Day 21: Driven to Confusion

Monday May 26 - Okinawa Ferry Passenger Terminal

If someone had asked me to describe the Japanese 24 hours ago, I would have used the following words: polite, deferential, welcoming, punctual, efficient, obliging, intelligent, industrious and meticulously organised.

In addition, I have also noticed that Japanese teenage girls tend to have very large thighs in proportion to the rest of their legs and overall body shape. The difference is so pronounced that I wondered if they are fed spinach every day; the last time I saw such muscular incongruity was on Popeye.

Call me a pervert by all means, but it is hard not to notice when the standard school uniform is a pleated mini-skirt (often tartan) and the girls walk around in groups. The thigh-calf disparity seems to disappear, however, when the girls become women. And, with a very few exceptions, Japanese women are petite and very slender. The men, however, are not so. Some are slim, some are tiny, some are athletic and some are enormous.

Anyway, enough about physique. What about the Japanese character? Well, I had two experiences today that at first confirmed my original thoughts, and then, this afternoon, blew the whole idea of national stereotypes out of the water.

The confirmation began at seven AM when the PA on the ship piped up with a lengthy, officious announcement. It was in Japanese but I knew that it was about our imminent arrival in Okinawa. After all, this was scheduled for 0800. After the first announcement, the purser helped us to wake with a continuous, gentle soundtrack of plinky-plonky Japanese music combined with twittering birdsong. He then reminded us of whatever the information was three or four more times.

I had woken up a few times in the night and could have really used some more sleep. So I read the rather ambiguous written translation of what happens when we reached Okinawa that the purser had given me on day one. I knew that I had to leave the boat at some point and be back at the Naha passenger terminal by 1915, but I still wasn’t sure whether I could leave the boat when I liked, nor indeed if I could return when I liked.

So at around 7.40, I went to the reception desk and asked the deputy purser. He was flustered. The phone was ringing, the walkie-talkie was buzzing and everyone else had packed their bags and was queuing for shore passes. He patiently and politely went through the schedule with me. Yes, I had to leave the ship. Yes, I needed to take my bags with me. Yes, I needed to come back at 1915, not ‘by’ 1915. But when did I have to leave? He got distracted by a more urgent matter, apologised and left the desk.

So I assumed that I could leave the ship any time I liked. I went back to my cabin, picked up my mug and a tea bag and walked back across the reception area to the café for hot water. The deputy purser called out my name: ‘Mr Merrill! Sorry. No tea. You must leave cabin. Eight o’clock.’ If this had been a British ship, I would have protested and asked for special dispensation. But it is no use in Japan. Eight o’clock means seven-fifty nine and sixty seconds.

Back to the cabin and mild panic set in. I hadn’t even packed my bags. Three minutes into this mission and the phone rang. It was the deputy, asking me ever so politely, but in a desperate voice, when I will be leaving my cabin. ‘Two minutes,’ I said as I pushed odd socks into an already crammed backpack.

At 0801 by my watch I left my cabin. One minute later and I was in the reception area. Walkie-talkie in hand, the deputy was apologising and bowing and yet there was a slight hint of annoyance on his face. He ushered me to the escalator and escorted me down to the dock. The horror on his face confirmed that the bus had already gone. Well, he did say 0800 and it was now 0804.

Thankfully, the man was obliging as well as punctual to the extreme. He had a quick word with a humourless dock worker, dressed in belted blue overalls and wearing a white military-style helmet with chin strap, and a lift to the passenger terminal was duly arranged. I thanked the deputy and apologised for the misunderstanding. He too apologised, blaming his poor English. He bowed and trotted back up the gang plank.

I spent much of the rest of the day in Naha, the main city of Okinawa. Desperately in need of a shower, an internet connection to upload my blog and photographic website, send emails and have a rest, I decided to see if I could find a reasonably priced hotel for ten hours. I took a cab to the tourist information office, where a tiny, elegant, grey haired woman with horn-rimmed glasses helped me in her excellent English. She suggested I visit a hot spa just around the corner. It sounded wonderful but it failed on the internet criterion.

So I decided to check out the hotels on the main street. Hunger pangs were biting – in my mad rush, I had forgotten to take my emergency rations out of the cabin’s fridge – and I was desperate for food. And, although Naha was cloaked by high cloud, the sun was tropically savage. Many women were carrying parasols and I decided to grab the first eatery with a shaded, outside table.

The above paragraph is my defence for eating at MacDonalds. OK, OK, I know. But it was the first time since I was in a similar predicament in France three years ago. And, I must report, the egg and sausage breakfast McMuffin was perfect. Two coffees later, I bough some factor 50 sunblock, slapped it on every bit of visible skin above the neckline and went to the nearest hotel.

For 8,500 yen (about £43) I got a spacious, air-conditioned room with broadband internet, a soft bed, a powerful shower and an automatic toilet. This one was less intelligent than Jim’s and all the instructions were in Japanese, so I used manual over-ride.

