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Turkmenistan - The World Strangest Country?

A 15-Day Photographic Journey Through Central Asia’s Most Enigmatic Country, May/June 2026.

By Beyond All Maps - Portraits of our Planet by Thorsten Mehret

June 27^th, 2026

Motivation - Why on Earth Go to Turkmenistan?

People asked me this a lot before the trip, usually with the same expression reserved for someone announcing a voluntary root canal treatment. And honestly, fair enough.

Turkmenistan is often described as one of the world’s most isolated and tightly controlled countries, somewhere in the geopolitical waiting room together with North Korea. Independent travel is difficult, tourists are accompanied by guides, and even casual conversations can occasionally feel like minor diplomatic events. Not exactly your classic backpacker paradise. But that is precisely what makes it fascinating.

No influencer cafés. No digital nomads discussing crypto over oat milk flat whites. Turkmenistan has heroically ignored almost every modern travel trend, and somehow turned that into its unique selling point.

So why go? Curiosity. Pure and irrational curiosity.

Because some places attract you precisely because they feel mysterious, bizarre, and slightly unreal. A country of empty marble boulevards, giant golden statues, and architecture that occasionally looks as if Las Vegas and the Soviet Union had a very confusing child together.

And honestly, how could I not want to see that with my own eyes?

Climate and Best Travel Time

Much of the country is covered by the Karakum Desert, resulting in a dry continental climate with hot summers and relatively cold winters. The best time to visit is generally March to May and September to November, when temperatures are comfortable for sightseeing and desert excursions. Summer, especially July and August, is best reserved for people who look at 45°C and think: “That sounds refreshing.”Winter can be surprisingly cold, particularly at night. In short: visit in spring or autumn. Your camera, your water bottle, and your sweat glands will thank you.

Turkmenistan - The World Strangest Country?

Facts and Figures

Size: ~491,210 sq. km (≈ about 1.3 × Germany)

Population: ~7 million (2025 estimate)

Capital and biggest city: Ashgabat – ~1 million inhabitants (metropolitan area)

Ethnic groups: Turkmen ~85 %, Uzbek ~5–6 %, Russian ~2–3 %, Kazakh, Azerbaijani ~5-7%

Languages: Turkmen (official national language), Russian (widely used in urban and business contexts)

Currency:
Turkmenistan Manat (TMT)

Turkmenistan in one Sentence and 5 Fun Facts

A vast, sparsely populated Central Asian country stretching from the Caspian Sea to the Karakum Desert, known for its extreme landscapes, strict neutrality, and the surreal, marble-heavy capital of Ashgabat, where modern architecture, desert emptiness, and political symbolism blend into one of the most unusual national identities in the region.

1. A country where marble is basically a national identity

The capital Ashgabat holds multiple Guinness-style records for white marble buildings. The city looks less like a typical capital and more like a futuristic ghost town designed by someone with an unlimited budget and a strong preference for the color white.

2. The “Door to Hell” is real (and permanently on fire)

One of the country’s most famous sights is the Darvaza Gas Crater, a massive burning natural gas field that has been on fire for decades. It was accidentally created during Soviet drilling and has been burning ever since, basically a geological bonfire that refused to go out. Darvaza Gas Crater

3. One of the most closed-off countries on Earth

Turkmenistan is famously difficult to visit, with strict visa rules and tightly controlled tourism. It’s the kind of place where planning a trip feels less like booking a holiday and more like applying for entry into a very exclusive (and slightly mysterious) club.

4. Horses are a matter of national pride (and aesthetics)

The elegant Akhal-Teke horse is one of the oldest and most distinctive horse breeds in the world. Known for their metallic sheen and extreme endurance, they are often considered a national symbol—basically the supermodels of the horse world.

5. Neutrality is a political brand

Turkmenistan officially declares itself a permanently neutral state. In practice, this means it keeps a very low international profile while maintaining a highly centralised internal system. It’s one of the few countries where “neutral” is not just a description, it’s an identity.

Itinerary

As traveling Turkmenistan independent is not really an option, I opted for a group tour from Diamir. As the route map shows, our 15-day journey crossed much of Turkmenistan, from the marble capital of Ashgabat to the Caspian Sea, the Karakum Desert, and the ancient cities of Merv, Nisa, and Gonur Depe.

The itinerary offered a mix of history, nature, and culture. Highlights included the spectacular Yangykala Canyon, the Darvaza Gas Crater, remote pilgrimage sites, colourful local markets, and some of Central Asia’s most important archaeological treasures.

Accommodation was just as varied as the scenery. We stayed in comfortable hotels, traditional yurts, a desert homestay, and several campsites in spectacular locations.

What made the journey special was the diversity. Few countries allow you to combine ancient Silk Road civilizations, burning gas craters, camel villages, Soviet oil towns, and empty eight-lane highways in a single trip.

Arrival

The brand-new Terminal 3 in Frankfurt welcomes me in surprisingly empty fashion, at least until I reach the Turkmenistan Airlines check-in counter. Three hours before departure, a queue roughly the length of a small Central Asian border crossing is already forming.

Fortunately, the 70-minute wait feels considerably shorter after I bump into Raimund, one of my fellow travelers for the upcoming adventure. As with all well-traveled people, we immediately skip small talk and jump straight into comparing countries with questionable infrastructure and unforgettable adventurous stories.

Eventually checked in, security and passport control take a grand total of ten minutes, proof that German efficiency still exists, just apparently not at airline counters.

The aircraft itself turns out to be a surprisingly modern Boeing 777-300. Gone are the glorious days when Turkmenistan Airlines proudly spent eight months on the EU blacklist, effectively banned from operating within Europe — a small public relations catastrophe for a national airline that also happens to be one of the country’s very few internationally visible shop windows.

Apart from a modest 30-minute delay, the flight is pleasantly uneventful. The empty middle seat next to me is particularly welcome, one of those small travel luxuries that can dramatically improve one’s mood.

I spend much of the flight talking to Nazar, a Turkmen who has been working as a medical assistant in Berlin for the past three years. Before that, he studied and worked in a hospital in Ukraine, including the first seven months of the war, which he describes simply as a nightmare. He is now visiting his wife and daughter in Turkmenistan and hopes they will soon receive visas to join him in Germany.

From Nazar, I learn two important things about the country ahead: the food is excellent, and Turkmen weddings are huge. When the conversation turns to politics, however, he changes the topic with impressive efficiency.

After roughly 5,5 hours, we land in Ashgabat at 2:20 a.m. The immigration process is straightforward but painfully slow. The visa-on-arrival costs US$120 and requires a considerable amount of waiting.

In the queue, we meet our fellow travelers Mia and Michaele, completing our small group.

Outside, our guide Natasha is already waiting. During the drive through Ashgabat’s brightly illuminated streets, she immediately demonstrates what will become her trademark over the next two weeks: talking without interruption. Questions directed at us are often answered by Natasha herself — a helpful service at 4:30 a.m., when most of us are more interested in the beds of our Hotel Sport, than in conversation.

