Tbilisi to Baku

As we cycled out of Tbilisi on 25th June, we noticed a couple of large Stalin head reliefs glaring down from an old building on the outskirts of town. No attempt to conceal them had been made- surely many Georgians view them with a pinch of pride!

The seasonal heat had clearly severely increased during our week in Tbilisi. There was no wind, and ice cream-and-drink-stops were very regular indeed. Heading east, toward the Azeri border, and through Georgia's wine growing region, and found a beautifully scenic place to camp for the night, tucked up into the hills, on a grassy plain next to a depleted river.

Having tried to get up early the next day, we in fact only got going at about 7am and experienced another absolute scorcher; the apparently safe public springs that sprout up all over Georgia came in very handy indeed. We cycled through Signagi, an extraordinarily smart and bijoux town (more Italy than Georgia) with a lovely view of the high Caucasus mountains looming in the distance, seemingly floating on a cushion of sky.

At the Azeri Border, there was a sign in Georgian and English which read "Azerbaijan Border 100m. Good Luck!"

As we crossed the Georgian checkpoint into no-man's-land, the friendly Georgian policeman grinned "Good Luck!" to us a second time. From the orderly queueing at the shiny new Georgian border post, we were made to wait on the other side of an iron gate before being called forward. Embarrassingly, we were skipped past everybody who was waiting. Immigration were friendly and swift, although it was irritating that they insisted on playing with my horn. "Welcome to Azerbaijan. Now go to Customs."

Customs took our passports away to a different room for closer scrutiny, while one customs officer sat on a stool in front of us to begin his interrogation.

" Where from?"
" England" (they never understand UK)
"Tourist?"
"Tourist."
"AR-MEN-IA?"
"NO no no no no no no no"
"No, ....... Georgia - Ar-men-ia, ......... Ar-men-ia - Georgia?" (His eyes narrowing)

"Absolutely not!" I had placed a black tape over the name "Armenia" on the guide book and hidden it at the bottom of a pannier. Ex-pats refer to it as "Kansas" so as not to utter the taboo word.

Having satisfied themselves that we have not been, nor that would we ever want to go to Armenia, they said "Welcome to Azerbaijan." Another man came up to us, an said "AZERBAIJAN! VERY GOOD!" With this ringing in our ears, we set out down the road, which immediately turned to a rocky track, past a gypsy village, and we were chased by wild dogs.

In Azerbaijan, there is a reverence to the late ex-president Heydar Aliyev which is very similar to the way Ataturk is revered in Turkey. There are photos of him everywhere (NEVER defaced), sometimes with an inspiring quote, and most things (!) are named after him. People refer to him as "Our Father". On his death, he was replaced by his son.

Luckily, that evening we found a Motel in Balakan with air conditioning to relax in and acclimatise to our new country. The following day, we resolved to make it to Sheki, a famous mountain town with a beautiful khan's palace. We took a wrong road near the end of the day, and had to negotiate 15 km of extremely stony and pebbly dirt track upon which I suffered a tyre blowout, which only prolonged the miserable experience. At the end of the day, there was an enormous climb up to Sheki, which was dead straight, therefore looked deceptively shorter than we thought. The highlight of Sheki is a silk road caravansarai which has been converted into a hotel. Having found that the hotel was full for a function, we contacted Ilgar, who can arrange home stays (number in the lonely planet).

He was a very friendly chap (he also runs a tea house), however the homestay was not an awful lot of fun- the room wasn't great and you had to walk through someone else's room to get to ours! We had a chat with the family, who were friendly enough, although the level of inherent racism that many people from this part of the world have became rather obvious. When I said that London is a beautiful city, the woman said "London! Prob-lem! Many negro! Many Hindu!" , whilst pointing at her skin. Multiculturalism has passed Azerbaijan by. There is only really one type of person living here (Azeri, apart from expats) and they are pretty afraid of different people, it seems.

The following day, we were invited to Ilgar's family home for a lovely breakfast of rose petal jam, cheese, tea (with rose water) and bread. His family were happy and friendly, and he showed us all the plants he has in his garden.

We then went to see the beautifully oriental khan's palace, which is held together with no glue and no screws or nails. The intricate paintings on the inside were lovely. In the grounds of the palace a load of schoolchildren (and their teachers!) insisted on having their photos taken next to us, one by one!

