21st DAY: 21 August (Monday) Tbilisi, Georgia

Monday was going to be all about the Russian Transit Visas. We waited at the hotel for the right time to check in with the translator. Yey! They were ready at 11am. The translator’s sign on the door read ‘translations for all languages’ I just wondered whether they would really attemp Thai among the all?. A blond woman with overdrawn lipstick opened the door in a old Tzarist building and waived us toward the neatly packed documents on the desk. ‘Check all and pay? I understood from what she was communicating to us. Accomplishing this, we then went to see the transition-visa lady at the visa center. 

No way anyone working in that office could spare a smile. Ok, friendliness is probably over-rated. She explained that the docs are in good shape and ready to go. Just pay and leave your passports for 7-10 days and come back when you receive a text message on their arrival sometime next week. Doubting the beauty of going around Tbilisi and a Georgia without passports (although I did have a second one in the bag somewhere, Paolo didn’t), we slumped into the couch and waited. The Iranian young Hossein would call us in 10 minutes to let us know if it is a ‘go’ through Iran for a second try. Oh, I didn’t mention about this earlier. Well, at one point someone messaged us: ‘But you are not going to make it to Iran’. I had struggled that night to sleep. I had understood the message to deliver an ill-willed sarcasm that someone resentfully wished us no-entry there. Later, on a more detailed read of the message that we had got it wrong: it had been a question, not cynical at all and that this young Hossein actually had wanted to offer assistance in case we were still interested to try. Hell yeah! 

Anything sounded better than a mad rush through Russia and Kazakhstan for a finger biting race with time to Osh in Kirgizstan. So we now waited on the couch of the Russian Visa Center, whether we had any chance to obtain the permit. Minutes turned into an hour and the visa lady finally came over to let us know she was closing the center. ‘So, no submission today for the transit visa’, she inquired. Everything would move by a day. The race with time would be yet tighter, by that one day. 

Getting a fresh orange juice was next and checking on our hotel arrangements. The Monograph was still at good value. This time, the Monograph gave us a first floor room with a fantastic bathroom and double doze of amenities. These came to great use as our skins were pealing from the sun and no amount of lotion was sufficient. 

The young Hossein  asked for an extra day. So we had until tomorrow, both for the visa submission and Hussain's message. The cable car was first on the list for sights and sounds. The  Freedom Square is just a short sunny walk to the cable car ticket booth at the European Square, a manicured garden. Tickets got us seats in 6-seat car up the hill, basically back to the Freedom neighbourhood. We got a good view of the Mother of Georgia, or Kartlis Deda (ქართვლის დედა), who represents the freedom-seeking spirit and endless struggle for it and strength of the Georgian people. In her right hand she holds a sword of freedom and in her left hand, a vessel of welcome wine. The 1966 aluminium statue is impressive in its spirit and must have given courage and confidence for Georgian’s to deal with their innumerable invaders and struggles as the neighbouring empires have occupied their land. See also the beautiful and ancient writing that Georgians have been able to preserve. Sources are really not clear, but some go as far back as the early expressions coming from the 5th century, some place it to the 9th century and say that the alphabet are derived from ancient Greek, others turn the table and think that the origin of the old Greek script is from Georgian alphabets (there are three sets, mind you). In the evenings, tasting of wines at the Dede Wine Bar is most fun trying to decipher their writing. The fighting spirit of the Georgians comes out time and time again. Nearby, someone was playing back Pink Floyd’s Umma Gumma with his guitar. Nice combination. The day was hot. I have him my coins. 

The meandering steps brought us down from the top of the Sololaki hill take you down to a touristy street and even the Wine Museum. It was closed as it was Monday. back down to down town curled through stairs with views opening on the city from many angles. The steps conveniently land you on a very colorful, touristy, street with a zillion wine bars and even a wine museum, although it was closed on the day, Monday. A filament artist, guarding the Museum, Nino, got up From her Wine glass to welcome us despite the opening hours.  She showed us her art and soon sent her bon voyages and we got on our way. Clueless and generally confused. Nothing was working. 

