We
camped 30km’s from the border in order to make an early run. On the way of
course we filled up every last square centimetre of our tank with the best
wondrously cheap petrol the Iranian State Oil Company could provide and then
after getting lost in the streets of the border town Astara, eventually made
our way to the non-descript gates that we found to be the entrance to Customs.
The
first order of business on exiting Iran was to have our Carnet checked very
quickly and our details entered into a large register. After this we were given
a receipt and told to continue on. At Astara customs, continuing on is no easy
feat. The massive complex is a maze of loading bays and trucks, thousands upon
thousands of primarily Turkish and Iranian lorries sit idly by waiting for
approval to exit, some of which had surely been waiting weeks if not months in
order to cross the border. After several right turns and a couple of lefts we
eventually found our next destination: a double story, reinforced concrete,
crumbling building surrounded by men playing backgammon, drinking tea, sleeping
and generally meandering about, all the signs of bureaucracy in this part of
the world.
We had heard this was going to be
a particularly tough border. Numerous factors worried us. Firstly, we were
leaving a Middle Eastern country, namely Iran, not exactly friends with much of
the world at this moment, and we were entering a former Soviet country.
Secondly, from our research (blogs, lonely planet, wikitravel and various
government websites) we had been led to believe that the Azerbaijan process
would be an uphill battle. We were told that right-hand drive vehicles (being
from Australia, Trev is) were not allowed and most worryingly that Azerbaijan
demanded thousands of dollars in security deposit for foreign vehicles. Of
slightly less concern was the need for Azeri insurance and road tax, which
knowing border guards would most likely be inflated at the mere sight of
Western tourists. As such it was decided that I would do this border, having
generally the best track record at kicking heads and getting through the mighty
current of corruption and bureaucracy as we attempted to head upstream.
I
entered with our paperwork to be met with hundreds of truck drivers all
attempting to get piles of paperwork completed. Approaching one of the desks I
was asked who my agent was. Still to this day I’m not sure they ever really
understood I myself wasn’t a truck driver but just driving our own personal car
through Iran. Lots of silly repetitive questions were answered and eventually
our Carnet was taken off to be completed (incorrectly as usual). In the mean
time I was chatted up by one of the administration staff, who, like everyone
else in Iran wanted to immigrate to Australia, and was hoping I would be the
magic contact they wanted. It was hard to explain that “knowing someone” rarely
is the manner in which things work in Australia. Actually meeting the criteria
and completing the necessary steps is how one achieves an Australian Visa.
All
stamps in place we were then told to continue on to the border gate. Hooray! We
were about to leave and it only took about 35 minutes. Or so we thought. We
arrived at the gate to find it closed. One of the sides was closed for lunch,
and as such needed to wait an hour and a half. We decided at this point that
the only thing to do was get the cricket bat and ball out and have a game. An
MCG size crowd gathered and cheered us on, or more accurately stared in the
same manner we would if we saw someone cutting up his own clothes with a
carving knife. Eilidh sat in the shade in Bay 13 as the furious pace of Tom
Denner threw down in-swinger after in-swinger to Tom Unkles who stood his
ground like a modern Graham Gooch. I’m sure if the spectators understood the
game they would have been enthralled. An hour and a half passed and we were
allowed to continue. Of course this is never enough and the others were asked
leave...
Eilidh: After having already
waited for Ben to complete the paperwork, and now an hour and a half while
Azerbaijan had lunch, we were most frustrated when the man at the passport
window informed us that only the driver’s passport could be processed at that
window, and the rest of us would have to make our way to the passenger
terminal. Winding our way back through the maze of trucks we climbed through a
hole in a fence, passed a Customs building and walked along a residential
street until we reached the passenger entrance. A swarm of people with the
usual array of bags of clothes, trolleys of food items and packaged rugs and
bins was pushing to squeeze through a door that was being blocked by a guard.
We shoved our way into the throng and when the guard saw us, everyone else was
moved aside and we were waved through. The same happened at the next queue, and
we found ourselves at another queue. Here we waited an hour and a half more
while the guard took 10 minutes per person to process all the Iranians first.
Eventually a security guard appeared and ushered us away – apparently we’d just
waited an hour and a half in another queue we didn’t need to be in. We were
escorted upstairs to an office covered in pictures of Ayatollah, with a
policeman at a desk adorned with Iranian flags. He knew immediately who we were
and reciting “Binyamin” (Benjamin) and “FJI” (the start of our number plate) we
realised Ben had already paid him a visit. Through the smirk that never left
his face, he wanted to know the purpose of our trip and our destinations.
Satisfied with our interview (during which he didn’t once look at or
acknowledge me) we were sent away. Our security guard escort guided us back
down the stairs and we were free to go. A very entrepreneurial businessman
followed us to the bridge that is the border, offering to change our money and
assist with any other service that he of course is the only person in Iran who
can offer. Unsure of where Ben might be waiting, and slightly concerned that he
would have been moved on during this time, we were very pleased when we found
him and Trevor just at the other side of the bridge.
In the meantime I had continued
to the bridge across no-man’s land, where I was stopped for one quick passport
check. The policeman asked for the back of the car to be opened, pulled out any
water bottles he could find and sniffed each one for alcohol. He obviously had
a party that night and needed supplies. I then drove across the bridge where
after 30 minutes all four of us were reunited, ready to tackle the much feared
Azerbaijani side of the border. We were shocked at the sudden change;
everything from gardens, guards, buildings to road markings were so ordered and
beautifully presented. The border guards immaculately presented colourful
uniforms was a rude awakening from what we had experienced in Iran. The quality
of the grounds and buildings was like stepping forward 100 years, to
ironically, an ex-soviet country.
We approached each guard station
carefully and were waved on each time to the next. They actually knew exactly
where we needed to go and sent us straightforwardly there. We were then
directed to a parking spot from which we would enter the customs building to
deal with the importation of Trev. For the first time we were not requested to
split up. A gray haired superior who was more like a lovely old grandfatherly
figure spoke quite reasonable English and explained the process we had in
order. We had our passports quickly stamped, the car paperwork photocopied and
checked. I then needed to pay road tax and insurance, $40 in total, but a
painless affair. I just handed the cashier the money and received the two pieces
of paperwork in return. With the paperwork in order in about 20 minutes, we had
only one task left: every item in the car needed to be taken out and x-rayed,
for only the second time this trip. This took another 20 minutes and with the
police convinced we weren’t international drug or arms smugglers, we were free
to enter Azerbaijan. Making this possibly the most painless and professional
border crossing so far this trip.
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