Ramblin Scot

Tales of a Scottish Adventurer

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  • Ferry Over Troubled Water

    It was time to leave Azerbaijan, after an incredible ordeal by the Russian border the previous night. With barely three hours sleep, my friend Cavansir and I got up and rang a taxi for the ferry terminal. We were running short on time, I was supposed to be at the boat for 8-9AM, it was already nearly 8, and the port was an hour away. Cavansir had a short talk with the driver and gave him the port phone number, maybe he could buy me some time. And then we sped off, zipping up the Baku hillside, and dropping into the desert coastline.

    If you’re an overlander you probably already know, from Covid until the present date at least, August 24th 2025, Azerbaijan has locked up its land border to outsiders. You can leave by land or sea, but can only enter by plane. Every year, probably every month, countless intrepid overlanders send desperate emails to the Azerbaijan government and tourist office. Hoping that an exception will be made for them, and the gates will swing open. It has happened at least twice since their new border policy came into force, a few Korean cyclists some years back were allowed in, and two German cyclists early this year. And also due to the Israeli bombing campaign on Iran at least one cyclist managed to enter Azerbaijan under special circumstances. I was going to make my own attempt, hopefully leveraging my friend’s influence, but he told me straight it wasn’t possible.

    There may well be actual movement on the matter this year, due to some surprise diplomatic action from Donald Trump, who arbitrated a peace deal between Armenia and Azerbaijan, seemingly an effort to undercut Russia, This deal seems to include some new road, named after Trump himself, This could indicate a future opening of the land border, but it still remains to be seen at this point. These developments were yet to come when I commenced my journey, so, I had to fly. In rather ridiculous fashion, I had to fly the route I just hitchhiked all the way across Georgia, and Turkey, back to Istanbul, where I’d wait several hours for the next flight. Then I flew to Baku, a screaming child in-front of me providing my soundtrack.

    But I made it to Baku, went through the ordeal as described in the previous post, and was on my way to the boat. When I finally made it to the port, at 8:50 in the morning, the taxi could go no further, I got out with my oversized backpack and walked towards the large gated ferry port. There was lots of hustle and bustle and shouting between soldiers and truck drivers. I’d spotted an area to the side where there seemed to be a ticket office. It was there I met my friend from the hostel I was staying at in Baku, Stephano, an Italian man going from Italy to Australia by land. He had been calling the port every day, and last night gave me the news that it was in the morning. There was also a German cyclist, named Franz, who I’d run into a few times later on in the journey. I was informed I needed to give my passport to the office there, take the receipt they gave me, go to the bank on the other side of the road, pay there in dollars, and then come back and I would be given my ticket.

    It seemed an unnecessary faff, I went over to the ATM on the other side of the road, passing by the military guards in their wide-brimmed soviet-esque officer caps. I took out 200 dollars just to have some spare cash, and went into the small bank. The inside was so small I had to squeeze past the only other customer to make it to the other window. There I gave him my passport, I had to fumble around for a while, thinking I’d lost it, I also gave him the receipt from the other office and the cash I had. It cost me 70 dollars. Apparently it is the same price even if you have a bike. For that, you get a bed, and food and drink for every day aboard the ship.

    After receiving some more documents, going over to the other office and getting my ticket, I was good to go. In the next 10 hours. That’s right. They tell you that you must be there by 8 or 9 AM, but then the boat sets off at 6pm. It has a highly irregular schedule, I’ve heard of boats going much earlier at 5AM, and later. There is frankly no way to tell when the Caspian Sea Ferry leaves, the information on their website seems often incorrect, they rarely answer their phones. And when they do, they don’t seem to know too well themselves.

    My advice would be to go there early and camp near the mud volcanoes in Qobustan, it’s an interesting area, you can even take a dip in the hot mud in places. I met a few people that did that and seemed like they made the right decision. Then you can check in the morning if there is a boat. So, It seemed I arrived sleepless for no reason.

    Our boat was the “Professor Gul.” A Soviet cargo boat from the 80’s, I don’t think the facilities are all too different from the newer boat from what I heard. We had our bags briefly checked by an Azeri guard, who asked each of us our favourite football player. Then we made our way through the turnstile and into a waiting building. There’s no internet in the building seemingly, there are some benches, some squat toilets in the back, and also some kind of hard loungers you can lie on if you wish.

