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A Bargain in Turkmenistan ~ The dictator is dead, but you’d never know: his portrait dominates the capital, and people still instinctively whisper when they speak. But one ancient freedom dies hard. Article by Deirdre Tynan |
| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
A millennium ago Turkmenistan straddled the
Silk Road, the most important and lucrative
trading hub in the known world. Today the
Turkmen trading instinct survives. But it’s
focused on those few travelers who come to
peruse the Tolkucha bazaar, one of Central
Asia’s largest markets, near the capital city
Ashgabat.
Silk Road, the most important and lucrative
trading hub in the known world. Today the
Turkmen trading instinct survives. But it’s
focused on those few travelers who come to
peruse the Tolkucha bazaar, one of Central
Asia’s largest markets, near the capital city
Ashgabat.
“For you, $40,” a middle-aged woman says, as
I pause in front of her stall. She’s selling antique pottery fragments and silver jewelry,
battered pewter kitchenware and Soviet lapel pins, all lain out in white shoe boxes and
cream-colored cotton handkerchiefs on top of a worn burgundy carpet.
I pause in front of her stall. She’s selling antique pottery fragments and silver jewelry,
battered pewter kitchenware and Soviet lapel pins, all lain out in white shoe boxes and
cream-colored cotton handkerchiefs on top of a worn burgundy carpet.
Turkmenistan, a gas-rich desert nation trapped between Afghanistan and Iran, has
spent a lifetime languishing in not-so-splendid isolation. Saparmurat Niyazov, the
megalomaniacal president-for-life, promised that the 21st century would be an Altyn
Asyr - a golden age. Niyazov died in late 2006, of heart failure, after a 21-year reign.
But the police state he built lives on.
The morning sun tempers a chill spring wind, which wafts the smoky smell of shashlik,
a stick of mutton served with vinegar, onion and chopped herbs, across the crowded
market.
The saleswoman’s brown leather coat slips to reveal an aubergine velvet dress with
an intricate embroidered neckline. She pushes her green and crimson floral headscarf,
elaborately knotted at the nape of her neck, behind her ears. She pulls out another
clay figurine which she says was found at Merv, an ancient and important desert
citadel on the Silk Road linking Persia with China.
spent a lifetime languishing in not-so-splendid isolation. Saparmurat Niyazov, the
megalomaniacal president-for-life, promised that the 21st century would be an Altyn
Asyr - a golden age. Niyazov died in late 2006, of heart failure, after a 21-year reign.
But the police state he built lives on.
The morning sun tempers a chill spring wind, which wafts the smoky smell of shashlik,
a stick of mutton served with vinegar, onion and chopped herbs, across the crowded
market.
The saleswoman’s brown leather coat slips to reveal an aubergine velvet dress with
an intricate embroidered neckline. She pushes her green and crimson floral headscarf,
elaborately knotted at the nape of her neck, behind her ears. She pulls out another
clay figurine which she says was found at Merv, an ancient and important desert
citadel on the Silk Road linking Persia with China.
Odes to Niyazov can also be caught on state television. Pretty girls are placed in parks
for readings, which are then beamed into every home before breakfast, after dinner
and late into the night.
Turkmenistan was invaded, conquered and exploited, by Alexander the Great, Genghis
Khan and a succession of Tsarist and Soviet generals. Ancient and medieval caravan
trade routes once traversed the Caspian region. Before sea passages were
discovered, Turkmenistan was at the crossroads of the world.
But its importance faded as the tribal economy degenerated into one centering on
camels, sheep and what booty could be lifted from passing caravans trading between
Russia and Persia, usually along with the heads of the luckless merchants.
The empirical leftovers are underfoot at the hundreds of unexcavated archaeological
sites that dot the countryside like muddy outdoor museums. Whole sides of vases lie
upturned like rubble. Anything eye-catching is bagged by scavengers, then finds it
way to market and into private collections.
I decline the stone figurines and cross the market to the shashlik vendors, weaving
my way through an alley of carpets and religious stalls selling both Sunni and Shiite
religious posters in tropical colors. I sit down to a plate of crispy mutton, doused in
vinegar with a side of dense white bread to mop up the juices. The air is thick with
white smoke and the smell of fennel and coriander.
Suddenly I see the figurines again. Not one but three. For good measure a small clay
head has been added. Forty dollars, says the trader, who has cannily waited to close
the deal over lunch.
Although much of Turkmenistan’s recent past and probable future will conspire to keep
to keep it off even the most intrepid traveler’s map, the traders of Tolkucha bazaar
are ready for business. I hand over two $20 bills and pocket a little bit of
Turkmenistan.
for readings, which are then beamed into every home before breakfast, after dinner
and late into the night.
Turkmenistan was invaded, conquered and exploited, by Alexander the Great, Genghis
Khan and a succession of Tsarist and Soviet generals. Ancient and medieval caravan
trade routes once traversed the Caspian region. Before sea passages were
discovered, Turkmenistan was at the crossroads of the world.
