Last-minute repairs while meeting the locals

Mikhail sets about fixing my bike - no safety gear in sight as the sparks fly. Photo / Rob Gray

The last light danced on the ice floes in the harbour. A solitary rowing crew made frosty work out on the water as we finished our glasses at the diplomatic function for the New Zealand Ambassador to Russia.

The Russian dignitaries had long since left and only New Zealanders remained. The conversation turned to my blog, which some of the diplomatic staff had read.

"Make sure you use your blog to promote New Zealand investment opportunities in Vladivostok. Give it a good hard push," I was told.

Over the ten days since our drinks with the ambassador, I have been reflecting on this advice while enjoying the sights and sounds of Vladivostok. For me, it hasn't been the business opportunities that stand out (though I have no doubt they are here). It's the people.

And so I'm devoting this blog to three people who represent the hospitality we have received in Vladivostok.

All three have vastly different backgrounds and social circles, yet all have welcomed us into their lives in their own unique ways.

Sascha

The first time I saw Sascha he was striding purposefully toward Rachael Hughes, the CEO of Living Hope, with a grim look on his face. His imposing girth was wrapped in a black trenchcoat and when he gestured for her to wind down the window of her vehicle I was convinced I was about to witness a mob killing.

Five days later, Sascha stood perched on the lip of a small, crowded plunge pool as we all clapped rhythmically and chanted his name.

He was stark naked.

Ok, we all were. I braced myself as Sascha sprung - luminous belly wobbling - into the air. Drawing his knees up to his chest, exposing fleshy buttocks in the process, he bombed into the centre of the pool, narrowly avoiding collision with the rest of us.

We were in a Russian banya, or bathhouse, which Sascha had hired out for the evening, all expenses paid. The head of the largest security firm in the Russian Far East (with 2000 guards), Sascha had just won the contract to provide security at the upcoming APEC conference, a huge deal in Vladivostok. He was also a member of the local Rotary club, which Rachael had invited us to speak at earlier in the week.

This type of behaviour (I'm referring to a dozen naked blokes crowding into a freezing cold plunge pool), while socially unacceptable in New Zealand, is apparently perfectly normal in Russia.

We had just finished a fifteen-minute stint in the sauna, and we Kiwi boys were dehydrated and dizzy. The plunge pool is what you do next. After that we were massaged, which involved being hit repeatedly with swathes of incensed-filled birch leaves. I was urged to relax, but must confess I found this difficult when the rest of the boys came back into the sauna. I was trying not to think about what my fiancee would say when she heard about this.

The rest of the night was an education in Russian cuisine, Russian singing and Russian drinking. I soon realised we would never beat the Russians at the latter, and started tipping half my shots onto the floor as the number spiralled into double figures. The food was divine though: mushrooms, pickles and seafood; soup with meat-filled pasta; partridge and other delicacies.

Mikhail

The glossy Hummer screeched to a halt in front of our parked bikes. A lean, handsome figure leaped out. He was unshaven and his jet-black hair was tied back in a pony-tail. The huge pirate emblem painted on the back of the Hummer seemed completely appropriate.

"Ok?" Mikhail greeted us, in a voice that was both short and friendly at the same time. "We go. Follow me."

We were on our way to the headquarters of the Iron Tigers motorbike club. To be honest, arriving at the huge walled fortress, I wasn't sure "club" was the appropriate word to describe these guys.

My suspicions were further aroused by the huge patches the bikers wore on their backs, the Iron Tigers tattoos they all sported and the security guards manning the gate outside, among other things.

Inside, the walls of the fortress were laden with photos of the club members and their antics: the boys hunting in full camo gear, the boys fishing, the boys eating the huge salmon and game they had caught, the boys on quad bikes in remote parts of Siberia, the boys on their bikes with their Iron Tigers patches on, the boys partying hard, the boys with scantily clad women. If this was a club, this was the ultimate boys' club.

Another biker had suggested I contact Mikhail, the head honcho of the Iron Tigers, to see if they could help me repair my damaged bike. I had received a warm email back from Vladivostok, and we were now at the headquarters to assess the damage and begin repairs.

It was here that my education began. I learned about two things: waiting and generosity. We arrived at the headquarters on Monday evening and began work on my bike at 4pm on Wednesday. Time is different in Russia.

Mikhail is an incredibly busy man, and was constantly rushing around giving orders, meeting people or fielding calls on his cellphone. He would often disappear in his Hummer for hours at a time. Tom and I spent countless hours watching the guys in the workshop, talking to an elderly English adventurer who has been travelling by motorbike for eleven years, eating at the club cafe and hanging out with the club members.

We were also involved in a ritual that happened every few minutes. Any time someone entered the club house there would be a greeting of "Priviet!" ("Gidday!") to each person in the room, accompanied by a solemn handshake. Finally, one afternoon, Mikhail walked in and announced "Ok, I am ready to begin".

I mentioned the second thing I learned about was generosity. Mikhail repaired my bike himself. Free of charge. For two days, he designed and made an additional subframe to support the existing, weakened frame. Working with no safety equipment, eyes squinted to avoid red hot sparks from the grinder, using a small arc welder while squatting on the ground in the entranceway, he prepared an incredibly solid structure.

As one of the Iron Tigers commented: "A crazy Russian design for this crazy Russian country."

He asked for nothing in return, happy to give up his time and money for a biker he had never met before.

I later learned that the Iron Tigers regularly welcome foreign motorcyclists, willing to help them with food, accommodation, repairs and anything else they need. It seems as though in Russia, if you are on two wheels, you are a brother. Full stop.

Iriana

Iriana's eyes sparkled as she babbled away to me in Russian. We were sitting in on an English class at Living Hope, and five-year-old Iriana was perched on my knee, tugging at my sleeve. She wasn't interested in the lesson: she just wanted to play, teasing me until she was sure she had my attention. When we arrived at Living Hope a few days earlier, Iriana had walked into the room and eyed us all up carefully. Then, after we introduced ourselves, she slowly and carefully said, in her heavily-accented voice, with not a trace of apprehension: "Hallo Mike. Hallo Misha. Hallo Rob. Hallo Tom. Hallo Rob."

Iriana was conceived from rape.

Her mother, Sasha, was attacked by an older man, a drunk friend of her own father. Mother and daughter now live safely at the Living Hope centre. Life on the streets has worn a toughness around her mother's eyes, but Iriana has none of this. She appears undaunted by her past and by the multiple operations she has undergone to repair a breathing issue.

As we all sat in the kitchen one evening, Rachael translating for us, Misha told Iriana that if she came to New Zealand, she could be a princess.

Smiling, Iriana reflected on this, and then asked "If I am a princess, will I get princess clothes?"

We assured her that she would. After further thought, she continued: "And will I get to keep them, when I come back to Vladivostok?"

* To help Rob and his mates reach their fundraising target and for more information on their journey, click here.