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Cabin Fever

I met a few overlanders in a hostel once and we had a conversation about when people describe something as – ‘An experience.’

This generally means it was shit, but it makes for a decent story somewhere down the line.

The Baku – Aktau ferry was an experience.

It’s unreliable. It’s expensive. No one can actually tell you how long it will take. It’s prone to an unaccountable delay or two, maybe three. It’s generally a shitheap of a boat. To put it in perspective, you can fly for about two thirds of the price, and it’d take about two hours all-in.

But if anyone’s after a pointless seafaring excursion, it’s me.

That's a very long name for a boat.

That’s a very long name for a boat.

After the race to Alat, the ferry set off pretty much straight away. We were pretty happy with that, maybe we caught these guys on a good day.

Nope.

The Baku Skyline, just before they turn the tellys on the sides of the skyscrapers

The Baku Skyline, just before they turn the tellys on the sides of the skyscrapers

We sailed back to Baku and stopped. For fucking ages. Apparently we were filling up on gas. I figured it was time to catch some kip for the night and thought hopefully when I wake up we’d have sailed a fair chunk of the distance.

Nope.

I checked my GPS and during the night we’d managed to sail a grand total of around eight kilometres. I reckon I could’ve swam faster.

The question mark on my GPS wasn't the best sign.

The question mark on my GPS wasn’t the best sign.

Still, at least on the boat all meals are included. The only problem is, I think the chef’s tongueless. Dry bread and butter for breakfast, watery bean soup for lunch and day old Plov for dinner. I don’t think it helped my bout of the shits one bit.

If I could offer one word of advice for someone catching this ferry it’s this —

Bring some water, and some liqueur. Definitely bring liqueur. Between 30 – 60 hours worth.

I was kind of hoping to meet some other travellers on the boat, but we just shared our cabin with a shifty Russian. We barely spoke a word to him. We tried at the start but we were shot down when we explained we couldn’t speak Russian, and our game of charades was met with an unwavering stare. Even Fredrik remarked – ‘I don’t trust the Russian.’

Again, this camera has the tendency to make things look better than they are.

Again, this camera has the tendency to make things look better than they are.

The boat docked in Aktau at about midnight, after a good half an hour being nudged into place by a Kazakh tugboat. You’d think we’d be able to plonk our bags on our bikes and roll into Customs to be thoroughly searched and freed into the Aktau nightlife.

Nope.

The precious cargo.

The precious cargo.

There was about an hour and a half waiting. People looking at each other, looking down the dockyard, titting about with Azeri flags and generally kicking their heels. Then the Kazakh border patrol came aboard. These were alright lads, they had a look at our passports, probed around our bags a bit, had a chat. Job done.

Nope.

The most important job on the ship.

The most important job on the ship.

Enter the female section of the Kazakh border control. There wasn’t any laughing and joking with these lassies, and it seemed the other lads knew it. One of them sorted us into a line whilst we individually got brought in for the usual passport check, a nice photo taken and the all important question —

‘Why are you in Kazakhstan?’

If somebody asks you this, the answer is —

‘Tourist.’

Spoken in a uniform, military tone. Not —

‘Undercover Spy.’

Which is what the voice in my head shouted.

Stamped and checked in, we were sent down to our bikes, where another woman was going absolutely postal about the train carriages the boat was shifting. I’m talking full-on screaming. The Kazakh lads were quietly grinning to each other behind her back, and I reckon if they’d been spotted they’d be so far up shit creek there’d be no paddling back.

So, you’d think we’d be able to roll off the boat now.

Nope.

We all had to squeeze into a little minivan down to customs to do the proper bag search. The Russian Steve Buscemi was up first, we got to watch him put his single, black, leather holdall on the x-ray. Obviously there was something untoward in there. I had money on a couple of kilos of coke, but what they actually pulled out was a knuckle duster. The Russian nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders as if to say —

‘Thats my knuckle duster, for smashing faces in. What’s the problem?’

Through he went. This is Central Asia of course. Our bags went through, they wanted a bit of a probe around mine, namely my fuel bottle, but a bit of petrol never hurt anybody.

