Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

"Government guy," the American said. "He should know better. This is technically U.S. government property. Can't take pictures here."

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"We'll see," he said. "Hey, I liked your talk."

The problem developed later that day when the photographer complained to his superiors at Turkmenistan's Ministry of Foreign Affairs. And the next day, the deputy chief of mission of the U.S. embassy in Ashgabat was summoned to a meeting with the foreign minister.

Who is this Paul Theroux? she was asked. What are the details of his visa? Does he have permission to speak? When is he leaving? How is he leaving? What border crossing?

I had the answers to some of these questions. My visa was in order, and in a few days I planned to take the train to Mary, to see the ruins at Merv. Then the train to Turkmenabat and the Uzbekistan border at Farap, and then, I hoped, another train.

I spent the rest of my time in Ashgabat doing what Turkmen like doing most, sitting on a lovely carpet, eating my way down a spit of lamb kebab or through a mound of rice plov. Always there was hard bread, sometimes dumplings, tea, and wine.

"Georgian wine," one of my Turkmen hosts said. "Stalin's favorite. He wouldn't drink anything else."

Now and then these meals were served in homes that stood in empty fields, like the stage set for a Beckett play—a house in a wasteland that had been bulldozed to make room for a future prestige project or gold statue. Niyazov's people simply seized the houses and got rid of them, rarely compensating the owners. In the distance were the empty marble palaces and tower blocks, huge white follies trimmed in gold. Niyazov fancied himself a city planner, and he was obsessional, his megalomania on view for all to see. He had the dictator's most obnoxious trait of greatly resembling a dysfunctional person who had won the lottery.

Because I was now under a cloud, and being watched by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, my position as an alien in Turkmenistan was explained to me. I had to be careful. But having Niyazov—Turkmenbashi, Leader of All the Turkmen—as an enemy was helpful, because when Western diplomats explained my predicament, they revealed Niyazov's quirks.

"He hates people meddling. He hates NGOs—in fact, he banned them," one diplomat told me. He had banned human rights groups, religious groups, and environmental groups. "He allowed the Peace Corps in when they left Uzbekistan, but they can't work in any schools—they give language lessons mainly, and do what they can to make friends."

"You see what you're up against?" another diplomat said. "He's refused any help from the IMF or any loans from the World Bank, because if he accepted any money, he would have to disclose his own financial information. And that's his big secret. He considers most of these profits from gas his own, which makes him a billionaire many times over."

A person who had spent some time with him in one of his palaces said, "He's a tease. He's a mocker. He banters with his ministers and humiliates them."

"Of course his system's corrupt," a student explained to me. "You need to bribe a lot of people to get into college, but only Turkmen are allowed. A Russian or an Uzbek or a Korean wouldn't have a chance. They have no future here."

"He stopped education at the ninth grade for most people," a bureaucrat said to me. "He was once asked about that by a foreign head of state. He said, 'Uneducated people are easier to govern.'"

***

EARLY ONE EVENING I took the night train from Ashgabat to the eastern city of Mary. When I found that the sleeper ticket cost $4, I became anxious: this was the price of six melons at the bazaar, and a ticket so cheap boded ill for a long journey. I guessed that the train would be dirty and crowded, a mass of people traveling in the light of a few 25-watt bulbs, and it gave me no satisfaction to be right.

The railway station itself was lovely, a classic Soviet building from the 1950s, very clean and patrolled by soldiers with machine guns. Yet no passenger was searched, and while all travelers on Turkmenistan's roads were subject to numerous roadblocks and the arbitrary search-and-seizure rules of the security forces, train travelers were blameless and carefree—another instance of railway passengers regarded as being beneath notice.

I sat in my four-berth compartment with a soldier in his dark uniform, a student of about twenty-two, and a chin-bearded old man in traditional Turkmen dress—a cylindrical black lambskin hat, a long brown cloak over a smock, one of those national costumes that seem eternal and all-purpose and comfortable everywhere, in all seasons. He saw me and began to speak to the student.

"Salaam. Dayf al-Rahman"

he said.

"Welcome," the student translated. "You are a guest of Allah, the Merciful One."

"Please thank him for me."

The man spoke again.

"He has a question for you," the student said. "Will you answer?"