Ilgar doesn't allow the locals to play backgammon in his tea house because they get over excited! During our tea break we hailed down another cyclist, Will, another Brit who has the same idea as me! We stuck together for the rest of the day, and went up to see an old church in an over-packed minibus. There must have been 30 people in the minibus, and there was absolutely nowhere to sit. Isabel managed to bag a place on an old lady's knee. She, as do many people here, had a full set of gold teeth. Our theory is that aside from being fashionable, gold teeth are the product of the method of putting the sugar lump in your mouth rather than in your tea, and the lack of dental hygeine. If your tea is too hot, pour it from your cup into your saucer and sip it from there!

We all stayed in the Caravanserai hotel that evening, and really enjoyed being there, under the mountains surrounded by such lovely buildings. We had supper there, and were irritated to find that the staff were using our table as a training table for the new young waiter who was yet to learn to pour a bottle of water. Isabel had not yet finished her plate when the keen young waiter tried to take it away, and on protesting, the haid waiter only relpied,"He wants to take your plate away." How rude of us to intrude on his desires!

The following day, Will cycled with us, and we ended up camping in the woods. It was a great place to camp, but chicadas were emerging from large pupae stuck onto the tree bark. We looked just like hornets, and we were pleased to notice on close inspection that they were in fact chicadas!

On the next morning, the 30th June, we elected to take a route into Baku that would go south of Baku, and up to it along the Caspian Shore due to the apparent non-existence of tarmac on the main road into the capital city. This led us down, away from the mountains and onto the desert plain. The heat was pretty intense, and when it came to the evening, we found a petrol station where the kind little chap showed us a padoga by a nearby lake we could camp on. We had no real food that evening but feasted on watermelon I had bought, and many other small melons that kind store owners had given us.

When we packed up at 6 the following morning, the "kind" teenager who had shown us where we could camp had clearly had ideas during his long night shift about cash-extraction the following morning, and had thought we would be a good source.

"Om Besh Manat!" he announced (15 Manat, about GBP 12). We offered him a slice of watermelon with big grins and pretended not to understand. When we tried to leave he blocked us in by standing in the narrow entrance to the pagoda, and kept repeating "Om Besh Manat!" We only escaped because he had to go to serve a customer. The Achilles heel to his little plan!

In the evening of the following day, we arrived at the Caspian Sea (or Lake?), a very satisfying landmark. We had intended to cycle the full 150km to Baku that day, however the headwinds were the worst I have encountered on this trip so far. On the flat, I usually cycle at about 25 kph but could only manage about 6 or 7. The wind was blowing sand accross the road in interesting patterns. We were not going to make it to Baku, and I was beckoned over by a smart looking chap with a white flat cap, and invited to stay with him and his family. This was the Soingacal family, and we were summoned inside for tea, and ordered to take showers.

It is interesting to note that although a house may be very smart, showers and loos are a shed accross the yard. It was great to have a scrub after so long unwashed! We were immediately given some food, and more tea. With no safe drinking tap water, it seems people here drink tea instead of water. The eldest daughter (of the three still at home) appeared to be rather a strict muslim, sporting a headscarf. She said she was sad that Michael Jackson had died because he was a muslim. Supper was a casserole of one of the chickens, prepared by her, and was delicious.

Another daughter is living in Germany with her German boyfriend, and I chatted to him on the phone. He sounded very friendly, and it was good to talk some English because my Russian (with which I communicated with the others) is not very good. Mr S used to be a police officer, before and after the fall of the USSR. He is a great supporter of the current president.

The following morning, we were treated to a feast of a breakfast, including fried eggs (hurrah!), outside, in view of the 130 chickens (or was that 129?) and 6 or so turkeys clucking away in the penned-off garden. We were given a grand tour of the garden, and it was great to see all the different fruits grew therein, including figs (ripe), apples (just about), quince, and grapes among many other things.

The ride into Baku that day was far less windy, and we bashed out the 45 or so km before lunchtime, despite the late start. The 1000 Camels hostel is located in the walled old town, which is in the south of Baku, so it was very easy to find. The sign outside the front door "The key is under the flowerpot" was a prelude to the utterly shambolic nature of the place.

