Tallinn to Fushiki - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 39

As for the aquarium, we got excited when we read that it hosts a pair of beluga whales. But this excite-
ment turns to dismay when we see the whales' home. They're kept in a small, netted pen at the end of a pier
that juts into the harbor. Bored Russian children gather on the pier so they can throw garbage into the pen.
(With their parents' encouragement. The parents think it's a riot.) The beautiful, pale white whales surface
into the rain with plastic bags and orange rinds stuck to their fins. They open their mouths and let out long,
bending squeaks that sound like sad moans. The whole scene is unbearable. If we weren't deathly afraid
of spending time in a Russian prison, we'd dive into the frigid water right now and cut the nets with our
pocketknives.
On what we hope will be our final night in Russia, we get celebratory drinks at the bar in our hotel. I
order a beer. Rebecca experiments with a mysterious local liqueur. We toast and take big gulps. Rebecca
gasps for air.
“What does it taste like?” I inquire.
“ You know how sometimes a bad batch of moonshine can make you go blind?” she asks me.
“ Yes,” I answer.
“This tastes like blind.”
WHEN at last it comes time to board our ferry, we arrive at the dock a few hours early. We're taking every
precaution. There is simply no way we can endure another week in Vladivostok.
The main customers for this ferry turn out to be automobile arbitrageurs. They ride over to Japan to buy
used Hondas and Toyotas and then bring the cars back with them on the ship to sell at a profit in Russia.
(This explains why so many cars in Siberia have their steering wheels on the wrong side. In Japan, you
drive on the left half of the road, while in Russia you drive on the right.) The car traders are burly, tough-
looking guys, clad in flashy leather jackets. They all seem to know each other. I assume they make this trip
back and forth together every week. Once on board the ship, they immediately head for the bar on the top
deck and start pounding alcohol. It's a two-day passage to Japan, and I've a feeling they'll be spending the
whole time drunk. I've a feeling I might, too.
Besides the Russian car salesmen, the other people on the ship all seem to be travelers like us, making
similarly absurd overland journeys. Frankly, there just aren't a lot of other reasons to be on a forty-hour
ferry leaving from the Pacific coast of Russia. While there are only a handful of us nutty adventurers on
board, we instantly gravitate toward each other. We end up gathered around a table in the bar, swapping
stories from the road.
A cheerful Japanese guy tells us he drove to Vladivostok all the way from Paris—by himself, in a three-
wheeled, one-seat delivery cart. He leads us down to the vehicle deck to show us. The cart looks like
something a Dutch florist might use to putter around Amsterdam, with tulip bouquets spilling out the back.
Why this guy decided to drive it across the whole of the Eurasian land mass . . . is not clear.
The two Serbian guys sitting at the table rode here on motorcycles, all the way from Belgrade. They
conquered the featureless deserts of Mongolia on their bikes. At one point, they ran out of water and went a
full day without a sip—praying they'd reach the next village of yurts before keeling over with a last dying
gasp. The two Serbs are huge, strapping dudes. They're covered in a hard-earned layer of dust that looks
like it doesn't wash away even when they shower.
We're all enjoying each other's company, getting steadily drunker. Eventually, a few Russian guys come
over and join our table. They're visibly hammered. Rebecca appears to be the only woman left at the bar,
and these Russian men are very big fans of her. They keep nudging their chairs closer to hers, while subtly
edging my chair farther away. They buy round after round for the table and direct all their toasts to Re-
becca.