At the base of the large stone gates of Azerbaijan, and off to the side, a humble little cabin in which a friendly man vends a variety of snacks and exchanges any remaining Azerbaijani manat for Georgian lari. Having exchanged, shaken the hand of my taxi driver and thanked him for the ride from Sheki, I stand before those gates. They are at the border of Lagodekhi, Georgia. The gates were locked. Various online sources informed me that it’s not possible to cross from Azerbaijan into Georgia. Do not trust the internet.
A soldier appears and asks for my passport. Having handed it over – possibly with a mumbled “could I go to Georgia please?” – he calls someone on his turn-of-the-century mobile phone and, after hanging up, opens the gate. All is quiet here, not another soul to be seen. Appropriately a lightning storm rages almost overhead. I quicken my pace up the long outdoor passageway which runs between smoked glass on one side and a tall wall on the other. I’m climbing for a couple of minutes up this steep stepped passageway wondering just how long it’ll go on for when I see at the end gold mirrored doors.
The doors are, of course, locked. I timidly knock. No response. I look behind me in case the soldier has followed. He has not. I stand there in despair for at least five minutes, but which felt like many more, when at last the doors opens. A friendly woman looks at the x-ray of my backpack as it passes through a scanner and I immediately feel guilty about buying sumac. Don’t let me go to border jail for sumac.
Instead the friendly woman chats friendily about her uncle in Brighton. Less friendly is the soldier beyond her who has the task of checking that I truly am the man depicted ten years ago in my nearly out-of-date passport. He answers his mobile phone, official business I initially assume because it, too, is turn-of-the-century. The sudden appearance of his superior causes the soldier to swiftly and guiltily hang up. Maybe this was a personal call. Now I have a stern and angry soldier to prove my selfness to. The thud of a stamp has never sounded better.
Back outside into another long passageway, the door of the building I just departed from slamming shut as if to say “there’s no coming back”, which is a shame because at the end of this particular long passageway is something that feels like a cage. An iron fence and gate prevent me from going any further. The gate is, of course, locked, this time with one of those cheap lengths of wire used to secure a bicycle. Here there is a bridge, on the other side of which I can see the Georgian border control. Beneath the bridge a river runs freely by. I glance up at the razor wire and decide not to take my chances.
A soldier, having dealt with an incoming Turkish lorry driver on that bridge, runs over to unlock the gates and conduct a final scan of my passport while a Belarussian lorry driver honks impatiently at an Azerbaijani lorry driver. Freight traffic is still allowed to pass from Georgia to Azerbaijan. My final soldier cheerily allows me out of his country and onto the no-man’s land bridge. I hurry across and am met by Georgian police wearing their best “don’t mess with me” faces. I do not mess with them, I behave impeccably and those same police officers, having processed my passport, welcome me to Georgia.
Azerbaijan was far from the friendliest country and the tourist board were absolutely useless in providing me with information about borders crossings. I visited the Azerbaijan stall at a recent National Geographic food festival and, well, let’s just say that they did more harm than good to their country’s image as far as I’m concerned. They clearly aren’t set up for tourism here, which for some of you may be a blessing (just don’t go too close to the border with Armenia).
A Plan To Go 