    There we’d wait several hours, another guy showed up while we were waiting, a 17 year old guy from Doncaster, called Connor, attempting to cross from London to Hong Kong in 30 days. All by trains and buses, so he could make it back in time for an apprenticeship. It seemed he was seeing more the inside of transport than anything else, telling me sometimes he didn’t even have time to eat. He was quite a character, incredibly confident, though a little clueless at times. I recall him saying as we looked out onto the sea, “My friend works on a boat, that’s mad, imagine what he would say if he knew that out there in the world his mate was also on a boat.” I didn’t really know what to say to him when he came out with that. His feat was definitely impressive for such a young guy. There were also some Swiss-Germans who kept to themselves mainly. And that would be the sum of tourist passengers, the rest, and the vast majority were Truck drivers.

    Exploring the Port

    It was a very slow experience being processed at the port of Alat. Me and the English guy went for a meal, crossing through the port area infront of the main building, following a paved road and passing a huge military expo. It was quite a sight, befit with ATVs, drones, various modern weapons, and rather unfriendly looking Alsatians in kennels. Later some twin rotor soviet helicopter would show up, it was a rather captivating antique, which the kid filmed brazenly on his Iphone. We found a small cafe, and had some rather tasteless chicken and buckwheat, surrounded by soldiers, we seemed to get served ahead of them all for some reason.

    -The more normal helicopter

    Then we went back and waited for a few hours, eventually we were called up, and began the slow march to the boat. As we went, there seemed to be a lot of movement from helicopters and military personnel, we would come to find out why later. The walk was long between the various checking points, we were told not to film multiple times, I got caught twice but to no real consequence.

    We had another check, then continued walking through the port. We reached another building, closing in on the boat, and had to wait outside. An almighty explosion erupted close by, sirens began sounding. We all got up and ran to see what was going on. Swarms of soviet era helicopters came flying by and circling the area. The guards though, seemed completely unfazed, so we surmised it was some kind of drill. The explosion though was quite powerful, and I had grown used to hearing different kinds during my time in Ukraine, it unsettled me a bit. Striking the port of Alat would be a strange target, though this was around a time of turmoil in the middle east.

    An officer came out to look at our passports, though he was also not passport control. Then we were told to go inside the building, this was customs, finally. I threw my bag through the scanner and they waved me on, they checked the cyclist very scrupulously. Even getting him to open up individual bags and containers. We got our stamps and made our way to the ship, passing by the boat for Turkmenistan, a curious boat, only for Turkmen passengers. We came to a long metal walkway, clearly designed for trucks, and stepped onto the “Professor Gul” through the cargo entrance of the boat. It was filled with construction equipment, cars, and various other cargo packed onto truck beds, the inside was scant and industrial. We had our names and passports checked on a small list, and then had our passports swiftly taken from us and put in a small wooden box.

    With that we were on! We squeezed past the trucks, through a narrow doorway and up the metal staircase to the main deck. There we were able to witness the full majesty of the military exercise. Tens of helicopters circled, dropping great loads of water on a swampy area near the docks where a large fire was burning. Battleships swivelled around the port and blasted water as well, it all culminated in a helicopter flight in unison. Feeling safe aboard the ship, we all posed for photos and filmed the exercise without fear of being stopped.

    It wouldn’t be for a few more hours till we left, apparently another cyclist tried to enter the port at 12, but was told he was too late. Which was ridiculous considering how long we waited onboard to leave. Eventually though, around 6pm, the boat departed. I needed to stare at the window for a while to even realise, it was so smooth you couldn’t tell just from the motion alone.

    We had dinner later on, a kind of stew and mash which was reasonably tasty, the Caspian Sea ferry kitchen isn’t gourmet but it’s satisfying food. You got a different bottle of juice every day, and you could always get seconds, the 17 year old really ripped it, going up a good three or four times every dinner.

    It was a rather peaceful voyage, the showers and bathrooms are fairly basic but serviceable, a little on the gulag side. No toilet paper really, you’ll have to manage yourself with a water hose. The beds are nice enough too, we kept the window open the whole way, and we were relatively cool. It was a good nights rest, I began to feel human the next day, it had been a good two to three days of little to no sleep.

    The next day we had breakfast which was simple, eggs, bread, butter and jam. We had actually made it within sight of the port by 2pm, but anchored before we got any further, and there we sat for the rest of the day. I think there may have been a ship at dock, but I’m not really sure. We had lunch and dinner, and waited all the way until evening before there was any movement.

