I kind of want to cry.
It was another very long night of processes and procedures to embark on this ferry towards the other side of the Caspian Sea. In fact, it took close to 12 hours in the hot Azerbaijan night. So finally parking the Giraffe on board, I’m feeling pretty excited to get to my cabin and lay down for a nice nap.
And then I step out of the Giraffe – onto the oil-covered, grimy parking surface. As we walk towards the opening that indicates stairs, each step sticks to the floor and I take shallow breaths of the fume-y air. The stairs to the upper deck are a cross between stairs and a ladder, with small steps of about 12cm latticed steel, each step about 50cm above the previous one. With my heavy backpack, I’m breathing a bit hard by the time I’m at the top.
We step out into the morning sunlight and find ourselves on a deck, with railings and fittings around us all covered in rust – wooden ladders jumbled up in boxes, ready to be thrown over the side if needed (really, wooden and string ladders? Would they even hold if someone tried to climb up?). A line of rubbish bins and the smell of rotting garbage permeating the air.
Crossing the deck, we duck into the ship’s interior. And trip on flooring that in some places has bubbled up like speed bumps along the hallway, and in others it’s collapsed into indentations that resemble potholes in a road. It’s a veritable obstacle course just to wander through the interior, looking for reception. But we find it and a guy heads upstairs with us to let us into our cabin.
As it turns out, we have 2 separate cabins and 50 years ago, they were probably extremely nice. A single bed, a curved couch with coffee table, desk and closet and a small en-suite bathroom with shower. Unfortunately, that was 50 years ago and this is now. :( The mattress and pillow are yellowed and stained. The upholstery on the couch is scratched and cracked. The floor is almost as dirty as the parking deck below. And the bathroom? Almost tragic that we’ll need to use it. But better than the community bathrooms, for sure!
We begin the process of settling in, and with the abundance of water that we’ve been drinking to stave off dehydration in the heat, that includes quickly ducking into the dingy bathroom to pee. Which leads immediately to the discovery that there is no toilet paper provided, and the toilets don’t flush. We inquire and confusion ensues (no one speaks English, so it’s a game of pantomime combined with the very helpful efforts of a fellow passenger who speaks a few words of German). We head down to breakfast, hoping that by the time we’re back, things will be working.
They’re not. And in fact, the nice Turkish man tells us in his limited German that none of the toilets on board work. Achim and I exchange grimaces – what is the next 18+ hours going to be like, on a ship with no flushing toilets? We sneak down to the Giraffe and use the toilet there, then return to our cabins to cover the offending mattresses with clean sheets and lie down for a nap.
I wake up covered in a thick film of sweat. It is oozing out of every pore in my body, my clothes are soaked, and I feel feverish and frantic. Stepping out of my room, I notice a marked difference in the air – and then head to Achim’s cabin to find it warm but not matching the sauna quality of mine. Not to mention, everything has started smelling like bathroom thanks to unflushed toilets.
The Turkish guy comes by while I’m sitting in Achim’s cabin (the door propped open, in the hopes of increasing air circulation), and announces “Abendessen!” He actually means lunch (Mittagessen), but we get the message and wander back down to the dining room.
Following lunch, I collect a few belongings from my miserable cabin and head back downstairs, wandering through the bar, dining area, and sitting lounge until I find an aircon vent that is blowing out cool air, near an outlet to charge my computer. And I claim this row of seats for myself. It’s the emptiest passenger ferry I’ve ever been on. Clearly built to transport people – with quite a number of seats in addition to all the cabins upstairs, the boat now mainly transports trucks and their drivers. So the parking deck downstairs is full, the space for people is not.
Eventually I check on Achim (who retired to his cabin with a throbbing headache), and cajole him into coming downstairs, where the air is better. We sit here together, each watching our respective downloaded series’ on our phones, our tired brains not really able to do much else. We later elect to sneak back down to the Giraffe, where we collect some fresh veggies, fruit, cheese and bread so that we can make a dinner picnic on board. We notice many other people occupying tables, with various plastic bags and containers strewn around and eventually we find out that having dinner in the cafeteria is an extra expense – only breakfast and lunch are included in the ferry price. So we are doubly pleased with our picnic!
