THE DOOR TO HELL

Once upon a time, deep in the Karakum Desert, a Soviet oil drilling rig was swallowed up by a sinkhole. No one was killed, but when the rig disappeared into the earth, a massive crater formed, releasing large amounts of methane gas. Scientists thought it would be a good idea to light it, thinking it would burn off in a few weeks... That was over forty years ago.

It wasn't long after leaving Ashgabat that we were back out on cracked desert roads, weaving around potholes in a scattered caravan of heavy trucks. We drove north from the capital, away from the mountains that bordered Iran, and into the sand dunes of central Turkmenistan. Uzbekistan was up next, but only after a night of camping by the Door to Hell.

The sun was moving towards the horizon, and the shadow from our car danced over the scorched earth along the side of the road. According to the map we were getting close, and some young shepherds chasing goats across the road reaffirmed our hunch. Turkmenistan doesn't garner enough tourists to turn the outlandish Door to Hell into a full on attraction, but the Mongol Rally had been providing its annual influx of curious travelers, so of course there were a handful of helpful locals to show us the way. We followed an old SUV off the main road and parked our car by a rustic hut at the base of a hill. We opted to hike in rather than catch a lift, and after packing up our gear, we followed a sandy road up into the dunes. The ground was soft and the footing was sluggish, but it felt good to use my legs for something besides pushing the gas pedal and clutch. 

An hour into our trek a convoy of SUVs came blasting through the twilight - it was the Desert Spoons and the B-Team, our fellow ralliers and friends from the Caspian Sea. They had hired a lift, and whooped and hollered at us as they blew by. It was good to know that we where heading in the right direction. 

The horizon was dark purple, and dusk had all but retired when I saw an orange glow pushing up from the earth. I picked up my step and jogged towards the light. Derick and JP followed as I scrambled up onto a small hilltop overlooking the Door to Hell. It was hauntingly stunning, a truly devilish collaboration between Mother Nature and humankind. We took in the view from atop - our friends' silhouettes dotted the fiery gash in the desert floor - and then hiked down to join the party.

It was a cargo ship reunion, and we'd swapped turquoise and metal for fire and sand. We traded stories about Ashgabat's weirdness and our past few days in Turkmenistan, and they shared their warm beers with us as we discussed plans for Uzbekistan. Gusts of dry desert wind kicked up dust around the flaming pit and bursts of hot air stung our faces. The fire was mesmerizing. The gathering was lively, but the flames seemed to pull people into a state of reflectiveness. Solitary strolls around the crater were common that night - where the hell am I? The B-Team had spun off the road that day after hitting a soft patch of gravel. Everyone was ok, despite some rattled nerves. We were a long way from home, and only just over halfway to Ulaanbaatar.

The next morning, after a final loop around the devil's doorway, we packed up and hiked out. The SUVs showed up to shuttle our friends back to the road, and we bade them farewell until next time. It was midmorning by the time we got back to our car. We were sweaty and covered in dust. After emptying the sand from our shoes, we hit the road to Uzbekistan.

ASHGABAT

We hit mid-90s gas prices in Turkmenistan - less than a buck a gallon. Back in Turkey, where gas prices are some of the highest in the world, we'd payed ten times that much. The gas station price-boards in Turkmenistan weren't even changeable, no digital display or plastic cards, the prices were literally fixed - painted on. 

With the fall of the Soviet Union, Turkmenistan gained its independence and Saparmurat Niyazov became president for life, running the country under a big-brother-like, one-party government. After Niyazov's unexpected death in 2006, Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow came into power and started building his own cult of personality, keeping Turkmenistan under tight watch as one of the most censored countries in the world. It's not the easiest place to visit, tourists can only stay for seven days and are required to go through an agency-guided tour. We were able to get a seven-day transit visa as a part of the Mongol Rally, but entering the country was a drag. There was not a single computer in the maze of offices that we pinballed through, and after five hours, we left customs with 250 dollars less and a confusing stack of papers.

