A Japanese Vagabond: Bicycling 35,000 Km Around Four Continents 1986 – 1989 Part 2

By Mayumi Yamada-Shimotai

A Japanese Vagabond PART 2 is the latter half of my travel essay, based on my experiences during almost four years of drifting around the globe by bicycle: from the passage over the sea on the Italian cargo-passenger ship to Japan after nearly two years of travelling around Europe (working in Paris), including Turkey, where my way was blocked by heavy snow and severe backache, and staying in Egypt for a half of a year.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514449301

Mayumi Yamada-Shimotai

Mayumi (Yamada-)Shimotai was born in Niigata, Japan. As a daughter of a humble rice-farmer, she was brought up amid drastic social changes in post-war Japan. At the age of 21, she left Japan for new horizons and drifted around four continents, mostly by bicycle. Consequently, she worked in Egypt as a tour guide for nearly three years, and in 1993, she returned home finally. She began working for The Daily Telegraph (UK), Tokyo bureau, as a correspondent’s assistant, and later she became a freelance interpreter, researcher, and coordinator for foreign media. Additionally, since 1997, she has been a freelance writer. Presently, she is teaching English to schoolchildren.

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Copyright © 2016 by Mayumi Yamada-Shimotai.

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Rev. date: 06/28/2016

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CONTENTS

Preface (of Part 2)

Chapter 76: A Box in the Atlantic Ocean

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—Genoa, Italy

Chapter 77: Glorious Italians and Small Japanese

Genoa, Italy—Milan, Italy

Chapter 78: Dina and Oberdan

Milan, Italy—Appiano Gentile, Italy

Chapter 79: Eric

Appiano Gentile, Italy—Lausanne, Switzerland

Chapter 80: The Beginning of an Epilogue

Lausanne, Switzerland—Herford, Germany

Chapter 81: My Destination

Herford, Germany—Gedser, Denmark

Chapter 82: Wet, but Dry Land

Gedser, Denmark—Värnamo, Sweden

Chapter 83: A Night with the Midnight Sun

Värnamo, Sweden—Södertälje, Sweden

Chapter 84: The Dead End

Stockholm, Sweden—Denmark—

West Germany—Utrecht, the Netherlands

Chapter 85: Truly Great Women

Utrecht, the Netherlands—

Dover, the United Kingdom

Chapter 86: Looking for a Place to Stop

The United Kingdom

Chapter 87: In Paris 1988-1989

Paris, France

Chapter 88: French People

Paris, France—Saint-Gervais-en-Belin, France

Chapter 89: A New World in a Crisis

Saint-Gervais-en-Belin, France—

Cherveux, France

Chapter 90: El Camino de Santiago

Cherveux, France—Roncesvalles, Spain

Chapter 91: The Pyrenees

Roncesvalles, Spain—Oliana, Spain

Chapter 92: Awakening of My Gender

Oliana, Spain—Nice, France

Chapter 93: Nice To See You!