The Wine Tower was near with a sign for free wine tasting. Zuruh, bored and slightly cynical shop keeper began us with the flight. Rkataiteli-Tsitstska, full body white, creamy and modestly aged; Tsinandali next. Spoiled Kisi followed by another Khisi, unspoiled and fresh. We remarked on the cork smell, to which Zuruh casually added that he too can smell it. The Kathuna Kveri always surprises with its orange winnbnbe look, amber color and deep but fresh mouth. There were few others before we arrived at Saperavis, one young and fresh and the othe European style, as Zuruh explained, these wines are considered finer and are agents in a barrel. This last one went straight to the spittoon. The reds don’t tolerate heat and spoil easily, was my take away. Finally Zuruh exclaimed that we needed a shot of ChaCha, the predecessors of Grappa - winemaking in Georgia started, as everything knows, 8,000 years ago, when Italy was still hunting and gathering. History aside, Zuruh literally flipped when we insisted to pay for the tasting. His personality brightened and he began to talk and smile. He loves Rugby and proudly told how Georgia is now in the major league in with Fiji and other majors. We exchanged Facebook addresses and everything before we got back to our path for the Freedom Square. 

For dinner we took Mariella’s suggestion and Bolted over to Nina’s Garden. All dressed up and ready for a lovely evening, the neighboring table tried to spoil it by playing their phone out loud. I wonder why the millennials need to do that. Our generation, even at their age wanted to keep conversations private. They publish everything. Second nuisance, was a circling black cat. It’s silly I guess, but when living on the road, riding a big, big motorcycle and being basically homeless, all the good luck counts. Finally the food. Georgians had a wonderful couisine, tasty and filling. But it’s also very heavy. Food made for winter. Rabbit in Walnut sauce was just tough to stomach. Taste yes, but eat it was an other thing. To digest, we had a lively walk back. 

Dede’s Wine Bar was just at the corner from the hotel and since it was early as we tended to retire early, there was plenty of time for another glass. We chose to try out sparkling and another white, which we had smelling the exhaust of the passing sense Sunday traffic and watching people parallel park. 

Talking to M, the idea of freighting the bike circled in our heads walking the block back to the hotel. In the morning we’ll sort that out. 

22nd Day: 22 August Tbilisi - Rustavi -Tbilisi Georgia

22nd day: 22 August Still Tbilisi 

Same story. Waiting for the young Hossein to call. No call. Paolo sent messages to some 10 freighters. One replied: yes, 7 days to Baku and $1,600. We began collating the documents. A second one responded: yes, 5 days also to Baku and $1,000. That was it we had an agreement. No need to leave passports anywhere; nor have (hoping) hair raising rush rides across the steppes to Kirgiz. The docs were sent to Abigail and were were packed and saw no need to hang in the city. We got into to the highway North for Stepantaminda. 

Around an hour into the two-and-half hour ride, we got a message from Nihal that he can put thw. Ike on a truck to Baku today. Oh, switch of plans again. Stepantaminda beacons but also a safer and slower ride across Central Asia had its calling. Turning to the bike around, we were at Nihal’s loading site, which was gas station in Rustaveli - not the street, but the town on Northeastern side of Tbilisi. The notary needed to see a few docs first before the loading could start. Once all that was in order, the loading began in earnest. It’s was a struggle between Paolo and the bending 300-kg bike and his slipping Timberland shoes on the rig to get the bike sideways and tied up. I took the last photo and we were in a Bolt back to downtown, this time on our way to the Rooms Hotel. 

The bike on its way to Baku, we had to still wait overnight for our Emirates flight (via Dubai). So a stake night was in order to celebrate. Asado at Mercury Hotel, of course cross town from Rooms, is one of the 4-5 best atakehoises in Tbilisi. The Tomahawk was tasty and drinks were good too. Bolt took us back for th night sure, if not ao safely. We made it though and said good night. 

23rd Day: 23 August Tbilisi, Georgia-Baku, Azerbaijan

Today was all about travel, the ordinary way. Getting cached in. Lounge. Boarding. In-flight entertainment, bad airline food. FlyDubai is Emirates’ no frills. It’s comfortable and actually serves meals with water.  Flights. We’re non-event. As they always tend to be. Quick turn around at Dubai and our flight fee is Borth back to Tbilisi’s neighbor,  Baku. Snazzy London Cabbies gave a discounted rate to the victuals and to the. Sapphire Inn Hotel. We crashed from the day’s excitement, even if disappointed by the photoshopped grandeur of the hotel. 

