Next stop on our Silk Road extravaganza: Samarkand. Yep, that’s right, the big daddy of the Silk Road cities, home of the famous Registan amongst a bunch of other pretty cool monument-y type stuff. More Silk Road-y than you can shake a stick at.

Or so you’d think. In reality, the city of Samarkand is very, very Soviet, with just a few scattered monuments (albeit large, fabulous and highly significant monuments) here and there to remind you of the glorious past. The vast majority of the old city has been destroyed over the years – partially by earthquake to be fair, but mostly due to the fact that the Soviets really didn’t like it (having been to a few parts of the old town, you can half see their point – no drainage to speak of so the old town really does stink). Hence the old winding alleys full of mosques, mangy dogs and charm have been replaced by glorious wide avenues, plenty of concrete, and a bewildering array of non functioning fountains.

Oh, and those monuments. They were amazing, particularly the interiors, although to James’ and my by now jaded eyes, they compared somewhat unfavourably to the sites in Bukhara – not for any lack of splendour, but due to their rather antiseptic nature. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, time for my regular and learned discourse on restoration – and Samarkand has had the romance restored right out of it. You can’t really blame the Soviets given that the buildings were all clearly only holding themselves up through some feat of minor miracle when the restoration work started, but the end result is magnificent, but soul-less.

Fortunately for us, we were able to locate Samarkand’s alternative soul, in the rather unexpected guise of a carpet workshop of all things. There we spent a happy couple of hours listening to the carpets being made (the sound of each strand being knotted is oddly like a harp being plucked) and listening to our guide give a heartfelt description of the tradition of hand carpet making throughout the Central Asia region. We left several hours later with a severe hankering for a truly beautiful carpet, a much greater knowledge than before of the various gradings of carpets in the world, and a strong sense of disgust at those pesky Chinese and their modern, machine made, synthetic carpets. All I need to do now is to develop a true love of overcooked fatty mutton and I’ll be good and ready to be assimilated into the Central Asian world.

Sat back in New York planning our trip, I’d sort of thought that all of the “cool” Silk Road stuff would be in Uzbekistan, with its mighty threesome of Khiva, Bukhara and Samarkand – some serious names to conjure with.

One of the really nice surprises of our trip thus far, then, was how much of the Silk Road we actually encountered in Turkmenistan (not that I have a particular positive bias towards Turkmenistan or anything, you understand J). And not just in the ancient ruin sense either – parts of rural Turkmenistan actually FEEL more Silk Road-y than the far more famous Uzbek sites do, particularly as you head north through vast tracts of desert (more desert-y than ever now, what with the ever diminishing Aral Sea), complete with extremely camel-y camels that wander across said desert in rather regal fashion….unless they’re being herded that is:

Camel herding meets the modern age

The ruins, also, are surprisingly fabulous. Anyone remember the Parthians, favourite baddy stars of many a Latin textbook? Well, their capital city was here. And several hundred years (and some zealous restoration) later, it’s still in surprisingly pretty good nick:

Current best reconstructed guess as to what Nissa looked like in 3rd century….BC. History’s LONG in these parts

And that’s before you get to the great granddaddy Turkmen ruin of Konye Urgench. This was once perhaps the Silk Road’s largest and most beautiful city – until Genghis Khan decimated it….then it was rebuilt and once more became perhaps the Silk Road’s largest and most beautiful city – until Timur the Great (Tamarlane to us) decimated it again and rather more thoroughly this time just to make sure it didn’t overshadow his new posterchild city, Samarkand. Yep, the most historic Silk Road city you’ve never heard of:

Konye Urgench – the minaret, all 59m of it, was built in the 1320s. You just can’t get the workmen these days

Most of all though, what really made us feel be-Silk Roaded in Turkmenistan was the amazing hospitality of the people we met here (special mention here to our driver and his wife, who put up two hairy westerners and nearly made them weep with their amazing level of kindness….well, that and the 5 kilos of food we each ate. This is NOT the part of the world to come to if you want to lose weight!!). To them and to our guide S, a heartfelt thank you for an unforgettable trip.

The South Pacific is a pretty slow paced place; a place where you don’t sweat the small stuff (or even moderately sized stuff), but just sit back, relax and let things roll…. Which anyone who knows me will know is something I am just pathologically incapable of. I LIKE to sweat the small stuff; I find it makes the small stuff far less likely, in a few days’ time, to grow into medium sized, large or even frankly inconceivably enormous stuff that then turns round and bites you in the ass. With its inconceivably enormous teeth. Painfully.

