There are no potholes on any street. I am amazed that the crosswalks have paint that looks brand new. Many times, I see workers painting the streets in the early hours of the morning with their arrow-shaped signs, cones, or flashing stop symbols, and there are many more workers than in other countries doing the same job. There are also those who guard a very wide perimeter around the affected area, more than necessary. I don’t know why there are so many guards when I’m alone riding my bicycle at one in the morning, and no one else is around. In Japan, others come first.
At times, it doesn’t seem like a city with almost 1.6 million inhabitants, except during rush hours in the financial and commercial center called Tenjin. Fukuoka stretches along Hakata Bay, the former name of the neighboring city before they merged, in southwestern Japan. It is separated from South Korea by a blue sea that shows no swimmers or sailboats from its coast. In the middle, there’s an island called Shikanoshima, where a golden seal was found, now a national treasure, given by the Chinese Emperor Nobu of Houhan to a Japanese envoy.
In 2011, the Dominican singer Juan Luis Guerra made the city of Fukuoka known by dedicating a bachata to it, whose video clip was filmed in the Chinatown of Los Angeles, USA, trampling with the hoax the rivalry between the two peoples, Chinese and Japanese. Fukuoka, located in southwestern Japan, is not part of the tourist triad Tokyo – Kyoto – Nara, but it is part of the ranking of cities with the best quality of life by the British magazine Monocle in 2016, shining in the seventh place.
“Sopermi“ the Japanese guy tells me in Argentine slang. He wanted me to make room for him with the chair I was sitting on, which was blocking the tiny entrance to the equally tiny kitchen.
“Look at how that sign is moving”, I say, pointing to the window, more surprised by the expression than by the wind, I, who grew up in Argentine Patagonia.
“It’s not moving more than that building did in the last earthquake”, Shutaro, a cook who lived in Spain and Argentina, says ironically.
“Yeah, but is this building safe? It looks like it’s made of plastic…”
“Yes, they are proof against everything. The typhoon is still many hours away. We can go to work, do some shopping, have a beer, and come back home”.
I believe him that the typhoon would arrive on time, as I know the Japanese are champions of foresight, perfectionism, and technology. It’s the end of summer, with temperatures of thirty-five degrees, and there’s only one fan in the house. These tropical cyclones in September initially shake the unprepared population, and for a few days, the weather alert makes the mobile app more important than checking the time, thinking that all activities might be suspended. Finally, that year the typhoon, as most of the time, moved away from the coast just as it drove away the Mongols in their second attempt to conquer Japan in the 13th century, an event that led to the coining of the term kamikaze, meaning divine wind. The first attempt was blocked by the tenacious resistance of the samurai warriors, precisely on the coasts near Fukuoka.
The eyes are flooded by the neatness of the wide streets and clean sidewalks. The spaciousness of a city, or at least the sensation of it, is one of the most desirable aspects of urban planning. Just as it is for parks and trees to be abundant, along with flowerbeds filled with seasonal flowers. In this city on the island of Kyushu, wisteria, azaleas, tulips, sunflowers, each in their respective season, are carefully placed to adorn the spaces. They can be in small plazas or in the flowerbeds that line the two parallel rivers, Naka and Mikasa, which divide the city into three and direct their flow to the sea. For about a month, the flowers parade their splendor in the parks and gardens, and before they decline, they are replaced with others. No one has ever seen a withered flower in Fukuoka.
“Shall we go see the azaleas blooming this weekend?” a Frenchwoman who knows the flower seasons well asks me.
“I don’t know, I was thinking of going to the beach,” I say nonchalantly, while unwrapping the onigiri I’m about to eat. “The flowers won’t wait for you,” she says with a smile.
Onigiri is a rice ball mixed with various ingredients, which can be with or without filling of fish, egg, or some spicy pepper. They are generally triangular in shape, wrapped in a strip of nori seaweed, and eaten at any time of the day.
In each season of the year, visiting places where the natural spectacle is guaranteed becomes obligatory. The one that impresses me the most is in Saga, a locality near Fukuoka. The Taikosenju temple is surrounded by hills covered with pink, fuchsia, and white azaleas, organized by color. The flowers snugly envelop the hills, and some tall trees with thin trunks are seen behind, adding a linear touch to the landscape, along with the dirt paths we walk on. The first time I went to Japan was in the middle of spring. It was only by chance, by staying longer than planned, that the second time I could attend the most emblematic contemplation of flowers: the hanami of cherry blossoms (sakura). This ephemeral event marks the beginning of the season and is an ode to beauty.
