Off the coast of southern Japan (Day 77, 13066 km)

The story picks up in Wuxi, a city around 180km northwest of Shanghai...

Terry tried to persuade me to stay longer so I could see some more of his town, but it was already Thursday night, and I wanted to book my ferry on Friday afternoon, so I could catch the Saturday morning sailing for Osaka. He apologised that he didn't have any gift suitable for the occasion and presented me with an unused knife and fork, before adding to that a nice aluminium water bottle.

Thank you Terry – you are welcome to stay if you ever come and do a cycle trip in New Zealand. And best wishes on your upcoming 2800km bicycle trip through Tibet.

I left Wuxi reasonably early on Friday morning. I didn't anticipate the journey to Shanghai to be more than four hours, but I hadn't banked on the road signs – a number of times I lost my way, and then, as I got closer, encountered a string of roadworks so long that I eventually turned 90 degrees and headed for the next arterial road, which was much better. At that stage it started to rain, with regular lightning flashes. Muddy water flicked up through the hole in my mudguard (usually occupied by my toolbox, which had come off). Soon my visor (and everything else) were coated in mud, which slowed me still further. By the time I was near the centre of Shanghai, it was 3.45pm, and I was starting to get a little worried.

Despite me sending a number of emails over the months, and receiving at least one reply (after I got Wendy to call their office!) the ferry company had still not emailed me with their office address, and, surprisingly, there were annoyingly few businesses with people who spoke English. My plan had been to head for the port, and start my enquiries there, but it was now almost 5pm, and I was still in downtown Shanghai. I enquired at many travel-related businesses but just ended up wasting more time and getting further stressed. I had suspected Shanghai to be more multinational. Even the lady at the Good World International Travel Service sent me packing – despite the English title, she spoke not a word and wasn't the slightest bit interested in trying!

Eventually, well after the close of business hours, I continued heading towards where I thought the port would be, on the way using my phrasebook to ask for directions. Some people seemed a bit nonplussed by my question, and, once I'd been directed to catch a small ferry to the port, I began to see why – Shanghai “port” is not in a single location, but is all along both sides of a huge river!

Still, I kept asking people where the customs office was, thinking that the ferry would probably leave from near there, and that even if I had to camp out all night, that I'd be able to wrangle my way onto the ferry from there.

Nobody seemed to know about any customs offices, but I kept trying, eventually asking at the local fire station. The young English-speaking officer seemed very eager to help, and produced a map, and discussed the problem at length with his colleagues. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to ask the police. Eyes shining, he informed me that “when the police arrive, all problems will be solved”.

Well, given my semi-outlaw status, I was less than enthusiastic about this, but I had also ridden my bike as far as I intended to in China. In any case, things seemed desperate enough for me to decide that if things got unpleasant, my paperwork was enough in order that I could probably sweet-talk my way into being able to leave, with bike, the following morning, as planned. So, although not confident if it would be any use, I asked if he'd help me use their telephone and translate for me.

No, he decided to go one better - “You wait here please – the police will come soon”. Sure enough, around the corner came the flashing lights. Gulp. Their English was non-existent, but my friend managed to convey his take on the situation. I am now convinced that the first step in the “dealing with foreigners” training manual is to examine their passport thoroughly, including all the irrelevant pages, despite understanding no English and having no knowledge of even such bordering nations as Vietnam.

However, once this step was over, they decided that this was a situation best dealt with back at the station, and I was commanded to follow them. Which I did, the night being lit by flashes of red and blue, and my mind bewildered by the bizarreness of the situation. However, nobody had yet commented on my bike. But now I was going to ride out of the frying pan and into the police station.

When we arrived, the English-speaking officer was hard at work filling out an assault report while a slightly upset Russian couple had their Chinese-speaking friend read through it and disagree with its wording. To me, my problems felt less important than this, but still she managed to find the time to get a grasp on my situation, of course after the mandatory passport-checking.

