On April 15th 2009, my friend Ellery and I dipped the rear tires of our bicycles into the Sea of Japan and began riding towards Portugal.
For years, this moment had existed strictly within my imagination. Indulging the fantasy, I envisioned a long beach of grey pebbles, cool air filling my lungs, and the Pacific lapping against my bike’s rear tire. But when this moment finally confronted me, reality rudely pushed the fantasy aside.
Two weeks before our departure, deep within the brick walls and tight security of the American Consulate in Vladivostok, Russia, we were having tea with Tom, the Consul General.
“I would love to ride my bicycle the first 30k with you out of the city,” he offered. “But I won’t dip the tires in the ocean, the water here is so polluted I’m afraid it might destroy the rubber,” he said jokingly.
Tom’s sentiments were not unique; years of unregulated dumping of factory waste and sewage into Vladivostok’s bay prompts the city’s residents to caution foreigners about even getting close to the water.
Departing From Vladivostok With Tom Armbruster, The American Consul General During our final days in Vladivostok, my cell phone rang incessantly with calls from newspapers and magazines asking for interviews about our trip.
“I want to make a good story,” barked the producer of a Russian television station over the phone on my last day in the city. “I need shots of you on the bikes, in the Russian language classes you have been taking at the university here—everything!”
“You’re too late,” I said that afternoon as the camera crew barged into the Russian dormitory where we had lived during the past five weeks, “our teachers have left for the day.”
“We need this story,” the producer interjected, “just find me somebody!”
Enjoying the absurdity of the moment, we scrounged up a Russian language professor we had never met before. With grand acting skill, we proceeded to stage a news segment where the mock professor pretended to teach us the Russian nouns necessary to describe the most rudimentary bicycle mechanics.
“Tormoza, Speetsy, Pedaly,” or, “Brakes, Spokes, Pedals,” I said smiling for the camera.
After weeks of the sunny t-shirt weather which marks the onset of spring, I awoke the following morning to find the temperature near freezing and gale force winds whipping white caps across the sea.
There was no turning back now. Ellery and I shivered wheeling our bikes out of the dormitory and began pedaling towards the beach in the center of town. Running late, I had neglected to securely close the rubber pouch of water within my Camelbak backpack. Maneuvering through traffic, I cursed as water suddenly leaked throughout the backpack soaking my lower body.
I arrived at the beach cold, cross, and wanting to change, but a barrage of camera men from local and national Russian television stations encircled us like predatory cats upon arrival.
"How long will your journey last?” “Why did you choose to travel in Russia?” “What is the purpose of your trip?” They yelled thrusting microphones in our faces as we mustered replies with chattering teeth. Smile for the Camera: Shivering for the Press
Through the milieu, we eased our bikes to the sea’s edge. The wind whipped against my frozen body. The media snapped photos. Ellery and I looked each other daringly in the eye, then raised our fists into the air and screamed as we dipped our rear tires into the Pacific.
As we left, I looked back at the sea momentarily. Despite the intrusion, I thought, this important moment in my life was still mine to enjoy.
Almost.
“Can you put that tire in the water one more time?” a photographer yelled choking the symbolism from the event, “I want another shot.” Then suddenly, like all future events we anticipate greatly, it floated to a rest forever in the past. We hopped on our bikes and rode with the Consul General out of Vladivostok behind a small motorcade. The experience was surreal, a journey I had only imagined for so long, was now wildly merging with reality before my eyes.
The motorcade turned around at the city limits. We were alone. In front of us lay a journey of roughly 10,000 miles, across eleven time zones, and two continents. At the end, we would plunge our front tires into the Atlantic.
We started riding. So You Think You're Hard Core: Ellery Stares 10,000 Miles in the Face
Shuffling through the masses, two young boys nearly run me over shouting as they push a cart full of cabbages through a busy crowd. In the distance, an elderly woman sits cross legged in the dirt stitching together shoes by hand. Around me, hordes of Asiatic men and women watch over tin canopied market stalls, hawking goods, smoking cigarettes, or frantically speaking Chinese.
And this is Russia.
I am walking through a sprawling open air market in Vladivostok. This cavalcade of people selling everything from blow torches and Armani jeans to canned borscht is unofficially known by Vladivostok residents as the Chinese market. Those who make their livelihood within the bazaar do not just hail from China as the name implies. It is a peculiar mix of Russians and immigrants from various parts of Asia. This odd amalgamation of folks, cast far way from their native lands, defines this small section of the city as a meeting point, where the paths of different people's lives converge to exchange goods.
A Chinese Woman Mending Shoes,
Vladivostok, Russia
Most of what is sold here is merchandise from China made for export to the United States. Everything from stereos, pet supplies, and designer shirts can be purchased here for a fraction of the price they sell for in the developed world. For example, here you can find a Puma hat, adorned with a tag printed in English which lists its price as $18.95; in Vladivostok, it sells for less than $4.
