For once we had a busy Sunday. At noon we went to a horse race. It reminded us a lot of Mike and Gulnara’s wedding – boring and fascinating at the same time, hot and dry and long periods of sitting and being hungry. Also, just like at Mike and Gulnara’s wedding, we were separated off in a VIP section, far from all the actual excitement. On either side of us in the stands, the seats were packed with men and boys cheering, yelling and placing bets. We had soldiers with nightsticks guarding each entrance to our section.

In the first race we saw, the president’s horse won. The jockeys were mostly little boys, with the occasional little girl. Kir says that the Turkmen horses seemed to be miniature Arabians. The track was dirt, but in pretty good shape. The horses looked bony, but they ran well. I’m glad we went, but after about two hours, we were glad to leave, too. We’d brought a bottle of water, but I wished we’d brought some kind of picnic, if only to pass the time between races.

Winners received carpets and scarves. Apparently for important races they have prizes like cars and refrigerators, but on this ordinary Sunday the prizes were mundane. Carpets and scarves are always the prizes in Turkmen competitions, just like in the US you win a trophy or a plaque. They actually tied women’s scarves around the necks of the winning horses, and draped the carpets on their backs as they paraded around the winners’ circle. It looked a little silly, and the horses didn't like it – ducking their heads to resist the scarves.

Our other adventure for the day consisted of dinner at the Iranian truck stop. We’d heard the Persian food there was good, and it was pretty much the only non-Turkmen restaurant in Ashgabat we hadn’t tried yet. You get sick of the options here pretty quickly, so we have been meaning to try the Iranian truck stop for a while. Kir had been told that it was on the side of the road that goes to the Iranian border. We were expecting some version of a truck stop, much like the places they have on the road from Samarqand to Bokhara – long tables, your choice of rice or noodles, and cutlery delivered with your food. Instead, what we found on the side of the road was a gated complex that included a hotel, a mosque, garages, and a restaurant, all tiled to low like down-market versions of old Persian monuments, and landscaped with masses of roses and beds of grass.

The signage was all in Farsi, but we located the restaurant next to a small mosque. When we got in, a friendly Turkmen woman explained that they had no food today except for shashlik (shish kebab), soup, and salads. We’d come that far, though, so we decided to stay and have the shashlik. I was halfway through my fanta when the rice arrived. We hadn't ordered rice, but it must have been the side dish for the shashlik order. Two plates of rice. Perfect heaps of rice, with saffron on top, a little dried fruit, and a pat of butter. The smell brought me back to my childhood, and the rice that Zed used to make for our family dinners. Its flavor was so absolutely right - the screaming epitome of rice – that it very nearly brought tears to my eyes. I had forgotten I could even feel that way about food. I was worried that after the rice the meat would be anti-climatic, but it was really quite perfect.

On our way out, Kir asked when they did have the full menu available, assuming that we had come at the wrong time for a full dinner. He was told no, they have food all the time, but tonight a bunch of Arabs and a bunch of Iranians had ordered a lot of dishes and the restaurant was out of food. She gave us the restaurant’s phone number so that we can call in the future before we come and ask them to save food for us.

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USAID is one of many donors for the project I work for. The views expressed herein are the author’s own views and do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s employer or especially those of the United States Agency for International Development or the United States Government. And I mean it. I probably give the US government heart attacks.