Hitching Rides with Buddha: A Journey Across Japan

by Ferguson, Will

  The inn at Sukumo Port had a row of rubber boots in the entrance, a mixed blessing. These were fishermen’s boots, and it meant that everyone would be sound asleep, but it also meant that they would be getting up at four in the morning when the only creatures dumb enough to be awake would be fish and other fishermen.

  I called out, “Excuse me!” but there was no response.

  It was an old, weathered inn, the kind that you can never imagine as ever having been new. A calendar in the lobby was dated from four years back and the floorboards had the only polish in sight, a shiny path down the middle, buffed by generations of feet walking to and from the rooms. The faint smell of mildew and mothballs permeated the place.

  I called out again, louder this time, and I heard someone stir from a back room. An old woman shuffled out in slippers three times too big. She showed me to my room, explaining the bath times and toilet procedures and where the futons were stored, all in an accent as thick as stewed seaweed.

  When I responded in Japanese she laughed with delight and clapped her hands once, lightly, in surprise. “You speak Japanese!” she said. “How clever of you, how very clever.” (I speak Japanese the way a bear dances. It’s not that the bear dances well that impresses people, it’s the fact that the bear dances at all.)

  Congratulating me again, she backed out of the room and left, still smiling. I looked around. It was a room that would have done Sparta proud: a pot of tepid tea, a wastebasket in case I was suddenly overcome with the urge to throw something away, and an alcove with a very tacky scroll of a tiger. There were cigarette burns on the tatami mats and water stains on the ceiling. Still, I liked the place. It had “character,” as defined by the number of cockroach traps within sight. I changed into the cotton bathrobe, overstarched as always. (What is it with Japanese inns? Do they really think we like walking around as if we were suited up in cardboard?) I went downstairs to the bath and, finding the water still piping hot, I undressed, soaped and rinsed, and climbed in. Ahhhhh. If there is a Heaven and if I am going there, I expect it will be a hot Japanese bath with a bamboo cover and wisps of steam rising from the surface.

  The Japanese find our habit of washing ourselves in the bathtub to be a bit disgusting, and they have a point. We do tend to wallow in our own dirty water. In Japan, you scrub yourself down first, rinse yourself off, and wallow instead in other people’s residue. Not filth, of course, because you are expected to wash completely before you get in. Except that not everyone is as thorough about washing as they should be, and if you examine the water in any Japanese bath you will always find a hair or two floating on the surface and small flakes of soap or skin suspended in the water. There is a sense of communal baptism to it.

  I am sharing water with strangers, I said to myself, and this seemed to be a very revealing metaphor of some sort, but I was too tired to work it out.

  The next morning, I walked, besieged by yawns, down the street to Sukumo’s Tropicana Café. The most glorious thing about it was its name. Remember the general rule, which I just now made up: The grander the name, the blander the dame. If you see a place called the Flamingo Club Caribana Coconut Inn you can expect K-rations, pineapple juice, and a ukulele solo. I ordered the Sunrise Festival Excitement Breakfast: fruit salad and a fried egg. Chewing thoughtfully, I scanned the room.

  The only thing better than hitchhiking is not hitchhiking, and, whenever I can, I make a point of sidling up to potential car people in cafés and parking lots and other such public places. The man across from me looked like a good mark. He was well groomed, he had on a company jacket, and outside the window I could see the corresponding company truck. I leaned over and said, “Excuse me, do you know the way to the main highway?”

  “Sure.”

  I waited. No answer. Apparently he thought I was taking a survey. “Is it far?” I asked, and then, dropping the hint like a wet bag of cement, I said, “I don’t have a car, you see, and I was wondering if it was possible to walk to the highway from here.”

  He looked at me from across his bowl of miso soup. I grinned in what I hoped was a vulnerable but expectantly optimistic manner. He chewed his rice, sipped his tea. “All right, all right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you out to the highway.”

  The Travel Weasel strikes again. I revelled in my cunning.

  3

  SUKUMO IS A THIN, spear-like city contoured by the shape of its harbour. It is also a surprisingly rural place; we drove past marshes and fallow fields, well within the city limits. The company man dropped me off on the highway east of town and, pulling an impatient U-turn, drove back in toward Sukumo proper. I felt good. The road before me was a wide, easy one to hitch and, sure enough, the second vehicle that came by stopped. It was a minivan filled with sailors.

