Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

The prophet Zarathustra, who gave his name to Zoroastrianism, flourished and was persecuted perhaps 3,500 years ago in what is now Iran and Afghanistan. So Novruz Bayram is one of the oldest holidays on earth, and it has always had celebrants. Zarathustra preached monotheism, advocated the equality of women, scoffed at the notion of priests (because they were middlemen, easily corruptible), railed against animal sacrifice, evangelism, and miracle-working. He denounced using the name of God to barter for power. He extolled the virtues of light and especially of fire. Novruz Bayram is a festival of springtime and sunshine.

The humane aspects of Zoroastrianism probably accounted for its diminution as a faith, if not its failure. A religion needs harshness and hokum to succeed, and all Zarathustra taught was understanding the earthly elements, the turn of the year, the one God. And three simple rules to live by: good thoughts, good words, good deeds. Also a belief in the purifying nature of ire, which was central to the faith and a symbol of the Almighty.

"The Persian word for fire is azer" Tom Reiss wrote in The Orientalist, a book about Kurban Said, "and since ancient times Azerbaijan's abundance of oil and natural gas, which led whole hillsides to naturally explode into flame, made it the center of Zoroastrianism."

That was a few thousand years ago. Now only about 124,000 Zoroastrians remain—most of them in India, notably Bombay, where they're known as Parsis. They are a dying breed, the last gasp of an ancient belief system. Novruz Bayram is not celebrated throughout central Asia—indeed, it is condemned in some Muslim countries as pagan—but vigorous celebrations in Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan make it one of the highlights of the year. Its old origins have been forgotten. It is an excuse to stop working, a respite from political strife, a few days of good feeling. I could see Azeris wearing their new clothes and going for promenades and eating the food associated with the festival, especially malt (samani) and eggs, because they represented fertility.

Most restaurants were open and, along with the malt and eggs, were serving other Azeri food: mutton pies, mutton wrapped in spinach, mutton kebabs, mutton balls, potato cakes, noodles, and big stodgy desserts. Although businesses were shut, there was more street life, more vitality in the city because of the festival. Groups of musicians played to crowds of people in plazas and on the Caspian seafront—and at each gathering there was a large police presence.

In bars and cafés, people—usually young women, usually presentable, sometimes flirtatious—asked, "What is your company?" because an American my age in Baku was probably in the oil business. Why else would I be in Baku?

"Just passing through," I would say. "To Turkmenistan."

"They have gas."

Baku got friskier at night, because the oilmen were typically roisterers, and I was assured that after midnight the roistering turned to debauchery, but I was asleep by that time.

Here on the shore of the Caspian Sea I wanted to find a ferry to take me to Turkmenbashi (formerly Krasnovodsk), on the western edge of Turkmenistan. From there by train via (so my map said) Nebitdag, Gumdag, and Gyzylarbat to Ashgabat, the capital, reputed to be one of the oddest places on earth because of the demented predilections of the current dictator, Saparmyrat Niyazov, who styled himself Turkmenbashi and renamed the port town after himself. I was eager to visit his country and ride the train through its deserts, eastward, and into Uzbekistan.

But first I had to find a ferry. Because of the holiday, the ferry port was closed. The travel agencies were shut. No one in Baku had any information about the ferry, and when I went to the port and found a dockworker, he said the ferry had no schedule.

"When it's full, the ferry leaves for Krasnovodsk," he said in Azeri, and this was translated by an English-speaking passerby, whose name was Ahmat.

"So I have to wait until it's full?"

"Yes. And maybe a long wait!"

"Why is that?"

"No one wants to go to Krasnovodsk."

I said, "I want to go."

He muttered something and walked away.

"What did he say?"

"'Must be something wrong with you.' He's joking." Ahmat peered at me. "You are from?"

"America."