If hundreds of years ago the most sought after commodity produced in the Orient was spices, the answer today is brand name clothes. Throughout the market, names like Adidas, Levi's, and Gap monopolize the fronts of infinite shirts, hats, and jackets. The majority are shameless imitations. Everyday is Market Day
On one visit, I nearly laughed out loud finding a Nike shirt with a gargantuan swoosh symbol made of corduroy stitched on so poorly it was practically falling off. Later, I spotted a stand selling designer jeans where a young girl sat bent over an old sewing machine unabashedly stitching together the pants for sale in front of me.
The raw materials for most of the clothes for sale in the market are brought into Russia from China and assembled here. The imitation clothes and excess products originally meant for sale in the U.S. fill a gap in the need for consumer goods in Russia. In a country which produces little, the availability of Chinese consumer goods greatly benefits the lower class of Russia's Far East by offering them affordable commodities. Only in Russia: The Chill of a Late Spring Snow Storm
is Not Enough to Keep Shoppers Away
The presence of immigrants in Russia is symbiotic. It is a place where a factory worker from China can become an entrepreneur, using their skills to assemble jeans in their own market stall.
For others, Russia is a place of sanctuary.
An exchange student from South Korea named Ju Jung accompanied me on my first visit to the market. At midday, we stopped for lunch at a Korean restaurant tucked within the labyrinth of merchants peddling their wares. Inside, several plastic pictures portraying scenes of American landscapes, long since faded and bleached by the sun adorned the walls. I spotted one, featuring a lobsterman hauling traps and navigating his boat through the inlets of pine tree dappled isles, and smirked to myself. The man in the boat could be modeled after one of my neighbors in Maine halfway around the world.
As our waiter hands us menus, the two Koreans begin a fervent conversation. Soon, they are both sitting down, smiling, and shaking hands.
"I have never had the opportunity to speak with someone from North Korea, so that was a very special moment for me," Ju Jung tells me in English as the waiter left. "This restaurant is managed by a North Korean family who escaped to Russia. In my country, it is against the law for us to meet anyone from North Korea."
To this day, the two countries are technically still involved in a conflict, given that the Korean War technically ended in a cease fire, not a peace treaty.
"That was very special," Ju Jung repeats, nearly moved to tears.
The Chinese Market is like a miniature diorama portraying the broad and intriguing subject of international relations. It is a place where products meant for sale in the developed world, reach the developing world, and people from all over this region of the planet pass by one another in a vibrant setting which serves as a literal crossroads within Asia. Young Boy Stares Out of Market Window,
Vladivostok, Russia
Each night the Trans-Siberian railroad roars past my dormitory in Vladivostok. I listen to it clanking along the last stretch of track, hugging the coast as it rounds the city’s horseshoe bay. The famous train traverses nearly 6,000 miles from Moscow; its journey concludes breaking into view of the Pacific Ocean. In the still hours of evening, the rumbling of its passenger cars is the only distraction threatening my peaceful solitude.
The trip from Moscow to Vladivostok lasts 10 grueling days by train. A cakewalk considering that it will take my friend Ellery and I roughly four months to cross the same distance on bicycles.
We arrived six weeks before our journey began to take Russian language classes at the Far Eastern National University in Vladivostok. With months of fundraising efforts and stressful pre-departure planning behind me, I relished the idea of spending some time alone studying Russian and poring through Dostoevsky novels.
As a U.S. citizen, traveling to Vladivostok was once an impossible feat. In 1948, the Soviet government closed the city to all foreigners, the restriction holding until 1992, after the fall of the Soviet Union. Perhaps this explains why outsiders, particularly those who speak English, are a novelty here. The Sea of Japan, The End Of The Trans-Siberian Railroad and The Begining Of The Bike Ride
Within several days, my hermetic fantasy in Vladivostok was interrupted by two amiable Russian girls knocking on my door. “Would you like to go on a tour of the city?” they inquired. These welcoming Russian ambassadors were English students at the university. Months ago, they asked the Study Abroad department to introduce them to any native speakers studying at the school.
Because Vladivostok rounds the bottom of the list long after the Florence's and Barcelona's of world for American students studying abroad, we became easy prey for English students starving for conversation practice.
The knocks on my door became a daily event. Word about two Americans cycling from Vladivostok to Portugal had spread. Soon young adults began seeking us out, graciously offering us countless invitations to dinner and social outings. The seemingly endless supply of jovial young Russians presented us with some of the greatest hospitality I have ever received while traveling.
Many of these welcoming locals had spent summers in America before. Working in the States, normally washing dishes in a sweaty kitchen all summer, and traveling to the most tasteless U.S. attractions for 10 days before returning home, seemed to be a cultural rite of passage for Russian university students.
“I dream of returning to Las Vegas, or Venice Beach!” one Russian girl said with the same nostalgic reverence some have for Paris or Rome.
