Post 10: AKTAU - CASPIAN SEA - BAKU

Pitch black at the sleepy port of Aktau. The cargo ship has docked, but it will be another twelve hours of waiting before I am allowed to step on board. Once on the ship, the beautiful sunrise is no consolation for the further twelve hours of waiting before the ship gets moving. This is, though, to be expected. The ship’s raison d’etre is not to assist fools like me who want to traverse the World; instead it is meant for carrying tonnes of goods of exchange between Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan. Thus, rather than frustration at the delays, I remind myself that I should feel lucky to even be allowed on board.

This is the first journey so far where I am not the only Englishman on board. Also on the ship is Peter, a 24 year-old wheelchair-bound man from St. Helens. He is travelling from Bangladesh (where he has been setting up centres to help disabled people get work) back to England. He has a site.

Also on board are some adherent followers of the Islamic faith, who are travelling to Azerbaijan for a month of living and learning from some Imams. They say they do this once a year, but to a different location. Last year they were in Turkey, the year before they were in India. Next year they will be going to, of all places, Tewkesbury. I wish them good luck.

Rather than wave, the water ripples with beauty in a way which both Monet and Manet would struggle to capture. The boat does not rock like it would if it was going across the English Channel. This is partly because, contrary to the name, the Caspian Sea is in fact a lake - the largest in the World. But it is also because the wind has barely been blowing for the last few days. I am told by the sailors that it can get very choppy in the deeper waters when the wind is howling.

In the evening my belly is doing somersaults, so I go to the onboard canteen. The crew call me over to sit with them. They feast me with their cuisine and shower me with their vodka. They are all Azeri, as is the food. The toasts are numerous, and all revolve around solidarity and friendship. Despite the incredible amount of vodka consumed, their behaviour changes very little, and there are no signs that they are intoxicated at all, save for a few glazed eyes. There is certainly no call to sing “What we gonna do with the drunken sailor?” I, however, am spent, and retire to bed.

The next day it is becomes clearer that we are getting nearer to Azerbaijan by the plethora of oil rigs which the ship weaves between. They almost look like giant spiders, although with so many legs they are certainly not arachnids.

By the late afternoon the coastline of Azerbaijan is in view. I feel what must be a similar joy which innumerable sailors have experienced upon seeing dry land. The sailing time has only been a meagre 23 hours, yet it feels like weeks since I have seen a settlement, let along an enormous city.

 

In Baku I somehow manage to find a very cheap place to stay with a family in the ‘ancient city’. Upon walking around this picturesque, historic area, it becomes clear that the home I am staying in is surely one of the last enclaves of the area to resist the gentrification that an influx of wealth has generated. Baku has been booming in the last ten years due to oil, although this is not the first time it has had an oil boom - many of the buildings near the mosques and old walls reflect the previous ’gold rush’ which occurred in the late 19th Century.

I am welcomed into the house by Micher. He explains, in broken English, how he is the only man living here, the rest are his sisters, nieces, aunts and mother. He asks if I am hungry, and then walks me to his friend’s restaurant. We are arm in arm, but this is friendly affection in this part of the World, not an indication of sexual preference. Men who are friends can hold hands and even kiss. It is no big deal. Over some food he explains that he fought for two years in the Azerbaijan-Armenia war in Karabakh. He shows me a long scar down his chest and one down his leg. He has also lost the hearing in one of his ears.

On returning to his home, I notice a mouse nibbling away on something near the entrance. I point at it, thinking he will go and get an instrument akin to a baseball bat. Instead, he leaps at it with his bare hands and grabs the mouse’s tail. There are a few squeaks from the mouse, before it breaks free and scurries off. Micher is left holding the small piece of the tail which broke off in his hand, but sees the funny side of his fruitless attempt at pest control, and for the next ten minutes keeps retelling what happened to his family.

 

 Due to a combination of their personalities and their sheer numbers, the household feels very matriarchal. For a visiting male, though, this is wonderful, as they shower me with their undivided attention.

The next day one of the women, 36 year old Jamilya, goes to leave the house. I ask if I can join her and she accepts. I assume she is walking somewhere, but it seems the normal way to get about this city, not least because fuel is so cheap, is by car. As we drive along she shuffles the music player through different dance songs, some of which sound familiar, some of which sound as if they could only have been conceived amongst the Caucasus mountains.

We arrive at her flat, where she is dropping off some bits and bobs. The exterior, whilst not grey, is quite a generic design from the 1960s which does little to inspire. The treasures are to be found inside. We get out of the lift on the thirteenth floor and unlock the door to a miniature palace. As she shows me the rooms it feels like I am on the set of one of those TV shows where so-called celebrities allow cameramen into their house. Everything is plush, polished, and no doubt obeying every rule of feng shui. Even the bathroom feels like somewhere I could spend a whole day in. For the big finale, she shows me her bedroom. “Come, Come!” she holds my hand and drags me in there. “What you think?” “Wonderful, can I sleep here too?” I (jokingly) ask. “NO, NO, NO!” she smiles, “No one is allowed in this bed!”

I think she is (jokingly?) rejecting my advances, but it later transpires that not even she sleeps in this bed. The reason being that the flat is soon to be sold to a wealthy American, no doubt involved in the lucrative oil or gas business. Therefore it must remain spotless.

On the drive back she keeps returning to a song which makes her whole body and emotions change almost into an alter ego - this is clearly ‘her song’. Keeping her left hand on the wheel, she extends her right hand and moves it like a snake to the beat. Somehow, through the carnage of the traffic, we make it back to the more sedate ancient city.

The next morning I find a coach which is heading northwest to Shaki and, after quaffing a shashlyk for breakfast, take to my seat.