Thanksgiving in Turkmenistan

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures – Hammer, Sickle, and Yoke
November 27, 2025
Flight Log #03 – Black Seas, White Peaks & Silent Fortresses
Guest Co‑Pilot: Olga Kurylenko

Morning in Odesa begins with steam—jet fuel on the ramp, the Black Sea breathing salt into the air, and a bowl of beet‑bright Ukrainian ramen warming my hands while the PC‑12 Maunakea glows black and gold under a pale sky. Cropduster walks his quiet circle around the airplane, fingers brushing the skin like a doctor greeting an old patient; Marisa passes up coffee dark enough to rewrite a life and murmurs, “Your log again, Olga—just don’t let him file it under ‘light reading.’” I smile, take my seat in the right cockpit, and watch the coastline slide sideways as we climb, leaving Odesa’s embattled beauty in the mirrors of our wake.

Our first waypoint is a different Black Sea shore: the Ancient City of Tauric Chersonese and its chora, faint geometry of old fields still etched into the land by farmers who never imagined satellites or turboprops. From there we trace the coast east and almost immediately get the call we’d been warned about—Sochi International, URSS, requesting a quick stop “for documentation.” The whole cockpit trades looks; Marisa and I both assume they want a word with the Ukrainian actress in the right seat, maybe the one in the cabin too, and we’re still rehearsing answers when Maunakea kisses the runway at Adler in a landing so polite it ought to come with a visa stamp.

On the ramp the script flips in a heartbeat. The officials who stride out with clipboards walk straight past me and Marisa and make a beeline for Cropduster and the dogs—asking, in very formal English, if they may please meet “the famous captain and his security team from the flight logs.” Lani sits like a statue, Kai offers a paw to an officer who forgets he’s supposed to look serious, and Charlie leans into a photo op as if he’s done this on every continent. Marisa and I are half laughing, half offended in the best possible way, trading a look that says, Sochi bureaucracy: zero interest in Bond girls, total devotion to Tiger Shark Squadron. Twenty minutes, three group selfies, and one hastily shared cup of terminal coffee later, we’re climbing back out over the Black Sea, Sochi sliding under the wing like a misplaced chapter title as we turn toward the high white wall of the Caucasus.

Farther east the mountains rise and Georgia folds itself beneath our wings—Upper Svaneti’s villages clinging to slopes like they were nailed into the rock, stone towers poking through cloud gaps like raised fists that outlived every invader. Gelati Monastery appears next, a patch of ordered stone and faith on a green hillside, with the dark swaths of the Colchic Rainforests and Wetlands spreading beyond, a remnant of a world so old it makes our airways feel temporary. We arc toward Tbilisi and the Historical Monuments of Mtskheta come into view, churches perched at river confluences where kings once chose baptism and battle in the same breath.

North wind bumps the wings as we cross into Armenia, but the air smooths as if out of respect when the Monasteries of Haghpat and Sanahin line up under us—two stone siblings on opposite ridges, script and arches repeating like a prayer you whisper twice to be sure it reaches. A few minutes later, the Cathedral and Churches of Echmiatsin lie quiet and composed, and just beyond them the broken halo of the Archaeological Site of Zvartnots circles the earth; from up here the ruin looks less like collapse and more like a crown temporarily set down. The Monastery of Geghard and the Upper Azat Valley pull us into a deeper stillness—chapels bitten straight out of the cliff, courtyards where pilgrims once shared bread in the same basalt silence that now swallows our engine noise.

By late morning the mountains thin and Azerbaijan rises out of the haze; the Historic Centre of Sheki with the Khan’s Palace flashes tiled roofs and latticed windows, a reminder that glass and color can be as political as any border. Beyond, the Cultural Landscape of Khinalig People and “Köç Yolu” Transhumance Route unspools under us—high pastures, seasonal tracks, a village clinging to a ridge like a question mark asking how many centuries a way of life can endure. Gobustan Rock Art Cultural Landscape greets us next, stone outcrops scratched with animals and dancers beside the Caspian, messages from people who measured time in migrations instead of flight hours.