Nice, France—Appiano Gentile, Italy

Chapter 94: A Punishment

Appiano Gentile, Italy—Tyrol, Austria

Chapter 95: Carrot-and-Stick

Tyrol, Austria—Au, Donau, Austria

Chapter 96: Eastern Europe

Au, Donau, Austria—Kizombor, Hungary

Chapter 97: The Value of the East

Kizombor, Hungary—Horgoš, Serbia, Yugoslavia

Chapter 98: Diverse Yugoslavia

Horgoš, Serbia, Yugoslavia—Vranje, Serbia, Yugoslavia

Chapter 99: My Dream Comes True

Vranje, Serbia, Yugoslavia—Greece—Tekirdağ, Turkey

Chapter 100: An Angel from Heaven

Tekirdağ, Turkey—Istanbul, Turkey

Chapter 101: The Black Sea

Istanbul, Turkey—Trabzon, Turkey

Chapter 102: The Land of Rising Sun

Cairo, Egypt

Chapter 103: A Break

Cairo, Egypt—Niigata, Japan

Epilogue

A JAPANESE VAGABOND

T HE AUTHOR: Mayumi Yamada-Shimotai, the daughter of a rice farmer, was born and brought up amid drastic social changes in post-war Japan. Originally wishing to become a physics scientist, she entered Niigata University but dropped out after two years to change the course of her life. In 1986, at the age of 21, she left Japan for new horizons to flee from constrains of life as a Japanese girl and drifted around four continents—during the final epoch of the Cold War—until she was held up by heavy snow and a serious backache in Anatolia, Turkey, in late 1989. Then she flew to Cairo, Egypt, where she intended to recuperate from the arduous task of hauling heavy luggage from place to place; however, her hopes ended in vain and she had to give up going around Africa. Consequently, she worked in Egypt as a tour guide for nearly three years—before, during, and after the Gulf War. In 1993, she returned home and began working for The Daily Telegraph (UK), Tokyo bureau, as a correspondent’s assistant, and later she became a freelance interpreter, researcher, and coordinator for foreign media. Additionally, since 1997, she has been a freelance writer. Her first book, Bhutan, written in Japanese, was released in April 2011, which she completed the very moment the East Japan Great Disaster occurred on 11 March 2011 at 14:46; in fact, she sent the manuscript to the publisher for printing just before the Fukushima blackout. In 2014, she released her first English book, the first half of this book—A Japanese Vagabond PART 1—after having worked for years. Presently, she is also teaching English to children.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to offer deep thanks to those who helped me survive during my drifting life on a bicycle. In addition, I would like to thank my partner, Tomotaka Shimotai, who encouraged me to realise my wish to publish this book and kept supporting me both physically and mentally until the very end. Without Tomotaka, I believe, this book would never have existed.

PREFACE (OF PART 2)

‘A Japanese Vagabond – PART 2’ is the latter half of my travel essay, based on my experiences during almost 4 years of drifting around the globe by bicycle: from the passage over the sea on the Italian cargo-passenger ship to Japan after nearly 2 years of travelling around Europe (working in Paris), including Turkey, where my way was blocked by heavy snow and severe backache, and staying in Egypt for a half of a year.

In PART 2, I focused on the interactions with the people I had encountered on my way as clearly as possible. Most of them are my eternal treasures, together with those I have met in American continents, written in PART 1.

As in PART 1, I am using local descriptions for some geographical names on purpose; while I am using the standard English names for states and countries.

Unlike PART 1, there are only a few notes that I have added while polishing the draft text, which I had written in 1995 according to my diaries (this was then left untouched for nearly 20 years until earlier this year), though I have added some photos of my eternal treasures mentioned above and some shots of Cairo (in 2012); plus some of my family and our rice paddy fields at the end. The cover photo is also a shot of my birthplace.

Presumably, readers would find some mean and ugly faces of my journey, of my personality, of Japanese people, and some aspects of Japanese culture. It is understandable that some might think negatively about Japan and the Japanese, referring to my writings. In fact, at first I hesitated to describe those scenes that could implant such negative images, but in the end I decided to expose everything, believing that it would be an essential duty of a non-fiction work, though there are still some things that I could not disclose fully, mostly to protect someone’s privacy or because of restrictions in the length of a paragraph or chapter, not for my sake. I hope that they would be understood as a part of something, as the backside of one thing, so that other parts or the front side would appear more realistically, and that this book would be able to help readers grasp the features of Japan and other places in a historically critical time—from just before the end of the Cold War to just after its ending—vividly.

Lastly, in this preface, I would like to express my gratitude to Sharon Davidson of TypeitWrite Transcription, UK, for proofing my manuscripts, both PART 1 and PART 2. Without her devotion and fully supportive spirit I could never have completed this book.

Mayumi Yamada-Shimotai

At Kawagoe-Saitama, Japan

Autumn, 2015

CHAPTER 76

A BOX IN THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—Genoa, Italy

(15 May 1988 - 2 June 1988)

A Multinational Box

T he 18-day sea voyage on the Italian cargo ship ‘Repubblica Di Venezia’ was an easy but frustrating time for me. It was not because of spaghetti and wine day after day, nor the endless blue or grey horizon, but because of the complexity in my mind.