Over the next 15 days, however, we come to appreciate her enormously. With decades of experience, she proves exceptionally professional, knowledgeable, and authentic. We couldn’t have wished for a better guide.

The Dictatorship Experience
- Welcome to Ashgabat -

Traveling through Ashgabat occasionally feels less like visiting a normal country and more like accidentally stepping onto the film set of a political satire nobody dared to release.

This is a nation where the state clearly believes that moderation is for weaker governments. Why build one giant golden statue when you could build several? Why use ordinary streetlights when entire boulevards can glow with the intensity of a small solar event? And why settle for subtle patriotism when you can cover half the capital in white marble and simply hope for a world record?

Naturally, portraits of the president are everywhere. Watching over streets, buildings, television screens, airports, and probably, at times, your inner thoughts. The overall atmosphere suggests a country engaged in a long-term architectural competition against reality itself.

And yet, despite the absurdity, daily life continues remarkably normally. People go to work, children play in parks, women shop in the bazar and everyone somehow manages to coexist with enormous golden monuments that look as if they were ordered from a dictatorship starter pack catalogue.

As a traveler, you quickly learn the unspoken rules. Don’t photograph random government buildings and officials. Don’t ask overly political questions. And perhaps don’t loudly announce in public that the empty six-lane avenue feels slightly underused.

The fascinating part is that the system is rarely explained directly. Instead, it quietly surrounds you. In the unusually empty streets. In the carefully controlled tourism. In the fact that your guide occasionally lowers his voice before answering perfectly harmless questions.

And somehow, this mixture of surreal grandeur, control, and politeness makes Ashgabat feel unlike anywhere else on earth , part futuristic capital, part open-air museum, part architectural fever dream.

It is strange. It is fascinating. It is occasionally deeply uncomfortable. Which, for better or worse, also makes it unforgettable.

Exploring Ashgabat

Our first day in Ashgabat begins on roads so wide that they appear to have been designed for a population several times larger than the one currently using them. Traffic is light, which means crossing six lanes of asphalt often feels less dangerous than crossing a bicycle path in Amsterdam.

Our first stop is a bustling Sunday market. Unlike the spotless marble avenues of the capital, life here feels wonderfully normal. Women in colourful traditional dresses bargain over vegetables, clothing, and household goods, while the nearby livestock market is very much a male domain. Sheep, goats, and proud owners seem to be engaged in serious negotiations, although it is difficult to tell who is winning.

Livestock Market, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

At the rebuilt Seyit Jemaleddin Mosque, destroyed during the devastating 1948 earthquake, we experience something that surprises us repeatedly throughout the trip: people are remarkably friendly, sometimes a bit shy but curious at the same time. Several younger locals approach us to practice their English, clearly as curious about us as we are about them.

During the day, Natasha shares one of the more memorable facts about Turkmen society: men may obtain a driving licence at 18, while women are expected to wait until 35 because, apparently, they lack the necessary emotional calm before that age. It is an interesting argument. Whether it survives contact with reality is another matter entirely.

Seyit Jemaleddin Mosque, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

The sightseeing continues with visits to the impressive Türkmenbaşy Ruhy Mosque, the Neutrality Monument and the Independence Monument, each proving once again that subtlety has never been a major design principle in Turkmenistan.

Turkmenbashi Mosque, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

Independence Monument, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

Every country has its national icons. Turkmenistan chose the Central Asian Shepherd Dog, better known as the Alabai.

At first glance, it looks like a dog. Then it stands up, and you start wondering whether “small bear” might be more accurate.

For centuries, Alabais protected livestock and nomadic camps from wolves and thieves. Today, they remain a powerful symbol of strength, loyalty, and national pride. Their status is so high that they have statues, celebrations, and government-supported breeding programs dedicated to them. Few dogs anywhere in the world enjoy this level of official recognition.

Lunch at Chatma Lodge was today excellent, and dinner even better. From the rooftop restaurant of our hotel, we watch the sun set over Ashgabat’s endless sea of white marble. It is a genuinely spectacular view and almost enough to make you forget how many monuments you have photographed that day.

Later, Mia and I walk to a nearby shopping mall. The experience is reassuringly familiar. The shops, the architecture — it could be almost anywhere in the world. The only noticeable difference is the number of visitors, which suggests that most of Ashgabat’s population had other plans that evening. Or perhaps they were simply enjoying the city’s famously oversized roads.

Meet the President

In most countries, you occasionally notice the head of state. A portrait in a government office, perhaps a speech on television if something important happens. In Turkmenistan, the experience is slightly more immersive.

The current president, Serdar Berdimuhamedow, is technically everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His image appears across the country with such reliable frequency that after a few days you start treating giant presidential portraits the way Europeans treat traffic signs: mildly reassuring background decoration.

Of course, the true legendary figure remains his father and predecessor, Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow, dentist, strongman, national icon, occasional rapper, horse enthusiast, and possibly the only man on earth capable of making a gold-plated statue look understated. His legacy still hovers over the country like a very expensive marble-scented perfume.

As for the current president, the overall political strategy seems refreshingly simple: continue the family tradition, maintain national stability, and never underestimate the decorative potential of giant portraits.

To be fair, personality cults are hardly unique to Turkmenistan. But few countries execute them with quite this level of architectural commitment. Here, admiration is not merely expressed, it is built in polished white marble, illuminated at night, and ideally visible from space.

Our second day begins at Old Nisa, the former capital of the Parthian Empire and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Parthians were the main rivals of the Roman Empire in the East and fought numerous wars against Rome. Nisa, as one of their earliest capitals is believed to have been founded around the 3rd century BC

The drive itself is an attraction. We cruise along immaculate eight-lane highways stretching for kilometres without encountering more than a handful of cars. It is surreal. Meanwhile, brightly dressed women meticulously maintain the flower beds and green strips lining the roads, ensuring that even the empty streets look perfect.

On our way, we pass one of Ashgabat’s many contributions to the noble pursuit of collecting world records that nobody asked fore: a giant indoor Ferris wheel.

With a diameter of 47.6 metres, it holds the Guinness World Record for the largest enclosed Ferris wheel in the world. Because apparently someone looked at a perfectly functional Ferris wheel and thought: “What if we put a building around it?”

In a country that loves grand projects and world records, it fits in perfectly. Whether it improves the Ferris wheel experience remains an open question. But it certainly makes for a memorable roadside attraction.

Hunting for the next Guinness World Record

Ashgabat has turned collecting Guinness World Records into something of a national hobby. Some are genuinely impressive, others are delightfully specific.

