Day 19: Ships in the Night

Saturday May 24 - On board the Hiryu, Osaka Port

At nine-thirty PM this evening, I was sitting on the back of nine rows of mustard coloured plastic chairs in Osaka Ferry Terminal. The room was just like any other ferry waiting room anywhere else in the developed world; there were signs, photographs of ships, timetables, vending machines and a flat screen TV showing a programme that features beautiful people having avoidable dramas to sugary music. Naturally, it wasn’t quite like Vladivostock ferry terminal; that place was similar but it didn’t have the timetables or signs.

There were four counters in the room and all had their roller-shutters closed. The only other person in the room was a young Japanese man in blue dungarees, with a tight headscarf, flip flops, a blue bicycle with small wheels and three panniers, and a wooden musical instrument case. He was also sitting on the back row. The man was noticeably darker-skinned than other Japanese, had a goatie beard twisted into a small point and feathery sideburns that finished half-way down his cheeks.

Soon after I arrived, I approached him and asked if he spoke English. He said no. We shook hands anyway. His was warm and soft. He said his name is Yosikawa. I grabbed my Japanese phrase book and, unfolding my map of the world, I showed him my journey using exaggerated sign language. His eyes widened, he shook his head in disbelief and he exclaimed in Japanese.

Yosikawa is 25 years old. I found the word ‘job’ in the phrase book and he nodded while using his fingers to snip an imaginary flower in the air. I inquisitively pointed at ‘garden’ and he said ‘Hai!’ Using the map, speaking in Japanese and employing sign language and sound effects, he showed me that he had travelled by ferry from Okinawa and bicycled and camped around the southernmost of the large Japanese islands, Kyusyu. I asked him how far. Over two weeks, he had covered 1,300 kilometres. I flexed my muscles in comic style, he beamed a toothy smile and humbly shook his head.

I asked if I could see his instrument. He nodded excitedly and opened the case. It was a caramel-brown, eight-stringed mandolin with a small flower transfer on the sound box. He started to talk in Japanese and I passed him the phrase book. He pointed at the word ‘difficult’ and then to the instrument. I mimed playing it and nodded. I retook the phrase book and managed to ask how old is the instrument. Seventy years, came the reply, and it was made in Germany.

Two more men arrived in the waiting room, each pulling suitcases on wheels. One was about fifty and had black trousers, a pair of glasses hanging out of the top pocket of his blue shirt and a light brown jacket. He had little hair at the back and large ears, and idly paced the room and read every notice in sight. The other man was younger and wearing combat pants, a fawn shirt and a blue baseball cap. He just slumped in a chair and watched TV.

I went for a cigarette and stared at the rain pounding on the terminal car park. Two lorries without trailers pulled up and the drivers, dressed in rubber boots and yellow oilskins, ran inside. I nodded and they nodded back.

When I returned to my seat, Yosikawa came over and gesticulated for the phrase book. While he flicked through, I dug in my bag and found two cans of beer. I offered one to him. He looked startled but quickly accepted. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Kampai!,’ I replied as I pulled the ring and clinked my can with his. He looked delighted that I at least knew the Japanese word for 'cheers!'

He continued looking through the phrase book and finally found the word ‘taikutsu.’ He acted out a yawn. I agreed, ‘Yes, waiting is boring.’ I dug in my bag again and found a random snack that I’d bought at Osaka station. It was a soft, unidentified, log-shaped white roll about 10 cm long. I ripped open the plastic packet, broke it in half and offered some to Yosikawa. He made an exclamation of appreciation and accepted. As I chewed, I asked him what it was. He flicked through the phrase book, couldn’t find the word and asked for paper and a pen.

He then drew a triangle with several wiggly lines coming from the base. Looking puzzled, I took the phrase book and pointed at ‘mushroom’. He shook his head and wrote the word ‘ika’ next to it. I was still baffled. Then out of nowhere he said ‘octopus.’ I laughed loudly, took the pen and drew a cartoon octopus, with a big, round head, eight long legs and a smile. He giggled and nodded his head. I then wrote ‘English octopus’ next to my drawing. Yosikawa laughed again, pointed at his drawing and said: ‘Japanese octopus.’ He asked if we ate octopus in England. I said no, but wondered why we don’t; it is very tasty.

I said that his octopus looked like a rocket. ‘Ah, rokketo,’ he said with a nod and a smile. He took the pen and paper and studiously drew an elaborate mushroom, some exploding fireworks and a three dimensional rocket. He is quite an artist, but octopi are not his strong point.

Returning from another cigarette, Yosikawa met me before I sat down. He had a piece of carefully folded newspaper in the palm of his hand. ‘For you,’ he said as he opened it. Inside were three tiny seashells, the largest no bigger than a pea. One was pearl-colour, another white with black spots and the third was dotted in brown. ‘From Okinawa. For friends,’ he looked at me and we both smiled.

I was touched. There are billions of similar seashells on the beaches of his island, each one has no intrinsic value and yet the fact that he presented them to me as a symbol of friendship meant more than if he’d given me a million yen. Desperate to return the gesture, I dug in my pockets and found some small change. I gave him three euro coins to match the three shells. He exclaimed approval and inspected them carefully. Seeing that one had a tree on the reverse side, his eyes lit up. ‘A tree for a gardener,’ I said. ‘Hai! Hai! Thank you, Gary-san.’

By now, the time was 1100. The booking desk had opened at ten – just as the sign had said – and the few passengers, including myself, had checked in and received boarding cards. In half an hour, we would be boarding the ship, the Hiryu, which we could see brooding in the orange dock-side floodlights, through the rain streaked window.

A group of six teenage girls, each with orange tints in their carefully styled hair, sat in the two rows in front of my seat. They took endless photos of each other on tiny cameras and mobile phones. As soon as one camera clicked, they all demanded to see the result with the subject animatedly gesturing that it wasn’t good enough.

Then three women, one carrying a moon-faced, heavy headed baby with a yellow dummy, and a man with a red and white striped shirt, jeans pulled up to his middle and a very long umbrella walked into the hall. One of the girls jumped up excitedly, greeted them and waved to the others to take photos. They were happy to oblige. I couldn’t resist and snapped a couple of shots too. The group noticed, pointed at me and laughed. ‘A beautiful baby,’ I said with a smile. ‘Yes,’ said one of the women, ‘She is a very beautiful baby. Good photo.’

As the clock approached eleven thirty, the man with the large ears stood up, stretched and reached for the handle of his bag. Sure enough, within seconds, the PA sprung into action and the other passengers rose wearily from their seats and started to move toward the door. I picked up my bags, looked over to Yosikawa and nodded inquisitively toward the exit. He shook his head, said something in Japanese and pointed to his bike. I guessed that he needed to put it in the cargo hold, so I saluted, he waved and I trudged out into the orange rain of the quayside toward the Hiryu.