Azerbaijan

 Well, the rally gods performed. All four cars are now in Azerbaijan, along with a full compliment of occupants (actually that is quite an achievement for us, given the last border debacle). Anyway, as a result of the kindness and help of friends, friends of friends, delightful strangers (except by email, who we hope to meet and thank) and the ‘passport’ of our cars, we have overcome the logistical barriers to drive a car into Azerbaijan. 

We arrived at the border to be greeted by a very non-plussed Georgian policeman. His look was of total disdain. He was anticipating sending us straight back to where we had come from. Passports were rendered. V5s presented. Driving licences produced. He was on the walkie talkie telling his boss the hilarity of the situation unfolding before him. His boss sauntered towards us, with that special swagger those in uniform have. “Papers” he demanded. At this stage, Ham played our ace card and handed him an invitation to enter Azerbaijan from someone very senior and influential in Azerbaijan. A look of respect crossed his face. He gathered the new information and disappeared. At borders it is important not to become agitated or impatient. Act like a cat is our motto. (I have no idea what this means, but it sounds good as a motto). Catlike, we waited. You see, in border town, process is all. And irrespective of what fancy paperwork one produces, process takes time (unless you have diplomatic plates; we witnessed one such car arrive, wave and pass through unimpeded). Two full hours later we moved to the next stage of guesswork. Recheck of papers (including an unedifying search by one, who should know better by now, for a crucial document: it didn’t matter the official accepted an electronic version. Phew) and then on to insurance and road tax. I was last to be processed, which turned out to be disadvantageous. The man behind the window quietly suggested to me, having taken full payment by credit card for what we needed, that what he needed was a few crisp notes of Sterling cash. Naturally I was affronted. I told him this was no way to welcome visitors to his lovely country. Happily, before it all became a bit fraught, a policeman arrived at the window whereupon the putative corruptionist completely changed his demeanour and let me through. Phew.  

We have arrived at a hotel in a promising town called Ganja which has a depressingly inaccurate name: De Lux Hotel. Oh well.