  The driver cranked down the window and asked me where I was heading. When I said Hokkaido he answered “Uso!” a distinctly Japanese expression that can mean either “Really?” “No kidding!” or “Liar.”

  The sailors were wearing matching polyester track suits in synthetic blue, making them look more like a sports team than a fishing crew. They conferred with each other for a moment, and the driver nodded. I crawled into the van, over knees and elbows, and had to wake up a young man stretched out in the back so that I could sit down. He woke up with one of those startled “Where the hell am I?” looks, only to find himself staring up at my looming face. The van accelerated and I fell into him. By the time I had shifted my pack around and settled down, he was awake. Groggy, but awake.

  His name was Yuichi Watanabe and he was just sixteen, the youngest crew member on the trawler Myojin-maru, outbound for the south seas of Okinawa. They were on their way to Nishiumi, a fishing port located on a spur of land an hour north of Sukumo.

  Yuichi was a quiet boy, still a child really. It was hard to believe that he was heading out to open sea for a three-month voyage. Many ships went out, he acknowledged. Some never returned. By virtue of his age and inexperience, Yuichi was the kōhai to the entire crew, and the way he flinched when the other crew members yelled back at him to pass up cans of cola and balls of rice (none offered to me, I duly noted) seemed to suggest that Yuichi was having a hard time of it. Did he like his life? He gave a noncommittal answer. Was it difficult? Well, he said, it couldn’t be helped, he had dropped out of school, and—realizing that the man in the seat in front of him was listening—he was very lucky to get this job. His senpai treated him—they were kibishii, he said, using a word that can mean anything from “strict” to “cruel.”

  “It’s my fault, you see. Because I’m stupid. I’m still learning. Sometimes it’s hard.”

  I asked him about the sea and he told me about waves that rose four stories high and storms that rocked the trawler like a cork in a bottle. He hated storms more than tangled nets. Did he still get seasick? He nodded. Yes, he still got sick. Some days he vomited so much he became fura-fura, light-headed. He lay in bed all day and the others, well, they treated him as can be expected. He was young, you see, and new at this.

  He turned to watch the fields moving by outside. It must be nice to be a farmer, he said. The ground doesn’t move—except in earthquakes, of course, but here in Shikoku they don’t get many of those. Yes, it must be nice to be a farmer.

  Of the four large islands that make up the Japanese mainland, Shikoku is the one most often overlooked and the one least travelled through. They call it “Japan’s forgotten island,” a place that gets so little attention it is almost invisible.

  I know the feeling. The crew of the Myojin-maru dropped me off in what I believe is the geographic Middle of Nowhere. As their van pulled away they shouted, “Good luck!” and I was sure I detected a hint of sarcasm in their voices.

  In front of me lay a starburst intersection where four roads and eight lanes came together, met in a confusion of arrows and traffic signs, and then splayed apart again, like a carnival fish pond where you grab a string on one end and hope that it’s attached to something valuable on the o
ther end. It never is.

  With determined ignorance, I studied several road signs. My knowledge of the kanji alphabet is limited at the best of times, and all I could make out were sporadic bursts of words, none of which added up to anything that made any sense:

  ATTENTION!———EAST———WILL BE———PLEASE———

  SOUTH——————IS———ONLY. THANK YOU.

  “Ah,” I said aloud. “East will be please south is only!”

  Odder still, this ganglia of an intersection existed far from any town, deep in a forested valley, without a single gas station or house in sight. Obviously a government project. Curiouser and curiouser. The asphalt was new, the lines were freshly painted. The roads appeared out of nowhere, merged capriciously, and then disappeared around corners. It was maddening.

  I wasn’t anywhere near the sea, so I couldn’t even use that as a rough guide. I assumed I wanted to go north, but that was just because I always hold maps so that my destination is at the top and north is always “up.” I couldn’t find a single road sign that read north, but eventually it dawned on me that if I found a road going south and then went the opposite direction, I would in fact be going north. (It takes me a while to catch on to such things.) Three different roads headed in a vague sort of “not-south” direction. I chose one at random and began walking.