On board there was nothing to worry about except for eating and sleeping, and solitude should not have been an issue because there were twenty-four other passengers around me. Many of them were Italians returning from visiting their relatives who had emigrated to Brazil, and the rest were from other countries in Europe: a German couple from Western Berlin, who had spent two years travelling all over the continent of America by van; a Swiss woman with her Paraguayan husband and their 3-year-old daughter, who were going back home to Switzerland after visiting the husband’s homeland. A rich Brazilian family was also on board who were planning to travel around Europe, but they never tried to mingle with the rest. The only thing that I learned about them was that the head man of the family could not stand to travel by air, so they all took the ship.

Among this eclectic group of travellers, only four were single passengers: an Italian gentleman, who was a professional singer according to his self-introduction, a man from Milan in his mid-30s, a 70-year-old large widow, and me. All of the single passengers, except for me, were Italian.

A Man from Milan

"Wow! Alone? By bicycle? For twoooooooo years!"

At our first dinner together, the passengers on board reacted similarly to my self-introduction, stressing on the word two like most of the rest of the world. Even if I did not want to speak about myself, it was unavoidable as we would come face-to-face with each other, if only for breakfast, lunch, and supper, for over two weeks.

Now, they are going to ask me ‘why?’ No sooner had I thought this when a man from Milan said, Why you want to travel alone?

His appearance was quite bohemian: skinny body, light-coloured long hair, a few bracelets made by colourful cotton threads on his wrists, and loose, ethnic-style cotton clothing. From then on, he started asking me questions, one after another, his forehead creased with intense lines as he scrutinised me, while the dark, shrewd eyes pierced my own.

At the beginning, I kept answering him reasonably, as I usually did, and everybody around seemed to be listening to me too. Some couples were nodding to each other, occasionally looking over towards us.

It was a good way for me to get to know different people without making too much effort to approach others by myself, but soon it began to bother me because it never ended, and I had nowhere to escape to. Everybody had to sleep in their allocated room and eat their three meals a day at the same table at a fixed time. I felt like sitting in different seat at every meal, but the rest always sat in the same places so I was pushed back to where I was in the first place.

In fact, I had to sit in front of the man from Milan, and he kept talking to me over every meal. Perhaps it was because he was one of the single passengers, as I was, and the other single ones were all elderly.

He kept up his incessant chatter, focusing his eyes on me aggressively; meanwhile, his mouth was constantly vacuuming up food, making his lips shine with saliva.

Italians are good people. You will like Italy. Why don’t you visit me in Milan? I live with my family in a very big house. You would be welcome to stay as long as you like. In the meantime I could put you on the biggest Italian TV channel. My brother is a producer, so it would be so easy. Because it’s an amazing story what you have done. Everybody would like to hear it.

I was nodding and thankful to him for his offer at first, but soon I found the man to be like a big, spoiled boy, and felt disgusted.

Trying not to catch his eye I kept eating, silently murmuring: Why don’t you take care of the food around your mouth before worrying about me?

At the beginning of the journey, it was not too bad as I was alone and he made the effort to raise subjects that the whole table would discuss, but for some reason the subjects were often concentrated on me. I was not very smart enough to be able to switch off from the other subjects and escape from the rush of questions and attentions, so shortly, I began to feel reluctant to be at the table at all.

Nevertheless, he was oblivious to any negative feeling towards him on my part, although the surrounding atmosphere was showing it so clearly and others seemed to be noticing the tension in me.

Finally, I could not stand it anymore, and looking squarely at the man, declared, Please don’t bother me. Leave me alone!

Instantly, the air was frozen, and I felt the keen attention on me. Apparently, everybody was surprised at my attitude, as I was, with my reaction.