24th day: 24 August Baku, Azerbaijan 

Knowing that the bike would take longer to arrive, we got comfortable at the Fairmont Flame Tower. Fairmont in Makati had been our home for nearly for three months  in 2017 just before our bike trip to Italy that year to check out the Marsala wines and the Donna Fugata’s wine estate for a Master of Wine event. The Fairmont offered a shaded pool and a first class gym, although I did not make the latter. Tired, I said when invited, but actually annoyed by my lack of interest. 

On foot, we made it the Speed Queen laundry for a automatic self-lavanderia. It was a hot walk with a 20kg laundry bag. We also confronted a lot of trouble to get snobbish pay machine that would not accept just any Manat to work. They had to be crisp and nice. Exhausted from all that, poolside invited and took away the afternoon. 

We ‘Bolted’ down tot the center for dinner. The evening passed in a beautiful old town. It’s small and on a 10-minute walk we took in the time-transporting mesmerizing Meriden Tower and found our restaurant. The many fables about the Maident Tower kept us busy at the old town restaurant balcony. Accompanied by glasses of Savalan, we savored over a Lamb Sac, a sautéed diced lamb with herbs and vegetables and all sorts of condiments. The Fireland Logoatics would pick us up in the morning to pick up the bike from the customs yard! 

25th Day:25 August, Baku, Azerbaijan 

Comfy to wake up in the cradle of Fairmont Glame Tower. Show is perfect with all the beautiful products and lush towels. Breakfast room has a full range of goodies, from Azeri Brel lie to Swiss Birchen Musly. The breakfast room had so much staff that it became a challenge to finish the dish before the plate was carried away by the overly enthusiastic staff. 

Checked out and packed we waited for Hayden in the grand lobby decorated in opulence and piano music. He soon texted about his arrival. I slumped in the back seat and had a chance to commend Baku as a elegant capital. I wondered through how thenprice level was affordable for the people that, on average, earn just over $5,000 a year. It was not possible to distinguish the haves and have nots in the city. So the have nots must live outside Baku. 

‘Sometimes rather will let others into the depot area’, Hayden advised,, so you may have to stay here’. I agreed voluntarily nothing more boring than following g couple of guys from an office container to another to collect stamps on to documents.  I ended up doing that exact thing though. I took photos of the entering cargo and noticed that most of the cars were smashed pretty seriously. Does this mean that this happens regularly to the cargo from Georgia as well? This is actually a seecondary market for totaled and insurgence covered cars from the IS that people buy and fix here in Azerbaijan, Hayden explained.  He was a soft spoken thirty something, with a mild manner and a friendly smile. He showed pictures of his two daughters, one with a green and brown eye and the other with large blue eyes. Both beautiful akin to angels. 

At the second depot after going around for the stamps, we spotted the bike in an articulated truck. It seemed fine. The driver came and shook all our hands. Mine too. We walked over to the truck. The driver got portable metallic ramps out from the back of the truck and the planning on how the hike can be extracted begun. The truck itself had some unexplained mechanical problem so it could not be moved. The bike would have to come directly to the tarmac from its hiding between two vehicles.  The strappes loosened and came off. The bike rested on manpower, literally. There was pushing and shoving, some desperate yells and the bike’s front wheel sliped over the ramp. Its falling! It’s slipping! Everybody came to help now, me too! We pushed the wheel back to the truck and started again, now with more stable positioning of the ramp and yes, inch by inch, the bike rolled calmly down and finally both wheels where steadily on the ground. Aplause and thanks! The team had been great in the end. One blinker light on the truck had falled and 20 Manat exchanged hands. Everybody was happy. We looked over the bike for any major damage. None. We packed and rolled on to the highway to the port. 

