In Tbilisi, I had to part ways with my travel group, who had truly grown on me. As is often the case on long journeys: everyone has their own plans, their own horizons, their own sense of time. Even though we rarely cycled together, there was that constant, reliable contact – and every now and then, an evening where stories, bread, and wine were shared. The farewell was genuinely a shame.

After leaving Tbilisi, two truly beautiful cycling days followed.

Snow-capped mountains loomed into the sky like painted promises, the air was warm, the scent of blossoms almost intrusively lovely. Scenically, it could have been the opening to a brochure. But within me floated a very banal, almost existential question: Will they let me in?

Background

The reason for this uncertainty is as prosaic as it is absurd. The land border between Georgia and Azerbaijan has been closed since March 2020 – a measure taken by Azerbaijan at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequently extended with remarkable persistence. Most recently until at least summer 2026.

The resulting logic for anything that is not trade in goods is of peculiar clarity:

• Entry to Azerbaijan by plane: permitted.
• Entry by land: generally prohibited.

For several nights I tried at home on my computer to find a way to enter by land. A round-the-world cycle tour cannot tolerate a gap in the track.

Any email address. Any responsible authority. Any person with decision-making power. I wrote. Waited. Wrote again. Ten days later – it was January – I actually held an entry permit in my hands. I had won the lottery.

However, that was still not reassuring. Because a failed border crossing would have meant cycling back to Tbilisi, taking a plane, like everyone else. Alternatives? Theoretically yes, but really only theoretically: in the south via Iran, in the north via Russia.

Ironically, it wasn't entering Azerbaijan that caused problems, but leaving Georgia. The Georgian border guards were of the – completely justified – opinion that this border with Azerbaijan was closed and absolutely did not want to let me through to their border control. Full stop.

That I still happen, was a masterclass in patience, perseverance, and very carefully constructed sentences. Afterward, for a few hours, I was the king of cycle tourists in this region – a dignity that largely consisted of many follow-up questions.

The days that followed were marked by correspondence. Questions, emails, explanations. Because, like me, other travellers also have a perfectly legitimate interest in crossing this border.

My expectations of Azerbaijan were high: mountain villages in the Caucasus, vast plains, historical sites. The reality was… wet. Cold. Grey. For two days, I drove through clouds, the horizon always out of reach. I missed out on at least one place I absolutely wanted to visit – it lay even higher, further into the fog.

Only as the altitude decreased, shortly before Baku, did the weather change.

Baku

I spent two days in the city. At first glance, a big city like many others. On second glance, a visibly torn place: between glassy modernity and crumbling history, between Western orientation and the legacy as an Azerbaijani SSR, as part of the USSR.

On 8 October 1991, Azerbaijan declared its independence; it became a reality in a region that remains politically tense to this day. The wars over Nagorno-Karabakh – from 1991 to 1994, again in 2020, and most recently in 2023 – continue to shape the country.

Another interesting fact: Around 10 million Azerbaijanis live in Azerbaijan. Remarkably, however, about 23 million Azerbaijanis live in Iran – a historical shift that shows how relative national borders have always been in the Caucasus and what tensions still prevail here.

One day I explored the city, and one the surrounding area. You can find impressions from these days here:

Today, Sunday, I continued my journey to Alat, about 70 kilometres south of Baku. This is where the capital's so-called „overseas port“ is located. After studying the map, one might have expected this leg of the journey to be a romantic drive along the coast of the Caspian Sea.

The reality looked different: kilometre after kilometre of industrial estates, dominated by oil and gas extraction facilities, pipelines, terminals and all the infrastructure that shapes this country economically.

Here too – and today as well – it proved exciting again. Because a circumstance that was quite unusual for Germans accustomed to organisation had to be accepted: there is no timetable for the ferry crossing, or more precisely, for a cargo ship with a few cabins for oddballs like me. The ships depart when they are full. Other travellers reported waiting times of up to five days.

But it seems I was lucky again here. I drove to the harbour, went into the ticket office –

and actually received a ticket for tomorrow, Monday. The seller's information was extremely brief: „Be here tomorrow at 10 am.“ It should be added here: The travel day is not on the ticket; this statement was made purely verbally. And: The passage had to be paid for in dollars.

He answers my further questions about the ferry's departure time with a shrug: „When it's full.“ The duration of the crossing? „Between twelve and twenty hours.“ There's nothing more to be said. There's nothing left but to accept it. „Go with the flow“ – a frequently quoted piece of advice from my brother – seems to be the most sensible strategy here. So, I go with the flow.

I will therefore likely be leaving this country tomorrow. A country that, for purely travel organisational reasons, probably won't be on my route again anytime soon. And yet I'm leaving it with a strange feeling: I've gained an impression of Azerbaijan, but hardly any of its people. Was the time too short? Was I myself too restless? Or are the people here simply more reserved than I have experienced, for example, in Turkey? Difficult to say.

There remains a certain void. And a faint hint of disappointment. It's a shame, really – especially since I went to such an effort to be allowed in at all.

Addendum

Perhaps one more small addendum regarding Azerbaijan. Similar to before in Turkey, there are and were numerous police checks here as well. As a rule, a police vehicle is parked on the hard shoulder facing the wrong way, and cars and lorries are signalled to pull over – and, very roughly estimated, every second time, so am I.

The police officers„ concern was never repressive. Mostly it was about a brief conversation, a curious “Where are you from?„ and “Where are you going?„ – and almost always about the same question: “How old are you?".

In one instance, a police officer even expressed a desire to take a photo of me; they themselves do not want to be photographed and are not allowed to be. His reasoning was as surprising as it was honest: his father is my age but spends his entire day sitting on the sofa watching television. Perhaps I was something of a living (intercultural) motivation for him.

I was also popular with road workers, by the way. I was stopped again and again to say „Salaam“ briefly, to exchange a few words – mostly with the help of a translation app – and finally to take a photo together. Cycle tourists still seem to be a rarity here. Hopefully, this will change soon and Azerbaijan will open its borders to enthusiasts like me.