Damn! They are going to criticise me, saying, ‘What an arrogant girl!’ or, ‘The Japanese are so strange. We Europeans can’t understand them.’ Ah! Why I am often patient at the beginning, and later I suddenly lose my temper? Sometimes people say that I look quiet and kind but sometimes I change so drastically. My face might be honest and smiling but it can turn so hard and bitter when I feel disagreeable. But what could I do? The others are mostly couples and they can keep their peace by filling the other’s blindness or lack of understanding while communicating others. However, I am alone, and when I am annoyed by too many questions, there is no one to help me in that way. Maybe they are better than those Japanese who offended my way of living totally. Yes, much better! No one is letting me down. They seem to be accepting me just like anybody. But it’s also true that they consider me an unusual person and never could feel my internal world. I know it’s natural. I know it’s normal. I know they are good because they accept me as an individual. I know I should defend myself somehow, and I should not expect others to help me. But I can’t defend myself. I don’t know how to do it. I am helpless! I wish I could be in a desert alone! That’s much better! I miss the solitude, because I feel lonely among people now more than without them. Ah…I thought I had grown up a little through meeting various people in 21 months. But maybe I am as mean as when I was in Japan?"

I sighed and felt helpless with myself, but I did not regret what I had said at all; otherwise, my head was going to be squeezed into pieces.

Possibly, it was not only because of the man from Milan but because of the 70-year old Italian woman who was my room mate. She was very friendly and kind, but was also so concerned about me that I could not help screaming at her, No more, please!

What am I saying? I should not be arrogant like this, I thought, but it was too late. She was an old woman and was so caring towards me, and actually had offered me a place to stay at her house in Genoa, but I could not stand her endless talking to me.

Consequently, people had started looking at me strangely since I had expressed my irritation with the man at the table, but this did not stop me going there. When I was younger, sometimes I went on a hunger strike at home against my mother, but I knew eating was one of the most essential tasks in life, so I endured every meal patiently. Perhaps it was a small indication that I was stronger than before.

The Control Room with an Italian Crew

On board there were 23 crew members, all of whom were Italian men. A couple of them, who were tall and appeared handsome to my eyes, were very funny, but the rest were quite serious and quiet.

At first, I had no chance to get to know them because they were all on duty, but when I eventually felt like jumping into the sea to escape from the stressful time with particular passengers―though never for real―the captain opened the door of the control room and said, Come on in!

The crew welcomed my visit. They may have been curious about me, an oriental girl; otherwise, they were bored of the routine work on board, or perhaps for both of these reasons. No matter what the reason was, though, I was relieved from my depression. They also asked me about my trip, but none of them kept asking too long. Instead, I could ask them about the ship or the sea voyage across the Atlantic Ocean:

Up to the Gibraltar Channel, the ship was proceeding at the speed of approximately 18 knots (about 33 kilometres per hour) and the wind was between 20-40 knots from the north, and before the Channel, the wind calmed down, replaced by a more southerly breeze. One night before Livorno, a storm erupted and the huge body of the ship was shaken like a toy boat in a washing machine. The temperature was about 20-25 degrees centigrade in general, but the wind made it feel much colder, and without sunshine it was so cool that we had to dress as if for winter.

The control room was a good shelter for me because I could escape there when I felt the need to. If I wanted to be completely alone, I had to go onto the top deck, where the wind was too strong to make me feel free. So in the end, I found myself going between the control room and the deck, apart from the time spent eating and sleeping.

Where are you going? asked the other passengers upon noticing me disappearing from the dining and lounge room, sometimes after every meal, and I told them what I was doing. But no one was willing to come with me, neither to the top deck nor the control room. Occasionally, some of them were doing some exercise on the lower deck, but mostly they stayed in the common space or the bar, drinking and chatting over and over.

The closer I became to the crew members in the control room, the more isolated I was among all the passengers. I did not like the way I was, but I could not help myself. None of them were bad, and even the man from Milan was just too talkative, perhaps. I admitted that the issue lay mostly with me.