Here are some of the most notable records associated with the city:

Largest concentration of white marble-clad buildings – Ashgabat is famous for its gleaming white architecture and holds the record for the highest density of marble-covered buildings in the world.
Largest enclosed Ferris wheel – The Ferris wheel you passed on the way to Nisa, with a diameter of 47.6 metres, holds the record for the world’s largest enclosed Ferris wheel.
Largest architectural star – The giant eight-pointed Oguzhan Star atop the television tower was recognized as the world’s largest architectural star image.
Largest fountain complex – A vast collection of fountains covering a large area on the outskirts of the city earned a Guinness World Record.
Largest indoor fountain – Another example of Ashgabat’s determination to ensure that even fountains can be record-breaking.
Highest number of fountain pools in a public place – Naturally, once you start collecting fountain records, it is difficult to stop.
Largest horse-head-shaped building – Dedicated to the famous Akhal-Teke horses, one building was recognized for its distinctive shape.
Largest image of a bicycle – Installed in connection with a government initiative promoting cycling.
Most people in a cycling awareness lesson – Because if you’re going to promote bicycles, you might as well do it on a Guinness-record scale.

The amusing thing is that many cities collect records accidentally. Ashgabat seems to pursue them with the same determination other places reserve for economic development or football championships.

After a few days in the city, you begin to suspect that somewhere in a government office there is a department dedicated solely to asking: “What world record could we break next?” And honestly, that might not be entirely wrong.

Before we explore the area of Nisa, Natasha warns us about the region’s poisonous snakes. This will become a recurring theme throughout the trip. Much like airport security warnings about unattended luggage, the snakes are frequently mentioned but never actually appear, beside on time. But that is a story to be told later.

For 30 minutes we are the only visitors. For a brief moment, it feels as if an entire ancient civilization has been preserved exclusively for our group.

From the ruins, we can clearly see a long concrete ribbon winding its way up the foothills of the Kopet Dag mountains. This is the famous Walk of Health, or Saglyk Yoly.

At over 30 kilometres long, it was built under former president Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow, who apparently looked at a pleasant morning stroll and thought: “What if we made it ten times longer?”

The trail was intended to promote fitness, and over the years countless government officials, soldiers, students, and civil servants have been encouraged—or perhaps strongly encouraged—to demonstrate their enthusiasm for healthy living by walking it. The views are undoubtedly spectacular. The exercise probably is too.

From our vantage point at Nisa, however, the concept seemed most enjoyable as an architectural feature rather than a personal challenge. Admiring 30 kilometres of uphill walking from a comfortable distance felt like exactly the right amount of fitness for the day.

As with so many things in Turkmenistan, the Walk of Health answers a question nobody else had thought to ask: How do you turn a hiking trail into a national monument?

Bye the way, the green roofs you see everywhere in Turkmenistan are not an accident. They are largely the result of government planning and aesthetic regulations rather than local architectural tradition. For visitors, the effect can be quite striking. After a few days in Turkmenistan, you start noticing a recurring pattern: white marble buildings, immaculate flower beds, oversized roads, and green roofs stretching into the distance. It’s almost as if someone was given three colours, white, green, and gold, and instructed to design an entire country around them. Which, in some parts of Turkmenistan, may not be far from the truth.

Next comes the beautiful Ertugrul Gazi Mosque. Its elegant interior immediately reminds me of the great mosques of Istanbul and provides a welcome contrast to the marble-and-monument overload of Ashgabat.

Ertugrul Gazi Mosque, Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

Lunch consists of delicious steamed dumplings that feel like the Central Asian cousins of Chinese dumplings. Whatever their official name, they disappear from our plates remarkably quickly.

In the afternoon, we stop at the Russian Bazaar, where I purchase a bottle of vodka for our upcoming desert adventure. It seems like sensible preparation. If not for drinking, then at least for disinfecting snake bites from all those poisonous snakes we keep hearing about.

Our final stop is a horse breading-farm. If there is one animal that rivals the Alabai for national celebrity status in Turkmenistan, it is the Akhal-Teke.

One of the world’s oldest horse breeds, the Akhal-Teke was bred to survive the harsh desert and is famous for its speed, endurance, and remarkable metallic shine. In the sunlight, some horses look as if they have been polished shortly before our arrival. For centuries, horses were essential for survival, transport, and warfare, making them a powerful symbol of Turkmen identity and pride. As visitors, we admired them. The Turkmens adore them.

The Akhal-Tekes may be the pride of the nation, but on this particular afternoon, they are decisively outcompeted by some cute kitten and dogs.

In the afternoon, we board the night train from Ashgabat to Türkmenbaşy for a 15-hour journey across the endless Karakum Desert.

To our delight, every two travelers get an entire four-bed compartment. By overnight train standards, this is luxury bordering on decadence. Even better, the friendly conductor generously allows us to use his private bathroom, complete with a Western-style toilet. His musical taste, however, is more debatable. At various points, the soundtrack of our journey includes Modern Talking. It is astonishing how often I have encountered Modern Talking around the world, from South Korea to Peru and now Turkmenistan. Apparently, while empires rise and fall, Brother Louie remains eternal.

Outside the window, the desert stretches endlessly towards the horizon. Surprisingly, there are also enormous puddles along the tracks, suggesting recent rainfall. Seeing so much standing water in the Karakum feels slightly wrong, like finding a ski resort in the Sahara.

Occasionally, we stop at small, dusty and somewhat rundown towns. The contrast to Ashgabat could hardly be greater. Gone are the marble palaces, immaculate flower beds and world-record architecture. Here, Turkmenistan feels less like a carefully curated showcase and more like a real country.

Train Ashjgabat to Turkmenbashi, Turkmenistan

Western Turkmenistan

Oil, Gas and the Caspian Riviera

At 8:00 a.m., our train rolls into Türkmenbaşy on the shores of the Caspian Sea. This is Turkmenistan’s oil and gas heartland, dominated by industry, pipelines, and a modern harbour. Charming might not be the first word that comes to mind.

Waiting for us are two Toyota Hiluxes and our drivers, Serdar and Berhard (most like wrongly spelled). Unlike our permanently cheerful driver in Ashgabat, who appeared to have been born smiling, these two seem determined to conserve facial expressions. We decide to give them a few days to warm up.

After breakfast, we head to Awaza, Turkmenistan’s answer to the French Riviera. Officially, foreign tourists are not allowed to enter. Unofficially, a short visit seems perfectly acceptable. When asked why foreigners are banned, Natasha simply shrugs. “Many things are not explained to us.” This turns out to be one of the most useful phrases for understanding Turkmenistan.

Private cars are also prohibited, forcing us to switch to taxis at a gigantic parking lot that appears capable of handling the traffic of a major sporting event. On the day of our visit, it is occupied by approximately a dozen vehicles and three times us much taxis.

Awaza itself feels like a seaside version of Ashgabat: wide empty boulevards, immaculate landscaping, and rows of gleaming white hotels. The beach has piers, benches, and all the ingredients of a classic seaside resort. What it lacks are people. The atmosphere is less Saint-Tropez and more English seaside town in February.