At the port, we were immediately asked to come back tomorrow at 9:00am. Great we can do that. Back to Baku, with a quick tour of Gobustan UNESCO Heritage Site. This is a great excursion. The ancient Yalli Dancers have been carved by people that lived in Gobustan when the sea-level was up at the parking lot for the modern day tourists and Round-the-Worlders, some 7,000-40,000 years ago. That’s so long ago that their kitchen was made into stone, consisting of holes of varying sizes where they were able to cook their meals, mostly made of hunting meets, as - the rudimentary carvings from that era - depicted hunters and hunted bulls. There were also lots of pregnant women in those carvings and men and women eternalized in something like stick-man stick-woman figures, now also profiled in the wine lable artwork, for instance for the Fireland Wineyard’s Syrah, making both the wine and the heritage known as the wine world gets over its preoccupation with European wines and opens up to the world. 

We booked Shah’s Palace and got parked right next to the hotel. Our Ottoman-styled room let out to a balcony overlooking the main square. A bench was fitted their for a lazy afternoon to watch the scene and enjoy the music from the cafe down below. At the Maiden Tower side of the square, few sets of stairs lead mysteriously to the Old Garden, a restaurant with Shish and coushioned and carpeted seating, and Azerbaijan grill-ovens for cooking the entire racks of lamb to wonderful kebab meals. It began to rain. Considering the desert we had passed through, it must be the first in the century. Cooled, we ended up dry back at the Shah’s for the night. 

26th Day: 26 August, Baku-Alat-Baku, Azerbaijan 

Back at the port, again, in the morning. 

27th Day:26 August, Baku - Alat (Ramadan) - Sheki, Azerbaijan 

We arraived well on time at 9:00am and were told to come back at 10:00am. We went to look for coffee. A small cafe next to the gas station at the u-turn that had become well familiar to us by now had Nescafe to show in a plastic can for proof that this time coffee did not mean tea. We sat inside away from the sun’s tiring beam. It tasted good and optimistic. Today we would go to Turkmenistan. Should we prepare snacks? 

We got back to the port at 10:00am. But the story had changed. Come back tomorrow. There is no boat. The Bestekar-Ro-Ro is closed. How come? You specifically told us to come back. Arvind arrived and, think, informed everyone that he had asked us to return indeed. No matter. Come back tomorrow and do not come before we text you. Go on now. 

There was no arguing. If these guys would get upset with us, we would never leave. So we directed our sights to Sheki once again and pushed onto the dead-streight M3 for 222km to Yavlaz for the turn North to the Caucasus foothils. We did a small lunch stop at a cute carden with people having their lunches, but with loads of flies. You can’t see that kind of thing from the road when choosing your lunch. The grilled pork was great. We were flanked by a rabbit litter and a small babbling stream with a lock. Could appreciate the candle invention of the Philippinos to chase flies away. 

Arrival to Sheki is auspicious past grape-sellers road-side stances and tree-aligned roads. The were also decorated by pictures of soldiers adorned by flowers, possibly victims of conflicts from Sheki and the surrounding areas. We cruised up hill to the Upper Kervanserai, a replication of the 12th century Kervan built in 1800’s after a mudslide burried the antiquity buildings as these slides have covered so much of the Silk Road history. Kervanserai fulfilled its promise. Still a clumsy expression of a hotel, it’s atmosphere gives away ancient travellers’ old world feel. 18th century brick cloisters, wells and staircases led to its 140 plus rooms, most of them still under renovation. Garden had served as a parking lot for the caravan’s cattle and tents and surely marketing of all sorts was going on at the grounds, wide rectangular inner-chiostro and the garden. Exploring the buildings a bit (unpermitted, as I was told) I spotted many possibilities for music and dining events and elegant soirees at this fashinating building, until I saw a row of low cubicles with Asian toilets side by side. Oh well, I pondered their uses then and now. Anamel certainly was not used in 18th centery let alone 12th. 

We crossed the street from Kervan to Bau Bau wine store where Edi was ready for wine tasting session for 5 Manat each. We started with Madrasa, a local grape with a name that means small mosque. The wine was fresh and young, with lively acidity and sandy tannins, overall lovely and inviting; we moved to Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, produced by Gougol (pronounced: Joyjol) winery and both were great, well curated wines. We ended up with the locals’ favorite, Pomegranate wine, which apparently oxidized even more rapidly than real grape-wine. For me this would be good for popsicles, it came across like a sweet-and-sour fruit-juice. We ended up with the most exquisite view of Shaki, the Caucasus forested foothils and Kervanserai, from the BauBau wine shop’s balcony with two glasses of the Merlot at a private table for two. 