Every meal was very rich: pizza or spaghetti every day, and cheese, salad, soup, wine, meat, chicken, fish, bread, macaroni, and so on. It was never a chore though, as I felt hungry and often ate as much as I was served. The bed was clean and safe, though it was shared with the old woman who snored noisily, and I always felt sleepy no matter how lazily I’d spent the day.

Yet, such a condensed life appealed nicely to me only for the first two days. My frustration grew rapidly and I felt desperate for a more exciting and insecure life, in which I could appreciate a half-rotten orange that had fallen onto the roadside, or the warmth of people who had talked to me. Moreover, I needed the moment to be tense, facing dangers physically or spiritually. When I thought of my impending first steps in Europe, I felt little tense, but it was not enough to stimulate me. Then I remembered the chance I’d had to cross over to Africa on a Danish commercial cargo ship (see Chapter 75 of PART 1) and regretted my hasty decision not to take it. Though I was an impatient person, waiting another two weeks should be much easier compared to the patience that was required on board. I sighed, and felt like kicking myself.

My Duty Onboard

So you are travelling by bicycle? asked the first officer of the ship while I was watching the view through the window in the control room.

Yes, I answered.

He was one of the more easy-going crew members, and to be honest, I was attracted to his casual friendliness in spite of his high status on board. He made jokes repeatedly, and teased me just like a brother would his sister, and sometimes he asked about my trip, curiously. It was fun to talk with him. But it did not last for more than a few days.

All of a sudden, he asked me, By the way, did you pay for your bicycle?

He did not seem to be so serious, but it annoyed me. I had confirmed with the agent in Rio de Janeiro that there was to be no charge for my bike, so I answered, No, I didn’t. But it should be free.

Deep down, I was afraid that he would expect something from me for carrying my bicycle for no extra charge, as had happened on the Chilean cargo ship. (See Chapter 57 of PART 1, though I omitted the matter.)

That’s only if the bike is at the bottom, but your bike is now in an extra cabin. As you know, the charge for a single cabin is about one thousand dollars.

Actually, initially my bike had been tied to a fence along a corridor at the bottom of the ship, but I found it was getting rusted because of the salty air of the sea, so I asked the cabin chief if I could put it in a better place. He was very sympathetic to my trip and allowed me to leave it in a vacant cabin for no extra charge.

Yes, but it’s a bicycle. Just a bicycle. And the cabin chief didn’t ask me to pay for it, I explained.

Well, maybe he didn’t ask you, but I think you are supposed to pay some. Perhaps three hundred dollars.

Th…three hundred dollars! I exclaimed.

I felt that he might be teasing me, but I could not ignore it. I explained that I was a poor traveller, and was even planning to cross the Atlantic working on board at first. But he was not very sympathetic with me: Well, then I can discount down to one hundred and fifty dollars, he said.

It was not fun talk any longer. I thought of paying the amount just to shut him up. But before I found the words, he said, Or you can pay by work.

I thought that he was going to be like the captain in Chile, who wanted me to sleep with him, though I clearly refused his demands until the end. I was so disappointed and felt angry with the fact that I was a female biologically; yet, I was not as naive as before.

OK. I can work. Please give me some work. Maybe cleaning or washing? This is what I wanted to do on this sea voyage from the very beginning. For my pleasure! I said challengingly.

As a result, he gave me the duty of repainting the top deck of the ship, which was painted a bright blue colour, though the symbolic colour of ‘Venezia’ was orange.

The tropical sunshine was strong and the sea salt was quickly damaging the coating of paint I had only just applied. There was also a crewmember who was painting the fence of the lower deck, but a ship of over 33,000 tons seemed to be too huge for him to repaint fully by himself.

The officer brought me a big can of blue paint, a roller, a cleaning kit, and a white one-piece disposable jumpsuit made of glass fibres. It was not an obligation and there was no quota, but I kept working on the windy deck until I caught a cold after three days.