As so often happens, the improvised turns out better. I hear several tourists recounting that they organized their trip “to the other side of the world” to see this explosion of pastel colors, but they had not succeeded because the blossoms, blooming simultaneously, last no more than two weeks. Tourist agencies and their repeaters make forecasts, which, like horoscopes, sell future and rarely hit the mark. In Maizuru Park at Fukuoka Castle, Ohori Park, or Nishi Park, the huge crowns are a very light pink as if they wanted to be white, it shows. According to legend, they used to be white. The samurai used to perform the harakiri ritual under one of these trees, and it is thought that their blood dyed the leaves pink. The hanami festival dates back centuries. Initially, it was celebrated by the upper classes until one of the emperors of the Edo period (1600-1867) extended it to the rest of the population and began massive cherry tree plantations throughout the Japanese territory. Nowadays, no one skimps on walks, and there is a day when mostly young people go on picnics to the parks, and many do so in their traditional kimonos.
The blooming branches of the trees are low, and their shade isn’t dark. The cherry blossom petals are delicate, allowing light to pass through like tracing paper. I want to stay awake these two weeks and become an insect so I don’t have to go home to sleep. It’s a pity it lasts in the blink of an eye. Something pulls me out of the state of contemplation sakura had left me in on the way home. A state of peace and freedom interrupted by the noise from the speakers of the shops, directed towards the street, trying to grab the attention of passersby.
Video game music, metallic and distorted, high-pitched voices repeating phrases, advertising products, inviting people in, saying good morning or good afternoon. The orchestration doesn’t stop from opening to closing time. From food establishments, where cooking is frequently done in front of or near the customers, the waiters call out with penetrating voices. As soon as the customer steps foot inside, the cooks also shout out a welcome. In Japan, all employees are obliged to greet customers with the expression Irasshaimase (welcome), stretching out the “e” until they run out of breath. Every five seconds, they repeat that word along with other greetings like konichiwa (hello) or dôzo (please come in).
In Fukuoka, I’m not a tourist; thirty minutes by bike separate my home from work. It’s one of the first afternoons when I observe my fellow commuters closely. He wears a navy blue suit, a white shirt, and no tie. His shoes have a quite pronounced toe, which appears to be empty. His nylon socks are visible, and with each pedal, his knees reach his chest because the bike’s wheel is very small. Nothing is a hindrance to using the most eco-friendly and common mode of transport in Japan’s fifth-largest city. This woman pedals in high heels and wears a long coat because winter is approaching. Her basket has a fabric covering in which she wraps and covers what she’s carrying: groceries and her purse. I get distracted looking at the guy to my right and accidentally bump into the woman. I recognize that I’m at fault, but she’s the one who apologizes first. A matter of tradition.
Young and old, even septuagenarians, ride bicycles, and everyone respects the special signs for this mode of transport. There are bikes with gears, gray or fluorescent, electric or mechanical, big or small, but the most common are cruiser bikes. They are all registered and belong to someone; they have their identification code and are locked with a small padlock. No one will take them.
One morning, I realize I forgot my wallet on the bike, parked in the shared space for all neighbors, open to the street and visible to anyone passing by. The wallet, containing some yen and documents, sleeps undisturbed for about seventeen hours without shelter in the open wire basket. Some baskets have lids to close them, but not this one. Nevertheless, it’s there waiting for me, almost a day later.
When it rains, cyclists hold umbrellas with one hand and the handlebar on the horn side with the other, which, by the way, is frequently used. A decade ago, you couldn’t ride on the sidewalk, but then the rule changed, and now only sidewalks are used. Some are marked as bike lanes, and coexistence there couldn’t be more perfect; but in those that aren’t, pedestrians, baby strollers, scooters, and cyclists inevitably tangle. The street is the domain of cars, buses, and taxis. Taxis in Fukuoka are all the same, like soldiers in an army. Toyota brand, the doors open and close thanks to a button pressed by the driver. They are black or orange on the outside, with light and immaculate leather upholstery inside, and there are screens so you won’t get bored.
