“Girls, we have other guests, sheiks from Kuwait,” the receptionist said. We learned that a large group of about thirty sheiks had come to Turkmenistan on a hunting trip. The sheiks were travelling with their own falcons.
“Could we meet them?” Charlotte asked. The receptionist gestured that we should follow. She led us down the hallway to a door that she opened without even knocking.
A Kuwaiti bird tender in white cotton pyjamas lay on a bed in the room, asleep. Three falcons, hooded but seemingly alert, stood on a makeshift cylindrical perch, a rolled-up blanket wrapped tightly with packing tape. The receptionist, who was not shy, bent down and squeezed the bird tender’s feet. He woke up and seemed surprised but good-natured. He smiled and offered to show us the birds, clearly proud of the three falcons in his care.
He put on a thick leather glove, which was long enough to cover part of his forearm, and then removed the hood from one of the falcons. It screeched, stretched its wings and hopped onto his gloved hand. The falcon settled down quickly and peered around with an intense look in its eyes. It was tethered, like the others, so that it could not fly around.
“Where are the sheiks?” Charlotte asked. “Could we meet them?” The receptionist took us down to the second-floor lobby. The sheiks sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. They wore long white desert robes with red checked scarves tied around their heads. One sheik spoke English. He told us that he and his friends would soon leave for the Turkmen mountains, where they would camp for twenty days. He offered to take us with them. We thanked them but said we would not be staying for long. The sheik who spoke English said that he and his friends usually hunted in Iraq but could no longer go there (we assumed, because of conflict), so they had come to Turkmenistan instead.
The hunting trip seemed extravagant. The sheiks had rented two jets — one for the men and their birds, and the second for Jeeps. I thought the sheiks were probably also extravagant shoppers. We could not confirm this; the hotel receptionist told us that we just missed the weekly Ashgabat market. I felt disappointed but resigned to missing out on a trip to the market. I did not want to stay six more days in Ashgabat. Shopping would have to wait.
We returned to the American embassy, which was located at the Jubilee Hotel, for interviews. I already imagined myself hard at work in London, with a hotline to the ambassador in Turkmenistan, if news ever broke out there. The makeshift embassy occupied half a dozen rooms. A wardrobe marked the entrance. Placed sideways, it jutted across half the corridor. A large circular plaque with an American eagle on it hung from a nail driven into the wardrobe. When someone bumped it, the plaque swayed and wobbled. So far it had not fallen off. Once “inside” the embassy, the territory was secure as most of the doors were fitted with elaborate locks.
Only four countries — the U.S., Iran, China and Pakistan — had embassies in Ashgabat. The Americans shared their hotel floor with the Iranians. Strained relations between the two countries meant the Americans were not allowed to talk to their Iranian neighbours. It must have been a lonely life at this U.S. outpost in Turkmenistan. I looked forward to leaving.
Roland, a political secretary, briefed us. He knew the region well and talked for a long time. He seemed depressed. I sympathized, having experienced near complete isolation during my early days in Kiev. Charlotte invited Roland to join us for dinner that night.
An impressive collection of Turkmen carpets lay heaped in a colourful pile by Roland’s colleague’s desk. I eyed the carpets enviously and wanted to ask if I could buy one.
After wrapping up our interviews, we inquired about getting tickets to Tashkent at the Aeroflot office but faced the usual grim news. No planes had fuel. None would fly. When would someone rebel? A vast hydrocarbon reservoir, this whole region still shipped all of its fuel to Moscow.
Stuck in Ashgabat, not even able to shop, we read the Lonely Planet guide for suggestions about what places to visit. It recommended an underwater thermal lake at mountains near the Iranian border, about an hour’s drive away. Our hotel receptionist, now quite helpful, also told us about the lake. She said that Intourist ran guided swims there. We decided we wanted to visit the lake, so she booked a car to take us there.
We drove through flat, scrubby terrain. We saw a herd of camels on one side and a ridge of mountains on the other. Eventually we reached an inconspicuous left turning. A small, wooden complex stood at the end of the drive. A burly Intourist guide emerged from inside. We paid him and he led us toward the mouth of a cave in an outcropping of rock.
Spotlights angled toward the craggy roof cast rough, angular shadows. We followed the guide down a steep staircase that turned. We could not see the lake below but felt the temperature rise as we descended.
After a long climb down we reached a flat area with two metal sheds that smelled. These changing rooms must have doubled as lavatories. As we put on our bathing suits, we were careful not to step off the wooden planks onto the suspiciously moist earthen floor.
“You won’t need that,” the Turkmen guide said. He pointed at a raincoat that Charlotte wore. “Or that,” he added and tugged the towel I had wrapped around myself. I followed Charlotte as we descended the final flight of stairs to the lake. She turned for a moment and stared up at me with large, doleful eyes. Our guide stood in front of Charlotte. He wore a tight swimsuit that left the top part of his buttocks exposed in an unattractive way.
We slid into the dark lake.
“It’s lovely and warm, a lot like a hot bath,” Charlotte said. The guide paddled nearby. He held a life preserver ring and wore flippers on his feet. Charlotte and I both swam out, doing the breaststroke.
“I don’t think he knows how to swim,” Charlotte said. She gestured at the guide, who clutched the life preserver.
“Take hold girls, take hold,” he said. Charlotte grabbed the opposite side of the life preserver. I swam alone, a little behind. The guide led us out of the light, toward the back of the cave, where he promised to stop at a crag for a rest.
“But we’re not tired,” I said. Soon we stood on a rock ledge, perched against the cave wall.
“Oi!” Charlotte screamed. “Stop that! He groped me!” I shouted too as the guide squeezed my waist and then the side of my breast. No matter how loudly we screamed, down here, no one would hear us. If he wanted to, this guide could drown us and dismiss it all as an unfortunate accident.
Charlotte insisted that he take us back. I translated. The guide agreed. We had no choice but to follow as we were disoriented in the dark. I heard Charlotte beside me but could not see her. We clutched the life preserver and allowed the guide to drag us through the water.
Charlotte put the relationship back on civil footing with polite chit-chat. I welcomed the opportunity to translate and occupy my mind with something other than thoughts of revenge.
“Have you ever seen a fish in this lake?” Charlotte asked the guide. I saw a dim light, so I knew that the guide had not tricked us; shore lay ahead.
When we arrived, we ran and pulled on the locked changing room door. The guide had the key. We waited for him.
“You can change here, with me,” he said. “I want to see you naked.”
“No bloody way!” Charlotte shouted. She was so adamant that he backed off and opened the door. It was quiet at first inside the changing room. But we soon heard loud bangs as the guide’s feet struck the metal walls.
“He’s breaking in,” I said.