In the fish section, we notice an impressive amount of smoked sturgeon. Clearly we are at the Caspian Sea. The sellers politely ask us not to photograph it together with them. The reason seems fairly obvious, so we don’t press the matter.

Following my long-standing travel philosophy of “You have to try everything once,” we buy a small piece and ask for it to be sliced thinly, almost like sashimi.

Well. Let’s just say the experience was educational. The sturgeon turned out to be chewy, intensely fishy, and surprisingly resistant to being eaten. It wasn’t terrible, but it certainly wasn’t one of those life-changing culinary discoveries that make you question all your previous food choices. Some experiences are worth having once. This was definitely one of them.

After the market, we make a quick stop at a Russian Orthodox church. Natasha explains that Turkmenistan’s various ethnic communities, Russians, Uzbeks, Azerbaijanis, and others, live together peacefully and harmoniously.

And honestly, there is little reason to doubt her. After all, in a country where political neutrality is not merely a foreign policy but practically a state philosophy, getting along with your neighbours seems very much in line with the national brand. Whether by conviction, tradition, or simply common sense, harmony appears to be the preferred option.

First Steps Into the Desert

Leaving the coast behind, we head deeper into the desert, stopping for lunch in a tiny village whose economy appears to revolve largely around camel breeding.

The young camels are remarkably curious and show absolutely no respect for personal space. Mia discovers this firsthand when one particularly enthusiastic youngster decides that her wrist might be edible. Fortunately, it turns out to be more interested in exploration than actual consumption.

Yangisuw Canyon

After another two hours on dusty tracks, we reach the spectacular Yangisuw Canyon. Surrounded by dramatic rock formations and complete silence, we set up our first desert camp.

Our camp is set in a spectacular location, especially as the setting sun paints the canyon walls in glowing shades of red, orange, and gold. Together with Michaele, I take a leisurely walk into the valley, enjoying the silence and the constantly changing colours of the landscape. With dramatic cliffs all around and not a soul in sight, it feels wonderfully remote. Not a bad place to spend the night, provided the camels don’t develop a taste for tourists.

The night in the canyon is windier than expected. At some point, one of my tent poles apparently decides that it has had enough of this camping nonsense and ends its career rather abruptly. Faced with the choice of rebuilding a tent in the middle of a windy desert night or applying creative engineering, I choose the latter. My large travel bag is strategically deployed as a structural support, transforming the tent into something that would probably not pass any safety inspection but remains functional enough for a few hours of sleep.

I wake before the rest of the camp and catch the sunrise over the canyon. The silence, the colours, and the vast landscape make it one of those moments that remind you why sleeping in a semi-collapsed tent can occasionally be worth it.

Yangykala

After breakfast, we continue towards the spectacular Yangykala Canyon on roads that seem specifically designed to test the durability of both vehicles and vertebrae. We arrive around 10:30 a.m., and the scenery is every bit as stunning as promised.

Unfortunately, so is the sunlight.

The harsh late-morning light washes out much of the canyon’s famous colours, leaving me slightly frustrated. This is clearly a place that deserves sunrise, sunset, or ideally an overnight stay. Visiting one of Turkmenistan’s greatest natural wonders in the least photogenic light of the day feels a little like attending a fireworks display at noon.

Recent heavy rains force us to take numerous detours around muddy sections of track. Sometimes the “road” disappears entirely and we simply head cross-country. Salt flats, sandy stretches, and open steppe alternate outside the windows. At one point, the air is filled with the pleasant scent of wild wormwood, briefly giving the desert the aroma of a very large herbal shop.

Along the way, we stop at a bizarre mushroom-shaped rock formation...

...and the lonely Kemal Ata Mausoleum, which appears to have been built in the middle of nowhere for people who felt nowhere was still too crowded. The mausoleum is dedicated to the revered Sufi saint Kemal Ata and remains an important place of pilgrimage. The setting is peaceful, atmospheric, and wonderfully isolated. Standing there, surrounded by little more than wind, dust, and endless horizons, it is easy to understand why people have been drawn to this place for centuries.

As the day progresses, the wind strengthens. Dust clouds occasionally reduce visibility to almost nothing as we continue towards Gözli Ata Mausoleum. Somewhere beyond the dust, the landscape continues, but at times it becomes largely a matter of faith. Fortunately, faith is exactly what mausoleums are for.

If Kemal Ata feels remote, Gözli Ata Mausoleum takes things to another level.

Reaching one of Turkmenistan’s most important pilgrimage sites involves a long drive across desert tracks, dust storms, and landscapes that appear almost entirely devoid of human life. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, hundreds of pilgrims arrive every year seeking blessings from the revered holy man Gözli Ata.

Despite its importance, the atmosphere is surprisingly calm and uncommercial. There are no souvenir stalls, no tour buses, and no crowds. Just pilgrims, prayers, and the desert.

The day starts at 5:30 a.m. with a short hike to a viewpoint overlooking the vast desert landscape around our camp. Three overly enthusiastic dogs decide to accompany me. Whether they are acting as guides, security guards, or simply hoping for breakfast remains unclear. The endless empty scenery reminds me a little of Mongolia, wide open spaces, big skies, and the feeling that the next village might be somewhere next week.

Since we skipped an itinerary point the day before, we briefly return to Kemal Ata Mausoleum. Mia has discovered photos of some intriguing rock formations nearby. Reality, as so often, proves slightly less dramatic than Instagram. The rocks look more peanut-shaped than perfectly spherical, but in their scenic setting they are still worth the short detour. Besides, they are only a few metres from the mausoleum, making us wonder why we didn’t stop there yesterday in the first place.

Fortunately, time is not a problem today.

The drive to Balkanabat takes us across sand, gravel, potholes and occasional tarmac. None of these seem to influence Serdar’s driving speed in the slightest. He handles the vehicle as if he is competing in the Dakar Rally while simultaneously possessing a supernatural ability to predict every bump, hole and obstacle before it appears. Strangely enough, it never feels unsafe. Only upon reaching the outskirts of Balkanabat does he suddenly slow down dramatically on a perfectly smooth highway.

“Police,” Natasha explains. No further clarification required.

Lunch proves surprisingly difficult because of a public holiday, but eventually we find a restaurant with an interior that would not look out of place in a fashionable Western city. As usual, there are hardly any customers. The food, however, is excellent: fresh salad, lentil soup, and two varieties of delicious flatbread.

The nearby Nebitchi Hotel turns out to be unexpectedly comfortable. Even better, we are welcomed by a group of peacocks wandering through the garden as if they own the place.

A Trip to the Moon

In the afternoon, we head to an extinct mud volcano about an hour outside the city. Along the way, oil fields gradually give way to a barren landscape that looks increasingly extraterrestrial.

