Getting into Russia From the Other End.

With a mix of curiosity and frustration, I peer through the glass of the big round window in our cabin. It's a gloomy picture beyond the streaked glass. Bleak skies, rain, cold and very windy. Mmm...Spring in Russia! The scene, really is how I had imagined Russia to be. Extremely grey, inhospitable and totally uninviting. The ship docked more than two hours ago in Zarabino, a weeny little port town. Just a speck on the southeastern coastline of Russia. We're on the Dong Chun Ferry which has arrived from South Korea and like two naughty children, we have been told, "You must remain in your room". I sneak out of our cabin and see that the deck has been roped off and there's a handful of passengers, standing around with a ton of luggage. The Korean Officer rushes over and herds me back down the little corridor to the little wooden room. The ship is in a cove. Across the water I can just make out some buildings through the gloomy mist. Allen and I lay around and talk but as another hour goes by cabin fever, well and truly sets in. Unable to bear the small confined space any longer, we load each other up with our luggage and venture out onto the inner deck. About twenty other passengers stand around, looking like a herd of sheep waiting for their lucerne. All of them appear Russian and no-one looks very relaxed. No smiles nor a gold tooth to be spotted anywhere across the deck. Russians Immigration Officials in their large green hats strut around, checking documents. This seems to create tension amongst the other passengers. It all looks so intensely serious that I feel like bursting into laughter.
Another hour of standing around waiting, fades any residual humor and patience left in me. Finally we all disembark, single file like a small herd of laden donkeys, slowly and gradually making our way down the steep steel steps of the ferry.
Directed towards a building, we trudge through the slosh and puddles. Tall fences topped with barbed wire surround the huge metal barn like structure. Once inside the building, which still looks like a huge metal barn, we are given Immigration entry cards to fill out. Of course they'd be written all in Russian. Oh great! Allen tries to decipher the words from his repertoire of Cyrillic.

Everything about the place looks so colorless, cold and inhospitable including the Immigration Officials. I hand my passport to a grim-faced young man who searches my face. He studies my passport then looks back at me. After repeating this process a few times, finally he stamps it.

From the passport control section, Allen and I are singled out and ushered into a room off to one side. It is an office with a few people working at desks and an Agent who will 'help' us wade through the quagmire of bureaucracy. The Australian car registration papers, which become known as the 'Car passport" are scrutinized, by the Agent. This fellow is about mid sixties and looks a bit worse for wear in his crumpled old suit and disheveled hairstyle. He looks like he's been on the vodka and cigarettes for forty six years without a break. After placing heavy plastic rimmed glasses on his nose he sighs deeply as he begins the process of trying to decipher the English document.
A very lofty, robust Russian woman with extremely substantial breasts and a deep, husky man's voice, becomes his interpreter. She looks to him for instructions then questions us, "Vhat are your reasons vor entering Roossia? Vay are you in herr?" Her accent is strong and heavy as she rolls the 'R's". Allen explains that we are travelling across Russia to go into Mongolia then across to Kazakhstan then towards Switzerland. She translates this to the Agent who nods his head slowly in comprehension then says a few words back to her but doesn't take his eyes from the documents.
The large Russian woman tells us in a deep, stern voice of authority, whilst pointing to the visa on Allen's passport," You must leave Roossia, vis de car by siz date, or zer vill be trruble! You must be out of zee countree, you undastend?"
Nodding in complete understanding, we leave the office elated that the first part of the formalities are over.
We now have permission to drive the Land Rover off the ship and over to the terminal. For both of us, this is an exhilarating moment in our journey. With Allen at the wheel, we drive slowly down the ramp of the Dong Chun Korean Ferry. I hold my video camera up and begin to take some video footage of this significant event.
Three armed Russian guards, dressed in military uniform rush out in front of the car, shouting, "Nyet! Nyet!"(No, No) They look positively menacing as they wave their weaponry around in the air.
"OKKAAYY! Chill out" I think as I lower my camera quickly and put it well out of sight.
What a contrast from Korea and its smiling people! Welcome to Russia!

Once off the ship, we are directed to park and wait in the car till 10am. That is when the Agent will accompany us to Russian Customs, more paper will be shuffled and then we get to hand over lots of our hard earned money.
Standing at the back of the car with an umbrella, sheltering from the bloody miserable weather, we eat some breakfast.

An hour later, I am sitting in the car and Allen has disappeared into another small building with the Agent. The weather is still very cheerless, grey and cold, as it continues to rain. Boredom sets in, so I amuse myself by taking 'sneak' photos out of the car window. The dirt roads all around this small port area are a quagmire of muddy potholes and deep ruts.
Doesn't look like the Zarabino folk have a very generous budget for 'road maintenance.' Another hour passes by, or is it two? I'm getting a bit edgy and decide to go to see if Allen is okay.

Inside the small, very old wooden building it takes a moment to adjust my eyes to the dimness. There is a small pokey corridor, with doors leading off it and a pungent, overpowering smell of old wet things. A single light globe hangs off a piece of electrical lead from the mildew stained ceiling. Three grim faced people are sitting on a wooden bench, heads down with papers in their hands.

I find a window and a woman in uniform sitting in a miniscule office. The window is a slider and it's open. She looks up with an unfriendly, "Vat do YOU vant?" look on her face and barks something in Russian." I am looking for the Australian", I tell her. Before I have a chance to even close my mouth, she pulls the window shut.... hard then yells something else, even louder and turns back to her work. I guess she doesn't really want to talk to me or even ask me, " How's life in Australia?" Oh well, you've got to hand it to the Russians. They don't get into small talk, just straight to the point....I think she just said something like, "Piss Off!"
Looking up and down the small hallway, I see that all the other doors are closed and realise that I don't have too many options. I trudge back to the Land Rover and resign myself to waiting.

Allen walks out of the building with the Agent in tow and tells me that we have to part with quite a few US dollars.
The Agent quickly pockets the cash and indicates we should follow him.

His battered old Russian Lada speeds off, crashing through the muddy potholes towards the exit point. We follow and get to a boomgate a hundred metres away. Ordering the guard to lift the boom, the Agent then lifts his arm with the slow movements of a very tired man. He points away into the distance. "Vladivostok dis vay, good Luck."
With mixed feelings of excitement and trepidation inside my guts, the Land Rover lurches forward.
We are free in Russia.