Despite the cold, I appreciated my duty from the bottom of my heart, and actually, I resumed working there as soon as I recovered. There was no more demand from the officer for money, not even jokingly, and I could contain my frustration, both physically and mentally. Moreover, because of the cold, I had a good excuse to be in bed for a couple of days, alone in the cabin without being bothered by anybody. Meanwhile, my fever was too high to muster any appetite, but I was not depressed.

There are illusions of seas and deserts.

The wave splash is sand smoke,

and it comes and goes, and then comes again.

There is a horizon on the sea and a horizon on the desert.

They turn around but never catch the other.

Here is the absolute feature of the universe.

There was a group of dolphins nearby.

They looked all so small,

swimming next to this huge ship of over 33,000 tons.

Were they going to raid this mass of iron?

No, they might be welcoming us.

It was a welcome dance, jumping in order with tender smiles.

There was a seagull.

It was the only seagull I saw in the whole sea voyage.

It might be a lost one from Western Africa,

or it was a seagull travelling alone.

Suddenly it reminded me of myself in the desert.

There was no lonely shadow in its free figure.

(Just before passing the Tropic of Cancer/ 24 May 1988)

Wavy Emotions

The Southern Cross was getting farther away, and as we sailed closer to the equator, grey clouds covered the sky and there were thunderstorms from time to time. After passing the equator, the heat was getting milder little by little.

On the tenth day after having left Santos, we passed by the Canary Islands, and at about the Tropic of Cancer were a group of dolphins jumping and big turtles swimming alongside the ship; they looked so friendly that they seemed to be welcoming us there.

Over the sea field was a beige silhouette far on the left.

Another island? I asked the second officer, who was looking into a pair of binoculars. Then he handed them to me. There seemed to be a vast land, though there seemed to be little signs of habitation.

A very big island! I said, and looked at him.

That’s not an island. That’s the continent of Africa.

Africa!? I repeated the word excitedly in the same way that he had said.

Yes. That’s the coast of Morocco, said the third captain, who was by us but had not spoken much until then. He was a serious and quiet Italian.

Morocco… I murmured, looking into the binoculars again and trying to observe as carefully as possible.

Africa is just there. The land of my real destination, I thought.

There was nothing but the beige land and some houses there, but I could not grow tired of gazing upon it.

Since then, I spent all my spare time looking over the land, imagining the possible passage that I might have taken.

After ten days of the sea voyage, just before coming into the Gibraltar Strait, the sea became very calm and the weather much cooler than before. Having recovered my health, I had resumed my work of repainting the top deck.

On the day when the ship was going to reach to the first stop, Livorno, one of the crew, who had a humpback, came and said, Why don’t you make another voyage after Genoa, working on board with us?

I had seen him around but had never talked with him before. But I imagined that he knew of me like others did.

You could start bicycling in Italy after coming back from Rio again. Why not? he said, in a cool voice, but quite seriously.

I recognised that he was shorter than me, perhaps even if his back was straightened up.

Yes, I wish I could. But I am a bit in a hurry now.

I was happy he’d made the offer, even if it was actually impossible; there was no way for me to make an additional round trip, which would take more than one month.

Besides, the radio operator who I had talked with before had said, Why don’t you marry someone single on this ship? There are a few single ones. Some of them might like you.

It was an odd question, so I said, Why? I have no intention of marrying anyone at all.

But you are alone now. Don’t you feel like having someone with you? To enjoy dancing or eating together?

I was amazed by his suggestion and said, I have never danced in my life.

You have never danced? he asked me, clearly surprised.

Well, I did folklore dancing in school, but nothing more. Perhaps I can’t do it, and I don’t really want to do it either, I said frankly.

He seemed to be slightly confused, and I was confused seeing him, too.

"Then what have you done in school?" he asked.

Ah…lots of study and… I said, and stopped. I wanted to find something more, but nothing particular came into my mind.

Only studying? he asked, suspiciously.

Not really so, but I have never felt like dancing truly. In fact, I hate discos. They’re too noisy, though I have not been to any really, I said, remembering scenes of discos that I had seen on TV before.

Wow! I can’t believe it. Then where is the fun in your life? he asked, his eyes full of wonder.