Ramil, the manager, would have been more at home in Fawlty Towers. Until the moment he went on holiday, it was not possible to relax for 10 minutes in the hostel without having to hold a conversation in complete gibberish.

"YOU STAY? YOU STAY? OKAY, NO PROBLEM! YOU STAY TONIGHT, NOT TOMORROW NIGHT? NO PROBLEM, YOU PAY THREE NIGHTS OKAY? MUST GIVE MONEY TO BOSS! BOSS VERY ANGRY! OK RELAX NO PROBLEM. YOU PAY? HE PAY?..."It turns out that "Boss" was in fact his elder brother Samir, who is the owner and about to do an MBA at St Aidan's College, Durham next year.

The place was utterly shambolic, with a permanently broken sink and rock hard beds. At one point, I was told that as there was not change, I was owed money by one of the other guests! One evening, when I was doing some bike work in the courtyard, there was a problem with the plumbing and brown mess (yes, that's right) started falling from the sky, to be cleaned up with a broom by one of the neighbours.

Despite all this, it was a great place to stay due to the regular flow of other travellers, in particular cyclists! We all gathered in the tiny common room where it was possible to cook (wash the plates up in the loo basin.)

Will was there on the first night waiting for us, and Elmar was there too, a Dutch cyclist whom we had met in Tbilisi. It was great to see them. Elmar kindly gave me his expensive rear tyre in return for a meagre pizza. Mine had materially failed, and the choice in the only bike workshop (not shop) in the city was "Russian or Chinese"- no reliable German manufacturing!

Baku is described in the guide book as an "oil boom town," which is certainly the case. The streets are resplendent with Hermes, Gucci, and Mont Blanc shops- and the litter bins are intricate metal urns spraypainted silver. The people are well heeled. The town is pretty immaculate, at first glance. All this when most of the countryside does not have running water or even a lick of tarmac! Vast areas of the city are however either being demolished or rebuilt. You can buy as much designer tat as you like, but if you want to buy something useful like a bicycle part or a tent peg, you can think again.

There is an efficient Metro which only costs about 5p per ride, despite this being an expensive city. The trains give out a catchy jingle when they stop- I think each station has its own jingle. This is important because there is absolutely no indication of the station name on the platforms, which makes it rather precarious for foreigners.

One evening, Isabel and I met a contact of a friend of ours from Baku. It was great to meet a friendly local who was our contemporary, and she was keen for us to sample proper Azeri tea. As we sipped the amber ambrosia through sugar cubes implanted in our cheeks, with the oil rigs of the Caspian in the background, the profoundness of the dislike and distrust of Armenians became clearer than ever, as well as the inherent racism that appears to be implanted in the area. "Armenians complain about the genocide, but I tell you that genocide never happens unprovoked! Take for example Britain. Britain for a long time occupied parts of Africa and now there are Africans occupying parts of London!" It is difficult to reply to such things. "Lovely evening isn't it! I say- you can see the oil rigs!"

I ended up staying in Baku for more than 2 weeks, sorting out the visas required for the rest of the trip (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and China.) Isabel and Will both left before me. She had had enough of cycling with me and intended to try a little more non-cycle travelling. The visa problems are protracted by the requirement of certain embassies to hang onto the passport while processing, meaning it is not possible to get the ball rolling on another visa. As it turned out it was very lucky I got my Chinese visa in Baku because the grapevine is reporting that Central Asian embassies are not granting visas!

It was at the Chinese Embassy that I met Greg, a long blond haired (well, it was short when he left England 5 months ago) Hertfordshire chap who is cycling to Australia. It seemed like a shambolic attempt as there were some European tourists who had been sent away and ordered to get a letter of invitation, and Greg already had one. The frustration grew as only other man in the queue worked for an agency, had about 100 passports, 2 loud mobile phones that rang interminably, and failed to acknowledge us once. Greg approached the window, and handed his letter over, which had been prepared by a family friend in Beijing. The Azeri girl who worked for the chinese consul consulted with him. He read the letter, smacked it twice and sent it back. "A law firm cannot invite you for a cycling trip! It must be from a sports club! This invitation is invalid! Greg had failed to get a visa with a letter! What were my chances?