    Just as the sun began to sink beneath desolate looking Kazakh desert we began to move. We reached the port and left all our gear on the deck, then we were guided, by a rather smiley young Kazakh soldier, who actually posed with a photo with us on deck, to a small antiquated wooden room in 70s style, befit with a large portrait of the eponymous “Professor Gul.” A serious looking man, and apparently the first Azerbaijani to go to University. After waiting some time in there, we were directed into a room with a female soldier sat down at a table, which had everyone’s passports laid upon it in a multicoloured array. I was given mine and we were lead off the boat, the border here seemed very casual. I filmed quite a lot of it, including soldiers as we passed and they seemed very friendly.

    The Kazakh soldier took us through the port, taking us to passport control which was inside of a truck terminal, then to customs, where they didn’t check anything really. It was overall a very pleasant, albeit slow border, especially when compared to the more bureaucratic and uptight Azerbaijani side.

    Our cast: Stephano on the left, Franz to his right, Connor and the soldier right from them, Swiss guys at the back, and yours truly at the front.

    By the time we crossed into Kazakhstan it was past midnight. The port used to be in Aktau, a reasonably sized town. It is now a good few hundred kilometres from Aktau, being placed in the middle of the desert. It is cut from the main road by a good few kilometres, so it was a pretty poor place to be stuck after dark. Me, Stephano and the English guy waited a few hours to get a free ride, the others went off on their own. Eventually a car pulled up that didn’t want money, with three people inside. I was happy to hang back, potentially camp in the area, but they threw my bag in the car as well. So I got in, with Stephano half on my lap. The journey lasted an uncomfortable 20 or so minutes, we stopped at a petrol station on the main road and I was happy to get off. Stiff from having half a hip bone dug into my side. From there the English guy and Stephano managed to flag a car which would take them to Aktau for something like 20 dollars.

    I would get there, but by other means, it was to be a long sleepless night and day for me. I hope you found my account of the Caspian Sea Ferry interesting or useful, and if you’re wondering how to get out of the remote Kazakh desert, you’ll have to wait for the next post!

    -Jack

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  • Caspian Sea Shenanigans

    This all began one fateful day when my Azeri friend Cavansir invited me to what sounded like a beachside festival. He forwarded me a WhatsApp message about the event: somewhere on the Caspian shore, tents provided, karaoke, music, games, and even “special guests!” It sounded like a laugh, and all for the poxy sum of 25 manat, or about ten quid.

    -Me and Cavansir near the Russian border

    When border guards flagged our ramshackle car down, the dawn breaking over the Caspian sea, I was a sleepless wreck, jolted awake by the unexpected encounter. They laughed at my dreary state as they went through my passport, and let us pass. I couldn’t communicate with the Azeris who had driven me to this place, and I had no idea where I was. I was seriously beginning to question my life decisions.

    Cavansir is an interesting guy, a touch eccentric. He is also a little aloof, I feel often I am talking to myself when we chat. So when it came to the day of the ‘event,’ it was a little difficult to shake details out of him. I had no real idea where it was, how we were supposed to get there, or when to leave. He drip-fed me these details as we got closer and closer to the time when we should actually be there, and in his characteristic fashion, began calling me frantically after almost no communication all day.

    He instructed me and the English guy I’d invited, called ‘Oli,’ to make our way to a metro stop some half an hour away. We took the metro and emerged onto the crowded street after passing through long, winding corridors. There we were immediately hounded by screeching Taxi drivers and pushed around by impatient commuters, it felt a very distinct deviation from the slick city centre, this place was grubby and crowded.

    I had no internet in Azerbaijan, so I called Cavansir through my UK sim, he was again frantic, ‘Why did you leave the platform! I was waiting there!’ I told him, ‘we had thought we’d meet on the street since we were taking a lift to the event. Come to us we’re at this doner place.’ I hoped he would come to us. But after some time, it was becoming apparent that Cavansir was not going to appear, so we made our way back down to the platform. I called him again, and he sounded even more frantic, me and Oli rolled our eyes at each-other.

    We tried another exit. We were getting pretty frustrated at this point, searching about for Wifi, to no avail, it seemed like he was talking about some kind of market but we had no real idea. Just as we were beginning to lose our minds, then he appeared, ‘Jack! Bro where were you? Why did you leave the platform?’

