Hurtling toward Vienna on the German autobahns, I have two passengers. One is Okinawan, Takashi Hirayasu. The other, Bob Brozman, is American. Both are playing Bolivian charangos to pass the time, which makes for an interesting multicultural soundtrack for driving. Something like Indian Ocean rhythms and Okinawan melodies played with a Mexican flourish and a hint of the blues. Sure beats the radio.

In late April, Hirayasu and Brozman embarked on their first tour as a duo to promote their CD "Jin Jin/Firefly." Recorded on the small Okinawan island of Taketomi, where they first met, the magic of that recording has captured the imagination of all who have heard it. In a few months, "Jin Jin" reached No. 2 on the world music charts, and has become the best-selling Okinawan CD in Europe.

By a twist of fate I ended up as their tour manager, driver, roadie, translator, photographer, accountant, CD vendor and stage announcer.

Brozman is an old hand at traveling around Europe as a solo act. He's generally recognized as the world's leading player of National steel guitars, and as a master of Hawaiian guitar. His shows are also known for his unique wit, leading him to be branded the "Groucho Marx" of the blues.

That humor continues offstage as well, and into our MPV, in an endless stream of observations. He explains to Hirayasu his cynical view on the five stages of show business: 1) Who is Takashi Hirayasu? 2) Get me Takashi Hirayasu. 3) Get me someone who sounds like Takashi Hirayasu. 4) Get me a young Takashi Hirayasu. 5) Who is Takashi Hirayasu? At present, we are on stage two.

Meanwhile, Hirayasu is a touring novice, blissfully unaware of where he is most of the time. A man who loves his coffee, I keep telling him we have to drink Vienna coffee in Vienna. We sit down at a Vienna cafe, but disappointingly can't find any. Drinking cappuccino, only when he looks at a sign under a bank that says "Wien," does Hirayasu realize this is Vienna, and make the connection. "Yume mitai (It's like a dream)," he sighs.

The venue for this particular night is one of the city's larger halls, the Szene. We are greeted in the lobby by photos of past performers such as Suede, Portishead, Lauryn Hill and Marilyn Manson, and unrepeatable graffiti in the dressing room by the same artists and others. The sound check turns into a rehearsal, as this tour is the first time they have played together as a duo, and the instrumentation and arrangements are still developing.

They start late, to allow more Viennese to filter into the hall. In his limited English, Hirayasu comes across as earnest and sensitive and in his playing as powerful and charismatic. Brozman strikes a perfect balance between his own wit and emotional tales of his friendship with Hirayasu. His flashes of brilliance on guitar gain impromptu bursts of applause. In the end, though, it's that friendship, and their sense of fun, spontaneity and pure joy, that earns them a standing ovation and an encore -- a situation that happily would be repeated at every show.

We had initially met up in London, taking the Eurostar to Brussels to start the first leg of the tour. We are carrying six guitars, two charangos, two sanshin (Okinawa shamisen), sound equipment, three suitcases, two computers and cameras. Life on the road is anything but glamorous: packing, unpacking, loading, offloading, carrying, wheeling and lots of sweating.

"Musician's life, so very comfortable!" exclaims Hirayasu, struggling up the last flight of stairs in one of those old, narrow, elevatorless European hotels. Brozman is convinced he's going to collapse and die one day from exhaustion. His National steel guitars may look great, but boy, are they heavy.

In Brussels, their first appearance is for a live morning radio show. The talk is in Flemish, and a local group are playing rock and soul covers. A mute Okinawan-American duo playing traditional Okinawan children's songs might be rather incongruous, but radio programmers can be open-minded in Europe.

Their gig in the evening is at the same venue. On an adjacent, larger stage, Youssou N'Dour's concert is a sellout. Fortunately, their smaller hall is packed. With some relief they go down a storm.

Following Brussels, the tour moves on to Eeklo, in Belgium, followed by a long drive to Vienna, and Innsbruck, Austria. We then drive all night and all day to reach Paris in time for a radio show. In Paris, Hirayasu and Brozman are joined by a kora (African harp) player from Guinea, Djeli Moussa Diawara. The mix of kora, sanshin and Brozman's Hawaiian guitar is mesmerizing, and the two concerts in Paris are highlights of the tour. Diawara and Hirayasu can't communicate easily. "How old are you?" asks Hirayasu, "Fine," replies Diawara.

With his sanshin set up to play in an African scale, Hirayasu is soon playing African melodies and rhythms like it's second nature. Not surprisingly, he takes every opportunity to enjoy Parisian cafe society, which he decides suits him to the ground.

We head on to Bremen, Germany, for a concert and another radio show, then to a hastily arranged gig in a room in Amsterdam's red-light district, followed by an eye-opening walk around the area. If anything, the shows are getting tighter, the arrangements and instrumentation now fully worked out.

We find out on the border of Holland and Belgium we have three hours to reach Paris for yet another radio show. My foot hits the pedal and only comes off the floor when I spot any threatening police cars. This was one time I would have preferred to be back in Germany, on one of the autobahns, but we make it just in time.

After the mother of all struggles with our luggage in the Gare du Nord, we board the Eurostar again, for their final concert in London. This is in some ways the most important gig of all. The record company is based here, and a number of key journalists and other media, we are told, will be coming.

Londoners can be the most critical and reserved audience of all. The Purcell Room, on London's South Bank, has a great sound, but can be a bit intimidating, as I find out when I introduce them. I can sense a nervous edge in both Brozman and Hirayasu. Brozman's delicate solos on Hawaiian guitar especially can seem brutally exposed: He describes the finesse of playing under such circumstances as "like stepping on eggshells." But they soon relax and the obvious delight they derive from playing together rubs off on the audience.

By now they have developed a routine of ending the show by jumping offstage, Hirayasu with a sanshin, and Brozman a charango in hand, and playing and dancing between the chairs. They advance to the back of the hall, only to discover there are no exits, so sit down for a short break before retreating back to the front and leaving via a side door. Everyone is left standing and cheering.

A musician's life on the road might be fun, meeting new people and making people happy. But after a few weeks of toting equipment and struggling to keep my eyes focused on the road in front to meet near-impossible deadlines, I can now sit at my computer with a new sense of tranquillity.