One vignette stands out above all others from my trip to Vladivostok in February. It is of Dmitri (whose named I have changed – for obvious reasons), our guide, hopping the parapet in front of a Czarist-era warship’s mooring, intent on arranging an unscheduled tour. A glance one-way, then the other, and he was over. Casual, effortless, efficient – his leather trench coat barely even rippling. Yanking open a hatch, he disappeared into the ship. My traveling buddy Mike Kellogg, our Italian friend Simone, and I all exchanged incredulous glances. We waited nervously. Across the street Naval Headquarters loomed, all crumbling concrete and right angles. Guards stood watch over the active-duty missile cruiser at the neighboring berth. The waterfront bristled with gantries, and the cries of seagulls echoed eerily in the chilly morning air. Just as suddenly as he’d vanished, Dmitri reappeared, gesturing for us to join him. The ship’s caretaker, a grizzled Russian with a shaggy mustache, accompanied him. A long, should-we-or-shouldn’t-we moment ensued. Then Mike climbed over the parapet as well, and Simone and I followed him. Dmitri ordered us to pose for pictures with the vessel’s water cooled machine guns, pictures in front of the wheelhouse, pictures on the prow, pictures on the stern, pictures next to the gunwales, pictures with the neighboring cruiser in the background. He took most of the photos himself, using Simone’s high-quality Canon, which he had commandeered.
“Say cheese,” Dmitri said, his accent cartoonishly thick.
The musty-smelling caretaker followed, eyeing us. In the middle of all the picture snapping, the caretaker said something about our nationality.
Mike translated, “He’s asking where we’re from, again.”
Simone, being Italian and olive-skinned, glanced at the man, disbelief on his face. The caretaker scowled and said something menacing.
“Don’t look at him,” Mike hissed.
The caretaker demanded to see our passports. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Mike. His face was gray. Looking back now, I realize just how serious this situation actually was. At the time, though, it just seemed totally dreamlike and unreal.
We pulled out our documents, and, careful not to look at the surly Russian, handed them over.
The caretaker gave Simone’s documents a particularly long look. He muttered something, cracked a smile, and shot Dmitri a glance. Reluctantly, he handed our passports back. Through Mike, Dmitri instructed us to pay 100 Rubles (roughly $3) to the caretaker. Vodka money. Feeling suddenly lighter, we dug the bills hastily from our wallets. Dmiri dashed back to shore. We followed, breathing sighs of relief that grew longer and deeper with every step.
***
Vladivostok is exotic and unpredictable. Brash as red caviar and butter on black bread. Pitiful as a frayed Russian flag hanging from a rusty tug’s mast. Shameless as the sex toys for sale in the grocery store checkout line. Awesome-yet-decrepit as the 9200-kilometer-long Trans Siberian Railway with as its dimly-lit, platzkarte coaches. Ostentatious-yet-threadbare as the gold lace draperies hanging in the barely-running busses’ windows. Resurgent as the cable-stayed Russky Island Bridge – longest in the world – being built for the APEC Forum next year. Tragic as the wholesale-size liquor sections in every corner store.
Most folks have the same glazed, leave-me-alone stare. Their body posture and speech radiate defiance and bluster. Weathered faces, tawny hair. Older women preen synthetically gilded manes; many younger ones have the blue eyes of wolf pups. Lots of track suits and furs are in evidence. The leather of their shoes is usually polished with religious dedication. Russian fashion sense mixes with precision-tailored, overstarched Korean style about like oil mixes with water. Korean-Russians, who look East Asian but speak and carry themselves like Russians, are thus a very strange sight indeed.
Architecture is a riot of odd juxtapositions and bizarre comparisons. Czarist-era façades, like something out of Eastern Europe. Apartment blocks of Soviet vintage – fortresslike hulks that seem to have been designed for maximum ugliness. Large sections of town are simply falling apart. Rarely is there grass. Instead, mud, garbage, and congealed hunks of ice are everywhere. In bad places, the city seems like a social experiment to see what would happen if Kiwanis, Boy Scouts, the Rotarians, and every other community organization ever to sweep up a cigarette butt or raise money for a playground were all simultaneously switched off. Minutes from these slums, brand-new infrastructure is going up, including the gigantic Zolotoy Rog and Russky Island bridges, an upgraded airport, and dozens of kilometers of new highway. After two decades of post-Soviet stagnation, hopes for a brighter future are high. Whether or not it will actually come to fruition, I cannot say. The paradox of this place makes Vladivostok seem the new Wild West – an unvarnished place where both danger and a certain sort of opportunity are unbridled.