    ‘We didn’t know where you were going to be, and thought you’d be at the street level.’

    ‘No, no I said I would meet you at the platform.’

    After a very short back and forth we let it all go, glad to be finally done with the ordeal. He was there with another Azeri, who spoke no English, he would be our driver this fateful day. We got in the man’s Peugeot, which slanted on one side, had various exposed wires under the steering wheel, and a taped on wingmirror. We made our way in this worthy chariot towards the beach, picking up some supplies, which consisted mostly of alcohol.

    Cavansir protested, telling us they had everything. But it seemed like they would charge us for anything we used of theirs, so me and Oli bought our own stuff, and it turned out they didn’t bring any booze anyway. We got there and then the state of affairs became quite apparent. It was not any kind of festival, or organised event, there would be no karaoke or special guests, if anything we were the special guests. It seemed like a group of friends or acquaintances meeting up to camp and party, although without booze which perplexed us.

    And as we rocked up on the incredibly windy Caspian shore it seemed to be that there might not even be enough tents. Regardless, we began setting up shop, parking our car and then taking wood from the back of one man’s car to the side of a massive wall which ran down along the beach onto the sea. It was fiercely windy, there was pretty significant swell on the Caspian. So, a few of the other ‘attendees’ pulled their cars round to create something of a windshield. We began building a fire, which they lit using gasoline and tissue paper, in classic Eastern fashion. I covered my face to avoid getting cancer.

    Music began to blast from a JBL speaker, old 50’s classics, Cavansir’s favourite. It definitely matched his image, the man simply did not do casual wear, he was wearing a blazer and smart pants even to the beach. Me and Oli chatted some guff and laughed about the situation, as the gang of Azeris sat around and stoked the bonfire, huge numbers of cars were doing similar sorts of things along the beach it seemed.

    But our interests were heavily drawn to the wall, it was stupendously high and solid, and there was a large and high pier shooting out onto the sea on the other side of it. We decided to investigate further, first walking following it to the road, where it lead to very secure looking gate, it almost seemed like a miltary compound.

    Infiltration

    I was undeterred though, following it back down to the beach, passing over some weak fence at the edge between the water and the wall. On the other side was the rest of the beach, and there were some shorter walls protecting some huge mansions high up on another level. The pier was on huge columns, it was inaccessible without climbing said shorter wall, still a good 2.5 meters high, running along it and climbing the pier.

    I went along the beach for a while, taking in the power of the Caspian as the waves rolled along the rocks. I then decided to give the pier a look, Oli decided to join me. We climbed the wall, on the other side of it was an alleyway fit with doors every few meters, all a level below the mansions. We ambled along the wall and climbed up to the pier, running to its edge and feeling quite accomplished. It was an incredible view, the Caspian rolling in at all sides.

    After some time we decided to leave, but I, ever the risktaker, decided the mission wouldn’t be complete without exploring the space a little. It was quite strange, I was confused as to why it was so secure, they seemed like holiday mansions, but for who? We started walking around the mansions, where there was a small paved street that lead through various gardens and greenery, with small parissiene street lamps. We risked a look at the other side of the gate, it seemed like there was no one, so we pressed on a bit deeper down the walkway.

    Eventually I bottled it, and turned round, the anxiety of getting caught building. On my walk back, I snuck another look at the gate, suddenly noticing a man on a chair. And with that we began sprinting back to the pier like naughty schoolboys, jumping down onto the wall from the pier and dropping back onto the beach, nearly breaking our ankles in the process. But I was quite satisfied with my adventure, and got some good footage. After which we arrived back to the ‘camp.’

    ‘Bro! Where did you go!’ Asked Cavansir.

    ‘We went round the other side of the wall and had a look at the pier, and the houses as well, it’s a whole compound, it’s crazy.’

    ‘Maybe we can go.’

    ‘Haha I don’t know maybe, I think there was some security or something.’

    It never ceased to amaze me how game he always was, at a glance you might think he’s uptight since he’s always suited up, but as he says ‘Azerbaijanis we always have energy.’

    The night went on, and so did the wind, completely unrelenting. It was decided that we would not camp here, which I thought meant we were going home. Me and Oli got back in the Peugeot, a different Azeri got in for some reason, and so we were without Cavansir as we pulled away from the beach. We began driving back to Baku, to our initial relief, but then we continued driving as if to leave it. I asked them in my limited Turkish where we were going, they replied ‘Quba.’ This was news to me, I told Oli to get out, he had a hostel stay and no tent, it didn’t seem like they really had any tents to spare. I got them to stop before they fully left Baku. He managed to make his way back but it took him several hours.