It must have sounded pretty crazy – I knew there was a sailing tomorrow, told them I was booked on it, but that I didn't know the address or telephone number of the company. I certainly wasn't hopeful, but at the same time was conscious that in New Zealand local knowledge would have still made even this challenge a relatively simple one.

She tried hard, ringing around, but couldn't seem to find any company with quite the (English) name that I provided, or a reasonable translation of it. Using my phrasebook I asked if there were such a thing as a phonebook. Yes, they had one, what did I want to do with it? When I explained that in New Zealand we could look up companies in the phonebook they thought this was an excellent idea, and started doing that, but then decided to call a superior instead.

While this was going on people started to ask questions about my bike. Was it mine? Where did I buy it? When the truth emerged everybody started taking a lot of serious interest, and I thought it was all over. But they were just amazed that I had come so far and through so many countries – I must be very strong, and they were very impressed. I couldn't believe my ears, but getting the thumbs-up from the Shanghai PD was good enough for me!

All credit to their efforts - when the phone rang again an address and telephone number was dictated and my ferry-catching plans started to seem attainable once more. The ferry company's telephone wasn't being answered – understandable, since at this stage it was after 8pm, but I knew where to go. Very thankful and relieved, and armed with a hand-drawn map, I caught the small ferry back to the other side of the river and up the road a little way, and, with the help of a few more bystanders (including one who hopped on his bike and took me there!) I was standing outside the locked-up office of the China Japan International Ferry Company.

I was tired and hungry, but now that I had the information I needed, things were not so desperate that I needed to grab the first hotels I could find - high-priced foreigner hotels. Besides, I was looking a little “rugged”. Seeing me with grime on my face and my hair every which way, in my well-worn suit, I think the upmarket places were “judging by the outside appearance” that night. Eventually somebody directed me towards a secluded NZ$11 per night local hotel (shhh, don't tell!), and I was able to find some dinner and prepare for the following day's rush to buy a ticket and get through customs.

Well, the office was open on Saturday morning, and it seemed that there was no problem buying a ticket at that late stage. However, I soon found out that this was the one sailing of the year which wasn't on Saturday, and that I had another day to wait. This actually turned out to me much more convenient, as I had a day to prepare and clean my bike and gear, as well as obtain a few replacement parts. However it would still have been nice for the company to let me know instead of confirming (as they had done) that I would be able to sail on that date.

After getting money from the bank and paying for my ticket I had a quiet day getting everything looking as clean and above-board as possible. As the Japanese vehicle standard is far higher than anywhere else I'd travelled, I wanted to ensure that they found no reason to deny me entry.

After washing everything as thoroughly as possible, I started asking around for a new speedometer cable (which I eventually got for less than NZ$1.50, although the taxi cost me NZ$2.50), new brackets for my toolbox (which cost me NZ$1) and then the far more challenging rear tyre. Eventually somebody offered to lead me to a likely place on his bike, and after a 8-9km ride we arrived in motorcycle heaven – a whole community of motorcycle-related shops – repairs, mods, and anything else one can imagine.

The challenge was that my rear wheel has a 17 inch rim, whereas most in China are 16 inch (I think). But after telling me that they didn't make them in China (which I struggled to believe) they eventually managed to find a perfectly adequate road tyre which they sold to me for around NZ$40. Given the prices I also bought some more oil and a new battery, to see if that would boost my electrical system (it didn't).

It emerged partway through these relaxed proceedings (all in all the round trip including fitting the tyre and waiting for the battery to charge took almost three hours) that my guide expected a box of cigarettes in return – yet this seemed to me to be quite reasonable, as he had been very helpful and given me the bulk of his afternoon. Still, the contents of this carton of “Double Happy” deathsticks are the only cigarettes that I have ever bought.