At 5 p.m., the sun is still brutally hot. Around the volcano, the terrain resembles a lunar landscape complete with strange rock formations and a saltwater spring filled with reddish water. Nobody seems entirely sure why the artificial spring exists.

Perhaps its sole purpose is photography. If so, it performs admirably.

The climb to the crater is accompanied by a steady battle against heat and gravity. Fortunately, we find some shade behind the volcanic cone and are rewarded with spectacular views over the surreal surroundings. What sounded like a minor side trip turns out to be one of the day’s highlights.

Drill Baby, Drill!!!

Around Balkanabat, one thing quickly becomes obvious: this region runs on oil.

Oil pumps dot the landscape in every direction. Some are modern, some look as though they have been operating continuously since the Soviet Union, and a few seem to be held together primarily by optimism. Yet many are still working.

The numbers are impressive. Oil is pumped from depths of around 2,500 metres, and a single well can produce anywhere between 10 and 300 tons of oil per day. That’s a lot of fuel emerging from a very deep hole in the ground.

Driving through the area feels a little like passing through an open-air museum of petroleum engineering. Every few kilometres another pumpjack appears on the horizon, slowly nodding up and down as if agreeing with everything.

Desert Rally to the Edge of Turkmenistan

A long day lies ahead. Our destination is Gyzylarbat, a name that translates rather poetically as “Beautiful Girl”. Before getting there, however, we have a modest detour planned: 460 kilometres through some of the most remote parts of western Turkmenistan.

The further we travel towards the Iranian border, the more the road deteriorates. First, we occasionally leave the tarmac. Later, we abandon it altogether.

At some point, the distinction between “road” and “desert” becomes largely theoretical.

Serdan seems entirely unfazed. On flat stretches of hard-packed desert, he accelerates to 140 km/h. This is roughly German Autobahn speed, except without the Autobahn. The landscape alternates between endless barren plains, patches of low scrub, and sections so corrugated that every bone in the human body receives individual attention.

Around midday, we reach the ruins of Dekhistan. A blast of hot wind greets us like an industrial hairdryer set to maximum power. The car thermometer reads 45°C in the shade. Unfortunately, the site offers the innovative concept of no shade whatsoever.

The ruins date back to the 9th and 10th centuries and include the remains of a mosque and madrasa. The city was eventually destroyed by Mongol forces numbering some 12,000 men. Standing here under the merciless sun, my main question is not why the Mongols destroyed the place, but why anyone built a city here in the first place.

According to Natasha, a river once flowed through the region. Looking at the landscape today, that requires a certain amount of imagination.

Lunch takes place in the dusty village of Madaw, somewhere in the middle of what appears to be an ongoing argument between humanity and nature. Most houses are surprisingly well maintained and equipped with air conditioning, including the minimarket where we enjoy a picnic of pirogi and grilled vegetables inside the attached warehouse.

It may not be Michelin-starred dining, but it has two decisive advantages: cold drinks and functioning air conditioning. Outside, the temperature has climbed to 47°C.

The villagers mainly earn their living through camel breeding and felt production. Personally, I cannot imagine voluntarily spending a summer here, but the locals seem perfectly adapted to conditions that would qualify as a natural disaster in Germany.

The route continues just 14 kilometres from the Iranian border. The scenery becomes hillier, with brown grasslands and occasional green patches. Herds of goats appear on the horizon, and once again I am reminded of Mongolia, albeit a significantly hotter and less green version.

The quality of the route continues to fluctuate wildly. Sometimes the off-road sections are smoother than the actual roads. At other times, neither can reasonably be described as infrastructure. Whenever conditions allow, Serdar resumes his desert rally career.

One of the highlights of the day is the crossing of the so-called Moon Mountains, a spectacular landscape of barren greenish hills glowing in the late afternoon light. Naturally, we are once again warned about the area’s many poisonous snakes. This time the warning comes not only from Natasha but also from Serdar, who has spoken perhaps twelve words since we met him. The effect is immediate. For the next hour, we carefully inspect every patch of ground before taking a step. Naturally, we see exactly zero snakes.

Two checkpoints lie along our route. Fortunately, we pass both without incident. Natasha visibly relaxes afterwards and explains that waiting times can vary considerably depending on the staff on duty. One suspects that the occasional exchange of cold drinks and cigarettes as a gesture of goodwill may also contribute to administrative efficiency.

After nearly thirteen hours on the road, we finally arrive in Gyzylarbat at 8:45 p.m. The Chynar Hotel is simple but perfectly adequate.

After 460 kilometres of heat, dust, checkpoints, Mongol history, imaginary snakes and Formula One-style off-road driving, “perfectly adequate” feels like luxury.

Turkmen Cuisine

Turkmen cuisine is not about culinary experimentation, molecular gastronomy, or dishes served on pieces of slate. It follows a much simpler philosophy: if something contains dough, meat, or both, it is probably worth eating.

At the centre of many meals is plov, a hearty rice dish with meat, carrots, and onions that appears throughout Central Asia. Every country claims to make the best version. The debate is unlikely to be resolved anytime soon.

Another staple is manty, large steamed dumplings filled with meat and onions. They are essentially the Central Asian answer to Chinese dumplings, only bigger and capable of sustaining a grown adult for the rest of the day.

Bread deserves special mention. Turkmens take their bread seriously. The traditional round flatbread, often baked in clay ovens, accompanies almost every meal. It is delicious, but only when fresh.

In the countryside, camel milk products, grilled meat, soups, and various pastries are common. Along the Caspian coast, fish occasionally appears on the menu, although my personal experiment with smoked sturgeon proved that not every local speciality is destined to become a lifelong favourite.

What struck me most was the consistency. Whether in a modern restaurant in Ashgabat, a roadside café, or a dusty village warehouse serving as an impromptu lunch venue, the food was almost always fresh, generous, and surprisingly tasty.

In the end, Turkmen cuisine reflects the country itself: traditional, hearty, uncomplicated, and far better than most visitors expect.

Just don’t expect to leave the table hungry. That would be considered a failure on everyone’s part.

Central Turkmenistan

Wheat Fields, Desert Breakdowns and a Night Under the Stars

During the night, I am briefly awakened by what sounds like the end of the world. The wind rattles doors, shakes windows, and generally creates the impression that our hotel is about to relocate itself. By morning, however, the storm has disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, leaving behind nothing more than a few sleepy travelers.

After a quick visit to the local market, we head towards the desert. The first surprise of the day is that Turkmenistan is not all sand and camels. Around Gyzylarbat, vast wheat fields stretch across the landscape.

Even more surprising are the machines harvesting them. Instead of ancient Soviet relics, we find shiny modern combines and tractors from CLAAS⁠ and John Deere⁠. It feels a bit like expecting Ladas and finding Mercedes.

The roads start reasonably well but gradually deteriorate into something that can only loosely be described as infrastructure. Eventually, one pothole succeeds where countless others have failed. A loud bang is followed by the uncomfortable realization that our vehicle no longer responds to the accelerator.