  I had just turned a corner into the woods when I heard the sound of a vehicle behind me. Desperate for advice, I ran back to Hell’s Intersection, my backpack hallumphing on my shoulders like a Bedouin astride a camel, and I arrived just in time to see a truck fly by on a parallel road. I waved my thumb weakly in the air, much like a man on a desert island watching an airplane disappear over the horizon. It was no use. The moment had passed. Out of breath and disheartened, I let my backpack slip onto the ground.

  Time passed. The sun inched its way up the sky. Waves of heat and humidity began to emanate from the asphalt. A bee appeared and tormented me a while, but eventually it too got bored and flitted off, presumably in search of shade. I began to ooze sweat. I felt a trickle down my back, then another. Time stopped. Not a single car appeared. I began to make lists of places I’d rather be, starting with the Black Hole of Calcutta and then eventually ticking off the inventory in descending grades until I got to a Japanese high-school English class. Anywhere but here.

  I was sitting on my backpack, contemplating my shoelaces, when I heard a vehicle. Scrambling to my feet, I thrust my thumb out wildly in all directions, unsure from which road the car would appear. The noise grew louder and louder, like the pitch of a mosquito, and suddenly a sleek blue car whipped past me on the east-west axis. “Wait!” I cried.

  At the last possible moment, the driver saw me. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He then backed up, spun his vehicle around, and roared up beside me. He was wearing a mask.

  I had always feared this: hitchhiking alone in a strange land and having a masked man pull up. Fortunately, this being Japan and not, say, Mexico, he wasn’t a bandito with a handkerchief over his face. He was simply a man who happened to be wearing a white surgical mask. This is what people in Japan wear when they have a cold, to avoid giving it to others. Or when they fear catching a cold from others. Or when they may be coming down with a cold and are afraid both of giving it to others and of making it worse. Why this man was wearing a mask while alone inside his own car with the windows up, I couldn’t say.

  “I’m so sorry,” was how he greeted me.

  I found this reassuring. Bandits rarely apologize before they rob you.

  “Please get in,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

  He didn’t remove his mask as we spoke, and it gave me the uncomfortable feeling that I had interrupted a surgeon on his way to some emergency operation. I imagined little Timmy lying on an operating table in dire need of a pancreas while his doctor was talking to me, but what the hell. It was a ride. I climbed in.

  He handed me a business card. “I am Mr. Yamagawa. I am the mayor of Ipponmatsu Town. I am very sorry.”

  Cool. A mayor. I asked him if I was on the right road to Uwajima City and he shook his head. This didn’t surprise me in the least. I am the world’s worst scout. Had I been leading the pioneers in Westward Ho! we’d still be circling somewhere around Pittsburgh. I have gotten lost in elevators. You could almost use me as a “negative-example” navigator; just watch where I go and then chart a course along the exact opposite direction and you’d probably do just fine. How I ever became a travel writer is beyond me.

  “Do not worry,” said Mr. Yamagawa. “I will take you to Uwajima City. Don’t you have a car? You should have a car. Please call my office tomorrow and we will arrange a vehicle for you.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. After all, a car is a car, but in the end my better nature wouldn’t allow me to accept the offer. That, and the fact that I don’t have a Japanese driver’s licence.

  “Would you like something cold to drink?” He drove over a hill to a row of roadside vending machines and, with a quick “Please wait here,” jumped out and ran across the highway, leaving me—a complete stranger—alone in his car with the keys in the ignition and the motor running. Such trust, such naiveté. I briefly considered a number of pranks I could play, but decided against them in the interest of international harmony. He returned a few minutes later with two cans of Kirin beer and a bag of peanuts. “Please, please,” he said. “I am very sorry.”

  We were soon back on the coast, riding high above the ocean under a polished blue sky. Fishing villages were cluttered in the coves below us like jumbled driftwood washed in above the high-tide mark. Seawalls jutted out protectively. Fishing boats, tethered to docks, rose and fell on the swell of waves. There were even a few cherry trees, encircled by bands of petals that had fallen around them. But it was nowhere as impressive as the sakura I had travelled through in Miyazaki.

