A traveler reaches his destination in mind before body. Even when moving at trans-sonic airliner speeds, emotionally and mentally, your trip starts long before rubber meets runway. Days, possibly even weeks before the adventure begins, you start planning and anticipating your arrival. As soon as you surrender yourself to that feeling, and detach from where ever you might be, that is when your journey begins. Thus, I start my Russian story in China. Not a moment too soon.
China was a miserable place. Of the twenty or so odd countries I have visited in months of traveling, it's the only place I despised in most every way imaginable. The entire second half of my two weeks there, I could think of nothing more than escape from that hostile, evil place. We pick up my narrative on the morning of Monday, June 20, after the worst travel experience of my life. I'd spent a sleepless night wedged in a loud, filthy, smoke-filled carriage of the lowest class of Chinese train. The only thoughts in my mind were of gloom, despair, and anger.
Until I got off the train, I thought I was the only Westerner on board. But then, from the rear of the train, several dozen Russians appeared. They obviously had had the sense and foresight to book a sleeper. I decided following them would be my most likely chance of getting to Russia. Outside the station, I picked out a group, walked up and said, "Does anyone speak English?"
A large, bleary eyed guy with a cigarette came forward and pulled me aside. He moved his hand as to say, "Speak to me."
We began talking, in a way, with gestures and place names. "Vladivostok," I said, pointing to myself.
"Vladivostok," the man nodded in agreement. "Dom," he said pointing at his chest.
I took that to mean he was from Vladivostok. A bus pulled up and the mixed crowd of Russians started piling in. The man indicated that I was to go with him. I had no idea where we were going, but with no better ideas, I followed. I figured maybe we were transferring to an alternate means of transport and would soon be going to Vladivostok.
Instead, we pulled up to a hotel. With the help of the phrase book my newly appointed guide said he would show me the way to Vladivostok. He and another guy took me up to a room with three single beds in it, and we dropped luggage. I was confused, but without the ability to convey my confusion. Supposedly we were going to Russia, but when, I didn't know. Maybe we were waiting for transport later in the day. In a way though, I didn't care. After weeks of decisions made on my own, I was ready to let someone else steer for awhile.
My host gestured that we were going to walk around town, and pointed at my phrase book. We were going to try some advanced communication. I hadn't even been able to grasp his name yet, or he mine for that matter. He gave me a business card. One side was printed in Russian, the other English. It said his name was Valery, (va-ler-a) and he has a trading business. He was having problems with Keith, and suggested a Russian name I didn't care for. I offered Alex, and he seemed pleased. So with a new friend, and new name, we set off to explore the town.
We looked into a couple of shops before settling at a restaurant. It was 9:30 in the morning when Valery ordered the first bottle of Vodka. He wouldn't take no for an answer. I did my best to delay the onset by drinking slowly and less frequently, but by mid-morning, it was all over. We went on a shopping spree. Valery did anyway. He was buying presents for the wife and baby. I was carrying them and offering opinions as to the price and quality. We had a big time, and even had a street vendor take our picture.
This afternoon, sitting in a little shop, after a dozen or so skewers of beef, and countless beers, I gave Valery my Swiss Army Knife as a gesture of friendship. He seemed pleased. If he gets me to Russia it will be worth it. Besides, it's nice to have someone around after the hell of China. I feel insulated now, as if I've left China, even though physically, I'm still here.
Last night was pretty wild. I went to a Russian disco with Valery. We ended up in a small room with two other guys, several girls, and no telling how much alcohol. We danced and touched till I was adopted by Nina, a nice looking girl who could speak hardly any English. It didn't matter. We got as far as going for a walk and finding where our hotels were. But all of a sudden, it was broken off. I think in part due to Valery's getting increasingly out of control. He wanted to fight and make a big scene. I eventually had to leave him.
This morning I was so sick I wanted to die. A couple of times I thought I would. Valery pulled me down to the restaurant sometime after 9, but I got sick and had to leave. We had to pack and get going, but I was barely able. Every spare moment I went horizontal. I felt people looking at me, some in pity, some with amusement. But I didn't care. Stupid American. With what I felt to be superhuman endurance, I made it to the rail station, my eyes rarely able to lift themselves from the ground.
There was a last minute scramble to get me a ticket. The group had a guide taking care of the details. I was only dimly aware of what was going on. We cleared Chinese customs and were put in a large waiting room. There I, and several hundred Russians, waited for a couple of hours amid mountains of packages. For what, no one seemed to know. The most I could manage was to lay my pack down and stretch out on it.
I decided bottled water would be a good thing and struggled over to the only source available, a kiosk that was doing a brisk business with it's captive customers. Waiting in line I heard a voice say "Can I help you?"
