The JaYmes Escape

Unsure which way to turn and not a taxi in sight, I pause outside Fushiki station on the north coast of Japan to look at my map. A Japanese woman who’d got off the train in front of me pauses and looks in my direction quizically. This is one of the wonderful things about Japan; no matter where you are most people are always incredibly keen to help. I point at the map, which is on a page I’d printed out from the Japanese website of the shipping company, “Roosha”, I say, pointing at the big picture of the ship at the top of the page, and the woman gestures to me to follow her.

Ten minutes down the road, and I’m walking towards a ship that clearly matches the one in the picture. The quay is surronded by a security fence and I can’t see any sort of passenger terminal, or indeed any buildings at all, so I walk up to the guard at the gate. “Roosha”, I say again, and show him my passport. He nods and gestures me towards the ship where dozens of plump, sunburnt Russian men are carrying all manner of goods up the steps, and a crane is lifting brand new Japanese cars onto the outside decks.

“Let me check your Visa”, says the Russian captain at the top of the steps, and with a nod of approval I am ushered into a cabin and given a key. This was easier than I’d expected. I’d collected my visa from the Russian embassy in Tokyo when it opened at 9.30am, and then taken the fastest set of trains to Fushiki, arriving like clockwork at around 3.30pm. I’d been told by the shipping company that I was supposed to be here at two, but with no other option I’d decided to give it a try anyway. I could always return to Tokyo and Phil’s hospitable floor if it didn’t work out.

An hour later my passport has been stamped by a Japanese immigration officer and I’m watching a Scooter video over a Russian beer in one of the ship’s many bars. We’re still berthed in Fushiki but I feel like I’m in Russia already; a feeling that’s only reinforced when the ‘restaurant’ opens for the inclusive set dinner consisting of various unidentified Russian dishes and rye bread served up by traditionally surly Russian waitresses. Actually it really isn’t so bad, but I do suddenly miss the friendly Japanese smiles and that excellent black curry.

Some 40 hours later I’m standing on the chilly quayside in Vladivostok, back on the Eurasian landmass and ready to start the long autumnal ride home. The next ocean I’ll see will be the Baltic sea in Riga, and if all goes to plan the next crossing should be on the home straight, through the channel tunnel.