Running low on resources in Turkmenistan, our Recovering Backpacker columnist finds himself learning some hard truths on the limits of group travel.
Neither Ron nor I spoke Russian but we both didn’t speak it a lot better than the rest of our group didn’t speak it, so we were nominated to go out and try and change money and find food. We were camping by the road somewhere in Turkmenistan near the Uzbkek border. Our transit visa was just for two days, it expired tomorrow, and we were already being harassed and shaken down by every cop that drove by.
Aside from a group of loud young men who mimed sniffing cocaine and yelled ‘USA’ as they hooned by our two-car convoy of young, bearded, white faces, most encounters with locals in this weird little country had involved some form of extortion by authority figures. We’d spent all our local currency, there was nothing to eat, the landscape sparse and parched and flat.
Ron and I approached a solitary store. ‘Change money, dollars?’ I asked the young lady attendant in my best/worst Russian. She gawped at me, terrified. Ron had a go at saying the sentence. Russian was a second language for locals, a throwback to Soviet times, and far less than that for us. We were getting nowhere. Our friends, nearby, were no doubt growing hungrier and more impatient by the minute. Leaving empty-handed was not an option.
Just then, a young man arrived from the back of the store, with olive dark Turkmen skin, a clean-shaven face, and a baseball cap on backward.
“You guys wanna change money?” He said in flawless English with an American accent.
“Uh, yeah! Just $20. Can you help?” I said.
“Sure thing man, where are you guys from?”
“New Zealand. Your English is amazing.”
“Yah, dude. I lived in America for like, 6, 7 years man.”
“Oh wow, when did you come back here?”
I wanted to ask, “WHY” did you come back here, to this oppressed and seemingly desolate land, but I did not.
“No long ago.” He spoke to the young lady – maybe his sister – in Turkmen for a few minutes and then said to us. “Alright guys, come with me.”
He led us behind the store along a dirt path which gradually revealed a small settlement of pre-fabricated homes. A dog barked somewhere nearby, the sun above was brutal, my left sandal was broken, and I hobbled along behind Ron and our new guide.
After winding through a few buildings, we stood before a small door and he knocked. A middle-aged woman answered, taking in the familiar face and then, with contained shock, these tall, pale strangers. They spoke for a while. And then the lady looked at Ron and me and said in Russian “Change money?” I said yes. “How much.” “20, or 50?” I said in Russian and then to our friend “Whatever is best for you.”
The woman took out her phone and held it up, trying to get a signal. She was researching the day’s exchange rates, the value of Turkmen Manat fluctuating by the hour. Eventually, she took out her phone calculator. She typed in 20. Showed it to me. I nodded. “Da.” She then performed a complex calculation, and an enormous figure emerged, the exchange value. Ron and I nodded, and I handed over a crisp, carefully pressed, and protected 20 USD note. The lady took it and disappeared. Normally, this would have caused me anxiety, but for some reason, I felt calm, certain that this lady was honest.
Some moments later she reemerged with a huge black wallet and counted out note after note of the pink currency with bearded and crowned figures on it. Ron and I thanked her and our new friend. The young man spoke to the woman, who I took to be his mother, for a few beats. And then she turned to us, face open, hospitable, and expectant. “She would like you to stay for dinner,” he said. “Please, eat with us.”
Ron and I looked at each other. This was THE experience we had wanted, yes, and much more than that, a kind, generous offer of hospitality was being made. It would be churlish to refuse. But what choice did we have? Our six, hungry, tired friends had been waiting, for almost an hour now, for us to come with what would surely be the only meal before what promised to be a long and tedious border crossing into Uzbekistan. And we certainly couldn’t go and fetch another half dozen enormous, ravenous antipodeans to eat this generous woman out of house and home.
Sadly, reluctantly, we apologized. “Our friends are waiting.” We returned to the store, bought a batch of ‘frisbee’ bread, those dense, flat bread disks ubiquitous in Central Asia, and a bunch of water bottles, and trudged back to our weary companions.
Traveling in a group is a social activity with enormous rewards and challenges. You learn to solve problems together, to compromise, to encounter different sides of yourself and each other. It’s a fantastic activity and everyone should do it. But it’s not travel. Or rather, it is travel, but a kind of travel that will always be subjugated to the group dynamic.
With more than two or three people (one is always best), spontaneity becomes impossible. Every action requires planning, coordination, and logistics. And you are not free to connect properly with others, as the social pull of gravity of the group will always be stronger. If travel is about spontaneity and connection, group travel is about planning and social exclusivity. It is not the same thing. Group travel is fun and a great way to grow as a person. But it’s no way to see the world.
