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7. Along the Silk Road: Turkmenistan: The Unreal City
- Laurie Hull
- May 3
- 4 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
I do not know how to describe Ashgabat. I have been trying since I arrived and I am still not sure I have the words. Our guide kept saying, it is strange, it is like nowhere else, you never have bad traffic, and he was right, but that barely scratches the surface.
Every building is white marble. Every car is required to be white or silver. The streets are immaculate and nearly empty. Massive monuments rise at every turn, fountains flow in perfectly manicured gardens, neon lights blaze at night across building facades in colors I have never seen assembled quite that way before. At five in the morning on our last day, standing outside in the soft pre-dawn breeze, I heard birds singing, saw the street lights in their perfect alignment, watched the neon still glowing on the empty boulevards, and felt I was inside a dream someone else was having.
The words that kept coming to me: facade. Movie set. Epcot. Vegas. Disneyland. Sci-fi. But none of them quite fit, because those places have crowds and noise and the messiness of people actually living in them. Ashgabat has the grandeur without the mess. It is a city built for display as much as for habitation, and the effect is both magnificent and deeply strange. As one of our group members put it, where are the people?
Indoor ferris wheel behind me and only used a few times a year Ministry of Foreign Affairs Monument of Neutrality National flag School uniforms Independence Monument housing on the outskirts of the city Statues of Turkmen poets Mollanepes and Mataji, Independence Monument
The Turkmenbasy Ruhy Mosque serves as the final resting place of Saparmurat Niyazov, the first president of Turkmenistan. Niyazov was known for being an extremely repressive and autocratic leader.
Turkmenistan is often called the North Korea of Central Asia, and after seeing it firsthand I understand the comparison. The government controls nine television channels. You cannot speak critically of the government online. When our bus driver made a minor traffic error, a police vehicle materialized seemingly from nowhere, wrote a ticket, and expected immediate compliance. No argument. No discussion. Just pay and move on. Our local guide navigated it all with practiced calm.
Getting over the border had been its own experience. Extremely strict inspections, particular obsession with medications, every prescription analyzed as if evidence of something. I had been warned and prepared, but the reality of it still felt jarring.
The first president, Saparmurat Niyazov, who called himself Turkmenbashi or Father of All Turkmen, renamed the months of the year and the days of the week after himself and his mother, commissioned a golden rotating statue of himself that turned to face the sun, and authored a book called the Ruhnama that became required reading for everything from school to driving tests. He died in 2006 and the country has been slowly, carefully opening since. The current president, the son of the second president, took office in 2022. The months have their old names back. Some things have changed. Others clearly have not.
And yet the people. The market in Dashoguz on a Sunday was the antidote to all of it. Raw, authentic, not remotely touristy, packed with women in traditional dress selling everything imaginable. We were a spectacle. People said hello, smiled, wanted to practice English. Cops wandered over not to intimidate but to chat. Friendly, warm, genuinely curious about us. The government is one thing. The people are entirely another.
Seyit Jamal ad-Din Mosque complex was destroyed by the 1948 earthquake. Ruins of the 15th-century mosque and religious complex remain a religious pilgrimage site.
Time for a little "Horsing" around:
The Akhal-Tekke horses deserve their own mention. We visited a breeding ranch outside Ashgabat and the presentation was extraordinary. These horses are considered among the oldest cultured breed in the world, with long necks, large eyes, narrow chests, and a coat so fine that when they sweat heavily the friction can make the skin at the collar appear to bleed, giving rise to the legend of the blood-sweating horses. As the story goes, Stalin ordered them killed in 1935. Sixteen Turkmen riders rode their horses to Red Square in Moscow to demonstrate what would be lost. Stalin watched and cancelled the order. The horses survived. There is something in that story that feels very Turkmen.
Who's up for a mock Turkmen Wedding.
The farewell dinner of the trip featured the mock wedding ceremony I had been hinting at since my Kazakhstan post. There was something special about concluding our three weeks together with this joyful and entertaining group event, as we now felt like family. Our group members Scott and Kathy were chosen as the bride and groom. The rest of us dressed as the wedding party and guests in beautifully crafted traditional attire. The ritual was elaborate: the women guarded the bride, refusing to let the groom's side through until enough money was offered, followed by the dressing ceremony, dancing, and exaggerated negotiations. Everyone participated with full commitment and great hilarity. It was joyful in the way that only completely unexpected events can be. A perfect final night.
At five the next morning I stood outside in the quiet and said goodbye to the strangest, most fascinating city I have ever seen. I am so glad I came.