Given my spare parts expenditure that day, the next morning I needed to change some more money for my bike's fare – a challenge, given that it was both a Sunday and May the first. After stopping outside the closed “Bank of China” I asked the helpful police (my new best friends) and they suggested I go to an upmarket hotel to change money. I was about to do this when I chanced apon an older gentleman out for a stroll. His English was good, and he offered to show me another bank that might be open, so we walked along for a while, chatting about his business and mine.

Eventually we reached the bank, and there were big queues, because everybody wanted their money for their holiday. Usually there are Q-Matic machines (where you take a numbered ticket and sit down) but today there was just a long line. My new-found friend rushed up and down talking to the guard and staff, trying to get me hurried along the queue, and eventually did manage to jump me a bit. I felt a bit embarrassed as I wasn't in that much of a hurry...

The upshot is that I got just the right amount of money out, and we started walking back. And then, sadly, my “friend” started pestering me to give him some money. He started high, and dropped the price slowly, telling me all the things he had done for me – well this was true, but it was unfortunately one of those times when I read the signs wrong – he had presented himself as a nice-enough older gentleman out for a stroll, not a money-grabbing tout. In any case, I had no spare money, so eventually he stormed off, leaving a bad taste in my mouth, and I realised I had no idea how to get back to my small hotel. Usually I carry a bit of paper with the name of my hotel (to ask for directions, as I can't usually pronounce the name), but not this time - I had thought I was just going 200m up the road!

As the rain came down I wondered this way and that, thinking how silly the situation was, and how annoyed I'd be if I missed my ferry after all the success that I had had. Thankfully, after wondering around lost for a quarter of an hour I eventually came apon the right street, got on my bike, and rode for the ferry.

Customs procedures were simple enough – I had to wheel my bike through the terminal, and have the most thorough unpacking I had yet been subjected to (not very), but nobody questioned my right to have the bike or export it. Significantly I wasn't asked to produce my “Declaration Form” which had been so important when I imported the bike. And stamping the carnet was simply achieved, although they didn't think it was necessary at all, and grumbled a little. I paid for and left the bike here, with all my luggage, for them to load later. And then I was through, and on to the ship.

Given the hopelessness of the ferry company with regard to correspondence, I had had some concerns as to the condition of their vessel, but it turned out to be a comfortable and well-maintained ship. They have even been awarded plaques over numerous years for being a Chinese “National Model Passenger Ship”.

The staff were friendly and helpful and I was allowed to see my bike safely stowed on board. Following the usual preparations, after five long blasts on the horn, we were off...

Actually, the HaungPu River is so heavily trafficked, by vessels of such a wide variety, that hornblowing seems quite a standard activity, and scene is reminiscent of the highway, in a grand, yet slow-moving way. It actually took an hour and a half of winding up the river until we were finally clear of land, and able to reach our cruising speed of 20 knots.

Although it was a grey day, cold and windy, I remained on deck and watched the sights of Shanghai go past, including probably more than a thousand vessels of various descriptions. Once we reached the open water, I again asked to visit my bike, hung out my still-damp sheepskin and suit, and got the luggage I would need for my 48 hours on board.

It was a lazy time, but after the strenuous riding of the past week, I was content to be relaxing for a bit. I passed most of the time reading, writing some trip report, and organising my photographs. The sea was mostly fairly calm, and so seasickness wasn't a huge issue, although I did start to get a cold, for the first time in the entire trip. I suspect this had something to do with the Japanese gentleman in my cabin who kept clearing his throat loudly.

I was one of four "foreigners" (i.e. not Japanese or Chinese) on the trip, but I only spoke with oner of the others; Matthius, from Sweden. We had a few pleasant times together on deck, and sampling the various over-priced (compared to Shanghai) dishes at mealtimes.

I had established that the reason this voyage being on a different schedule from every other was that there was a Japanese tour group on board, who were disembarking at a port on the far west of Japan (after less than 24 hours at sea). Seeing a way of getting to my destination more quickly, I tried to be allowed to leave here, but only encountered my first taste of the Japanese way – impeccably polite, and, with regards to plans and regulations, utterly inflexible.