    And so we missioned North, I was reassured that Cavansir was coming as well, we ran into him after a long wait at a petrol stop. He said that this was going to be even better than the original plan, we would see the North and spend another evening, I accepted the situation, and we drove on. This whole time I’ve been waiting for information on the Caspian Sea ferry, all information online indicates its schedule is quite sporadic, and I had been waiting a long time for it at this point. So it was concerning to be going now so far away from Baku.

    I was again alone with the Azeris as they attempted to navigate to some camp spot, we drove for miles and miles, far further than I thought we’d be going, eventually we came to a ‘border control point.’ Men with rifles flagged us down, checking our IDs and sending us on our way. I was now very concerned as to where I’d been taken, their answers were not satisfying, it sounded like ‘Qarabakh.’ Which I wasn’t supposed to go near according to my visa. Still it didn’t make sense considering the direction.

    Festival gone wrong

    we pulled into the entrance of a forest, meeting up with rest of the Azeris, they were laughing and joking as we began walking and looking for a campsite. My consciousness was fading, and I had started to really dislike these people. We found a spot, I pitched my tent as fast as I could, and tried to go to sleep, they continued to talk, so I put my earphones in and tried to sleep. This didn’t really work, and I didn’t get much sleep. Then, I was awoken to a JBL speaker blasting right next to my tent. I stuck my head out of the tent, incredulous to what I was seeing and hearing.

    ‘Hey! Hey I’m trying to sleep!’ I was ignored,

    ‘Could you turn it down please?’ I asked, gesturing with my hand

    A lady looked at me and motioned for me to get up and dance. I now truly hated these people. I asked Cavansir to reason with them, he was also trying to sleep, they told him they hadn’t slept either. I got out of my tent, livid, ready to pack away all my stuff and camp somewhere else to sleep. My phone was dead, so I asked Cavansir where we were, he said we were on the border with Russia. I couldn’t believe it.

    ‘Man what the hell is going on I can’t go near Russia.’

    ‘I know I said the same.’

    I brought myself out of my angry, tired state. I realised that as I was in such a remote location, effectively the no man’s land between borders, that I would struggle to hitch back. These people were my only way back. I went back to my tent, trying to sleep, powering my phone a little, even my earphones could not stifle the roaring bass of the speaker. Eventually I just got up, they offered me food and I refused it, out of anger really.

    Eventually, they left to go see the Caspian Sea. I finally had some time away from them, I jumped in an ice cold river, refreshing myself a little. And explored around the forest, it was actually a lovely little spot, and it lifted my mood a little. But then they came back, speaker in hand, so I went to the sea. Passing the border guards in flip flops.

    It was also a great place, the beach was all black volcanic sand and the Caspian sea is very mild. I came back and after a while we began to get ready to leave, but it took hours. I was beginning to really lose the love for this place, especially when, as I was disassembling my tent, Cavansir decided to start tossing an axe at a tree right behind me. I got out of the way, and didn’t really know what to say to him. I was angry and only he could understand me, and the rest of them looked on like it was normal. It was at this point I began to really curse the place and the people.

    When we eventually got to the car, disaster struck, the Peugeot wouldn’t start. We spent a long time trying to get it running, they analysed some tiny part over and over again. Attempting to reengineer it, which didn’t work. Eventually they called a mechanic who drove for an hour, only to call it quits after ten minutes. The chariot had died. And I had received a text from Stephano, a man I knew from my hostel who had been ringing the ferry port every day. The ferry was tomorrow, I needed to be there at 8AM. The situation was now dire, I had very little time and was very far away.

    Me and Cavansir and another got into the mechanics Lada, it bounced around those same backroads until we got to a town, where we left the mechanics car and jumped a shared taxi to Quba. The Azeri man leaned his head on my shoulder, which I just accepted. But he was starting to get way too familiar with me, luckily we got out after a few hours, and hopped another one straight to Cavansir’s house. It was around 4 or 5AM, I needed to get up in three hours, to go to the port which I thought was in Baku.