"Hello, I would like to know if I can apply for a Chinese Visa"
"WHO TOLD YOU COME HERE?!" Barked the consul.
"I have read in my guide book that I can obtain a chinese visa here"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR REGISTRATION"
"I don't need to register as I am a tourist staying in Azerbaijan for less than 30 days"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"
"I am using cash"
"HOW I KNOW YOU SUPPORT YOURSELF IN CHINA? I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"

In the end, he accepted a photocopy of my credit card (gulp!) for which I was ordered down the street to find a copied, but the Chinese Visa for some reason was secured. Greg eventually got one too, without a letter.

That evening Tom and Blaise turned up at the 1000 Camels. Tom is ex-Durham, and they are both cycling the same route. We all decide we will travel the dicey desert stretch through Kazakhstan together.

To kill some time, I visited the famous mud volcanoes at Qobustan, which are not spectacular, but well worth the hour long taxi ride for their faintly rude curiosity. They are grey mud mounds none more than 6' high that belch and bubble, and produce noises to make onlookers snigger. On the same trip I visited some important petroglyphs. I also biked to a place where natural gas seeps from the side of the rock, giving a perpetually burning flame.

For the second week in Baku, I went to stay with Kyle, a friendly American expat chap whom Greg had met through couchsurfing. He was very kind and generous with everything he had (he had a Nintendo Wii!), and it was brilliant to get out of the hostel!

Having secured all the necessary visas, I sat down in an internet cafe and found out that the FCO travel warning against going to Iran has been lifted, meaning my insurance was no longer invalid. I fired off an email to the agency who had obtained my Iranian visa, and they replied the following day that although my visa ran out on the 19th July, I would be given 15 days if I entered before the 18th. I hurried down to the Turkmen Embassy to apply for a Turkmen transit visa (to collect in Mashad) which appeared no problem, although I was a little disturbed by the question "I am sure there will be no problem, but what will you do if you don't get granted the visa?"

We (Greg, Tom, Blaise and Pedro, another cyclist) held a summit in Ale's teahouse- should Humphrey go to Iran or Kazakhstan? Iran is not extending British visas, so getting out of the country on time would be a real rush. Sorting out the Turkmen visa in Mashad is also far from certain. I had to enter Iran in 2 days time, also a logistical headache if I wanted to cycle. What if Turkmenistan only grant a 3 day visa? Not sure if my folks are particularly happy with me going to Iran in the current climate, despite constant reports of the friendliness of the Iranian people. And in any case, this route would involve 21 days of cycling without a rest day.

In the end, the decision was a snap decision, and I plumped for the safe option, the ferry to Kazakhstan (well, safe in visa terms- 11 days in the desert was an interesting experience!). I have had a great time over the last couple of weeks (this will be the subject of the next post), but it was a decision that has been eating away at me ever since.

The ferry from Baku to Actau is really a cargo boat that leaves without announcement. Tickets go on sale a few hours before the ferry leaves, so it is necessary to hang around the kassa on the odd chance that the ferry will go. You have to ask if it will leave today, and they will give you absolutely no indication whatsoever, apart from "Try again later." Will had caught it by camping down at the ferry port.

As it happened, the tickets went on sale the morning after the "Summit"- and right until I had handed over the cash to the ticket witch (as she is known to all travellers- she charged us an extra $15 each for our bikes because we hadn't hidden them from her sight).

Having bought the tickets, we had a long wait to be called through immigration, and security who made us remove all our panniers and put them through a scanner while all the cars just drove on. As we sweated outside, Blaise was asked inside and given a cold drink. Corrupt port officials tried to collect "port tax" but we somehow managed to sneak past. The exit stamp on my visa meant that I couldn't go to Iran anymore even if I wanted to.

Far from having people ushering us where to go, we had to find our own way onto the ferry, and we secured our bikes next to the freight rail carriages that had rolled on.

The ferry was clearly incredibly old, and grotty as hell. The cabin I shared with Greg had a loo with a broken cistern, and when I complained, the woman only laughed. It did actually work properly later on , but through direct pipes- the cistern did not fill with water! The matteresses had ominous looking holes.

The ferry left without ceremony, and set out onto the largest lake in the world on a journey pretty much 200 miles due north that should take 18 hours.