Day 13: The End of a Continent

Sunday May 18 - Hotel Versailles, Vladivostock

We arrived in Vladivostock early this morning. I was awoken in my bed in carriage nine of the Trans-Siberian Express by a prod from my travelling partner, Fizle. The meagre light and a watch that read 0545 suggested that it was a mistake – we were due to arrive at 0915 – but, on removing my earplugs, she told me that Natalia, the stony-faced carriage attendant, had demanded her bedding a few minutes earlier and said that the train will be stopping in half an hour.

The time zones have completely screwed my body clock. Vladivostock is nine hours ahead of BST, which means six in front of Moscow time. But this difference still doesn’t explain the three hour discrepancy between my watch, which I had meticulously checked at every stage of the journey, and the timetable of the Trans-Siberian Express. The latter – and the ‘camp commandant’ as she became known over the last seven days – are, I decided, immovable objects. So, in a fatigued haze, I packed my bags, stripped my bed and, miraculously, was ready just as the train pulled into the station.

Natalia and the night-time carriage attendant, the immense and equally unapproachable Snowplough, were standing at the foot of the carriage steps. I attempted one last try at breaking the ice by smiling broadly and nodding my head, but they looked at me with near contempt and quickly shifted their gaze to the middle distance.

In the early morning chill, Fizle and I humped our bags over the footbridge and made our way to the Hotel Versailles. First impressions of Vladivostock were clouded by our tiredness and the grey cloak of nothingness that hung over the city. But even if we’d had bright sunshine, I suspect the distinctly early 20th century European architecture, substantial and proud, would still be tainted by the city’s indelible character.

Vladivostock is, like Portsmouth in the UK, first and foremost a port and a naval base. Like its British cousin, it also has a menacing, tatty and seedy feel that reeks of drunkenness, prostitution and petty crime that is somehow kept under control by tacit force.

The Russian navy ships in the harbour, the sailors in uniform on the streets and the military buildings are the obvious signs of its connection with combat and sea. But the place also has an atmosphere that is distinctly edgy. It is, after all, the last major city on the Russian mainland. It is on the edge of Eurasia and the next stop eastwards, some 800 km through the motionless mist that blurs sky and sea, is Japan.

I thought about this next stage of my journey as I dropped off to sleep this morning in the hotel room. Some of the anxiety that had gripped me one week ago in Moscow returned: the 40 hour boat trip across the Sea of Japan is another step into the unknown. Then there is a train ride from the port of Fushiki to Tokyo, where I will hook up with an old friend, Jimmy Muir, which includes two changes of train, no command of the Japanese language and, unlike the Trans-Siberian leg, no translator or travelling companion. From 1800 on Monday, when I board the good ship Rus, until early evening on Wednesday when I meet up with Jimmy, I will be travelling solo again.

But unlike last week, I am nervous/excited rather than anxious/panicking. Seven days ago I was within millimetres of turning tail and heading back to the UK. The cultural shock of the Cologne to Moscow train, the inability to communicate freely with my fellow passengers, the unpredictability of food and sleep, the brutally unfamiliar surroundings, and countless other unidentifiable factors freaked me out so much that I very nearly quit my journey.

But thanks to the supporting words of Fiz and Jeremy – and, of course, my own internal critic that said the pain of return (and having to concoct a credible explanation that preserved my ego) would be greater than any stress from completing the mission – I took those crucial steps out of Jeremy’s Moscow apartment into the balmy evening sunshine of Sunday May 11, and got on the train.

The story of the last seven days – and the 9,300 km from Moscow - confirms that I made the right decision. As for the next eight days of this 22 day mission, only fate can decide.