Well, now I am travelling. I enjoy experiencing new things everyday, I answered, feeling annoyed a little.

But you don’t look so happy. It’s a very difficult trip for you, isn’t it?

I could not react to his question promptly, and kept searching for something to say.

After a short silence, looking into my face, he said, seriously, I think you need to change your character.

I could not keep talking to him pleasantly any more. I felt disappointed with the fact that he also could not accept me as I was after all. I was happy with him when he agreed with my disgust at the sexual film that had been shown on the screen in the lounge room previously, so I expected him to be more understanding about my nature, of at least more so than others on board.

My inner voice said: He is also saying that life has to be fun. I know, I know that. I am also finding fun in my own way, even if it does not appear so to most people. Why can there be various kinds of fun? You never understand something truly unless you have experienced it yourself, can you? My travelling is tough, and maybe it is full of risk and tension. But surely, I can feel absolute fun in touching someone’s heart or finding the warmth of the sun after a cold night.

I had been confident enough to believe in myself, but suddenly, facing the criticism of the radio operator, I recognised the fact that there were no people on board I could call ‘my friends’, even though we were sharing much time together, and I felt sad and irritated.

After that, I just wished to be free from the ship as soon as possible.

Since the ship had passed through the Gibraltar Strait, my heart had started to beat faster and faster. There were so many tankers, fishing ships, cargo ships, or small private boats passing by here and there, and on both the left and right sides of us were continents with dense habitation almost continuously. The sea traffic was so heavy that it appeared to me to be a wide river.

The Mediterranean was calm and the temperature was mild, as I had learned from text books in school. Only the previous night before reaching the port of Livorno, we’d had a tremendous storm with brutal winds and heavy rain, which made most of passengers and crews sick overnight. I had also vomited and my stomach was one hundred percent empty when we reached the port. It was like a ceremony to enter into a new land, by clearing all the old staff away, completely.

I wanted to land sooner because I was not comfortable on board, but on the other hand, I was also actually afraid of landing. It was not fear of a new land exactly, but rather against facing an industrially-developed world after about a year and a half in Central and South America.

Stepping into an Industrialised World

The ship called into port in Livorno, so I disembarked to take a walk in the town.

I decided to stroll around the downtown with two couples: the German couple and Swiss Paraguayan couple.

We tried to catch a public bus, but none of us had any Italian currency at all because there was nowhere to exchange money around the port. We tried getting on a bus anyway, explaining our situation as best we could.

No tenemos dinero, we told the driver in Spanish with some hand language, pointing at the ship at the port. We were sorry for the circumstance and showed our annoyance on our faces. The driver just let us on, nodding.

I was not sure if he really understood us. I rather thought that it was because of the Latin character, as I had seen repeatedly by then.

As soon as we arrived downtown, we went to a bank and got some Italian money, some ‘lira’ finally. The rate of exchange was 1,250 liras to one US dollars. Then I went to the post office to mail some letters that I had written on board. One postcard cost 200 liras, and one letter to Japan cost 1,500 liras and 750 liras to Switzerland. An ice-cream in an open cafeteria cost 1,500 liras, though it was not a large one. A ride on the bus cost 500 liras.

Wow! Expensive! I exclaimed. The expensiveness knocked me out.

However, no one but me seemed to be surprised with the cost of everything. I had no doubt that for any people who came from South America, everything was extremely expensive, because things cost three to four times as much as in South America, in general. But it was not actually true as all of them usually resided in Europe.

It used to be very cheap in Italy compared to most of the northern countries. But it is no longer so, someone told me later.

Facing this reality, I determined that I would keep to my policy of going by bike and staying in my tent. Otherwise, I estimated that I would be bankrupt before getting to Africa.

From Livorno, it took another two days to reach the Port of Genoa. The ship stayed in Livorno for two days as it had to unload Brazilian made Fiat cars as well as most of the passengers. In addition, there was a one-day strike of those who were working at the port, so the final arrival was postponed one day.

On 1 June 1988, I arrived at Genoa.