So when we decided to embark on a two day volcano climb on Ambrym, our negotiation stance was clear. James did the talking (people here don’t really deal with women much), whilst I back-seat drove with true micro-management flare. James established that yes, we could do the trek. I pushed for details. Yes, there would be a high quality and reliable tent. Yes, we’d have sleeping bags. There would – of course! – be ample numbers of sleeping mats to sleep on. Yes, there was a plentiful water supply on the mountain. Et cetera. And yes, I was getting laughed at. We’re in the South Pacific, after all. These things get taken care of if you just relax and let them…

So the four of us (James, myself and Sergi and Miriam, 2 Spanish travelers who were also staying at Chief Sekor’s) felt quietly confident as we set off on our way. We were looking after our own food, with Sergi and Miriam kindly sharing with us some canned tuna and pate they’d brought onto the island, and the sure knowledge that we’d be able to pick up some wheels of bread to see us through the trip…. Only the baker hadn’t baked that morning, so no bread. No drama, there’d be some in the next village. Hmmm, although actually the baker here had gone fishing, so again no bread. Still, we’d get some in Ranvetlam, where we’d also be picking up our gear….. Ummm, about that gear. You know we promised sleeping bags? Well, we don’t actually have any. Is that ok? As long as we have sleeping mats? Sure. OK, and what if we don’t actually have sleeping mats either. Well, we have 2 paper thin ancient sleepmat remnants plus an old mattress you can have. Should be fine for the four of you, right? Well, yes, should be fine. After all, we’ll have plenty of food and water. Best go get that bread….. Bread? Oh, it’s just that the baker here is guiding another group on the mountain, so there is no bread. And we’re out of breakfast crackers. However, what we can do for you is to cook up some rice. LOTS of rice. That’ll keep you going.

Well prepared? Not us. Still, we were on a quest, and nothing and nobody could stand in our way.

We left behind the jungle terrain that formed the first hour of our hike and entered the ash plains of Mordor; desolate expanses of black bereft of flora or fauna (other than the ever encroaching orcs of course). Our course took us ever onwards, towards the fiery crater that formed our goal; fortunately our elven-woven hiking gear provided some protection from unfriendly eyes. Also from the rain. For yes, of course it rained. This wouldn’t be a sweeping 3 part epic without a storm or two. We got pretty darn wet before we reached our campsite for the evening, an ill-omened place with only a mean, smoking hut for shelter. Our men put up our tents, and undeterred by the now torrential rain, we set off for Mount Doom. I mean Mount Ambrym. One and a bit hours scrambling over lava later, we arrived at the peak. We saw……nothing. Torrential rain, don’cha know – so cloudy we could hardly see each other never mind the promised fiery crack. There went our plans for some nice hot rice that night. Back we marched to the shelter, warmed only by the promise of drying off in the shelter of our tent and some sitting round the fire telling camping stories.

You know that there highly technical tent? Well, it was about an inch deep in water when we returned – clearly not elven made. Us hobbits have good sturdy hairy feet but that’s just too much to take. James-Frodo set the men to try setting it up again whilst we sat in the hut by the fire, weeping sooty tears as we tied to avoid death through smoke inhalation. Eventually we prepared our dinner – cold rice and tuna warmed (smoked?) near the fire (not at all what we likes my precious, we likes our fish RAWWWWWWW and WRRIIGGGGLINGGGG) and, utterly dampened by the day, went to bed. James-Frodo’s tent intervention meant the tent didn’t leak TOO much during the night and it was warm enough that I reckon I got a good solid hour or so of sleep before waking bright eyed for breakfast the next morning.

Breakfast: cold rice.

James-Frodo by this point was clearly unwell. He maintained that this was the combined effect of the chill and rain of yesterday, smoke inhalation and a shoddy night’s sleep, but I felt sure that the real reason was due to the heavy burden he was carrying; we still has about a pound of rice left by this point and by his heavy hanging head I knew this tortured him – but any time I tried to assist him, he thrust me angrily away crying that the rice was his and his alone. Sergi-Pippin and Miriam-Merry tried to brighten the atmosphere with their jokes and laughs, but to no avail. We knew there would be a 3 hour walk out of Mordor, and set in grimly to achieve our escape.

Yes, that “3 hours to the nearest village” thing. Ummm, that wasn’t true. It’s actually 7 hours to the nearest village. Yep, we know you’re out of water. And walking across arid plains through highly sulfurous air. Still, you’ll be alright. Famous sturdiness of the hobbits and all that. Anyway, you’ve some nice cold rice to look forward to for your lunches……Cue small panic: Where’s the rice? Gone. The porters had abandoned us in Mordor and taken it. Or that’s the official reason; personally I suspect Gollum.