The hotel was worth every penny. After uploading several blog entries, sending countless emails and resting at pub cellar temperature (18 degrees centigrade), I left my room and spent an hour browsing in the nearby shops and the local market. In my short time in Naha, it struck me that the locals are much more varied in appearance than on the mainland. Some could be mistaken for Filipinos, others for Fijians and some look distinctly semi-European. I guess the large American military presence on the island since 1945 would explain such variety.

There was no way that I could miss the boat, so I grabbed some random snacks and hailed a cab. The driver hopped out and then stood and watched me lift my bags into the trunk. He was short and slight, he had a number four buzzcut with a distant hairline, and a pock-marked face. He wore a light-blue striped cotton shirt, grey polyester slacks, brown shoes and aviator shades. As soon as I sat in the back seat, I had a feeling that my preconceived ideas about universal Japanese efficiency and intelligence were going to be severely challenged.

I knew from the map that the woman at the tourist information office had given me, plus my experience of the taxi ride in the morning, that the destination was about a fifteen minute drive north-west of the starting point. Before we set off, I showed the map to the driver – it was labelled in English and Japanese – and pointed at the passenger terminal at Naha Shinko Port. He mumbled and grabbed the map for a closer look. He removed his aviator shades, held the map just beyond his nose and began to chatter to himself. Then he reached into the glove box and pulled out a spectacle case which he opened slowly while his eyes stayed fixed on the map.

My eyes started rolling. This was all I needed; a cabbie with bad eyesight who doesn’t know his way around his own city. He stared at the destination with incredulity. I read it for him: ‘Naha Shinko.’ He shook his head as if he’d never heard of this place and yet it is clear from the map that it takes up plenty of space in Naha. This morning there were four massive container ships docked there, plus the Hiryu. But judging by his reaction, it was as if he’d never seen a map before, never mind Naha Shinko Port.

Nevertheless, he started driving west. It was a good start but after about five minutes, at a traffic light, he turned around confused and asked me something in Japanese. I assumed that he was still not sure, so I showed him the map. This time, I pointed to our present location and said: ‘We are here.’ Then I traced a suggested route with my finger. Whichever way he went, it would involve turning right at some point.

At the next traffic light, he made a phone call. I heard the words ‘Naha Shinko’ and his tone was distinctly stressed. At the next traffic light, he grabbed the taxi radio and made a similar call to the controller. At the next traffic light, he spun around and beckoned for the map. Then, at the next traffic light, he turned left and looked far too relaxed for comfort.

It was at this point that I knew he’d got it wrong; he was heading south. I looked on the map and found why he was looking so smug: there is another wharf called Naha Port. At the next stop I tapped him on the shoulder. Using animated gestures and fingers I told him that I need to be there at six, in ten minutes’ time. He smiled, held up three fingers and pointed toward a dock in the near distance.

We duly arrived in three minutes. He stopped the car and turned to me with a beaming smile. ‘This is not it!,’ I said, map in hand. I pointed at Naha Port on the map and then at the floor of the taxi. ‘We are here and I want to be there…’ pointing to the north of the map. ‘Look,’ I said tracing the route from here to there, ‘it is near the fish market, over the bridge.’ He took off his shades and the smile evaporated. In desperation, I pointed to the icon of a passenger ship near the terminal with the destinations listed below. ‘I am going to Taiwan.’

A look of horror smacked all self-satisfaction from his face. ‘Taiwan!? Ah, Taiwan!’ He had finally got it. So he started up the car again, did a U-turn redolent of a 1970s gangster movie and headed north at a reckless rate. For the rest of the journey, he guiltily shook his head. At red lights, he turned to me and muttered apologies in Japanese, gesticulating with sweaty hands.

But that was not the end. We passed the fish market – I thought the trawlers and stacks of boxes were a bit of a give away – and hammered over the raised bridge. He then turned left prematurely and a huge container ship loomed before us. He stopped again and raised a hopeful eyebrow as he looked at me in the rearview mirror. ‘No! Look at the map! I want to be here,’ I said pointing at the building marked ‘passenger terminal’ in Japanese and English. He looked totally lost and I began to feel sorry for him. ‘It’s over there, mate,’ I said, pointing with a weary, conciliatory finger.

Finally, we arrived, at six-o-three to be precise. The driver looked shell-shocked as he opened the trunk. He tapped his heart repeatedly, rolled his eyes, shook his head and exhaled as if he was blowing out birthday cake candles. I smiled and told him not to worry. Despite his culpability, he still didn’t help me with my bags.

I asked how much and he wrote ‘1,000’ on a scrap of paper, the same as I’d paid this morning. Jim told me the other day that Japan does not have a tipping culture. But I decided to buck protocol and gave this cabby something that will hopefully change his life and bring him infinite wealth: a map of his city.