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I indicated right and continued to drive for a further sixty metres before pulling in to the drive way. With an eager desire to settle in less explored rural Japan, I had flown to the southern most island, Okinawa, eventually driving to the Northern region Motobu. The small subtropical island had been hit by heavy rainfall following Typhoon Krathon’s hit on nearby Taiwan. I grabbed my red raincoat from the passenger seat and loosely wrapped it around me. The rain clattered down onto the car windscreen with each droplet leaping on impact like a gazelle striding playfully through a field. I scooped up my belongings from the passenger seat and dashed to the guesthouse. 

I promptly jumped into the shower. The shower head was fixed at a height in line with my pectorals. I removed the shower head and using an outstretched arm I held it above my head. Upon doing so, I frowned disapprovingly at my dissipating biceps. I had not exercised since my arrival and my body wilted like an Arum Lily flower in a staunch August Tuscany sun. 

The cool water washed away residue of clay from my soft hands. I had just returned from a Yachimun pottery workshop. My rainy day activity. It had not gone to plan. In fact, it had been very underwhelming. With esurient hopes to be the next Anish Kapoor, my sculptural skills neither progressed nor regressed. The reason for this was, I had not contributed anything to my sculpture during the workshop. The girl, in her attempts to avoid a porcelain disaster, had moulded my tea mug for me, fixing and adjusting at every moment. It had led to a rather vapid experience. I accepted that there were language barriers preventing any adequate teaching. I had full well intended to arrive to Japan having learnt basic conversational Japanese. A lack of application and compulsion led me to arrive to the country with 7 basic phrases scribbled in my notebook. Almost half of them were questions. “O kaikei onegaishimasu”? [please can I have the bill?]. Or “Keshō-shitsu wa dokodesu ka?” [where is the bathroom?].

It was therefore prominent for locals to use translation applications via phones to speak to tourists, such as myself. The girl had stumbled her way through the sporadically accurate translation application, instructing me to firm the base of the clay mould or to dip my hands in water. And then, a moment of controversy and humiliation. Oh, it was fervid. It was pernicious. Father, I would atone for my sins. Upon responding via the translation application, I spoke clearly and joked “I understand. Am I the worst ever man to do pottery?”. I have been told many times by those outside of England, that my accent is difficult to decipher. It is not the American-taught English that most international speakers use, but a southern UK accent that consists of prolonged vowels. And in its confusion of translating my joke, the application audibly retorted with “I’m a bad boy.” Completely inappropriate for the wholesome activity of pottery making, I washed away the humiliation and concerned faces of pottery onlookers. 

Following my shower, I took seat at the long table in the living room. I had become accustomed to spending each night with the staff at the guesthouse, where I was the only guest. Miyo cooked homemade Takoyaki (diced octopus in egg and wheat balls) and I poured myself a glass of 2023 Chilean Chardonnay that I had bought for £3 from the local Family Mart store. They drunk Sake and we laughed. Their English was not well-spoken, nor was my Japanese. But their warmth and hospitality far exceeded anything I had ever received. After dinner I said “oishikattadesu” [that was tasty], and they laughed at my pronunciation. The staff emitted a Hawaiian surfing vibe and one of the boys asked me to try on a pair of long, black trousers he had bought. They were too big for him and he wanted to gift them to me. They too were too big for me. I pulled the waist buckles to the top of my chest and danced, swerving my hips from side to side in a provocative manner. They laughed and said I was Bee Gees. I had a few more glasses of wine.

Two young brothers arrived. I think they were the owners’s nephews. They must have been 6-years old and 8-years old. We all played cards and I taught them Go-Fish. The 6-year old kept showing the table his cards and on my go I asked for his Kings, which I had seen. I then asked for his 4s, which again, I had seen. With that, I kicked him out the game, and later I won. 

The following day I explored the north island with Miyo. We roved the white-sand beaches of Seseoko Island. Miyo wanted to explore Yanburu National Park. I said it was a 45 minute drive but she insisted. She fell asleep in the backseat for the entire journey. I didn’t mind because the coastal route filled the silence with its colours and beauty. We arrived and decided to hike Ta-Tika Waterfall. The park guard had cautioned us we required watershoes for the hike. I had said to Miyo in the morning to bring her watershoes. She decided not to. I lent her my watershoes, and after removing my socks, I slipped on my Scarpa walking shoes. The water at times, went to waist height. My shoes would later take two days to dry. At first I was annoyed but later I was blithe about the sacrifice. The waterfall was stunning and I truly had no words. The heavy rainfall that had preceded the day resulted in a powerful and devastating downpour of fresh water. We bathed for a short while and then drove home.

In the evening, we reposed in the living room. Yemena was using a steam machine to cleanse her facial pores. I was perplexed on her smooth and faultless skin, her small round nose and infectious laugh. They wanted me to teach them some English slang. Bereft of ideas, I taught them the most commonly used English slang, Peng. For the next hour I heard the word circulate too frequently for my liking, as items such as trees, teas and tables were referred to as Peng. During the last few days the group had showcased to me the importance of sharing and being part of a collective. Miyo had carried three pieces of plastic litter she’d spotted during the hike for one hour until we’d found a bin as an effort to protect their nature. Food, warmth, laughter and stories were there to be shared, and it often felt that back home, in England, they were used to independently display and flaunt. If I couldn’t remember the language I’d learnt, I made sure I would remember the manners.