Essay #5 (Transportation)

The newest fad here in Turkmenistan is lane dividers on the highway. Previously, I marveled at the smooth drivers that swerved every which direction to pass slow traffic on this road with unofficial speed limits and bribe prices. Now, with lane markers, I can see which lane we're not in. The long drives from city to city are all done by taxi (any car on the road you desire to flag down) or Marshutka, a big private van usually without shocks (likewise, flagged down). I love the convenience of picking up a ride anywhere but often feel like the drivers may want more than 5000 Manat, as I've had several hand-holding attempts and some lively discussions about the price. "How much?", I say after getting in. "What do you mean how much?" and a big, gold-toothed smile.

I haven't sampled trains, but if they're anything like Russia, I'll be enjoying either a drunk man, a snoring man, or a drunk, snoring man in my cabin at all times.

Walking would be the transportation favorite in most cases, but the sun makes long walks unbearable. A few people here have bikes, but they aren't used often. Motorcycles with side cars, (I haven't seen a motorcycle without a sidecar yet), are mostly for fun, and I'm not allowed to ride them anywhere.

The crazy thing is--there are airplanes that fly in-country. The planes are new and trustworthy, and flights are about $1.50 anywhere in the country. The trouble is finding a ticket in the world of family favors. A taxi from Balkan to Ashgabat takes 4 hours and costs $4.00. A flight takes 45 minutes and costs $1.50. Go figure.

I'm sure taxi story after taxi story could be written by anyone. Half of our lives here are taken up finding, bargaining for, and riding public transportation.

Next to taxis are buses. For the less wealthy and more time-available customer, a bus can be taken anywhere in our Welayat for 1,000 manat (10 cents). The buses range from a normal European packed-with-people bus to a downright frightening scabies-ridden deathtrap with holes in the floor and actual chairs sitting on wooden planks driven by the oldest living Turkmen in a country without prescription glasses. When buses pass mosques here, everyone does a short prayer by sweeping their hands across their face. They do it out of reverance for the mosque, and I do it to get help surviving the ride from anyone who'll listen to a bus full of Muslims. Of course, the bus driver does it long enough to take his hands from the wheel so the bus can slowly veer into a lane.