I loved the idea of living in Japan even before ‘coming to Japan’ was a seed of a remote possibility in my life. And when I finally came, I immediately ‘felt’ I’d like it here. I did and still do. And I attribute my love of the place to my desire to assimilate into the culture as opposed to trying to improve it to fit me.

There are many incidents that surprise me to this day, but today I want to tell you about one that humbled me.

The Mamachari

From someone who heard the word for the first time in the 1990s. I gotta tell you, this is not your typical word. It’s not your typical utility mode of transportation unless you are in Japan.

I have to laugh and agree with the writer I found on the web today, who writes:

“The mamachari is a cultural icon, it’s the Japanese equivalent of the family station wagon. It’s the family workhorse used on shopping runs, for riding to the local station, taking the kids to school or picking them up from sports practice. Without it families around the country would be in a right pickle. ”— Byron Kidd

Today, though the mom-bike with the child seat(s) has evolved to the tune of a solar-energy, soft-purring motor-operated bicycle, it is still called The Mamachari.

Researching this brought me to find you this great post by someone who has put in a lot of hours researching the market and knows what he’s talking about. So dear friends, I present to you, Mr. Byron Kidd. He’s the founder of the Tokyo By Bike website, from where you can read all about the infamous Mamachari. Invitation to visit Byron’s Tokyo by bike website.

On the website, you can find better pictures and he tells about a Mamachari Endurance Race held annually. Do read it.

In the 1990s I was a new mother raising my kids in a land so foreign than my own that tuning in to the way I saw my mommy-friends do it turned to be the new normal I wanted to imitate.

All my friends did it. I, on the other hand, took great pleasure in walking long distances pushing my child in a stroller. Yes, there are strollers here as well, but as you can imagine, the double-wheel mode of transport got you there faster.

Oh, oh, yeah. You remember me telling you about that time when I went to get a drivers license. Yeah, the time I got a culture shock. Aha, I blogged about that last week. Take One; Take Two. Providing the link in case you missed it.

Did you read it? Yeah, I was issued a driver’s license then. I know!
But as luck would have it, my husband drove a stick-shift then, and I, not learned in the maneuvering of something like that, where hands and feet are involved at the same time, well, I just didn’t…

Go ‘head, laugh!

Anyway, that’s the reason I didn’t get behind the wheel at first and why I depended on my foot-mobile for the most part until it dawned on me that perhaps I too should try to adapt the Mamachari as my mode of transport.

Uh-huh.

But, I had a few qualms about the baby carriers on the bicycles, the biggest of which was that I didn’t think the flimsy plastic things were safe enough for me to sit my bundle of joy in. So, I did the next best thing I knew. Through a foreign company that thrived big time within my foreign-wives community, I ordered me a sturdy bicycle-carrier that I felt right away would offer me and my child all the protection I needed.

I waited long for it to be delivered and when it finally arrived my husband excitedly mounted it on the rear luggage rack of my newly bought bicycle. I practiced with it without my precious load and got my senses to adjust to the weight of the contraption. I felt confident I could do it.

And then the day came. I set my little boy up on the bicycle seat and fastened him well. And together we donned our matching helmets, something that no one did back then.

What a happy sight, I thought to myself as we rode down to the park to meet our Japanese friends for a picnic lunch.

Oh my, it was an emancipating experience. I kept to my side on the streets and together with my little boy, “Oooh, fun, fun,” I exalted trying to crush the monster that kept getting bigger and bigger inside my head. “Oh, fun, fun!”

“Faster, faster Mommy,” my little boy urged.

And faster and faster I zoomed.

Then I arrived at the park.
Red raced.
Huffing and puffing.
And laughing, like a demented hyena on steroids.

You ever saw such a hyena? No. Me neither…

My child was elated when I took him off the seat, but it took my friends a good — Oh, I don’t know how long it took — thirty minutes perhaps, to get me to calm down. I was shaking and in tears, I tell you.

Color me wimp. Color me klutz, Mamachari.

Now you’ll call me a wimp. And that’s okay, because I know I felt like one. But in my defense let me tell you this. That damn contraption was heavy. In the country where it was made, outdoorsy people attach the thing to their lean but sturdy recreational bicycles. The thing provides their bundles of joy, protection. That kind of protection was too heavy a load for someone like me, who wasn’t comfortable riding a bicycle out in the open where cars, zoomed by on narrow streets. I couldn’t do it.

Sheesh. *tapping fingers* Tetchy!

I gave it away, with the child seat and all, to a younger mama-friend to use.

My take. There are three:
assimilate but honor your limitations;
take a cue from the locals;
don’t sweat the small stuff.

What’s your take?

***

May is the Month of Mothers.
Here are two blog posts I wish to share as they remind me of my mother.

Getting Married in a Small Town

Ode to My Mother 

I THANK YOU FOR READING.
I Wish You Miracles.