I did not expect to find this infatuation with America in Vladivostok. Even after the global financial crisis beginning in the U.S., the American Dream seemed alive and well in Russia. After considering this fact, it made more sense: In a country fraught with chilling winters and the dollar currently worth almost 35 rubles, I could faintly understand how a warm state like Florida, which I associate with dismal visions of retirement communities and pink flamingos, might be paradise on earth.
Over time, our outings with Russian students led to valuable connections. Attending a classical music concert with a student named Dmitri one night, we met the U.S. Consul General in Vladivostok.
“Call me if you get into trouble out there,” Tom, the Consul General told us. “I love bicycling too. Would you mind if I rode with you for the first leg of your ride out of the city.”
“Sure,” we replied in disbelief.
“Do you want some press?” he asked.
The rest of the week, we found ourselves doing interviews and photo shoots for major magazines and newspapers published in Vladivostok.
In Russia, before pedaling one mile, my life has already been touched by the kindness of countless new acquaintances. Traveling slowly and meeting people was what drew me to long distance bicycle touring in the first place.
The reluctant socialite I have become, the moments are now rare when I can escape to my room savoring the last place I can call home before hopping on my bike and embracing nomadhood. These days, as the Trans-Siberian rumbles by, it reminds me not of my isolation in Russia, but of how many amazing people I have yet to meet within this country’s vastness.
As a newcomer in Vladivostok, the first time you see one parked along the street, that out of place foreign car with the steering wheel on the left, you suppose it belongs to an eccentric English adventurer who has driven across Siberia. When you spot another seconds later, you call it a coincidence. And as you view the third confusedly exclaim, “What are all these cars doing here?”
Like in the United States, Russians drive on the right hand side of the road. The curious fact that all of the cars in Vladivostok are designed for driving on the left, as they do in Britain and Australia, greatly confused me. Like so many aspects of Russia, their presence defied reason.
Until recently, many foreign cars manufactured in nearby Japan, (where they too drive on the left), were brought to eastern Russia and sold cheaply without import tariffs. A brand new Toyota Corolla could be purchased for a song at around $7,000 USD. Like the books of Jack Kerouac, the availability of these cheap cars once inspired lengthy road trips; many residents of Russia’s Far East would drive Japanese cars cross country to resell them.
“My friends and I made a lot of money running cars out of Vladivostok,” a young Russian named Aleksey told me. “I drove all over bringing them to clients, often traveling as far as Moscow and St. Petersburg thousands of miles away.”
Today, the Russian government imposes stricter tariffs on importing foreign cars, making their resell far from Vladivostok no longer profitable. The boom years of the great Russian car trade have ended, burdening Vladivostok with unemployment and an absurd amount of excess cars. There is a saying in Vladivostok that for each of its 600,000 residents, there are two automobiles. Every day tan clouds of smog and gridlocked traffic infesting the would-be quaint streets along the czarist-era buildings of downtown validate this axiom.
This chaotic reality is not strictly a result of cheap automobiles, but an effect of the relatively recent end of the Soviet Union. During the Soviet era, foreign cars were not available inside the country and most Russians had to undergo a lengthy application process merely to purchase an automobile.
Enthusiasm to possess foreign goods following the Soviet Union’s collapse in 1991 can still be felt when roaming Vladivostok’s streets, and it looks like mayhem and smells of exhaust. Early Morning Traffic, Vladivostok
One afternoon, a law student at the university I attend took me for a spin in his small Toyota. Stalled in a traffic jam, he pointed out a small building to our left. “It burnt down a few years ago,” he explained. “While it was on fire, there were so many cars parked along the streets nearby that the fire trucks could not get close enough to put it out, and many of the office workers jumped from the windows to escape,” he said sorrowfully.
Navigating Vladivostok by foot is not for the unadventurous. Merely walking from my school to Okeansky Prospekt, the city’s main drag, requires crossing a turbulent intersection across four lanes of maniacal traffic. The cars flow past like a river: constant and unyielding.
And, oh yeah, there are no traffic lights.
As a novice Vladivostok pedestrian, I began by waiting until a group of Russians crossed who I could follow, nervously biting my lip. Amazingly, the experience is not as harrowing as it appears; the approaching cars each courteously slow allowing you to pass freely.
The feeling is extraordinary. Like receiving an offering of peace from a complete stranger.
Even alone, cars will stop if you are bold enough to cross; it is a bit of Far Eastern Russian etiquette you must be aware of to enjoy Vladivostok on foot.
After several weeks, I now weave through prongs of moving cars like a natural. The thick traffic of Japanese automobiles decelerates just for me. An action, which makes a young male feel an illusory sense of importance. Despite the swarming surplus of vehicles, I have unceremoniously been endowed with an elusive power normally granted only to super models and flash floods: the ability to stop traffic.
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