Baku appears ahead, a city of glass and flame‑towers, but we dip first over the Walled City of Baku with the Shirvanshah’s Palace and Maiden Tower, its tight lanes and limestone walls wrapped inside the modern skyline like a memory someone refused to evict. We roll into UBBB just before lunchtime, and the ramp explodes into a new kind of heritage—the Tiger Shark support crews in the DC‑3, C‑17, and C‑130H have turned a row of pallets into an improvised American Thanksgiving brunch. There is a deep‑fried turkey crackling in a homemade rig, trays of stuffing and sweet potatoes lined up beside coffee urns, and, because this is Azerbaijan, platters of pakhlava and crescent shekerbura that taste of honey, nuts, and someone else’s childhood New Year folded into pastry.

Marisa works the tarmac like a film festival, trading jokes and gravy refills with loadmasters; Cropduster gets cornered again, this time by ground crew who “need” photos with him purely as an excuse to talk about the dogs and how much they love reading about them in the logs. Lani patrols the edge of the feast like a customs officer, Kai and Charlie charm entire aircrews out of turkey scraps, and for an hour the Caucasus becomes one long shared table, somewhere between a deployment holiday and a neighborhood picnic.

After Baku we point east again, chasing the drying light into Turkmenistan. Kunya‑Urgench drifts beneath us as a scatter of mausoleums and minarets glowing in the sand, fragments of a city that once commanded caravans from every direction. The Parthian Fortresses of Nisa—Old and New—appear next as dark geometric ghosts on the plain, walls and platforms still holding the outline of an empire that believed in strong wine, strong walls, and stronger opinions about where the border should fall.

By late afternoon we cross the last invisible line and Itchan Kala rises out of the desert like a ship made of brick, earth‑walled city, turquoise domes, and minarets catching a low sun that turns every tile into a flame. From this height the old town is a compact maze of roofs and courtyards, a reminder that for most of history defense meant narrow streets and high doors rather than radar and NOTAMs. We settle into UTAA with the kind of landing that feels more like a handshake than an arrival, and when the turbine winds down all that is left is dry air, distant city glow, and three very tired dogs trotting down the airstairs as if each of them personally discovered Central Asia.

Evening at Ashgabat turns into its own ceremony, quieter than Baku’s ramp carnival but no less deliberate. In a corner of the courtyard the cooks drag out a brazier and a battered cezve, roasting beans over open flame until the whole airfield smells of smoke and caramel, then brewing coffee in slow, Turkish‑style rises of foam that demand patience and tiny cups. Dinner is Turkmen comfort on a long table: deep platters of plov, rice stained gold with carrots and lamb fat, bowls of dograma where torn bread and mutton float in broth like small islands of home, and a house‑special lagman that bends toward us—a noodle soup threaded with peppers and onions that Marisa instantly christens “Silk Road ramen.”

When the last cups are poured, I reach into my flight bag and pull out a narrow bottle wrapped in a blue‑and‑yellow scarf: Starshyna Reserve Horilka, a clear Ukrainian spirit I have been saving for a night when the map felt especially heavy. A careful splash goes into metal mugs for the adults, just enough to scent the coffee with orchard and fire, and we raise them toward the dark beyond the fence—“To all the borders we crossed today, and to the ones we refuse to draw inside ourselves.” The coffee, the plov, the unexpected ramen, and that thin line of Ukrainian heat stitch the whole day together—Black Sea to desert, empire to air route, heritage to heartbeat—as Maunakea cools on the ramp and the dogs curl at our feet, finally convinced the world can rest until morning.

End log—Chersonese to Itchan Kala, one long arc of memory; one aircraft, one squadron, three dogs, Starshyna in the mugs, and a Thanksgiving written in stones, steam, and skyRead more