The Airbus 320 landed with a bump, we had arrived at Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk Airport, Russia! After much banging on the plane door (it was either stuck or a communication problem existed with the outside world) we were allowed to de-plane onto the Tarmac, my first footstep on Russian Soil. A short skip and a jump that was directed by a series of large military hats, we were soon inside the arrival lounge! This was a small room that spoke volumes about low budgets, communism style lack of attention and that millions of feet before had stomped up and down wearily as they waited for the snail like queue to move forward another inch!
The large and silent green-uniformed battle-axe behind the glass screen stared at me as if I was an alien from outer space with a space vehicle parking ticket for a passport. I, during this awkward interval in my life, scratched my head, counted the ants on the wall behind her, counted the stripes on her shoulder boards (and re-counted to make sure that I was not imaging the double figure) and whistled the Scottish national anthem. Eventually, after I had considered everything from panic to confession, she struck my passport with a vicious thump of her stamp and turned to the next unidentified object behind me! I was in Russia!
It was all activity at the carousel; bags were flying everywhere and being heaped in piles on the floor wherever nobody was standing, and sometimes where they were. I asked one passenger what was going on and he informed me that if the six-meter long conveyor belt filled-up then the baggage handlers would simply stop loading it. A catch 22 situation, either the passengers all chipped in to remove others luggage or we would stand waiting for the next six hours! My bag came through before I had sweated too much with my exertions of being a temporary baggage-handler and before the whole lot went up in flames (the guy outside who was standing precariously on-top of the luggage and whose job it was to throw the baggage onto the conveyor belt as hard as possible had a lit fag dangling out of mouth)!
As hoped the agent was there to meet me at the exit door. To describe this man might do him injustice but I will try; his dirty white training shoes clashed with the oversized suit-trousers, which clashed with the pink striped smart shirt that seemingly refused to stay tucked in, which in-turn clashed with the basket-woven fishing jacket on top. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and with his hair standing upright he looked like a victim of a 2000volt shock. I startled him out of his standing sleeping position with the use of a loud throat clearing session in his ear and after ascertaining that I was in actual fact the person that he was supposed to meet we toddled off to his van for the three-hour drive to the port of Kholmsk!
There was no doubt in my mind that the van belonged to him. It looked as if it had recently been dipped in a mud pit and despite not wanting to hurt his feelings I just had to clear a hole in the side window to see out of before I entered his domain. He opened the van door from the inside for me with a kick of his mud splattered trainers and in I climbed for the one hour journey to Kholmsk! His van smelt of fish although I could see none around, his back seat resembled a communal rubbish tip and the browning newspaper gave hint to the fact that he had not ventured back there for quite some time.
It was a very hot day. Let it be known that Sakhalin does get hot, in fact, the temperature that day was 28 degrees and I could feel every degree of the sun as it entered the car. He put the air conditioning on as we drove directly over and through every pothole imaginable, he seemed oblivious to the 70 mph road signs that we passed and the fact that our encounters with potholes stretched the springs on my seat (and my neck) to the limit. Five minutes later, just after we had skidded sideways whilst working our way around a hair bend at full speed, he took his hands off the wheel to flick some more switches on the AC control panel, thump it with force and to swear volubly in Russian as a piece of it clattered to the floor. Not soon after he switched the thing off, rolled down his window and through his halted English and fag end in his mouth I gathered that the AC was not going to play today (although I doubt that it had worked for a number of years).
I must say that the countryside is beautiful. Very open and green with no concrete jungles or clouds of pollution to disturb the clear and hilly horizon. My image though is of an endless rural community, or as one colleague recently put it "a peasant slum" but oh so green and lush! Every so often we would overtake another vehicle on this otherwise uninhabited and endless two lane road. Rusting tubs of Lada's that groaned and struggled to get past 40mph seemed to give answer the type of joke that starts with "how do you fit twenty elephants in a mini" with farming vehicles that resembled Red Army transports (and probably were) a close second. In addition, looking out past the road and amongst the endless trees were a few houses, obviously belonging to farmers or 'peasants' and a cattle shed or two - all ramshackle and in need of some TLC but putting together the images produced a relaxed lifestyle existed, one that would end with the onslaught of winter in a few months.
A typical truck - the workhorses of Russia
A Lada, the home grown Russian car
We stopped for petrol half way, a chance for me to stretch my legs and an opportunity for my agent/driver/fisherman to empty the ash tray which had already overflowed to the floor beneath. I never really understood what went on next; we got back into the car ready for the next step of the journey but upon my fastening my seat belt in preparation and the agent moving his van forwards I heard this loud bang and then allot of shouting and hysterical screaming. In these parts petrol is filled by an attendant and there is in fact no need for the driver to leave his vehicle should he not wish to do so. It is though sensible practice not to drive away until assurance is given that the tank is full and that the hose has been withdrawn from the tank. My agent though drove away before this assurance was given and so we ended up with the nozzle of the petrol hose in our tank and the hose which had separated lying behind us in a puddle of petrol. I sat there for ages as an argument sprang up, one that I think ended with a certain amount of money exchanging hands and a few insults thrown around for good measure. I'm just glad that Russian Petrol stations do have a quick stop on the flow of petrol should such an event occur, otherwise it would not have been a puddle of petrol but a swimming pool full of it with me in the middle.
Keeping the pot warm
Nearing Kholmsk, we crossed the mountains; lovely tree-covered, untouched and unblemished greenery, proof that the countryside does exist and that not all the world has to be one endless concrete jungle were only money talks.
I liked the look of the town as we drove through. I am not sure if the main street was so crowded with aimlessly wandering people because it was hotter than usual or if it was always like that but active it certainly was. We passed many well-dressed women with varying hair colours, the favourite seemed to be dark red, but a couple of greens and even a purple gave variety to an otherwise basic backdrop. Looking beyond and past the mini-skirted girls and topless youths, a number of babies were being pushed around in perambulators (that seemed to have wheels larger than some of the Lada's parked haphazardly nearby) by grandmas who upon encountering an unexpected pothole would have disappeared from view.
And so we passed on and to the ship that would become my home for the next two months. I hope to visit Kholmsk again soon, to see and verify if life is always so filled with colourful activity as that first day showed or if, as I would imagine, it is a ghost town with criminal activity instigated by drugged up Koreans and ex-KGB bosses ruling the roost through oppression. Maybe, maybe not but as first impressions go I have said my piece. I certainly imagine that when winter sets in and the harsh icy winds, the -20 degrees temperatures and the fog chill all to their bones, life will be different once again but for now and for the next two months I am positive that what I have seen is life as it is on this remote and distant island called Sakhalin.
The Seafaring Articles 