A car is a private place to do something as normal as talking, something that can’t be done too much on other public transport. The bus arrives at the appointed hour; I pay in coins the 230 yen – two dollars – for the fare. I ask Claudia, my travel companion at the time, Brazilian by birth but with Japanese features thanks to her maternal grandmother, about the sign hung in front of our seat, which I had seen before on trains.
“It says we should behave.”
“That’s normal, like everywhere, right?”
“No, here you can’t use your phone, or speak loudly, or bother others by nudging… see?”
She points out the drawings illustrating the rule: Don’t do anything that bothers others; someone is always watching you. I try to understand some kanji (ideograms) I had learned in the Japanese course, free for the first levels with personalized tutors. However, I keep thinking about the meaning of the sign, remembering that the Japanese move with such caution and strictly adhere to social protocols. When we reach our destination, the driver gets up from his seat. We greet him. He returns the gesture in the Hakata dialect, according to Claudia, with a childlike smile on his face and raising his hand covered with a white glove; all public transport drivers, be it bus, taxi, or train, wear them as a symbol of hygiene and status.
Fukuoka is as expansive above ground as it is below. It has an underground city decorated and illuminated like a shopping center. Hundreds of thousands of people circulate through it every day, seeking shelter from the humid heat in summer or the torrential rains at the beginning of autumn, even if they don’t plan to use the metro. Here, even the well-defined seasons are precise and will remain so until climate change disrupts them. The endless corridors of the metro have a ceiling adorned with brown iron, and the lighting is diffuse, although when the shops without a glass window that separates them from the main corridor open, there seems to be more light than above, reflecting off the windows of the increasingly skyscrapers, increasingly dense.
The metro platforms have exact spots to stand in line to get on and off. Dozens of screens display the time. The only things on the signs written in English are “This station” and “Previous station”. The rest, you have to deduce from numbers and kanji characters. In the underground city, there are clothing stores, accessories, and many gourmet shops or those selling imported products. Some sculptures and water fountains on a wall to make you forget you’re underground.
The level of robotization that could surprise a decade ago may not be as shocking now. I head to the public restroom, something that forever marks any visitor. The electronic toilets have complex control panels to play music or background noise, dispense water for washing, adjust the temperature of the seat, dispense hand sanitizer gel, among other functions, each with its respective intensity and volume control. At the restroom door, I know I’ll find many women fixing themselves at the dressing tables, with perfect lighting for that task, just like an artist’s dressing room. It’s said that Fukuoka is a city with more women than men, and many women move elsewhere to find a partner. Statistics say they develop professionally but live frustrated due to the inability to form a relationship.
In any case, in the urban Japanese popular imagination, putting on makeup is as obligatory as getting dressed. A guy tells me he doesn’t recognize his girlfriend without makeup. I like to ask women why they wear so much makeup if they always seem ten years younger anyway. They say it’s kawaii (cute), but some men have slightly colder explanations: they dress attractively to attract attention because there are already few men and they spend all their time working without wanting to have social relationships with women. That’s why the most unlikely accessories are also sold, like stickers that lift or adjust their eyelids to make them less flat. They dye their hair in all possible ways or lighten it to create a contrast with the rest. It’s worth remembering that the country was “closed” for many centuries, and therefore, there were no ethnic mixtures, no diversity.
From six in the evening onward, Nakasu, Fukuoka’s red-light district, lights up vertically. Bars, restaurants, and clubs open on every floor of the buildings. The venues are always small, not accommodating many people, and the Japanese relax and let loose from the formality of the day. Some are obligated once a week to go out with their work team. Others simply go out with friends to have a good time, and a few drinks are enough to break their sobriety. Every night after work, between ten and eleven o’clock during the bike ride home, I see someone lying on the sidewalk, either sleeping or sobering up from alcohol. Almost always beside them, there’s a leather briefcase that no one will take.
The white, red, or orange paper lanterns, painted with kanji characters, illuminate the street and give it an intimate atmosphere. There are some very small bars that only have a counter facing the street for people to sit and drink. And again, the speakers. But this time, they emit a murmuring sound, recorded voices to imply that the place inside is crowded. The greatest lesson in learning about different cultures is to rid oneself of prejudice, the main source of intolerance and ethnocentrism. Learning, for instance, that everything has a reason. Nothing is left to chance.