A few episodes later, my eyes are very heavy and I feel then wanting to stay shut. Achim already went to his cabin a while ago; now I wander back upstairs and the air in the hallway at least seems a bit better. Inside my bathroom, I find the toilet emptied out - so the crew has managed to manually open valves and clear everything – hence the improved state of affairs, the hallways no longer reeking of outhouse. I prop my door open while I begin packing my things, wanting them ready to go as soon as we dock.
A crew member pops his head around the corner to inquire if I’m okay. I pantomime being very hot, he gestures at the air con vent in the ceiling, I shake my head “no” and gesture that I’m sweating. He comes into the room, holds his hand up to the vent and I think then swears (not that I could understand the words, but it sounded a lot like the muttering I’ve been doing today). He fumbles around with the vent, reaching up into the tube for a few minutes, trying with brute strength to open something. Then he disappears, saying something – which I think means he’ll be back? So I finish packing, brush my teeth, take out my contact lenses and am just about to give up, when we does indeed return, wrench in hand. A few more minutes of banging, turning, pyring, and a tiny rivulet of cool air begins to flow into the room. He’s not satisfied but indicates he can’t do more and that I should go downstairs where it’s cooler. I nod my head, say good night and when he’s out of sight, close my door (staying in the room). Dead tired, I really want to lay down on my bed and sleep. So in a final attempt at comfort, take the coldest shower I can coax from the sun-heated pipes and then go – still half wet – to bed.
It's not a particularly restful night. Everything we’ve read and heard about the trip indicates a crossing time of about 17-18 hours. So we’re expecting to arrive around 3 -4 in the morning. As if programmed, my brain wakes my up at 3:25. Then again at 4:53. Both times, everything is still quiet and peeling back a corner of the sheet tacked over the window shows no land in sight. Finally at 6:38, I am startled awake by a ruckus of feet outside.I must have fallen into a very deep sleep, so I shake my head and rub my eyes while swinging my feet out onto the floor. I bungle about with my clothes, trying to get my sleep-addled mind to recall how to dress. Just as I master the situation, there is a knocking at the door and Achim is asking if I’m ready to go. We shoulder our backpacks and head downstairs to watch the final docking. And then we wait. And wait. Wander about out on deck. Then wait some more. Consider heading down to the Giraffe, but see the ramp to drive out is still firmly closed and locked up, so go back into the lounge. Two hours later, we are still there with no idea what’s happening – again drenched in sweat as they’ve now cut off the air con altogether. A need to pee sends me to the community restroom – and then as swiftly as possible right back out again, confronted with the most vile stench imaginable and the site of a toilet literally overflowing with human waste.
Eventually, we are summoned for covid testing (a total money-making sham, as they charge foreigners $34 US and the slight brush of a cotton swab on my tongue is hardly going to register covid infection). And strangely enough, Achim was not required to take one, since he is a “driver,” apparently classed in with the commercial truck drivers on board. And I guess only passengers are at risk of spreading infection? Shrug
Anyway, that done, we went back to seats and waited some more. Finally, at about 11:30, there was movement and we headed down to the Giraffe. Upon exiting the ship, we followed the other trucks through a giant machine (x-ray? Disinfectant?), under which was a water trough to drive through, apparently to disinfect the tires. And on the other side of this, we were met by our guide, who ushered us through the next 18 stations, multiple payments, and additional 5 ½ hours of processing.
And then, finally, we were in! Welcome to Turkmenistan.
We’re happy to be spending our first night here in a hotel, to take a proper shower and enjoy a bit more space and comfort. And get on wifi which doesn’t allow access to most things, but does enable us to use Skype and make a couple calls home. It was great to chat with my son, who laughed at our experiences and had this to say:
“Well, experiences like this certainly give you an appreciation for how different life is in 3rd World countries.” Yes, very true, young man. And an even greater appreciation for the daily luxury that we tend to take for granted at home.
My advice? Stop for a minute – whatever you’re doing. Look around you, and take notice. Chances are, you’ll find things working, well-maintained, clean, beautiful, and comfortable. That’s not the norm for huge portions of the world’s population; so I encourage you to take a deep, satisfying breath and sigh it out with a sense of gratitude and thankfulness. We’re living the dream – even if it’s not your biggest dream right now, it is definitely the dream of millions of other people around the world.
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