Anyway, after a 7 hour walk with no water, food or shelter, we made it. And the village that we ended up in, glory of glories, had coconuts for us to slake our thirst, and also offered us some traditional “laplap” (ground manioc with coconut milk), typically something us tourists politely nibble on before discarding, that was eaten in a flash before the chief’s somewhat startled eyes.

Yep, we made it. You see, things always work out ok in the South Pacific. You just have to go along with the ride.

As entrances go, that of Chief Sekor of Olal village, North Ambrym, into our lives was pretty memorable – striding towards us through the rainforest, clad only in a namba (waist belt and banana leaf penis sheath – see photos) and grasping his chieftain’s stick. We very firmly were not in Kansas any more. Where the hell were we and how the hell did we get here?!

We didn’t really know what to expect from Vanuatu. It’s well known amongst Australians as a very-slightly-more-adventurous-than-Bali honeymoon destination, with enough 5 star waterfront resorts to shake a stick at. But equally one of our fellow travelers in PNG had spoken glowingly of the still active kastom culture prevalent in the outerlying islands, and this really hooked us – the Mt Hagen show had been so incredible that we knew we wanted to see more. So (obviously), we googled what to do with ourselves in our 2 weeks there, and came across an entry for the “Back to Our Roots” festival in Ambrym, one of the country’s more kastom-oriented islands – contact Chief Sekor of Olal village for further information. Which we duly did (for future reference, one contacts chiefs nowadays via mobile phone and the appropriate way to address them is, simply, as “Chief”), to be wooed with the promise of Chief-ordained boat transfer from the airport and a place to stay (in the Chief’s village no less. Actually in his guest bungalows, but I’d rather avoid the word bungalow. Chief Sekor was a pretty imposing chap whilst bungalow conjures a vision of an aging Surrey golfer clad in slacks). All sounded pretty interesting but we hemmed and hawed a bit – the internal flight schedule meant the festival would need to take a big chunk of our available time in Vanuatu and there’s not THAT much else to do on Ambrym. Hagen fuelled, however, we decided to go for it.

Chief Sekor’s entrance made us pretty confident we’d made the right decision, and that was BEFORE we saw the dancing. Or heard about the pig.

Yep, the pig. As we kicked back with a nightly cup of kava (see tasting notes) we were informed that the festivities of the next few days would include a pig killing. Well, ok, not unusual in these parts. And that the pig would meet its end by being ceremonially clubbed to death (as per tradition) – by one of our fellow tourists. Wow. This was a surprise – not least to Patrick, the Sydney based financial analyst to whom that honour fell (unlike us lucky but lazy layabouts, Patrick had spent the last 6 months in correspondence with Chief Sekor planning out his holiday, and the festival, in some detail and the two had built up quite a rapport). The pig killing in effect raised Patrick to the status of Chief Sekor’s tribal brother. We were all pretty excited – and to be honest more than a little apprehensive – about the next day’s events.

The festival itself was wonderful but rather hard to describe. You can see a little from the photos and the video – but this was about as far from the Hagen show as a South Pacific tribal kastom event can be. There were about 10 tourists, and maybe 100 or so locals, gathered in a traditional clearing, lined with tree fern carvings and dappled with shade. The setting, the hypnotic drumbeat, the singing, the pounding dancing, all combined into a magical and heartfelt experience. The dances were clearly an active part of tribal life – the kids here learn them when they’re tiny and all can perform the steps by heart without pause – which doesn’t sound that impressive, maybe, until you realise that some of these dances go on for nearly an hour. In fact, the primary dance (the Rom dance – in the photos it’s the one with the masked and cloaked creatures) is one of the key mechanics through which a man can “grade take”, ultimately allowing him to become a village or even area chief – the other main mechanic being the killing of large numbers of pigs, in particular pigs which have been hand reared for 10 or more years to develop tusks which grow in a complete circle. Yep, being a pig round these here parts carries some responsibility.

As for the pig killing? Patrick looked dignified and rather brave in his namba, falling into the rhythm of the event with grace. But yes, it’s pretty upsetting to see a ceremonial clubbing – the pig arrives hogtied and fully aware of its impending doom, and the clubbing is enough to inflict pain (pigs really do squeal) but not death, leaving a slightly sour taste in this pampered Westerner’s mouth.

I’ve rarely, if ever, felt further away from home … but that was an overwhelmingly positive feeling. Roll on, new experiences.