But its importance faded as the tribal economy degenerated into one centering on
camels, sheep and what booty could be lifted from passing caravans trading between
Russia and Persia, usually along with the heads of the luckless merchants.
The empirical leftovers are underfoot at the hundreds of unexcavated archaeological
sites that dot the countryside like muddy outdoor museums. Whole sides of vases lie
upturned like rubble. Anything eye-catching is bagged by scavengers, then finds it
way to market and into private collections.
I decline the stone figurines and cross the market to the shashlik vendors, weaving
my way through an alley of carpets and religious stalls selling both Sunni and Shiite
religious posters in tropical colors. I sit down to a plate of crispy mutton, doused in
vinegar with a side of dense white bread to mop up the juices. The air is thick with
white smoke and the smell of fennel and coriander.
Suddenly I see the figurines again. Not one but three. For good measure a small clay
head has been added. Forty dollars, says the trader, who has cannily waited to close
the deal over lunch.
Although much of Turkmenistan’s recent past and probable future will conspire to keep
to keep it off even the most intrepid traveler’s map, the traders of Tolkucha bazaar
are ready for business. I hand over two $20 bills and pocket a little bit of
Turkmenistan.
“Forty dollars,” she says again, this time in Russian, waving her hand and smiling to
reveal a set of gold teeth.
I examine the stone figurines. There is something too fresh about their contours. I’m
intrigued by the fakes, but envision customs officials confiscating all my money as
punishment for attempting to smuggle out something that looks vaguely valuable.
The woman speaks to her partner in Turkmen, a language closely related to medieval
Turkish, a cascade of rolling Ls and long vowels with a dash of soft cha-ka-ta sounds.
They speak quietly, like somebody might be listening. But nearly everyone does this in
Turkmenistan. A uniformed officer is never far away; an informer might be closer.
Niyazov was a grand master of the secret police, of closed trials for unspecified
charges and of indefinite prison sentences in facilities not marked on any map. Gold
statues and giant portraits of the dead president adorn the squares and buildings of
Ashgabat, the seat of government and home to the gilded but opaque ministries that
run Turkmenistan like a fiefdom.
Most Central Asian countries have gingerly embraced imported notions like democracy
and human rights. But Turkmenistan has pulled down the shades.
The new government is a coven of Niayzov loyalists, drawing their legitimacy from their
proven ability to survive his frequent purges. Their policies are modeled on his vision of
power – a supreme head of state presiding over a one-party system.
The Miras Bookshop, located not far from the country’s leading university, bursts with
Niyazov paraphernalia. Six women in ankle length gem-hued skirts stand behind
polished glass counters. They are surrounded by evidence of Niyazov’s cult of
personality – old calendars featuring the dead dictator in a gray suit, and copies of his
book, the Ruhnama, an epic of self-aggrandizement. There are also secondhand
copies of Tolstoy and Pushkin. But no shoppers.
reveal a set of gold teeth.
I examine the stone figurines. There is something too fresh about their contours. I’m
intrigued by the fakes, but envision customs officials confiscating all my money as
punishment for attempting to smuggle out something that looks vaguely valuable.
The woman speaks to her partner in Turkmen, a language closely related to medieval
Turkish, a cascade of rolling Ls and long vowels with a dash of soft cha-ka-ta sounds.
They speak quietly, like somebody might be listening. But nearly everyone does this in
Turkmenistan. A uniformed officer is never far away; an informer might be closer.
Niyazov was a grand master of the secret police, of closed trials for unspecified
charges and of indefinite prison sentences in facilities not marked on any map. Gold
statues and giant portraits of the dead president adorn the squares and buildings of
Ashgabat, the seat of government and home to the gilded but opaque ministries that
run Turkmenistan like a fiefdom.
Most Central Asian countries have gingerly embraced imported notions like democracy
and human rights. But Turkmenistan has pulled down the shades.
The new government is a coven of Niayzov loyalists, drawing their legitimacy from their
proven ability to survive his frequent purges. Their policies are modeled on his vision of
power – a supreme head of state presiding over a one-party system.
The Miras Bookshop, located not far from the country’s leading university, bursts with
Niyazov paraphernalia. Six women in ankle length gem-hued skirts stand behind
polished glass counters. They are surrounded by evidence of Niyazov’s cult of
personality – old calendars featuring the dead dictator in a gray suit, and copies of his
book, the Ruhnama, an epic of self-aggrandizement. There are also secondhand
copies of Tolstoy and Pushkin. But no shoppers.
| Carpets for sale in Tolkucha Market, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. |
| Trader in Tolkucha Market in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Photos by Deirdre Tynan. |
A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented businesses and
services around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities
this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested
in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online resource.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented businesses and
services around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities
this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested
in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online resource.