Shimonoseki – Tokyo
The morning in Shimonoseki was clear and sunny when we arrived. I took that as a good omen, and when the immigration officer who checked my passport and newly acquired visa said: “Welcome to Japan. Enjoy your stay!” I responded in my best broken Japanese: “Thank you very much. I am a lucky person to be here!”
Studying a city map that was displayed outside the customs hall I took a mental picture of how to get to the entrance of the motorway and started walking. I was optimistic to return at least to Osaka on that same day. However, the motorway was a lot farther than I had imagined and it took me a good two hours walking to get there including the many wrong turns I had taken not remembering the map as well as I thought.
Traffic was brisk that morning and I had the feeling that I didn’t have to wait long. I held out the signboard that I had prepared for my return trip and waited. This time, though, I was cautious not to attract the attention of the police. Indeed, it didn’t take long and a beige minivan stopped. The passenger side window opened, and a young woman stuck her head out: “Where you go?”
“Tokyo,” I said, suddenly not sure if my signboard was written correctly.
“Okayama ok?” she asked and when I nodded my head she opened the sliding door on the side of the van and beckoned me to jump in.
Once inside my eyes opened wide in astonishment. The interior could best be described as some kind of kitschy ‘love nest’. The walls were entirely clad in red and purple velour, the van had a queen size bed with black shiny linens and an array of red and yellow flashing lights illuminated the interior apart from some tiny porthole-like windows. The driver, a young man of about 25, turned around and asked:” You like?”
“Very much!” I lied, but sitting, or better practically lying on a bed in a love lair was most likely the funniest ride I have ever caught in my life. I was curious to find out about the couple and their extraordinary van. The young man was dressed in faded jeans, a T-shirt with some nonsensical English slogan printed on the front, a common fad in those days, and a black biker jacket with matching greased black hair while the young woman seemed to have sprung right out of a Japanese comic book with long braids, a plaid red miniskirt and a fancy black lace top. She wore long fake eyelashes and a bright red lipstick.
Our conversation, as on many occasions before, died after a few exchanges due to lack of a common language. The young man invited me to lie down and relax, which I did. He was kind enough to play some “American” music to entertain his guest, so I had to listen to Mariah Carey and Madonna blaring from the massive stereo system that was installed in the back of the van.
Nonetheless, and also due to the fact that I was a bit exhausted from my long walk to the motorway entrance I dozed off on the cosy black bed cover and didn’t wake up until the young woman shook me saying: “We arrive Okayama. You want stop here?”
“Yes” I replied sleepily, “please leave me at a service area.”
I pointed at the signboard of a service area as we passed and they dropped me off, but not before taking a kind of selfie shot of the three of us with a disposable camera on the bed in the back of their fancy van. They waved goodbye and threw peace and thumbs-up signs as they departed, I think it was their way of wishing me good luck.
And good luck I needed. It was early afternoon and the cold winter sun painted harsh shadows onto the asphalt. The service area was modern and well-frequented but even though a lot of cars passed me and my outstretched thumb, no one stopped. After a smooth start in the morning, my luck seemed to have changed. The shadows grew longer as the day marched on and my mood grew darker. “Bloody hell, why is nobody stopping?” I started cursing my undertaking and my stupid idea to hitch-hike when suddenly a truck stopped right next to where I stood.
It was kind of a dump truck used to transport sand or other construction materials, showing signs of many years of use and wear – and it had a white number plate! My guidebook had cautioned about hitching a ride in those trucks as their drivers were not organized in any labour unions and therefore not deemed trustworthy – but this driver had stopped and was willing to give me a lift.
I opened the door on the passenger side: “Where are you going?”
“Eigo wakaranai! – I don’t understand English”
“Doko ni ikimasuka?” I asked the same question in Japanese.
“Nagoya” was the answer. “Nagoya ga dai joubu ka? – Is Nagoya ok for you?”
“Hai, dai joubu desu – Yes, that’s ok!”
I could have jumped for joy. Nagoya was about 350 km from Tokyo, so this ride brought me farther than any other I had taken so far. Also, as the sun was about to set it provided me with a place to stay for the night. A real lucky strike I thought.
The driver, a man in his fifties with a big scruffy face and short cut grey hair, turned out to be a veritable chatterbox. He did not seem to care whether I understood what he was talking about nor did he seem to expect any contribution from my side. He kept chatting away, occasionally raising his voice at the end of a sentence, which I identified as a question, so I answered: “So desu ne” which translates roughly to: “That’s right/You’re right.”