At garden of Qagarin (after the Cosmonaut), at the back of the wine shop, through a stone-cobbled road up through a fancy hotel, dinner was accompanied by too many black cats for my tolerance. Not wanting to render to all sorts of superstitions, I still rather be safe than sorry proposed early night since we had an unsure departure for Turkmenistan the next day. 

28th day: 28 August, Sheki - Alat Port, Azerbaijan

Breakfast in Sheki

Passing a coffee-bean fragrant but still closed Illy cafe immediately down the street from the Upper Kervanserai, where we had just overnighted, at 7:30 we settled at a local restaurant for a Turkish Coffee and tea. Ride ahead was tracing our own path to Sheki back to the port. A message in the WhatsApp sent us off for the straight praerie roads with optimism: ‘there is a boat today’. Arvind, I think that’s what they called him. A clean cut Azerbaijan young man, who operated as the Cashier for the port and would walk from the office building to the Cashier’s kiosk at exactly one hour after he had asked us to be there to punch in texts in his phone for googletranslation for us. English is not widely spoken in Azerbaijan. 

I am getting head of myself. We stopped at a road side restaurant for breakfast about an hour and half later, and after passing the stoned reddish-yellow hills that impressed me to photograph them one hunderd times over. We ordered kebab and kitchkit, local flat bread. The coffee arrived in wide cups, so unusual for Azerbaijan; and then the tea. Kitckit was baked in with dill and spinach. The kebab arrived too, much to our surprise, it was liver and kidneys with a give-away oder that made us stay within our diet. Young waiters made a strenuous effort with their English to ask for permission to get on top of the bike to take photos. Can’t image what the girl next door will say when these turn up on their Facebooks. 

We exchanged addresses and throttled up the highway toward Alat. The strategy was to stop for a coffee, a ‘misnomer’ as the wait staff would always, once seated ask how we wanted our tea. With sacharin? At the coffee, we would text Arvind and check on the time when the Cashier would come to his kiosk, which was himself. Waiting for around an hour, we got the deligtful response: Come at 9:00pm. Ok, now we were in business and had a plan. 

We steered to Baku to Speed Queen. I did not tell you about the Speed Queen. A traveller needs clean clothes. Jeans can be worn for about 5 days consequetively until they really show their tiredness and dirt. It was a wash day. Speed Queen is a laundromat in the center of Baku, the only one at that. Each load costs 10 Manat. But not just any Manat, but a crisp bill that is insterted into the machine just so, otherwise you are back at exchanging your bills at the kiosk. No change is givcn, so you want to get this right. 

Next door though, there is the coolest coffee shop where dj is projected to the wall with lounge music and bubble tea is served with orange coffee and other essence-driven refreshments. The ambiance is very Millennial. We fitted in great, like a sore thumb. 

The sights of Baku include the pole position for the Formula 1 race (by the way, that is going carbon net zero by 2030, guess they can afford the credits) and for us, a stop at barbers, where Paolo got his most embarrazing hair cutting experience. The outcome was fine, but the process involved bending forward for the washing of the hair, which was the first for him ever. He slept through the rest of the barber’s show, woken up only when he poked his cutters into his nose. 

We rode back to Alat Port at 8:00pm to be there just before 9:00pm and got there as planned, with me holding on my nucles as white as was my face of fear. Many drivers press into your lane not respecting motorcyclist and cut in front as if you are not there. In roundabouts, they overtake to your lane in front of you and on the high speed streches barrel pass you left and right. At the port, we were told to wait for the Cashier to open his window at 10:00pm, but also not to worry: ‘Today, you will go to Turkmenistan’. Little after 10pm, indeed, we got tickets: one by one. First Paolo paid and collected. Then, oh, you need an other ticket as well: some more payment and the ticket was issued. Go to the waiting area to … wait. 

