Wherever I may be in the world I seem to have an unwanted inbuilt magnetic pull towards the elderly, infirm and downright deluded when travelling on public transport.
Nam veterans, the frothy mouthed hillbilly who decided the Santa Cruz Greyhound queue was a perfect moment to declare he has AIDS to a total stranger. The Glaswegian soothsayer’s failed attempts to convince me that Armageddon is nigh, the aged Mexican who invited us to his bachelor pad, with hammocks full of bikini clad Page 3 models and the priest who tried to convert me to the wonderful world of Christianity.
Travelling back from Shikoku, little more than the remains of a lavish mosquito banquet, I slowly edge my swollen body into a seat.
Having paid more than double the price of the outbound journey, due to inadvertently hopping aboard an “express service,” shaving a mere 25 minutes off the total journey time, I take solace from the fact that at least I’m settled in a relatively clean, cartoon theme carriage with legroom and an empty seat alongside.
This rare moment of solitude is cut short as the train guard approaches and proceeds to talk gibberish, gesturing wildly, until I can act stupid no longer and am forced to move to economy class. Struggling with my backpack down the jostly, narrow aisled carriage, custom made for tiny framed hobbit-sized Japanese people, my sores scrape against all manner of wayward objects en route. Arriving further down the train in cattle grade, puss oozing freely from my now gaping wounds, the train-guard frantically nods encouragingly for me to sit down.
Scoping the crowded carriage, I breathe a sigh of relief upon clocking a free seat a little further along, a relief fast replaced by sheer horror as I clap eyes on my travelling companion. False teeth in hand, he invites me to sit, grinning a wide and gummy grin before taking a swig of whisky from a can.
The stench of alcohol and stale fish hits me as he leans over, nudging at my elbow and breathing in my face.
Quickly I discover his base English is “No English, happy, Thank you!” which he utters repeatedly while nodding with an enormous sense of pride. Using my best Japanese I discover he is 60 years old, hails from Osaka, is unemployed and, on first impressions, is unemployable.
A short and awkward silence ensues as he sighs and giggles, evidently trying to think of a way to continue the conversation, despite this most unfortunate language barrier, until a light bulb pings in his whiskey addled head. Leaning down, he rummages in a carrier bag and resurfaces with a beige, floppy looking substance, which he hands me, displaying gnarled hands and blackened fingernails.
Not wanting to offend, I accept the mystery substance with false gratitude and he encourages me to eat.
A look of revelation washes over his face, as he pulls a fifth word from the depths of his surviving grey matter.
“Feeshh, feeeesh, feeesh," he declares, nodding and smiling contentedly at his own achievement.
Of all the English words to spring to mind, he really doesn’t need to tell me it is fish.
The smell is unbearable as I stare dubiously at the warm, greasy substance poised precariously between my fingertips. This is the point of no return so, taking the plunge, I nibble the edge as he looks on in eager anticipation.
Since coming to Japan I have made a pact with myself to eat anything and everything which is set before me. So far this has included whole fish, dead eyes and gaping mouths included, chicken backbone, tentacles, raw chicken and even chicken ovary, all of which has been surprisingly palatable.
However, this mystery fodder invokes an involuntary gag reflux. Crunchy yet greasy, the food connoisseur in me detects lard, mixed with crunched up fish bones, gelatin, and finished with a dash more lard.
One - and only one - word can describe it – inedible. Technically then I am not breaking my self-imposed food pact when the diurectic effects of the whiskey see him making a dash for the toilet, squat toilet, I hasten to add.
In his absence, I am forced to sacrifice a CD cover from a friend’s band we’d seen earlier in the day, to surreptitiously wrap the remainder of the unidentifiable snack and stow it in my handbag. Gummy returns and nothing more of it is mentioned.
An awkward silence resumes, broken only by my 60-year-old toothless train buddy’s sporadic sighs and twitches as he thinks of a way to fill it.
So I get out my exercise book to show him all the Japanese words I can say as well as my writing practice. Blinkered from the wide and varied vocabulary I have picked up in the past three months, his eyes hone straight in on “dokushin”, the word for “single,” at which he points and laughs hysterically.
Seemingly, he takes my little display as a come-on and pulls out his own notepad, pointing and making writing motions with his hands as he shouts; “adderessu, denwa bango!” meaning can I have your address and phone number.
Older, wiser and less afraid to offend than I once was, I ignore his persistence, maintaining that I don’t understand until he eventually tires and puts his book away.
For the remainder of the journey he mutters, "happy happy thank you" every so often and pats my arm with his grubby, and now possibly urine drenched hands, right on my weeping bites.
As the train pulls into
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