By far the most important person supporting the writing of my thesis was my supervisor in Tokyo, Professor Kaminaga. When I met him first, only two or three days after arriving in Japan, I was quite nervous. Indi had wisely advised me to bring a small box of chocolates as a diplomatic gift, and sent me on my way. Two university staff members guided me to his office, everyone in suits, speaking formal, difficult Japanese. Professor Kaminaga laid out his plans for the semester, suggesting courses to take and topics to study. I barely understood half of what was said, simply nodded in mute agreement, handed over my chocolates, and left, uncertain if I would survive the year. 

The next meeting was quite different. Just the two of us, again in his office, but without the pressure of the staff members looking over our shoulders. Instead of diving into my thesis, he wanted to know how my arrival in Japan had gone. We talked about Tokyo, my little room in Shinjuku, about the weather. All the while he kept notes, writing down all the words I didn’t know yet. Only half an hour later did he start suggesting books or essays for me to read. He led me to the university’s library, printed copies of the essay I had chosen, and asked me to read what I could by the time we say each other again next week. At my own pace. 

The following weeks proceeded in much the same manner. We would always start our day by talking about the past days. I would tell Professor Kaminaga about my trips around the country, to the temples of Kyoto, the sakura blossoms by Mount Fuji, or the lively festivals of the countryside. He’d smile and relate my stories to his own experiences as a student, when he backpacked across Japan himself. Often we’d talk about Japan in all its aspects, he’d explain how geography influenced the weather, how the language of his grandparents wasn’t the same as the language of his kids, how the fish migrate off the coast of Japan to the east and west. Only after these fifteen or twenty minutes of introduction would we delve into my thesis. I’d summarise the things I’d read and learnt, and he’d point me in the right direction. He’d always keep notes so I could study new vocabulary afterwards.

Of course we didn’t only talk about travelling and Japanese culture. I often arrived in his office with questions about Sakhalin, about the indigenous Nivkh and Uilta, or the conflict between the Russians and the Japanese. Without fault he would get up from behind his desk, take a glance at the wall to his right, a wall completely covered by bookcases, and fish out the desired volume. To my astonishment, Professor Kaminaga then browsed the chosen book for the right page, and he would lay it down in front me, his finger at the paragraph that answered my question. He knew all there was to know about that island, and was happy I was trying to find out more. 

One day I overslept. I don’t remember what happened the night before, but I do remember the panic as I ran to Okubo Station, afraid to disappoint Professor Kaminaga. I notified him by text, apologising profusely, and admitting that I would be half an hour late to class. I felt the burn in my lungs as I ran from Shibuya Station to campus, the heartbeat in my ears. It wasn’t a matter of fear or stress, but of the tremendous respect I felt for him. In the end I was only ten minutes late. By the time the elevator brought me to the twelfth floor, I had calmed down slightly, and knocked on his door. Instead of greeting me with an angry look and harsh words, he had placed a kettle of green tea on the table between us and, with a smile, told me a story about how he himself had once been late to class just like me.

To thank Professor Kaminaga for his kindness and his warming tea, I always brought him souvenirs from my many travels. Traditional sweets from a weekend hiking in Yamagate with Indi, or a castella cake from Nagasaki, in the south. These always decorated his desk as he took more notes for me, and would disappear into the bellies of his two kids the following days. After the summer break too, he welcomed me back into his office with bags of sweets, and I remember our emotional goodbye, after a year of sincere cooperation in Tokyo. I walked back to the elevator with a box of exquisite Japanese green tea, and a bottle of delicious sake.

Of course I am getting ahead of myself, because before my return to Europe, there still was a lot of work to do. Professor Kaminaga helped me navigate the overwhelming National Diet Library in Tokyo, where I found hundreds of articles about the indigenous peoples of Sakhalin, all printed more than a century ago, and kept embedded on tiny film rolls. He also guided me north, to the wonderful snow country of Hokkaido, where I spent days sifting through the materials of the Sapporo and Hakodate Municipal Libraries, the Hokkaido University Archives, and even the collection of the Ainu Research Centre. After each successful hunt for source material, I returned home to his office with good news and more regional sweets. 

The year flew by. In the end I needed a dedicated suitcase for all the articles and books I had collected. The handwritten notes of Professor Kaminaga inside their own dedicated folder. Their weight was minimal compared to the office on the twelfth floor, the conversation in that room, and the advice that sent me around Japan, looking for lost histories. Once back in Europe, weeks and months of deciphering all that research material still awaited me.

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Consider reading Part 1 if you enjoyed part 2!