I haven’t mentioned toilets much and do not want to dwell. In this case, I need to have a word about this topic. I had such a revolting sense just passing the mens that I turned back. I needed some alcohol into my blood to get passed that open door with a view to the Asian adult potties to the womens’, which could always be even worse. It took couple of hourse. Of course no alcohol. A quick look at some American TV show to forget the place and the task. But then made it through the task. Wheew!

Dosing off at the plastic seat with earplugs and the movie still rolling, a port official came over to fetch us. We got up at speed and followed him to the customs yard and got an approval from the customs officers in their building. It was around 1:30am; at 2am the customs gate opened and we rolled slowly toward the boat and the ramp for rolling in. We were told that we’d load last after the other cargo and needed to wait. Lucky that this chap turned up to say that as we also saw the customs officers waiving us over. Luggage was scanned. They were curious about the bike’s tools and the immigration officer about the dots above the As in my last name. That was a standard by now. We sat down to wait some more. At 3am, we move near the loading ramp and watched the trucks disappear in the ro-ro descending into its bossom. Then us. Quick and easy, we were shown to a smelly cabin for two, with a toilet (western) and a dirty shower. 

The Berkarar is a Turkmenistan ship predominantly transporting cargo. Cargo is loaded to the roll-on-roll off ramp of the ship by the stevedors’ trucks onto two floors. In our voyage the ship was loaded to something like half of its capacity. We had been beaconed to drive the bike in to one of the corners of the cargo area and then were designated cabin 205 in the passenger section of the 4th floor of the ship. There were other passengers. Couple of Russian families and a lone lady. Other corridors had cabins for the staff. Alongside the corridors the staff dried their washed clothes, with the boxers and t-shirts leaving a damp smell to the floor. The aircon worked minimally and the toiled flushed slowly, but there were both. We made our beds with the laid out sheets and pillow cases and laid down for the night.   

Every so often the loud speakers blasted instructions to the mariners and the staff about where to go throughout the rest of the night. We slept until the sun squeezed through the cabins porthole. At 8:00am, we were still at the port. Paolo wondered to the deck and had found some 10 trays ready with breakfast: sweet porrige with 3-in-1 coffees and bread, available for free for the passengers. We were maximum 10, but when we refilled our cups with hot water, there was no-one else but us around. Later, the boat offered lunch as well. We sailed at 2pm on 29 August. 

The ship’s staff were Turkmenistani. They never smiled and looked at us as you would a frog, just seeing it, but passing it by not disturbing it. The day passed writing these stories and reading and sleeping some more. We found lunch by sitting at the cafe. The kitchen guy brought us first a basket of soft bread, kind of like the pizza bread but sweet and then put out trays of rice noodles with a mincedmeat patty of sorts and tomatoes. Once the day turned into an evening, we took our second stroll on the boat. With its just few passengers, most people appeard to be ship staff. We tried the same process of sitting down at the cafe, but this time, nothing arrived at the table. At some point, the kitchen guy turned up with one french fry and told us that that’s all he has. Paolo approached the kitchen and the chef lady had gestured to him that she’ll make something. We waited quite a while. Eventually, plates of sauteed beef was handed to us with a basket of bread. This time, it was delicious with a big D. I drank the sautee liquid from the plate. That never happens, and while that’s so grotesque, it was that delish. The black night passed quickly sleeping in the sway of the ship. Morning light brought also land to sight. No breakfast waited this time. Nescaffe was possible for one Azeri Manat. 

31st day: 31 Aug Turkmenibashi -- Balkanabat, Turkmenistan 

First sign on the road Southeast was a warning of sand blizzards. Here and there sand lifted up to small towering twisters and pursued to the road. The tarmac was immaculate and the time flew on admiring the enigma of the desert in sunset. Soon the bald white head of the moor peaked from the horizon in the East. It was large and gave a glow of ripe apple to the sand dunes, soon turning to ocra high in the sky to light up  our way with the stars. Magical. 

Balkanabat’s Nabichi hotel is the towns best. Rooms are comfortable and carpeted, showers make you new again and the hotel restaurant, slow but reliably serves beer. The night’s sleep was secured now. 

