Ramblin Scot

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 24^th 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.

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