  Mr. Yamagawa was very accommodating. “You want to see sakura? That is not a problem. We have a scenic route we call the Cherry Blossom Road. I’ll take you through it.” He turned onto a side road and the car climbed through forests, up to a ridge of mountain, and then—suddenly—cherry blossoms burst upon us on either side, the petals scattering across the windshield. It was like driving through a tunnel of flowers. Above us, the overhang met in an honour guard of spring, a triumphal arch in white and pink.

  “I’m going to travel with the sakura all the way to Hokkaido,” I said.

  He laughed. “You want to leave Ipponmatsu Town?”

  “I’ve never been to Ipponmatsu Town. I’m following the cherry blossoms.”

  “But what about soccer?”

  “Soccer?”

  “Yes, soccer. How do you like Japanese-style soccer? Is it different from England?”

  He and I seemed to be reading from different scripts. “Well,” I said, “I don’t really care for soccer. It’s too slow. I prefer ice hockey. And sumo. If you could just combine the two it would be great: Sumo on skates. I’d pay good money to see that.”

  “Ha!” he slapped his dashboard from the sheer mirth of it. “You don’t like soccer. English humour. Very funny.”

  “I’m not English.”

  “Oh, you are Brazilian then? How do you like Japanese soccer?”

  I was completely lost at this point. First he wanted to give me a car, now he wanted to discuss Brazilian soccer techniques.

  He handed me a small pad and pulled down his mask for the first time. “Do you think,” he said with sudden humility “I mean, do you mind? Would you sign your autograph? For my son. His name is Kentaro. He loves the Grampus Eight.”

  “Grampus Eight?”

  “We are very honoured that the Japan Soccer League has chosen our town for its spring training. We welcome the players. Especially the foreign players, such as yourself.” He glanced down at the note pad. “Kentaro,” he said. “My son’s name is Kentaro.”

  We came out of the flowers just then, in a kind of reverse-epiphany. I stared down at the pad
. I was faced with a moral dilemma. Should I sign some illegible scrawl and let Mr. Yamagawa ascribe it to whichever imported soccer player he had mistaken me for, or should I confess my true (non) identity? Should I let the Mayor of Ipponmatsu continue to believe he was sharing his car with a celebrity, or should I bare my soul and admit that I had gained a two-hour ride to Uwajima, with beverages and a scenic side trip included, all under false pretenses?

  I cleared my throat. “Before I sign this, I should tell you something. I’m not exactly a soccer player.”

  “You are one of the coaches?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh. You are a manager then? Or a trainer?”

  “No. I’m a hitchhiker.”

  It was his turn to be confused. “A hitchhiker?”

  “I’ve come from Cape Sata and I’m going to Cape Sōya. I’ve never played organized soccer in my life, I’ve never been to your town, and I don’t know who the Grampus Eight are. But I’m sure they are a fine team and I am very happy for you.”

  “I see.”

  A horrible silence descended. I wished I was back at the Lost Intersection of Shikoku. A desert island, my dentist’s, Pittsburgh—anything would have been better than this.

  “Do you still want me to sign your notebook?”

  “No,” he said. “That won’t be necessary.” And for a moment I thought he was going to ask for his beer back.

  The ride into Uwajima was the longest of my life. Mr. Yamagawa dropped me off at the train station, which I took as a hint of sorts, and my profuse thank-yous and apologies didn’t seem to ease what was clearly a betrayal of sorts.

  “Good luck,” he said. “Please come to my town any time.” But I don’t think he really meant it.

  The mystery remains. Who was I supposed to have been? Was there actually someone out there as stubby and out-of-shape as I, making a living at soccer? Or is it just that we Westerners all look the same? Honestly, my physique is about as athletic as Yogi the Bear’s. Although I prefer to think of myself as “big-boned,” especially around the waist, the Japanese have no compunction about calling me fat. “My, you sure are fat, aren’t you!” They come right out and say this to me, just like that. Once, when I was attempting to charm a hostess in a night club, she smiled at me during a lull in the conversation and said, seductively, “How did you ever get so fat?” It kind of spoiled the mood.