We got off to an early start on our first morning, after our bizarre homestay with Roshan. Derick drove for most of the day. The roads were riddled with potholes, and the heavy truck traffic had carved out long stretches of deep ruts. Our little Hyundai had low clearance and small wheels, and the going was slow as we straddled, dodged, and weaved our way through the desert towards Ashgabat. It was dusty and dry. Craggy mountains rose from the horizon and camels dotted the landscape. It had been while since we'd put in a good day of driving, and we were excited to be on the move again.

We'd heard that Ashgabat had more fountains than Las Vegas, and as we drove into the capital, and transitioned from broken desert roads into smooth wide boulevards, we felt like we'd entered an oasis. The city was immaculate - gleaming white-marble buildings, gold statues, gushing fountains, and lush gardens. Even the street lights were ornate. But pedestrians were almost nowhere to be seen. It was extravagantly eerie, a garish ghost town. Policemen ushered traffic down streets lined with grandiose buildings, where no one came and went. The sidewalks were empty, and gardeners tended vacant parks. It was a strange scene, and we were breaking the law by not having washed our car before entering the city.

We got the hell out of the city-center and drove into a more welcoming neighborhood. It was nice having arrived with some daylight to spare, and we enjoyed the afternoon over some beers at an outdoor cafe. It had been almost a week since we'd been online, so after some food, we found an internet cafe - we're alive! Finding a place to stay was a challenge. The first two hotels turned us down, claiming there were no more vacancies. Both places had key racks behind the front desk that were full of room keys. We were beat by the time we found a hotel that would take us. It was a little more pricey than we wanted, but we were approaching the 11PM national curfew, so we had no choice. 

The next day we took another spin around the candy-coated capital. After getting reprimanded by a policeman for stopping the car to take pictures, we decided it was time to head back into the desert. Next stop, the Door to Hell...

TURKMEN HOMESTAY

Glancing over my shoulder I saw a portly woman, modestly dressed in a long skirt, her eyes glued to the floor. She entered the apartment quietly and slid into a room with Roshan’s friend. I wouldn’t have guessed she was a prostitute, but Roshan’s blatant hand gestures left no room for a mistake. He looked me in the eye and smacked his fist into his palm repeatedly, nodding towards the room she had just entered. It was an invitation for me to take the next turn. No thanks. Derick and JP also kindly declined.

We sat in a circle on a floor covered in Turkmen rugs. Empty soup bowls, a couple loaves of bread, and a dish of candies filled the space between us. It was nearing 2 AM and we were on our second bottle of vodka. Roshan had approached us on the street an hour earlier with blood-shot eyes and a drunken grin. We’d parked in front of his building and not a minute had passed before he invited us in for the night. We accepted his invitation, and followed him up into a dark, concrete apartment block. He flicked on the lights and woke up an old man named Casper who was curled up on the floor, and another he called Chief, who had passed out on the flat’s lone piece of furniture. Roshan sent a third man out to buy more vodka, and he returned with with the hooker. It was an impromptu soirée in a room of Turkmen oil workers, their temporary abode while out on the job. The conversation was broken but lively, and we bonded over shots of vodka and manhood. Casper didn’t speak a lick of English, but he managed to dominate the conversation, building his stories with a pair of weathered hands. Roshan translated what he could, and we chipped in with muddled smiles. After being stuck on a cargo ship in the Caspian Sea for three days, capped off by a hellish five-hour trudge through customs, this was our introduction to Turkmenistan.

It was 3 AM by the time we convinced our hosts to let us go to sleep, and they held their promise of an early rise by waking us up the next day before 7. With the call girl there, I doubt Roshan and his friends got much sleep, but they were as chipper as could be as they saw us off. After some tea and a round of hugs, we drove into the dessert. Our first twelve hours in Turkmenistan had been surreal. And it would only get weirder. We were happy to be on the road again. On to Ashgabat!