www.scimitarpress.co.uk

Extract 3 - Kunya Urgench

In the morning, Khalbi and I left early; he to open the restaurant and I to catch the bus. The last stage of the present journey was before me: due south, and straight through the middle of the Kara Kum, to Ashkhabad.

Kunya Urgench was coming busily to life. A rickety bus hobbled up to factory gates to disgorge a crowd of workers. From another direction, and another era, came an old man riding a donkey, short-stirrupped, as the Mongolians ride. His telpek had lost the wool off its crown, giving him the appearance of a wildly dishevelled monk.

Mausolea at Kunya Urgench

Another ancient in Teke headgear bore features more Chinese than Turco-Mongol. His ancestors might have ridden west millennia before the Turks arrived. I watched them with fascination as they stopped to pass the time of day, symbol of the meeting of races over many Central Asian centuries. Grandfathers both; had their own grandfathers, I wondered, traded in slaves? The odds were for rather than against, for in the nineteenth century there could have been few Turcomans not in some way involved in what was then the national industry. Keeping livestock and hoeing the odd bit of land might keep body and soul together, but everyone wants to raise their standard of living. And the silver and cornelian that graced the Turcoman's best horses (and, occasionally, if they were lucky, his wives) didn't grow in the oases - except, perhaps, vicariously. Not for nothing did mothers hush their fractious children with the awful threat: "Quiet, or the Tekes will take you!"

...A small elderly gentleman, a Yomud Turcoman in a Russian fur hat, was deputed by my fellow passengers to look after me, for he was also going to Ashkhabad.

Mausolea in present-day Kunya Urgench

The bus was bound for Ak Depe - the White Mound - Leninsk on my map, but now relieved of its Soviet name. My Yomud guide got out unexpectedly at a junction in the middle of nowhere, pulling me after him. I stood anxiously watching the bus continuing south, and hoped that he knew the form.

A huddle of men stood outside a police post, hunched over a fire fed by a pipe of the local gas. A leak close by hissed dangerously, but no-one took any notice. I had smelled several similar leaks in Kunya Urgench, also ignored. At least something, I thought, came cheap in Turkmenistan.

We joined the huddle, and waited. We waited and waited, while the wind played with the gas fumes, and piled half the Kara Kum into my nose and ears. A grinning sandy-haired dog rolled on her back before me in fawning self-abasement; little else moved. After a long time a lorry rolled through the sandy wastes and stopped beside us, engine idling. A man detached himself from the group and climbed in, and with a grunt of its ancient gearbox the lorry moved on. Now I understood. This was the Last Hitching Post Before the Desert, and we were the Queue.

...Kemal and his sister Guljemala were a couple of professional truckers who lived their lives on the road, covering thousands of miles of Central Asia (and formerly most of the USSR), sleeping in the cab of their truck and reckoning themselves lucky if they got back to their home in Tashauz once a week. Both drove the great lorry with a skill that made it look deceptively easy, managing almost imperceptibly with the complete lack of a working clutch and passing improbably smoothly over a road which was more pothole than asphalt. "It gets worse," said Guljemala, as Kemal cheerfully negotiated what looked like a batch of shell-holes.

She was the more extrovert of the two, tolerant of my poor Russian and deeply inquisitive about every aspect of life in England.

"She's beautiful," she breathed, gazing at a picture of the Queen on a twenty pound note. "And how is Prince Charles, and Princess Anne, and Prince William, and John Major? And how many grandchildren has the Queen got now...?"

Mid-Kara Kum

Introduction | Extracts | < | > | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

	Books Scimitar Press		Order Books
	Black Sands and Celestial Horses
	*Extract 3 - Kunya Urgench* In the morning, Khalbi and I left early; he to open the restaurant and I to catch the bus. The last stage of the present journey was before me: due south, and straight through the middle of the Kara Kum, to Ashkhabad. Kunya Urgench was coming busily to life. A rickety bus hobbled up to factory gates to disgorge a crowd of workers. From another direction, and another era, came an old man riding a donkey, short-stirrupped, as the Mongolians ride. His telpek had lost the wool off its crown, giving him the appearance of a wildly dishevelled monk. Mausolea at Kunya Urgench Another ancient in Teke headgear bore features more Chinese than Turco-Mongol. His ancestors might have ridden west millennia before the Turks arrived. I watched them with fascination as they stopped to pass the time of day, symbol of the meeting of races over many Central Asian centuries. Grandfathers both; had their own grandfathers, I wondered, traded in slaves? The odds were for rather than against, for in the nineteenth century there could have been few Turcomans not in some way involved in what was then the national industry. Keeping livestock and hoeing the odd bit of land might keep body and soul together, but everyone wants to raise their standard of living. And the silver and cornelian that graced the Turcoman's best horses (and, occasionally, if they were lucky, his wives) didn't grow in the oases - except, perhaps, vicariously. Not for nothing did mothers hush their fractious children with the awful threat: "Quiet, or the Tekes will take you!" ...A small elderly gentleman, a Yomud Turcoman in a Russian fur hat, was deputed by my fellow passengers to look after me, for he was also going to Ashkhabad. Mausolea in present-day Kunya Urgench The bus was bound for Ak Depe - the White Mound - Leninsk on my map, but now relieved of its Soviet name. My Yomud guide got out unexpectedly at a junction in the middle of nowhere, pulling me after him. I stood anxiously watching the bus continuing south, and hoped that he knew the form. A huddle of men stood outside a police post, hunched over a fire fed by a pipe of the local gas. A leak close by hissed dangerously, but no-one took any notice. I had smelled several similar leaks in Kunya Urgench, also ignored. At least something, I thought, came cheap in Turkmenistan. We joined the huddle, and waited. We waited and waited, while the wind played with the gas fumes, and piled half the Kara Kum into my nose and ears. A grinning sandy-haired dog rolled on her back before me in fawning self-abasement; little else moved. After a long time a lorry rolled through the sandy wastes and stopped beside us, engine idling. A man detached himself from the group and climbed in, and with a grunt of its ancient gearbox the lorry moved on. Now I understood. This was the Last Hitching Post Before the Desert, and we were the Queue. ...Kemal and his sister Guljemala were a couple of professional truckers who lived their lives on the road, covering thousands of miles of Central Asia (and formerly most of the USSR), sleeping in the cab of their truck and reckoning themselves lucky if they got back to their home in Tashauz once a week. Both drove the great lorry with a skill that made it look deceptively easy, managing almost imperceptibly with the complete lack of a working clutch and passing improbably smoothly over a road which was more pothole than asphalt. "It gets worse," said Guljemala, as Kemal cheerfully negotiated what looked like a batch of shell-holes. She was the more extrovert of the two, tolerant of my poor Russian and deeply inquisitive about every aspect of life in England. "She's beautiful," she breathed, gazing at a picture of the Queen on a twenty pound note. "And how is Prince Charles, and Princess Anne, and Prince William, and John Major? And how many grandchildren has the Queen got now...?" Mid-Kara Kum Introduction \| Extracts \| < \| > \| 1 \| 2 \| 3 \| 4 \| 5 \| 6 \| 7 \| 8 Back \| Top of Page \| Home see also: http://www.gillsuttle.co.uk Order Books Scimitar Press Little Mascot The Doward Ross-on-Wye Herefordshire HR9 6DZ United Kingdom Tel. 01600 890730 http://www.scimitarpress.co.uk/ ©1998-2012 Scimitar Press
			also from Scimitar Press.. Steppe By Steppe Mongolia Jailbreak Eastern Europe also by Gill Suttle... Between the Desert and the Deep Blue Sea Syria Slideshows & talks