    I got up a few hours later, feeling like hell, I poked a ragged Cavansir awake. We rose groggily, soon finding out the port was actually in Alat, an hour away, it didnt seem like I was going to make it. We had no internet, so me and Cavansir left the house to find some, I didn’t know what we were doing, he just said ‘trust me.’ We walked through the back streets of Baku, the rain coming down and sogging Cavansirs suit. His mood was bleak but I tried to be optimistic. ‘Three days without sleep bro, this is terrible.’

    ‘Ah well, can’t get worse mate!’

    It didn’t seem to work. We came to a big store where we found some terminal. They seem to have a lot if these terminals from the caucasus onwards, you can pay insurance and many other things, and can top up your phone.

    He topped up his sim with some cash from me, called the port, and told them to wait. He then got a bolt who explained the situation, I paid him upfront and waved a fond farewell to ol’ Cavansir. We drove off, arriving at the port with moments to spare, only to find the boat was actually at 6pm. With that ridiculous news I eased up, I had made it, and would be on my way out of Azerbaijan tonight.

    It was a strange experience, some distinct cultural differences were laid bare to me. Travelling like this isn’t always comfortable, but the world isn’t a totally organised place, you can’t plan on what’ll happen next. Breaking into a compound, getting dumped at the Russian border, your car breaking down. But its all a part of life, if you’re determined, you’ll get where you’re going.

    Also those reprobates demanded we paid for the mechanic, my full stay though I used my own stuff and my own tent, and for Oli even though he had to ditch. So to hell with them.

    -Jack

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  • Baku to Qobustan

    For my first post to this blog, I’ll recount my excursion from the Azeri capital Baku to Qobustan, an area famed for its volcanoes and prehistoric cave-art. And a completely unexpected turn which lead to an interesting local encounter. This post comes towards the middle of my overall hitchhiking journey across Eurasia.

    Baku

    Baku as a city is at a glance, very glamorous, its oil wealth is proudly stated in its many Skyscrapers, often displaying impressive light shows, European-style streets and boulevards, and many expensive cars nipping around its roads – often crashing into eachother which I witnessed a few times. Azeri people, are Turkic, their language is very intelligible with Turkish, and there is significant cultural crossover between the peoples. It is however, very different to Turkey, with a more stable economy and much more visible secularity. I feel though, a slight difference in temperament here, they are a little more reserved than Turks, and many of them know Russian due to their soviet past, which is also responsible for its secular nature. If you were to go back in time to the 19th century in Baku, you would likely be very surprised at what you saw. From a small port town with a mere 7000 population, it became a thriving oil-rich port, now home to 2.5 million people. So its rise to prominence, as cities go, is fairly recent.

    Road to Qobustan

    A few people I met compared it to Dubai, which I wouldn’t disagree with, and in complete honesty, after the first few moments of awe, I found it fairly devoid of substance. Its centre and downtown are certainly nice to look at, but that’s about it. And after a few days of mulling around I decided I would hitchhike south and take a look at Qobustan, a desert area boasting cave art and some ‘mud volcanoes.’ I set out rather late in the day, in my regular fashion, caught a bus to the Southern periphery of the city and crossed the highway onto a road connecting to it. From there I stood, as I have on thousands of roads stretching from here to Ukraine by now, and stuck my thumb up. I had purchased some nuts and pastries, as well as some water and juice from a local shop, so I was well equipped in that sense. But I had left my hat at home, and hadn’t applied any sunscreen, which was a little reckless.

    The Sun was pretty intense, it definitely looked and felt like you were in the middle east, and you could make an argument it was, the area is not far from Iran, and just over the border it doesn’t change dramatically. The highway is surrounded by forbidding desert, with pumpjacks rhythmically drawing up oil dotting it. So I hoped, sweating in the heat, I wouldn’t wait too long. The first car pulled up and stopped for me, practically running me over, which would become a trend – even when there was plenty of space. He asked me where I was going in Turkish, I said Qobustan, but that I had no money. He was confused, and a little angry and he drove off. Not a brilliant start, but it didn’t take long to have someone stop which was a good sign, the next person stopped for me, again cutting right into me, I had to dodge him a little. He was in an SUV, he asked me where I was going and I gave him the same spiel. He said he would take me for only five manat, I had no manat, I also had a principle of not taking rides unless they were free, the last time I paid for a ride was Romania, practically a continent away – so I wasn’t going to start now. He tried to persuade me, but I just walked away, I had it happen two more times, outright asking if cars were taxis so I could just walk away from them without having the pointless conversation. I began to figure a lot of these cars were actually taxis, and just didn’t have any of the markers they had in most countries, aside from a small insignia I was noticing on their windshields. But I couldn’t notice that until I had already flagged them. With the last car I initiated by asking if they were a taxi, he said something I didn’t understand, so I turned away, but he gestured me back. I told him I was going to Qobustan, but I had no money, he waved me in, so I jumped in the car.