After thirty minutes of enthusiastic troubleshooting and another hour of repairs, the culprit is identified: a broken diesel pump. Fortunately, the problem is fixed, and we continue our journey. In Central Asia, mechanical improvisation occasionally deserves recognition as an Olympic sport.

Our route follows the ancient Uzboy River. Calling it a river today requires a certain degree of optimism. It is more accurately described as a chain of lakes connected by historical memories.

The weather is mercifully cooler than yesterday at only 36°C. The landscape has also changed. The desert now looks more like what most people imagine: sandy terrain, yellow grass, low bushes, and dunes held together by stubborn vegetation.

By late afternoon, we arrive in the small desert village of Belishem. There are no electricity lines, no gas pipelines, and few signs of modern infrastructure. Yet the houses are well maintained, there is a school, and life appears surprisingly orderly.

The villagers are friendly and curious. Since neither side speaks the other’s language, conversations rely heavily on smiles, gestures, and creative hand movements. At one point, we even receive an invitation from locals, which we reluctantly decline because dinner is already waiting.

As night falls, I decide to join the drivers and sleep outside on a patio. Compared to the warm rooms, the open air feels wonderfully cool.

And so, under a sky full of stars somewhere in the Turkmen desert, I drift off to sleep. No electricity, no air conditioning, no Wi-Fi.

Just me, a sleeping mat, and the hope that tomorrow’s potholes are slightly smaller than today’s.

Across the Dunes to the Gates of Hell

Today’s journey takes us deeper into the Karakum Desert. For hours, we drive up and down across an endless sea of dunes. There is no dramatic scenery change, no major landmarks, just sand, more sand, and occasionally even more sand. At some point, I begin to suspect that the desert may have been designed by someone who only knew one landscape feature and decided to repeat it several thousand times.

By the afternoon, we finally reach Turkmenistan’s most famous attraction: the Darvaza Gas Crater, better known as the “Door to Hell”.

Before visiting the crater itself, we check into the nearby camp. Calling it a camp almost feels unfair. With more than 60 yurts, it resembles a small desert village. To our surprise, we are assigned the VIP yurts, complete with a private bathroom and even a hot shower. Luxury, Karakum-style.

Even more surprising is the complete absence of other visitors. The camp feels almost abandoned. The explanation is simple: most tourists arrive only in the late afternoon to see the crater glowing red after sunset.

For a few hours, however, we have this unlikely desert resort almost entirely to ourselves. Sitting on the terrace with nothing but sand dunes on the horizon, it is hard to imagine that one of the world’s strangest natural, or rather man-made, attractions is waiting just around the corner. And unlike most tourist sites, this one is literally on fire.

There are many ways to attract tourists. Some countries build castles. Others create theme parks. Turkmenistan looked at a giant hole in the ground that was on fire and thought: “Good enough”.

The story behind the crater it sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a bad engineering joke. In 1971, Soviet geologists drilling for natural gas accidentally caused the ground to collapse, creating a crater roughly 70 metres wide and 30 metres deep. Concerned that methane gas might escape into the atmosphere, they decided to set it on fire.

The plan was simple. Wait a few days until the gas burns off. Fifty-five years later, the crater is still burning. In fairness, nobody can accuse the Soviets of lacking optimism.

Visiting Darvaza during the day is impressive enough. Standing on the edge, you can look directly into a giant pit filled with hundreds of small fires. Heat radiates upwards, and the constant roar sounds like a giant gas stove left running by someone who has gone on a very long holiday.

Yet in daylight, the crater almost looks surprisingly ordinary. A large hole. Some flames. Interesting. Then night falls.

Suddenly the entire crater transforms into something that genuinely deserves its nickname. The darkness makes the flames appear far larger, and the glowing orange abyss lights up the surrounding desert. Standing on the rim, peering into the inferno, it feels less like a geological attraction and more like a film set for a fantasy movie. Or an entrance exam for the afterlife.

Fun fact: despite being Turkmenistan’s most famous tourist attraction, there have been repeated discussions about extinguishing the crater. For decades, however, it has stubbornly continued burning, apparently unaware of government plans.

As we watch the flames dancing in the darkness, surrounded by the silence of the Karakum Desert, it becomes clear why people travel from all over the world to see Darvaza.

After all, how often do you get the chance to spend an evening at one of the planet’s most spectacular industrial accidents?

Craters, Hospitality and a Night in the Middle of Nowhere

Another day, another long drive through the endless expanses of the Karakum Desert.

Not far from the Darvaza camp, we stop at yet another crater. By now, Turkmenistan’s crater collection is beginning to feel surprisingly comprehensive. We have already seen the famous fire crater and various mud features. Today it is time for the water crater. At least in theory.

In practice, it turns out to be less of a natural wonder and more of a water-and-plastic-bottle crater. While the water itself is quite impressive, the scattered rubbish around the edge somewhat undermines the wilderness experience. Apparently, even remote desert craters are not entirely safe from modern civilization.

Around lunchtime, we arrive at a small desert village and are welcomed into the home of a local family. Life here appears remarkably simple. The desert provides few luxuries, yet the warmth and hospitality of our hosts more than compensate for the lack of material comforts.

As so often in Turkmenistan, communication relies on smiles, gestures, and the occasional translation from Natasha. Nevertheless, we immediately feel welcome. The family even allows me to take a few portrait photographs, and their openness makes this one of the most memorable encounters of the trip.

Turkmen Social Life - Family First, Everything Else Second

One of the most interesting aspects of traveling through Turkmenistan is discovering that behind the marble facades, giant monuments, and world records lies a surprisingly traditional society.

Family is at the centre of almost everything. Not just parents and children, but grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts, and quite possibly several people whose exact relationship nobody can fully explain. Individualism exists, of course, but it generally ranks somewhere below family obligations and hospitality.

Guests are treated with enormous respect. Refusing food is difficult, partly because it may be considered impolite and partly because Turkmens seem genuinely convinced that every problem in life can be improved with one more plate of food.

Marriage remains one of the most important milestones in life. While modern dating certainly exists, family approval still carries considerable weight. Weddings themselves are not so much private celebrations as large-scale logistical operations. Guest lists often number in the hundreds, occasionally feeling less like a wedding and more like a regional summit meeting.

The bride usually appears stunning, the groom slightly overwhelmed, and the families determined to ensure that nobody leaves hungry. Or sober. Or early.

Traditional gender roles also remain stronger than in much of Europe. During our travels, we learned that men may obtain a driving licence at 18, while women are expected to wait until 35 because they supposedly lack the necessary emotional calm before then. It is one of those explanations that is presented with complete seriousness and received by foreign visitors with equal amounts of fascination and disbelief.