On the other hand, when he ended a sentence with “…dayo! or …daro!”, I responded: “So desu ka”, meaning “Is that so?”
This way, I made our somewhat one-sided “conversation” last for quite some time as it appeared that he thought I followed his rushing train of thought.
Soon we left the motorway and the alarmed look on my face triggered another cascade of words of which I could only understand that he was still going to Nagoya and I that shouldn’t worry. I gathered that he was going to take some country roads to avoid the steep highway toll, a more than believable excuse for not taking the express roads.
It had got late and I tried to catch some sleep, but this turned out to be a quite impossible undertaking as the driver thundered down country roads that were no wider than the truck itself, de-branching trees by the roadside. Moreover, he had started taking sips from a bottle that was hidden from view in the side pocket of his door, but by the smell of it I deduced that it must have been Shochu, a fairly potent alcoholic drink. On top of that, any attempt to fall asleep was interrupted by an occasional: “Ano ne,…” which is close in meaning to “By the way…”, followed by some question that I, due to lack of comprehension, answered with my trusted: “So desu ne!”
My simplistic answers obviously started to bother the man to the end that he gave up asking – and I finally fell asleep.
It must have been sometime around four in the morning when the driver woke me up. We were back on the motorway and about 20 kilometers from Nagoya. I had slept in an odd position and was all cramped up, but the prospect of reaching Tokyo on that day invigorated me.
I asked the driver to drop me off at the next service area and when I got off the truck he vigorously shook my hands, slapped me on the back and showered me with another cascade of words. I thanked him for his kindness and then he sped off.
Drowsily I entered the restaurant in the service area, ordered hot coffee and doughnuts and almost immediately fell asleep on the soft bench of the diner.
I must have slept deeply for at least an hour for when I woke up it was dawning. The day promised to be sunny again and I was keen to get back on the road. Nonetheless, I ordered another coffee and got myself some sandwiches from the convenience store in the service area. Ready to try my luck again I started walking towards the entry to the access ramp when my eyes caught a police patrol car that had just stopped in front of the restaurant. Obviously, this wasn’t a good moment to attempt to hitch a ride, so I went back into the convenience store and started flipping through the pages of some music magazines. As “tachiyomi” or reading while standing is a common pastime in Japan, nobody took notice and I could keep an eye on the police officers who had sat down for breakfast.
After a seemingly endless time, they finally paid and left.
As soon as they were out of sight, I placed myself at a convenient spot on the access ramp near some kind of electric switch box which I could hide behind – just in case. Fortunately, this did not become necessary as after a relatively short while a large cream-coloured Toyota Limousine with tinted windows stopped beside me.
“Now look at this!” I said to myself. The car looks exactly like one of those models preferably driven by the Yakusa, the Japanese mafia, and when the driver rolled down the tinted window my suspicion was confirmed. The guy in the car wore a typical Yakusa outfit. Cream-coloured suit and black dress shirt and his appearance wiped out any remaining doubt: The short cut curly hairstyle or ‘punch-perm’ as it was called in Japanese rounded up the perfect image of a Japanese gangster.
While I was still wondering whether I should accept the ride I caught the sight of another police car pulling into the parking lot in front of the restaurant, so the decision was a swift one. I opened the rear passenger door and got into the car.
The man spoke some surprisingly decent English. He told me that he was going to Tokyo and asked me where he could drop me off.
“Yoga” I replied, as this city district of Tokyo had been the starting point of my incredible journey some days ago and the place from where I knew how to get back to my flat.
For those who don’t know, the speed limit on Japanese motorways is 100 km/h., but the Yakusa must have cut a special deal as the driver flew down the motorway at a constant 130 km/h or more. There was no conversation going on inside the car but that I was already used to that, so I spend time looking out the window and the landscape that was flying by.
I must have nodded off because when I awoke we were just passing the Yoga junction and entered the Tokyo metropolitan highway system. As we had missed my drop off point and were travelling at fairly high speed, I felt it was inappropriate to ask the driver to return. Instead, I sat back and just enjoyed the fast ride through the skyscraper canyons as we got near the centre of Tokyo. However, the man drove on until we reached the Ueno district on the other side of town. He then left the highway and stopped in an area I wasn’t at all familiar with.
“Yoga?” is asked innocently, well aware that we were nowhere near there. The response was a mumbled apology. He must have misinterpreted the lost look on my face as he pulled out a fat wallet and handed me a 5000 yen note (about 40 euro) and uttered: “Take a Taxi!”
This marked the end of my thrilling hitch-hiking trip through Japan, an unforgettable adventure and the beginning of a very long tenure in fascinating Japan.
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