I was shocked. Besides the dozen or so people with Valery, I had spoken to no one. "How did you know I speak English?" I replied.
"You look American," the baby-bear like man said.
I didn't feel like talking, or anything else. But I listened as he told me he had been to the U. S. I was curious, but with gravity winning the battle, I had to return to my pack.
Finally, a bit after noon, I started to feel better. The water was reviving me. Valery had tried a different tactic. Right out of bed he was drinking. He seemed to be winning the battle until about the time I started feeling better. He pushed me off the pack and laid down himself, sick for the rest of the day. Not sick enough though to stop his smoking.
Boarding the train was an exercise in packing. Bags and boxes went straight to the ceiling. Sitting there with sealed windows and increasing heat, we were making no more progress than when we were sitting in the station. Even when the beast started rolling, the speed was little more than a crawl. All the while I was feeling the excitement of doing something that was supposed to be impossible, and the fear that at any minute it would be. Everyone I had met said only Chinese and Russians could cross the border. No guide book offered any encouragement. I was sure there would be another hurdle on the Russian side.
It was strange and exhilarating to step off the train and see Cyrillic letters on the station and people in Russian uniforms walking around. I felt like I was doing something wrong, or at least exotic. I was standing on the soil of our traditional, now vanquished, enemy. But now, they had the upper hand.
We, and the packages, squeezed into a small room in the station. In one corner there was a doorway with a guard. Every few seconds he would let a couple of people pass. The push was in that general direction. When my push became successful, I went through the doorway, and saw the typical glass-bound customs desk. With a pounding heart, I handed over my visa and passport. I had no idea what would happen to me if it was rejected, for I was in Russia, and not. I supposed the train had to go back at some point or another, but who knew when. I heard the girls (one was cute) say "American." There was a bit of shuffling and the cute one said "Name?" in almost English.
"Keith," I said.
They looked confused. "Brian?" I nodded my head. "Yes, Brian Keith."
They both giggled. "Welcome to Russia," the cute one said with a smile as she stamped me in. Maybe I should have asked for a date.
Then it was to customs, where they were checking everyone's bags. The officer wanted to see my money, so I fished it out from all of the various stashes in my pack and clothes. He made a big show of laboriously counting it out, even though there were over $150 in ones. Valery was standing beside me. It made me uncomfortable for him to see how much and where my money was. It's not that I didn't trust; yes it was, I didn't trust him. There was a reason, besides my normal traveler's wariness. I was thinking of the incident on the train.
I had been sitting amidst the packages, smiling and exchanging a few simple questions with the curious. Teddy, the English speaker from the station, found me, and we started talking. He was wearing a U. S. Customs ball cap that he had traded on his visit to Alaska. He had been a Russian customs officer.
Valery took the chance to use Teddy as a translator. Valery's most pressing thought was that, somehow, I could be an American contact for his trading business. I said that I wasn't involved in business. It was just as I expected, he wanted something from me. Teddy added something else to the translation. "Don't trust him." he said.
"Why? I asked."
"He's not a good person. He's a drunk." That I already knew. Teddy continued. "Sonya," he said, referring to one of the women in the group with Valery, "says Valery is not to be trusted. Valery wants you to go to his home with him. I would advise you not to go."
Valery looked on helplessly, not knowing he was being slandered. I thanked Teddy and assured him I would be careful. It was the first of many warnings I would receive about Russians from their distrusting countrymen. Teddy continued by inviting me to his home in Kharbarovsk. I said I would be happy to.
I didn't know how seriously to take the warning about Valery, but it would have been folly to ignore it completely. I maintained my guard.
The customs officer finished counting my money and marked the amount on a receipt. I was to turn it in, along with exchange receipts, when I left the country. That would supposedly ensure all my exchanges were legal.
We moved the pile of bags moved to the front of the station, which, apart from a few houses, appeared to be the extent of the dusty town. Some groups jumped on buses, ours didn't. There was confusion and agitation over what to do. Something had gone wrong.
Valery wanted him and me to take a taxi, for $100 a piece. I said no way. He went off, reasonably drunk, to argue with whoever the local providers of transportation were. He'd already suggested spending $100 before, that time for a woman. Seems a bit pricey for Russia, especially in a small town. I wondered if the girl who showed up on Valery's hip had cost him that much.
Eventually one of the men of the group, who looked to be the de facto leader, showed up with a car and van. He's the uptight type, unnecessarily yelling at people all day long in an attempt to keep them moving. But he did come through in the crunch.
