How to cross the Caspian by boat

One day you might find yourself in the following situation: you are tired of sparkling Baku and would like to cross the Caspian sea, or lake, whatever you prefer, to the Kazakh city Aktau. Of course you could just take another boring plane. For a mere 250 euro’s this could even fly you to Kazakhstan’s current or former capital, a few thousand kilometres further than a ship could ever take you. That would be a rather logical option. But, I’m not into logical options too much. How did you think I ended up in Baku in the first place?


So, according to my own logic I attempted to catch a boat. I had done my homework extensively and read several first hand stories about this opportunity, but my host in Azerbaijan’s capital broke my dreams. He’d hosted several outcasts like me and told me how they all had intended to cross the sea with this uncatcheable ferry. All had ended up buying a flight in one of the local tourist offices, or not going to Kazakhstan at all. Stubbornly I reckoned I’d better give it a try or two during the following week, knowing that if I failed, I’d find myself hurrying back to EU-citizen friendly Georgia. In that unfortunate case I would at least spoil my Kazakh visa, and probably my Uzbek too. Eager to take a risk I started my search for the ticket office.

I thought that shouldn’t be too difficult. I went inside the newly build harbour lot and found my way to the desk.

“Ticket to Aktau?”

“Not here. Go 300 metres along the way and find it opposite cafe ‘Liman’”, the guy behind the desk told me.

Risking my life due to the local lack of side walks, I went 300 metres along the way and found cafe ‘Liman’. So far so good. I walked up an empty street between a windowless building and a fence, crossed a railway and found a barrier with a guard. I decided to try my luck with the uncooperative looking guard.

“Boat Aktau?”

“Nyet”, he answers clearly.

“Turkmenbashi?” I try Turkmenistan’s harbour to simply get past him. It works:

“Turkmenbashi there, at the ticket desk.”

He points to a white door with ‘kacca’ written on it. For five minutes I knock the door. Nobody answers. A few men are sitting in front of a shop opposite of the ticket office.

“Where you have to go?”, they ask me as I reach them.

“Aktau”, I declare.

“That one went yesterday”, one of the men tells me.

“When will the next one leave?”

“God knows.”

Two days later I try again and find the door to be open. A lady sells someone else a ticket to Turkmenbashi. The ferry to Aktau, she tells me, will go tomorrow, or in three days, or maybe in five days, depending on the the amount of wagons and trucks gathering for departure. She gives me her phone number and invites me to call her twice a day, in order to hear if there’s anything happening anytime soon.



Every morning I call and every morning her voice tells me, “Ship no.” Even the third day this ritual repeats, but during the afternoon my friend calls me to give me the news: the next day a ship will leave for Aktau. It turned out his mother had secretly been calling too. I always manage to find myself a mother.

As fast as public transport allows me to go, I find my way to the ticket office. A few tourists wait in front of the ticket office.

“Be prepared to hear a lot of ‘nyet,’ Vicky from England warns me.

However, thanks to my basic Russian I did not hear a lot of ‘nyet’. On the contrary, I found out there would indeed be a ship the next day and at nine in the morning the tickets sale would commence. Coming there in the morning, the sale is postponed to twelve and later to four. I decide to sit and wait for it. At three I got my ticket. Two hours later the wagons and trucks entered the ship. At six it was my turn. I call my host with the news that I’m his first guest succeeding in following this dream. It was definitely worth the effort. Who can imagine anything better than watching the sunset on the Caspian, with a mind soaked in wodka?