Tokyo is a world unto itself, with a population larger than most countries, innovation and creativity to match, and a public transit network that knows no equals. Over forty railway companies operate in the city, compared to just two in my home country of Belgium. Shinjuku Station alone services over a billion passengers every year, making it by far the busiest globally. After two months in the capital, we had quite grown used to the rapid, hyperconnected way of things. Safe to say, during one of our recent visits to the countryside, we felt quite out of place.

Shimane is a quiet place, divided from the rest of Japan by mountains, facing the Sea of Japan instead of the Pacific. People have been leaving the prefecture for decades, in search of opportunities in the major metropolises, meaning we saw almost no one our age or younger during our four day stay. More pressingly, this also meant very little public transport.

However, tucked between the crags of its rocky coastline lies an ancient shrine that we wanted to visit. It receives prayers for the safety of seafaring merchants and travellers, although these days it’s mostly the curious ospreys that hear these soft mumblings and carry them over the wind on their wings. Unfortunately, only a single daily bus operates along the coastal road, one that arrives at the cape around noon, and then makes its return trip to the city. It brought us safely to our destination, but to reach the hotel by bus again, we’d have to wait twenty four hours.

We didn’t have high hopes, and were prepared for a two to three hour hike back along the craggy coast. Some traffic blows the dust from the asphalt, but not much. Nonetheless, despite better judgement, Indi and I stuck out our thumbs at every passing car, hoping to hitch hike our way home. And praise be, whatever stereotypes might cling to the Japanese, not even five minutes later an old man parked his little car off the curb, signaling us to take a seat. 

His words archaic and sputtering, we nonetheless managed to learn that once, half a century and more ago, when he was young, he travelled Southern Europe the same way, from Greece, through Italy and France, all the way to Spain. Some years later, he hitch-hiked his way around India for a year. Seeing us standing on the sidewalk, he saw himself, and had grown nostalgic.

Two days later we tempted the fates again, by visiting Daikon Island. Since ages past the island has provided purebred horses for the imperial stables, healing ginseng for the dynasty’s health, and grown peonies for their elegant gardens. It is the latter that we’ve come to visit, on the first day of this year’s rose festival. And while the garden is indeed magnificent and impressive, the public transport is not.

Once more we envisage several hours of walking over concrete and asphalt roads to our hotel, cars passing by in both directions. Today our luck appears to have turned, as ten minutes pass, then twenty, and despite the heavier traffic, no one even slows down as they overtake us. Indi and I start mocking the cars and their drivers as they ignore us, and curse our naivety. Clearly the other day was an unlikely instance of luck, one that shall not repeat itself.

Until on the horizon a Tesla appears. I immediately joke that the driver won’t ever notice two humble walkers like ourselves, in an attempt to provoke fate into proving me wrong. Miraculously, that actually works. The car slows to a halt, the window rolls down, and the driver asks where we’re headed. Get in, he continues, and only halfway to Sakaiminato, our destination, does he admit he was on his way to Matsue, half an hour in the complete opposite direction. But he doesn’t mind helping out a stranger. What is half an hour compared to the chance to converse with two foolish Westerners used to the continuous trains and metros of Tokyo, two tourists surprised by the sleepy roads of his home?