32nd day: 1 Sep: Balkanabat - Ashgabat, Turkmenistan 

We had a long ride ahead. Ashgabat was some 480 kilometers Southeast from Balkanabat, near the Iranian border. The very border crossing the we would have navigated had we been allowed with the bike to Iran. We were also almost in schedule now. We had cut the planned overnight in Yangikala, a mountain canyon with colorful display of the years, decades, and centuries of wind-eroded limestone cliffs. The idea had been to set up camp over night. 

Breakfast at the Nabichi hotel was pleaseant. Cheeses and tomatoes, Nescafé. As we packed the bike, a routine by now with both of us busy clicking latches and locks shut, we took photos of the passing peacocks that would rather have pranced ito the hotel and aske for a room. We rode slowly through the quiet town. It was Thursday morning but the town was silent. Only few cars were out and about, white. We slow edes further ant the Camel statue that adorns the city entrance. This is a massive and impressive tuft depiction of the caravan traversing the desert in a sandstorm. It’s thee Kent are walking a camel loaded with their belongings and water. Their faces are covers with scarves but you can still feel the pain and emotion of struggling theough the hardest of conditions in the blizzard. You can immerse into the force of willpower and grit. 

On the road side, fruit sellers’ inventory included juicy peaches for just a few local Manat. Money is a funny thing here. The prices are anchors to the dollar but sometimes not. There’s also the new and the old manat. Basically, with little you can go a long way. We had coffees. Nescafé. 

Turning off the Eastbound artery, we began to climb to a rocky range to a rest stop of the Alexander the Great. Here, in the hogh hills he had taken a break from his crusades and given a home to his injured and deceased.

The graveyard speaks to Greek legacy of ram horn decorated graves for strength and, allegedly blond, at least blonder population rose from these historical roots that borne at leaflet two remarkable men for the country (and countless women that did not get written about, of course). 

One of these set up the first news paper and the other was the President, one of the three, since independence. 

Further from the graveyard, steps lead to a cave. This cave has only a small opening sufficient for a small girl to crawl through. According to the legend, one small girl that had been married at early age, hid in the cave and lived her life in the underground palace. Today couples and women co to the cave to place their ‘charity’ sacrifice, rings, bracelets and necklaces, to send her a wish for a baby girl or happiness otherwise. I left my prayer too. 

The path way down is flanked by stone likings put together by visitors for their mark of have been there. ‘Sirpa was here’ I wrote through my small pile of rocks. 

Along the steps back to the graveyard had also babbled a small stream. This had dried or been converted to the opposite side of the hill. We cruised back down there and settled in an umbrella covered table for lunch. The waiter took our order of sautéed beef, tomato and cucumber salad. Live music band got tuned and began on heart wrenching ballads in Turkmen. Two ken climbers up the hill next to the gushing stream, the main attraction of the cliffs ode restaurant. They set up nets to reduce risk of falling rocks and add pretty party lights. Later each one of them tried the motor bike. Set on its central stance, it braved the heartiest ones as well as the kiddos. 

The long ride from Balkanabat to Ashgabat was punctuated with grasing camels, dromedaries actually, with just one hump of fat, not two as in an actual camel. Majestically they took onto the road taking their royal time to cross and get all members of the group over safely. All cars respected their pace. No honking or rushing. I tried to say hello, but could not raise their interest. We soon arrived at the underground lake or Kaw-Ala Yerasty Köli,, with sulphuric healing waters. Coinciding German-Swiss group of women of age found itb’uninviting’ for a swim. But as I struggled the steps back up, young locals passed by with towels hang on their shoulders. This site the Government makes use of and built a big resort with an option to drink this elixir of health. For me the smell said it all. 

Yes, Ashgabat is the city where all the buildings are white and all the cars are white too. There are still a few gold and silver colored cars, but that’s going to end soon as the third President has issued his decree to require all cars allowed in the capital to be white. Our guide switched cars at the perimeter to a vehicle registered accordingly  we followed the white car to the Grand Turkman Hotel. 

We set our bags in the Room 211 that did not have a leaking aircon. Across the road via a gleaming underpass, there is a restaurant with Russian service and a dance floor. The live music arrived as we made our exit. The beer had been delish and had gone down easily with fresh salad and, you guessed it, Kebabs.