Viewing the complex of so many antique churches and modern high architectures, my tension grew, and the mountain of Apennines directly behind them frightened me.

When I finally got off ‘Republica di Venezia’ on the morning of 2 June 1988, I was about to lose my temper. I had been nervous for days beforehand, and since most of the passengers had left the ship in Livorno, I felt even more nervous. Despite the fact I had talked so little with them, I felt insecure, as if I had been dropped off in the middle of a vast desert.

The crew were working busily with the agent, and in the meantime they were visited by their wives, children, or relatives. I saw the first officer walking with a beautiful blonde woman on the deck, holding her waist. I felt irritated by the picture, which caused me to question: why am I here on my own?

I was more angry than sad, though I did not know exactly why I was feeling so. I wondered about the meaning of the 18-day sea voyage.

Nevertheless, as soon as I resumed my pedalling, such turbulent emotions vanished, because the street was too busy and complicated for me to feel myself.

CHAPTER 77

GLORIOUS ITALIANS AND SMALL JAPANESE

Genoa, Italy—Milan, Italy

(2 June 1988 - 3 June 1988)

Entering a Motorised World

T he town of Genoa astonished me with its super-busy streets.

It was sometime later that I realised that it was the original place where Italian immigrants left for South America, dreaming that they would make their fortune there and come back one day to a better life. Enrich, the Italian boy in the story of ‘Dagli Appennini alle Ande’ (see Chapter 41 of PART 1), was also from Genoa. It meant that I had crossed the Atlantic in the opposite direction to the immigrants back in the 19th century.

If I had been more relaxed then, I could have better appreciated the passage of the last one hundred years while strolling around the town, but in fact, I did nothing but go directly through the town. I was sorry for it.

Shortly after I resumed pedalling, I was dismayed. I could not find the route to Milan. There was a sign for ‘Milano’ on a green board, but when I went ahead, I was pushed back as it was only for automobiles. I tried to find the road for general vehicles, but I had to struggle to make people understand me. I spoke to them in Spanish, pointing at a map of Italy, and they seemed to have understood me. But I could not understand their reply well so I had to ask repeatedly, one to another. It was good to discover that almost all the people were as kind as those in South America, even though I became lost in the end.

Eventually, I stopped a cyclist who was passing by on a racing bike, and asked him to show me the way to go. He taught me that, in Italy, I should look for the blue boards. Then it really hit home that this was not South America, where there was no such distinction for traffic, apart from in the capitals.

As soon as I got on the right road, I faced a mountain road for more than 10 kilometres. It should not have been so very difficult, but for someone who had been stuck in a closed box―I mean the ship―for 18 days, or longer if you count the time till the departure from Brazil, it was severe. I felt my muscles so stressed that I had to push my bike for most of the distance until I reached the top.

Glorious Latin Blood

Just before the top of the mountain was a small eating house. There were only a couple of tables and a stout woman was setting down a red-checked tablecloth on the table.

Por favour. Agua, por favour.

I had heard that Italian language was not the same as Spanish, though both were from the same root. But I was so desperate for water after climbing the road that I tried to talk to her in Spanish.

It was a sunny summer’s day in Europe. The heat was almost as hot as when I was in the deserts of South America. This could have been partially down to the heat inside myself after eating such rich meals without doing much work on board, and perhaps also because of the height of the mountain.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She said something, looking at me, something which I could not understand at all. But I saw a gentle smile on her tolerant face, so I believed that she understood me. It was the same as the ones that I had been charmed by in Latin America.

As a matter of fact, shortly she came out with a bottle of soda and a glass in her hands.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

She offered me a chair and said something, pouring it into the glass. I could imagine that she was saying something, like Take a good rest.

While I drank the soda, she was standing next to me, looking at me so gently, and when I had calmed down, she talked to me slowly. The language was still disturbing my understanding, but it was not impossible any more. I could figure out the answer to say by picking up the key words in questions.

Sometime later, a couple of truck drivers came in to have lunch, so I