shit at speaking, but that’s okay. It’s always like this at the beginning.
“We’ve got manti or chicken habdzabzkrchhx.” replies the waitress, completely unperturbed, as if she doesn’t care that I’ve just uttered my first Turkmen sentence on Turkmen soil. My life event! It just happened!
“Hm, so what can I get you”, she continues boredly when my silence has exceeded the standard decision-making time. I’m like the guy in Cimrman who solemnly stuck his finger in a foreign menu and an hour later – voilà – had a three-tier wedding cake delivered to him with great chef glory. I’ve never heard of chicken bflmpsvzchn, so I put on a completely sovereign face, take a deep breath, and order proudly, “Manty”. Ugh, that was an exhausting conversation. I sweat through my shirt. Just don’t ask me any more questions or I’ll fuck it up. “LM red or blue?” “yyyyyyyyy-yo-yo-yo-youasshole.”
Soon the waitress comes again.
“Manti is not.” she announces resignedly.
Well, I’m not having manti. “So what’s up?” I ask.
“We’re having chicken dfhhkngfx” and at the words I remember the exact three-tier chicken cake as it comes out of the kitchen a few hours later with a cherry on top and I desperately pause. It should be noted that it’s around 3pm and I’ve only managed six cookies at the border in my day, and then somehow forgot that normal people eat sometimes too. Like. Even when they’re in Turkmenistan and they’re as excited as a believer bride’s groom moments before her wedding night.
“… and shorpa.” adds the waitress resignedly.
Ugh. “Then I’ll have a shorpa”, I order hurriedly, before she changes her mind again, knowing there is no shorpa. At least here I know it’s going to be a quick soup with meat, although the type of meat, the consistency and size of the soup and other ingredients vary by region and by specific restaurant.
After the shorpa, we board the train and spend the following night “at the tdm-tdm-tdm hotel”, as one of the train’s two cool overgrown teenagers renamed the platzkart train.
