You’ll find a few tips for cyclists at the end of this article.

As agreed the day before, I drove to the ferry terminal in Alat at 10 a.m. What struck me immediately wasn’t what was there—but what was missing: the hustle and bustle. No shouting, no whistling, no frantic maneuvering. None of the usual chaos you experience in ports when ships come and go and everyone acts as if the global economy depended on it. It was so quiet that even my hope of crossing that same day slowly evaporated.

This impression solidified when, after the obligatory rituals—passport, ticket, luggage—I was led into a waiting room. The room was not only deserted; it also seemed permanently optimized for this state of affairs. Someone kindly explained to me where the restrooms were and—this was new—where there were places to sleep. My question of “When?” was met with a shrug. “I’ll pick you up here in time,” the man calmly dictated into my translation app.

So I started to settle in as if I planned to grow old here: took off my cycling shoes, put on my Birkenstocks, moved the table, found an outlet, and set up my laptop. Just as I had achieved this state of temporary settledness, the door opened. I was asked to come along. So I had to put everything back into its original portable state and follow them.

Outside, a minivan was waiting for me to follow. Ten minutes later, I was on board the ship.

I unloaded my bags, stowed and secured my bike, and then struggled my way up a very steep flight of stairs.

Everything about this ship had the charm of a 1970s Reichsbahn train car: functional, indestructible, and completely indifferent to whether you felt comfortable. After wandering around for a while, I finally found someone who assigned me a cabin and wordlessly handed me some bedding. Cabin number 3—right at the front, with a view of the bow. On the Color Line or Smyril, they would probably have called it the “Captain’s Suite.” Here, it was simply Cabin 3.

I had read on the passenger list beforehand that there were supposed to be a total of 28 people on board. Sitting next to me were another German and a British citizen—I met them later: two backpackers on their way to China, people with time on their hands and a certain willingness to go with the flow.

So I had company during the three daily meals served on board—which, by the way, were included in the $70 ticket price. The other passengers were all men, every last one of them truckers.

I struck up a conversation with a few of them. One from Bulgaria was transporting air conditioners from Duisburg to Tashkent; another from Ukraine was on his way to Astana. They told me their trips lasted about 30 days each—long journeys, endless roads, and time spent far from home.

The ship set sail at 4 p.m. Without an announcement and without safety instructions. Lunch—served punctually at 11:30 a.m., as always—had long since been served. The crew is on board for three months at a time and cooks three meals a day, whether the ship is sailing, waiting, or drifting somewhere between the past and its destination.

The crossing was calm, almost uneventful, and so we finally reached our destination near Kuryk around noon local time the following day.

Oh, and by the way: The ship is called Professor Gül and was built in Yugoslavia in 1986. A floating relic from a country that no longer exists—which somehow fits well with what we experienced.

What followed was the border crossing into the 13th country of this project—an event that felt less like a modern national border and more like a living open-air museum of post-Soviet administrative art. The whole spectacle lasted a full two hours, including a medical examination straight out of the height of the COVID-19 pandemic: taking my temperature, furrowing brows, meaningful nods.

At the same time, the actual border ritual began. Officials came and went, always with new ideas on how to make my stay—or at least the border crossing—easier. For 20 US dollars, for example, I was kindly informed, passport control could be “expedited.” Another official pointed conspicuously often at my phone case. His, as he discreetly informed me, was unfortunately broken.

A fellow backpacker learned that cameras are apparently considered luxury goods here: $100 was the price demanded for an import permit. And when the officials finally noticed that the backpackers hadn’t yet arranged a taxi or shuttle into town, they sensed their chance. They readily offered to help—at a price that would likely have justified a limousine ride through Monaco.

To top it all off, I was asked (or rather, made) to carry my bike up a flight of stairs. The large gate, I was told with a shrug, was unfortunately broken. What a tragic coincidence. I pushed, carried, and sweated—not without a faint suspicion that this was payback for my obvious reluctance to pay.

Now I’m in Kazakhstan…

Note for cyclists

As has been reported many times: There is no schedule.

My inquiries via the relevant phone numbers or by email also yielded no meaningful information. Reliable information does not seem to be provided here.

So the only option is to use MarineTraffic and try to estimate when one of the ASCO ships will actually arrive at the port. According to the truckers, there are usually about six hours between arrival and departure. In our case, it was more like eleven—which apparently falls within the normal range as well.

Tickets are purchased in a small office right at the port. Payment is then made at a nearby bank, which conveniently stays open around the clock. US dollars or manats are accepted. There is an ATM.

You receive a ticket that is remarkably sparse: no mention of a departure time. This information is provided exclusively verbally.

If you don’t want to spend the waiting time at the port, you have two realistic options:

• Port Hotel, approx. 1.6 km from the ferry terminal

• LIFE SPORT COMPLEX in the town of Alat, approx. 7.8 km from the terminal

I stayed in the LIFE SPORT COMPLEX and can recommend it with a clear conscience.

The passport and security procedures in Alat are generally not very time-consuming, though they are repetitive. My luggage was X-rayed twice, and I had to present my passport and ticket at least five times. The inspectors seemed somewhat grumpy throughout, but not unfriendly.