At the same time, everyday interactions are remarkably warm. People are curious, welcoming, and often eager to talk—at least until conversations drift into politics, at which point many suddenly discover a pressing interest in discussing weather, horses, or weddings instead.

And perhaps that is the secret to understanding Turkmen social life: family, hospitality, food, and celebrations matter far more than political debates. The result is a society that can feel conservative, occasionally puzzling, but almost always welcoming.

Just don’t expect to leave a wedding before midnight. Or with an empty stomach. Both are considered unrealistic goals.

By late afternoon, we leave the village behind and continue deeper into the desert.

Tonight there will be no hotel, no guesthouse, and no yurt camp. Instead, we pitch our tents in a quiet spot somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

And by “middle of nowhere,” I mean exactly that. No roads, no lights, no villages, and no mobile reception. Just desert stretching to the horizon in every direction. It is wonderfully peaceful.

Unless, of course, Natasha is right about all those poisonous snakes we keep hearing about. Fortunately, just like every previous day, they remain entirely hypothetical. Not hypothetical is the scorpion we find below one of our tents. Despite being small in appearance it has an impressive stinger, definitely something you don‘t want to come too close.

Eastern Turkmenistan

Sunset over a Lost Civilization

Today comes the final major desert crossing. By now, we have spent three consecutive days bouncing across Turkmenistan’s backroads, tracks, dunes, and whatever else occasionally passes for transportation infrastructure. The novelty of being shaken like a cocktail mixer has begun to wear off. Even Serdar seems slightly less enthusiastic about setting new desert speed records.

Hours later, tired, dusty, and thoroughly marinated in desert sand, we finally reach our destination: Gonur Depe. Our camp is set up directly beside the archaeological site, and with some daylight remaining, we decide to explore on our own. The timing could not be better.

As the sun slowly sinks towards the horizon, the ruins glow in warm shades of gold and red. There are no fences, no crowds, no souvenir stalls, and no tour buses. Just us and the remains of a city that flourished more than 4,000 years ago.

Gonur Depe was one of the most important centres of the mysterious Bactria-Margiana Archaeological Complex (BMAC), a Bronze Age civilization that thrived here between roughly 2400 and 1700 BC. Long before the Persians, Greeks, or Silk Road merchants arrived, people built palaces, temples, fortifications, and sophisticated irrigation systems in what is now largely desert.

Walking through the ruins alone at sunset feels almost surreal. The silence is complete. For a moment, it is easy to forget the modern world entirely and imagine what this place might have looked like when it was still alive.

After sunset, Mia and I decide to experiment with a bit of light painting photography. The concept sounds simple enough: wave a light around in the dark and hope for the best. As with many things in photography, reality is usually less cooperative. To our surprise, however, the results turn out far better than expected.

The Snake That Finally Showed Up

After countless warnings throughout the trip about Turkmenistan’s many poisonous snakes, we had begun to suspect they were largely mythical creatures. Rather like the Yeti, only with scales. This morning, however, the snakes decided it was finally time for an appearance.

Together with Natasha, we are walking towards the ruins of Gonur Depe for an early guided tour. Mia and I are busy chatting and paying approximately zero attention to our surroundings when a sudden cry from Natasha ahead of us instantly raises everyone’s heart rate.

A snake is heading directly towards us. And not slowly.

For a brief moment, the situation feels surprisingly dynamic. Mia and I perform a less elegant sideways leap, just allowing the snake to pass before it disappears into a nearby hole. Adrenaline levels remain elevated.

During the following emergency snake committee meeting, we compare observations: roughly one metre long, thin, silver-grey with black markings. Natasha eventually concludes that it was probably an arrow snake and, more importantly, non-venomous. Apparently, we had startled it.

To be honest, for those few seconds it felt very much the other way around.

After days of carefully scanning the ground, checking every bush, and receiving regular reminders about dangerous reptiles, our first snake encounter turns out to involve a harmless animal that was simply trying to get somewhere.

Meanwhile, the humans were the ones jumping around in panic. The snake probably went back to its hole with an excellent story about the strange creatures it had encountered that morning.

After the adrenaline rush, we proceed with the tour. What looked like random mounds and walls in the fading evening light suddenly becomes much more understandable. Natasha points out palace complexes, defensive walls, ritual structures, and traces of one of Central Asia’s earliest urban civilizations. It is one of those sites where a good guide makes all the difference between seeing a pile of ancient mud bricks and seeing history. Still, I am glad we visited twice. The evening gave us atmosphere. The morning provided context.

Back to Civilization

After four more hours on dusty roads, we finally arrive in Mary. After days of desert camps, potholes, and landscapes where camels outnumber people, the city feels almost metropolitan.

For lunch, we stop at a surprisingly elegant restaurant. In the main hall, a wedding celebration is already in full swing. The women are dressed in beautiful, colourful traditional dresses, the atmosphere is festive, and everyone seems to be having a great time.

Only one detail puzzles me. It’s Wednesday. Around noon.

Apparently, in Turkmenistan, weddings are not constrained by such trivial concepts as weekends. If hundreds of guests are available on a Wednesday lunchtime, then Wednesday lunchtime it is.

After lunch, it is time to say goodbye to our drivers, Serdar and Berhard. Over the past days, they have safely transported us across deserts, gravel tracks, dry riverbeds, and roads that occasionally appeared to have lost the will to be roads. Despite Serdar’s tendency to treat parts of the Karakum like a rally stage, we have survived remarkably well. For the next two days, a minibus will take over.

Finally, we check into the comfortable Margush Hotel. After several nights in tents and desert camps, a hot shower and a soft mattress suddenly feel like revolutionary inventions. Civilization, it turns out, is not a philosophical concept. Civilization is hot water on demand.

From World’s Greatest City to World’s Largest Ruin

We leave Mary at 8:00 a.m. to beat the worst of the heat while visiting the ancient ruins of Merv. Merv is not just one ancient city. It is a collection of cities built on top of, next to, and around each other over more than 2,000 years. Different civilizations kept arriving, building a city, abandoning it, and then letting the next group have a go. Archaeologically speaking, it is the urban equivalent of a layer cake.

Among the highlights are the magnificent Mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar, dating from the 12th century, the ancient citadel of Erk Kala, founded around the 6th century BC, the mysterious Greater Kyz Kala, also known as the Virgin Fortress, and several important mausoleums and pilgrimage sites.

The most remarkable thing about Merv is its history. During its golden age in the 12th century, it was one of the largest cities on Earth. Some historians estimate that only Constantinople was larger. Imagine that for a moment: one of the world’s greatest cities standing in what today looks like a quiet expanse of ruins in the Turkmen desert.

Unfortunately, this success attracted the attention of the Mongols. In 1221, the forces of Genghis Khan conquered the city. Contemporary accounts claim that up to one million people were killed. Historians debate the exact number, but everyone agrees on one thing: it was catastrophic. Merv never truly recovered. The Mongols, it seems, were not particularly interested in urban renewal projects.

Mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar, Merv, Turkmenistan

Mausoleum Muhammad Ibn Zayd, Merv, Turkmenistan

Back in Mary, we visit the Russian Orthodox Church, the Gurbanguly Hajji Mosque, and the excellent local history museum before returning to the hotel.

Church of the Holy Intercession, Mary, Turkmenistan

Gurbanguly Haji Mosque, Mary, Turkmenistan

Later, I wander alone through the bazaar. Unlike Ashgabat, which sometimes felt as if people had been carefully hidden for aesthetic reasons, Mary feels genuinely alive. The market is busy, people smile, greet me, and almost every woman wears colourful traditional dresses. At one point, I am even asked for a selfie.

For a brief moment, I experience what it must feel like to be a minor celebrity. Then I remember that I am simply the only obvious foreign tourist in sight. Dozens of curious eyes follow me through the market. In Mary, I am clearly the exotic attraction.

Dinner provides another surprise. We eat at a restaurant that is not only busy but genuinely packed. Yes, such places apparently do exist in Turkmenistan.

Inside, loud club music blasts through the speakers. Outside, live traditional music competes for attention. The owner, an Armenian lady with seemingly limitless energy, tells us they serve around 400 guests every day.

After spending much of the trip in near-empty restaurants, I am beginning to suspect we have discovered one of the country’s best-kept secrets.

Back to the Marble Capital

Our final day in Turkmenistan begins with a 350-kilometre drive back to Ashgabat. The highway is immaculate. Fresh tarmac, multiple lanes, almost no traffic. If Germany ever wants to study how to build roads without roadworks, it might be worth sending a delegation.

The landscape, however, is less exciting. For hours, we travel through a remarkably flat world of brownish steppe, low bushes, and the occasional patch of green farmland. It is not ugly, but after two weeks of canyons, deserts, ancient cities, burning gas craters, and snake encounters, it feels a little like the scenery has decided to take the day off.

Eventually, the white marble skyline of Ashgabat reappears on the horizon. And then something extraordinary happens. We encounter traffic. Not a traffic jam, of course. Let’s not get carried away. But for the first time since arriving in the capital, we see roads that are actually being used. Cars occupy all three lanes. Drivers overtake each other. People are clearly going somewhere. It is strangely reassuring.

During our first days in Ashgabat, the city often felt like a futuristic movie set that had somehow forgotten to hire extras. Monumental buildings, gigantic boulevards, immaculate parks, and almost nobody around. Today, however, the city feels noticeably more alive. For the first time, I get the impression that behind the marble facades and oversized avenues there is an actual functioning city rather than an architectural concept.

Perhaps Ashgabat was real all along. It just took us two weeks and 3,000 kilometres across deserts, ruins, villages, and burning craters to catch it on a busy day.

One Last Evening in Ashgabat

We have lunch at an elegant Uzbek restaurant. The highlight is a grill built directly into the table, allowing us to prepare our own meal.

Afterwards, it is time for the traditional end-of-trip ritual: souvenir shopping. Well in my case only a bottle of Vodka and some local sweets.

Back at the same hotel where our journey began two weeks earlier, we prepare for the evening’s cultural programme. Together with around 25 other tourists, apparently all reaching the end of their tours at the same time, we are treated to traditional music, dancing, and dinner. At some point, guests are invited to wear traditional costumes and join the dancing. For some people, this is the highlight of the evening. For our group, it is the universally recognised signal that it is time to leave. A tactical retreat is executed with remarkable efficiency.

Instead, we spend the evening on a final night tour through Ashgabat. If the city already looks surreal during the day, it becomes even more extraordinary after dark. The white marble buildings glow under elaborate illumination, fountains sparkle in every direction, and the broad boulevards remain astonishingly empty.

It feels like driving through a futuristic capital built by someone with an unlimited electricity budget and a deep affection for symmetry.

As our journey slowly comes to an end, Ashgabat remains what it has been from the beginning: fascinating, bizarre, impressive, and occasionally difficult to believe.

In other words, a perfect finale to two weeks in Turkmenistan.

Farewell Turkemistan

Our final journey begins with a bus ride to the airport. The bus is designed for about 40 passengers. We are four. Much like Ashgabat’s roads, it is somewhat oversized for the actual demand.

Natasha accompanies us all the way to security to make sure everything goes smoothly. After two weeks of deserts, ruins, checkpoints, and endless stories, it feels strange to say goodbye.

Check-in requires some patience, but the rest is surprisingly relaxed. Despite passing through two security screenings, nobody asks us to remove laptops, cameras, liquids, or anything else. Even Mia’s 1.5-litre water bottle raises no suspicion.

The flight departs perfectly on time and is only half full. I get an entire row to myself, one of aviation’s greatest luxuries. Overall, Turkmenistan Airlines leaves a very positive final impression. I would happily fly with them again.

Back in Germany, we say our farewells and return to our normal lives. Just a few hours earlier, we were still in one of the world’s most unusual countries. Now it is back to everyday routines.

Final Verdict

After 15 days, several thousand kilometres, one burning gas crater, one snake encounter, and enough white marble to tile a small continent, the obvious question remains:

Is Turkmenistan worth visiting? Yes. But probably not for the reasons most people expect.

Turkmenistan offers an impressive variety of attractions: ancient cities like Merv and Gonur Depe, spectacular landscapes such as Yangykala Canyon and the Darvaza Gas Crater, colourful local markets, fascinating traditions, and genuinely friendly people. Add to that the near absence of tourists, and you often feel like you have entire archaeological sites or landscapes almost to yourself.

At the same time, it would be dishonest to pretend that the historical sites are necessarily more impressive than those in Uzbekistan, the mountains more spectacular than those in Kyrgyzstan, or the markets more vibrant than those elsewhere in Central Asia.

What makes Turkmenistan unique is the combination. Few countries offer such a curious mix of ancient civilizations, vast deserts, oversized monuments, empty six-lane highways, and a personality cult so visible that it occasionally feels as if the country itself has become part of the sightseeing programme.

Yet behind all the marble, monuments, and political symbolism live ordinary people who have adapted remarkably well to a system they did not choose. Meeting them, observing everyday life, and trying to understand how society functions is every bit as fascinating as visiting the country’s famous landmarks.

Turkmenistan is not the easiest destination. It is not the most comfortable, the most accessible, or the most spectacular in every category. But it is undoubtedly one of the most unusual. And in a world where many destinations increasingly feel similar, that alone is worth a great deal.

So would I recommend going? Absolutely. Just don’t go expecting the next Thailand. Go expecting Turkmenistan. Trust me, that is much more interesting.

Footnotes

Pictures are taken with my Fuji xt5 and iphone. Some pictures are from my travel companion Mia.

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FootNotes

Pictures are taken with my Fuji xt5 and iphone. Some pictures are from my travel companion Mia.

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