If all this doesn’t seem plausible, the missing link is Krotov’s extensive battery of tricks. For example, Stasya carried an official-looking stamped document in Cyrillic, stating she was part of a charitable foundation working to save the world (or along those lines) and that she should get into places for free.

Yet Krotov and his disciples don’t see themselves as free­loaders: “Saving money is not our goal,” Krotov says. No — hitchhiking in Russia is a philosophy. Russian hitchhikers don’t just hitch, they go wild camping and accept the hospitality of strangers. It’s all about engaging with, and understanding, the world. “We try to experience their life as it is,” Krotov continues, “not through specially arranged tours or politically correct guidebooks.”

This “great human experience”, as Krotov puts it, must surely veer into both positive and negative realms. Back in Vladivostok, home to Putin’s daunting Pacific fleet, I asked Stasya about her worst times. There just weren’t any, she insisted, as we strolled through the stately pedestrianised square that proudly overlooks the rows of colossal warships: “It’s easy as a girl because people want to care for you. Sometimes, Russian men say, ‘Where you stay?’ When I say I don’t know, they stay me in their house, or if they can’t, they called their friend.”

Naive? Maybe, but there are plenty more, equally ardent hitchhiking fans. In Novosibirsk — Russia’s third biggest city, with a population of 1.4m — I met a junior doctor named Ravil, who had read many of Krotov’s books and had hitchhiked around Central Asia.

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On a warm, sunny afternoon, Ravil took me to Novosibirsk’s requisite Lenin Square and the concomitant constructivist statues — dwarfingly large representations of triumphant Soviet workers brandishing wheatsheaves and flaming torches, insuperable soldiers with rifles and fierce expressions, and, of course, mighty Lenin in his trademark greatcoat.

Ravil’s hitchhiking adventures also seemed to be only good: “When you hitchhike, everyone is happy to see you,” he said beatifically. “It’s better not just passing places, but to explore them,” he said, optimistically. “The world is so hospitable.”

Okay, so his world is not our world. But there’s another difference: attitude. As Krotov puts it: “For one person, rain, or a mosquito bite can be an undesirable situation; another, wiser person will joyfully accept that these are the components of the surroundings.” The Russian hitchhiker does not fret over “poor me” issues.

Well, it sounds admirable in theory, but what of the sinister-looking, camo-wearing Russki? Evidently, he didn’t cut me up into little pieces for that evening’s stroganoff. In fact, he didn’t do much at all, except answer questions when asked. (He’d lived on Russky Island all his life and his job was to cart sand around construction sites.)

He simply drove us past Russky Island’s cream-painted neoclassical military academy, past the rows and rows of charmingly rusted sheet-iron garages seen all over Russia, and the surly Soviet apartment blocks they served.

To him, it seemed, we were just another sand consignment. He dropped us off, thoroughly untraumatised, at the gleaming bay on the other side of the island, where Stasya and I nibbled on a picnic of dried calamari and watched little girls hopping off little rocks into the liquid-silver sea. The journey was remarkable in its unremarkableness. As, it turned out, was Russky Island. For now, that is.

On the Couch: Tales of Couchsurfing a Continent by Fleur Britten is published by Collins at £7.99. To buy it for £7.59, inc p&p, call The Sunday Times Books First on 0845 271 2134 or visit timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst

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