It was a three hour ride to Vladivostok. I was in the back of the van with three women. Once we had exchanged our few words, and shown our pictures, I could only listen to them chatter in Russian. I watched the pretty scenery of rolling green hills covered with farms and pastures. Along the way, we stopped at Valery's parents' place, a small, rough looking farm. His mama sent out some bread and cheese, that was my first food of the day.
We reached Vladivostok around 11:30. It had been dark for half an hour. The only thing I could really tell about the city was that it's very hilly. Valery said the ride cost $25. I suspect he high-balled me. One of the ladies in the group was yelling at him with disgust while the transaction was going on. I tried to see what he paid, but couldn't, as he paid with unfamiliar roubles.
There were two doors to Valery's apartment, both bolted as for a siege. The apartment was small, one room and a kitchen. Inside were two women, one the wife, and the other I took to be her mother. The baby was asleep. Valery rummaged through the fridge and came up with what looked like a bowl of congealed fat and meat. He dug right in, but after one bite, I'd had enough.
I began to wonder where I was going to sleep. About then, I was led to the apartment next door, where a sofa sleeper had been prepared. An old man was the only person around, and he was very talkative, despite not speaking a word of English. Within the first couple of minutes there, he had his shirt open for me to feel his pacemaker, which was American made. I was plenty ready to get to bed.
Sleep last night was very good. The sleeper sofa was hard, but comfortable. I reluctantly got up around 9. The shower was cold. Valery came over and led me to his place for a breakfast of chicken and rice. Lena, his wife, was almost invisible.
A couple of friends, or business associates, came over, and Valery put in a tape of the movie Harry Crumb. It was dubbed over in Russian, a single voice doing all of the characters. The English voices were left in the background. You could hear them, except during longer bits of dialogue where the Russian ran over the English.
Around 11 we went into town. There is no shortage of taxis. Every car has the potential. To get a ride, we held out our hand for a few minutes until someone stopped. At the end of the ride we gave the man a little money and he went on his way.
We went to a couple of bank-like places looking for one that would change traveler's checks. Neither of them did. I gave up and handed over dollars. It's hard to believe that in a city of this size, they don't do American Express. Next was the train station. Teddy said he would meet me on the morning of the 24th, when the Okeana #5 came in.
Getting the ticket was an ordeal of an hour and a half. The "line" didn't make things any easier. It was more of a pecking order than a line. When someone came along who thought his time more important, he would simply edge to the front, without any real complaint from anyone else. A man tried the tactic on me and I had a most un-Russian reaction to it. "Nyet," I said.
A big discussion ensued. The lady in front of me agreed that, for some reason, the man had a right to the place. I wasn't inclined to give in, but Valery, who was standing beside me, didn't seem concerned. Maybe there was some Russian thing going on I didn't understand.
The biggest reason for the line was the ticketing process. Once a person got to the window, it took about 15-20 minutes for each ticket to be issued. The clerk went through a convoluted procedure that culminated in taking scissors to the ticket book and fashioning a design of oriental complexity. I couldn't even guess the reasons behind the ceremony.
After finally getting my hands on the ticket, we (Valery, his friend Valery, and I) went to meet who I took to be Valery's English speaking brother. A ten minute car ride left us in front of one of the innumerable, nondescript, high-rise apartment buildings that infest the hills of Vladivostok. We mounted the dark and smelly staircases that are a necessary part of each building. Ringing the doorbell produced prison-like sounds of sliding bolts and clanking locks of the two solid doors. The figure who appeared with a cigarette muttered a few words in Russian and disappeared. When he returned, he and Valery engaged in conversation.
"Hello," he said timidly.
"Hi."
They continued talking. "Are you Valery's brother?" I asked.
"No, I'm his brother's friend."
"I'm Alex," I said, making use of my new identity.
"Ruslan," he acknowledged. "I'm sorry not to invite you in, but my house is very bad. It's being worked on."
We continued to stand on the steps, talking with increasing confidence. We decided to go to Valery's. Ruslan had to change, so he invited us in. The apartment was small and run down, but not unlivable.
On the way back to Valery's, we got beer from a kiosk. It was in a big jar, similar to a five gallon pickle jar. The beer (piva) was mild, almost weak. Through Ruslan, Valery once again indicated his desire to form business contacts. I found he's dealing in food, and that's why he was in China, to establish contracts. I get the feeling he's just beginning.
After beer and video, when I was given, as this morning, the rocking chair seat of honor; Ruslan and little Valery left. I stretched out on the floor to play with Vicca, the 18 month old daughter. She's fascinated by me, but a little hesitant too. Sometimes she'll let me pick her up, others not.
