THE ROAD TO THE SKY

Hokkaido roads, Swiss memories, and full-service petrol stations

On a recent road trip through Hokkaido – my first visit to Japan’s northern island after 30 years in the country – I discovered something I had almost forgotten existed in Japan:

A straight road.

Not just straight by Japanese standards. Properly straight.

Some seemed to disappear directly into the horizon, without a bend, traffic light or elderly driver deciding to turn right at the last possible moment.

One road is rather aptly called “Road to the Sky.”

You can see why.

Driving in Japan can be a mixed experience. There are the congested urban roads, of course, although congestion isn’t exactly an exclusively Japanese invention. More characteristic are the narrow, winding roads that seem to have been designed at a time when roads weren’t awash with bulky mini vans and SUVs.

Then there is Hokkaido.

The island is roughly twice the size of Switzerland, but with a fraction of the population. This leaves rather more room for roads – and considerably less need to squeeze them between every available building.

The result is a driver’s paradise.

Wide roads. Long sightlines. Plenty of space.

And, perhaps best of all, a somewhat less aggressive driving style. Nobody seems particularly interested in getting anywhere in a hurry.

I found it wonderfully stress-free.

While I was marvelling at the landscape and the opportunity to drive at speeds that would have been rather more difficult elsewhere in Japan, my brother – who had joined my wife and me from Switzerland – was impressed by something completely different.

Petrol stations.

More specifically, full-service petrol stations.

I remember them from my childhood in Switzerland. Back in the 1970s, it was still relatively common to drive into a petrol station and have an attendant fill the tank, clean the windscreen and, occasionally, check the oil and tyre pressure.

Then came the self-service revolution.

Why pay someone to do something you can perfectly well do yourself?

Quite.

So imagine my brother’s delight when we pulled into a petrol station in Hokkaido and someone actually came out, pumped the fuel and cleaned the windscreen – while we remained comfortably seated in the car.

I could see he was feeling very nostalgic.

One day, we fuelled up at a tiny petrol station in a small village in the middle of nowhere: One pump, one elderly attendant, no credit cards. It was like transported straight back to Switzerland in the 1970s.

Japan does have self-service petrol stations. But they still account for only around 40 per cent of the total.

When I arrived in Japan in 1996, things were rather different.

There were no self-service stations at all.

And this wasn’t because Japan had decided that customers were too precious to be allowed near petrol pumps.

It was the law.

Petrol is classified as a hazardous material, and under Japan’s fire-safety regulations it had to be dispensed by trained personnel.

Which meant that one of the first Japanese expressions I learned was:

“Mantan, onegaishimasu.”

Full tank, please.

I found it easy to remember.

Back in the 1970s and ’80s, there was an Opel model called the Manta, which was something of a cultural phenomenon in Germany and Switzerland.

Manta.

Mantan.

Close enough.

Thirty years later, I can still say it – and I need it frequently, when pulling into one of those roughly 27,000 full-service stations in the country.

Of course, the regulations changed in 1998, allowing customers to pump their own petrol.

You might therefore expect the full-service station to have gradually disappeared.

But it didn’t.

Because Japan had discovered another reason for keeping it:

Customer service.

And perhaps that explains my brother’s reaction better than anything else.

For me, the great revelation of Hokkaido was a road stretching endlessly towards the horizon.

For him, it was someone cleaning the windscreen without being asked.

Different countries. Different priorities.

Although, to be fair, after several hours of driving, I was quite happy to let someone clean mine, too.