If the Russians have their way — and we know they like to — one of their islands could soon be up there with the world’s most exotic destinations.

Rising out of the temperate Sea of Japan, Russky Island lies nine miles off the Pacific port of Vladivostok, on the southeast coast of mainland Russia, and was a closed naval base in Soviet times (as indeed was Vladivostok, from 1958 to 1992). Now there are grand plans afoot to develop the island into a tourist resort.

Awaiting lucky visitors on Russky Island are historic military buildings to explore; shallow, calm inland waters, ideal for fishing and swimming; and, well, I’m not quite sure what else.

When I went, while on a 10-week adventure through Russia, China, Kazakhstan and Mongolia, my Russian companion, Stasya, and I missed the one very impatient bus that would take us from the ferry terminal to Somewhere Else.

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Blinking in the pale golden dust under a brilliant blue sky, Stasya and I fell silent, marooned on the now deserted shore, with just a view back onto Vladivostok’s shimmering harbour and Golden Horn Bay, and Russky Island’s gentle groves and virgin hills for thrills. With a population of just 5,000, we concurred without the need for words that it would be a long, long wait for the next one.

“Let’s hitch!” I ventured. This was not as foolhardy as it might sound: Stasya, a 23-year-old economics graduate whom I’d met on the mainland, described herself as a hitchhiker like it defined her. (“I am Stasya! I am hitchhiker!” she’d chirruped in her singsong Slavic intonation.) She’d hitchhiked alone from her home town, St Petersburg, to Vladivostok — some 4,000 miles — in three months. Stasya was a hitchhiking pro.

As indeed are many young Russians — to them, hitchhiking is just another form of public transport. There’s even a Russian hitchhiking academy, The Academy of Free Travel (founded in 1995), and a hitchhiking guru — 33-year-old Anton Krotov, the academy’s president, who is described as a modern-day Kerouac and has written more than 30 books on free travel, given countless lectures and hitchhiked more than 250,000 miles around Europe, Asia and Africa. Never mind that he looks like the last person you might give a ride to (owing to an abundant Jesus beard).

The Academy estimates the average daytime speed of hitch­hiking to be about 35mph. I was keen to put Russian-style hitchhiking to the test. Just three cars passed us in half an hour, at quite unsociable speeds. On hearing the next distant rumble, Stasya, with quiet resolve, calmly stepped out into the road to deploy her impressively persuasive car-stopping strategy. (There are many Russian hitchhiking clubs, all with their own variation on the “thumb”.)

An old navy pick-up truck hurtled towards us. Stasya held her palm out in the international sign language of “Stop”. Then she raised and lowered her arm, signifying: “Slow down — now!”

Spellbound, the driver duly obeyed. As he pulled over, I peered in to find an unsmiling, sinister-looking man dressed from head to toe in civilian camouflage. Brow grooved, I followed Stasya into the cab and our driver sped off into the unknown... My instincts were not happy, but in company, I was kind of exhilarated.

Thumbing a lift in Russia is not regarded as it is in Britain. “Only in Russia,” says the Academy’s website, “is [hitching] a competitive sport, a science, an art, and a way of life for many people.” The Russians — unlike us — don’t fear it as some kind of torture trap. “In Great Britain,” Stasya tells me, “I hear only Poles and Slovaks pick up hitchhikers.”

While the Russians’ very great capacity for hospitality — not least compared to us islanders — must not be overlooked here, Krotov argues that the success of hitchhiking in Russia is down to communism, in its most ideological sense. “The world is plentiful, and belongs to everybody,” he announces at his lectures. “All that you bought before, you will get for free. Complete strangers will offer you money and food even without you asking — we will always find what we need.”

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