Valery decided I was tired, and took me back to the apartment next door. This time, in addition to the old man from last night, there was an old woman. The old man was as friendly as ever, and soon we had the photo album out. Then I discovered the connection. The old man is Lena's grandfather. The old woman is married to the man, but I don't know if she's Lena's grandmother. The old man was a tailor, he had served in Germany during WWII. He looked robust in the pictures until just a few years ago, when he indicated he had his problems.
The pictures were interesting, if unimaginative. They had a drab, Soviet quality to them. Mostly they were the same family pose over and over through the years. The people got older, but nothing else changed. The clothes and photo quality made the pictures look much older than they were. Some dated late 80's could have well been taken in the 60's.
Valery and I went to meet Ruslan at work this evening. He's a DJ at an alternative radio station. The station equipment is off-the-shelf Japanese stereo components that you would find in any Western department store. Ruslan said music has played a part in his language skills. He says he learned much of his English from reading the lyrics on American records.
From the station, we went to his other apartment, which he claims is in the worst building in Vladivostok. There were no lights in the dark stairway. What you could see was even more run down than the other buildings. The hallway looked more like an underground maintenance tunnel than a 5th floor apartment building. Lining the hallway were wooden crates, probably used for storage.
The apartment redefines small. One room and a bathroom/kitchen. That's right, bathroom/kitchen combination, one and the same. The bathtub and kitchen sink was right next to the toilet, and none of it looked too healthy. The only light bulb in the room was burned out, so Ruslan borrowed one of the last ones remaining in the hallway. We opened a bottle of vodka, and a can of beef, and sat around talking about everything.
Possibly more depressing than the apartment is Ruslan's recent personal life. A month ago, after six weeks of marriage, his wife left him. There was no explanation. They had lived together for four years. We looked at the wedding pictures. I can tell he still wants her. You would think that after four years she would have had a better idea of what she wanted.
I asked about their communist education. They said that when they were growing up, their teachers told them the U. S. was the enemy, capitalism was rotten, and the nuclear threat to Russia was the only thing that held our society together.
It was an interesting night. I found myself much closer in spirit to Ruslan than Valery. His tastes run to classic literature, while Valery is more Jean Claude VanDamme. He wants me to send him books, Valery wants business contacts.
When we left there was a 19th Century London fog hanging over the city.
This morning I watched cartoons and played with Vicca, while Valery and his confederates appeared to be conducting business. We went into town and had lunch at the Russian idea of a fast food restaurant, Magic Burger. The soft and spongy excuse for a burger soon proved disagreeable to my system.
I had to get rid of it. Roma (Valery's brother) led me down a muddy alley where there was a row of ramshackle outhouses without doors. Looking inside revealed two adjacent square holes cut in the wooden floor. The floor was slick with everything imaginable. The walls were covered with dried feces that people had wiped there when caught without toilet paper. I was lucky to have my notebook.
The work being completed I stepped outside. Taking my place was a nice looking woman in high heels and dress.
A crowded and rickety public bus took us to the top of one of the hills. From there we could see all of Vladivostok, home of the Russian Pacific fleet. A closed city under communism. There were only a half dozen or so major warships in the harbor. Their conditions were various. A couple were maintained in Bristol fashion, but others were showing signs of neglect. I wondered how many ships were deployed, for this wasn't much of a fleet. Considering the state of the Russian military, most of their ships should have been in port. Stranger than the numbers though, were the czarist-era ensigns waving lazily over the ships. It felt unnatural.
Even without the navy, this could be an important city. It is oozing with crumbling potential. As the primary port on Russia's East coast, Vladivostok is the corridor connecting the riches of Siberia to the markets of the Pacific. Lining the waterways are ships and boats of every description. The harbor is much in need of an overhaul. In years of poking around shipyards, this was the first place I'd ever witnessed a single armed crane with rope and cargo net doing the loading. There wasn't a container crane in sight.
The trip down the hill revealed more decay, physical and spiritual. The steps have crumbled away to become more of a path than stairway. Metal rods that once braced the concrete now poke up to catch the unwary walker. (Yes, I tripped.) At the bottom of the hill I wanted to look in what appeared to be the remains of a picturesque church. I was disappointed to find it converted to a stale naval museum.
It was time to go, which was good, for we were out of things to say. The two Valerys walked me to the train. They were quite a pair. One over 6 ft. and stocky, the other not more than 5'4". The sidekick completed the image with his long black leather coat. I had enjoyed our time together. Once I was settled on the train Valery apologized for not seeing me off, but he couldn't stay any longer. He still hadn't recovered from our party in China. I doubt he ever will.
Next, Kharbarovsk