    We trundled along the desert, watching as pumpjacks, refineries, and massive cement plants passed us by. Any housing or shops we saw were of a far simpler nature than the city, even looking like they were from a different country entirely, supporting a suspicion I had that basically all the wealth was concentrated in Baku. We chatted a little, but my Turkish is almost zero, and my Russian is also nearly zero. But I was able to tell the driver, and his young passenger, a guy in his 20’s, that I was hitchhiking from Ukraine. Mostly of course, since you cannot enter Azerbaijan by land as of the current year, which has been the case since Covid, no one seems to know why. So it was the one country I needed to fly to, unfortunately. He mentioned something which made no sense to me, it sounded like ‘ulian ulas.’ I had no idea what he was talking about, until he said ‘shotlandi cinema.’ Then I realised he was talking about William Wallace, and of course the film ‘Braveheart’, which we laughed about. It was an experience I’ve had in many countries during hitchhiking rides, at some point after I’ve mentioned I’m Scottish, often from people with zero English, will mention Braveheart, if they’re of a certain age. With one guy in a restaurant in Diyarbakir in Eastern Turkey remarking to my friend as we paid for our meal that, ‘my people fought bravely,’ the kind of response we deserve in every restaurant really.

    We got into Qobustan, a really small place, with high sandstone walls splitting the highway from the residences, comprised of some soviet tenements and small housing. The attraction in this place was of course the volcano, you could see the dried lava flows snaking down its body, and also the cave art which seemed to be at some museum. However I never saw any of those things, except from afar, as the driver had invited me to his home for food. An all too familiar experience to those hitchhiking Turkic countries, and one which I hadn’t the heart to refuse. We made our way to his soviet apartment, going up one set of stairs, and walking along a hallway completely made of wooden planks. I was the first to enter his home, meeting a woman standing in the entrance, puzzled to see me. The man proclaimed that I was a tourist, and suddenly excitement fell about the room. I felt like I just walked into a hen house. Women were running around and fussing over me, I recalled the nunnery in Monty Pythons ‘The Holy Grail.’

    Birthday!

    I was immediately sat down for a plate of ‘dolma,’ maybe more familiar to you as ‘sarma’ if you’ve ever been to the balkans. The Azeri version is a leaf wrapping stuffed with meat, rice and some herbs. I don’t really care for any version of the food, the Turkish version is not bad, this Dolma and the Dolma I had in general in Azerbaijan was serviceable. But I of course appreciate any free food and hospitality. There were two girls, the man’s daughters, who spoke very good English and were incredibly excited to talk to me. And talk they did, for a few hours, asking me endless questions. I became a bit weary of it, but was happy to entertain them and others. After my meal the son came home, a very hyperactive seven year old, it was actually his birthday! Maybe part of the reason I was invited in. We celebrated his birthday with cake and chatted a bunch. The kid seemed far more interested in Roblox and stealing my phone than in the foreigner in his house, which was fair. I also got the impression, at least from the girls that I could stay, which I elected not to do because all of my stuff was back at the hostel. Eventually I decided to leave, before some vodka got broke out and I got stuck there, I said my goodbyes to my wonderful and completely enamoured hosts, and walked out to the highway.

    From there I slowly hitched back, with some more terse interactions with Taxi drivers, but eventually a tomato salesman, who gave me a free tomato, and I believe a taxi driver who decided to take me for free took me to Baku. I was completely exhausted, I’ve had far more tiring days but the Sun, the chat and some weak sleep recently had knackered me. It certainly isn’t the most eventful day on this journey, summing up my experience in Azerbaijan in general to be honest, but it was a nice little day. And sometimes its nice to relax and meet locals. So there you have it, my first small tale from this journey on the blog, hitchhiking can be a very random experience, it doesn’t always lead to something like this, some days are incredibly eventful, some are mind-numbingly slow. But embedded in its spontaneous nature is a real chance of encountering something special.

    – Me at an Azeri kid’s birthday party, 2025

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