That was it. We were free to go. Except for the fact we needed our bikes off the boat, and they didn’t really want us to go back through, but after convincing them they were kind of important to us they let Fredrik ponder round and fetch them back and we were free to sample Aktau’s nightlife at half four in the morning, which, for us, consisted of a twenty four hour shop and an all night cafe run by a cute Kazakh girl. I was beginning to like Kazakhstan already.

We were ready for our first slice of desert. Armed with enough US dollars primed for the ludicrous Uzbek currency we’d heard about, we cycled straight into head wind.

I think it's this way.

I think it’s this way.

We managed to camp next to some hills for wind protection the first night, and I took a fair bit of time setting up for the first time in a month after repairing my tent poles, but I had a home again.

Camping in the desert felt like camping on the moon. A twilight purple glow gave us decent light all night.

Me, camping like a normal person.

Camping like a normal person again.

A solid 8/10 sunrise.

A solid 8/10 sunrise.

The next morning we headed east towards a petrol station where I managed to recreate the last game of The Crystal Dome when a gust of wind snatched all my Kazakh dough and lobbed it into the angry wind. The only thought I can remember is –

‘The blue ones! Get the blue ones!’

There was a bloke round the corner who must have seen about twenty sheets flying in the wind followed by a crazed, sweating, bearded bloke flailing about. He joined in the game, the lovely bugger.

Kazakh roads generally range from shithouse rubble, to pristine lengths of immaculate asphalt. They’re in the process of repaving all the major roads on the Silk Road trade line, and while I’m glad I’ve experienced a bit of the original rim-splitting, spoke-bending, hub-knackering ride, I’m a sucker for a smooth road. This also means you get Kazakh road workers hollering at you, offering tea and beeping horns. They all seem to act as though you’re the first cyclist they’ve ever seen, but they must get a few a week during summer, this is The Silk Road. Stopping for a chat gets a crowd of at least ten in a few minutes, or maybe they’re just after the cheeky break. We all know the feeling.

Dusty, rubbly, shite road

Dusty, rubbly, shite road

I’d been looking forward to flat desert. It’d be something different to the Balkans and Causacus, and after a few small canyons, we got it. Completely flat desert. You know the moment you first leave the Vault on Fallout 3? It felt like that. Even the town signs and bus stops were painted in a similar faded yellow and turquoise to match the Kazakh flag.

A Kazakh town sign, except the town was missing.

A Kazakh town sign, except the town was missing.

Pylon of the Month entry 1.

Pylon of the Month entry 1.

We rode through strong head winds for a couple of days to Beyneu. Fredrik told me he’d read an article describing it as – ‘The hidden jewel of Kazakhstan’. I’ve subsequently found the article, and it’s written tongue-in-cheek, or at least I hope so, but it had a cheap hotel where we could load up big time before the Uzbek border. We’d been told by Radu, a Romanian heading the other way, that there was a fat load of nothing for long stretches after crossing into Uzbekistan. I thought Kazakhstan had been sparse to be honest.

When camels are just wandering about, and aren't part of a tourist attraction, it's safe to say you've cycled a fair distance.

When camels are just wandering about, and aren’t part of a tourist attraction, it’s safe to say you’ve cycled a fair distance.

Pylon of the Month entry 2.

Pylon of the Month entry 2.

This Kazakh – Uzbek border was the roughest I’d seen on this trip. A bunch of miserable looking people were attempting to queue in a pen whilst we rode up to the Uzbek border police who had waved us over. We were fielded with the usual questions and took inside for the customs check. I could almost feel the envious glares of the penned in people burning a hole in the back of my head.

The road to Uzbekistan. The Kazakhs obviously aren't arsed about this one.

The road to Uzbekistan. The Kazakhs obviously aren’t arsed about this one.

The Uzbek border.

The Uzbek border.

We’d heard stories of Uzbek border crossings being ridiculously thorough, bags completely emptied, cameras and phone checked, but it was business as usual; a form to declare what money you had, bags chucked through an x-ray, and someone having a quick probe around in the top. Maybe it’s worse on the way out.

As we slowly walked out, anticipating every officer to ask for our passports, we were finally met with the Uzbek locals, all shouting –

‘Exchange dollar!’

The fresh meat had arrived.

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