Tuesday 30 August 2011

She’s a gaijin, she’s a legal gaijin, she’s a northern lass in Japan

A recent visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends from back home highlighted just how great an extent the downright bizarre has since become my utterly mundane.

Calamities struck from the moment of touch down at Hiroshima Airport.

Global beliefs, that Japan’s impeccable transport infrastructure places it as world leader in all things kinetic, were questioned when we entered the toll road. With rocketing prices following the atrocities in the north of the country, toll roads have a real impact on the bank balance. With nowhere to turn around when you finally realise that you are heading in the opposite direction from home and, to make matters worse, straight towards a bridge costing the equivalent of £30 to cross, it is a major disadvantage to be plagued with the navigational prowess of a visually impaired mole when travelling in Japan.

And to make matters even worse, we were running on empty.

Ironically petrol stations are scarce on toll roads, the main gateway between prefectures.

Down to the last bar, we creep steadily along at 30kmh in an 80kmh zone, eking out every last millilitre. Eventually we find an exit, and using terrible Japanese attempt to ask where the nearest petrol station is located.

Convinced the gatekeeper has told us to follow the road for 20 metres, we disappear into the darkness down an unlit, seemingly uninhabited long and winding country road to nowhere.

Twenty minutes later, the final bar now flashing violently and a distinct smell of burning coming from the engine, there is still no civilisation on the horizon. Visions of sleeping on the side of the road with rapists lurking in the forest plague our thoughts. As it’s been a long time since there’s been any male interest coming my way I gladly volunteer to take one for the team.

Then, in the distance, is it a mirage, no it’s a real city? Down a long, spiral road.

Freewheeling the entire way, we draw up next to a wooden shack café with a shaven headed, heavily tattooed man stood outside. Rushing from the car to ask him where the nearest station is, a pitbull terrier appears from nowhere and attempts to rip off my face. In sheer terror, I run for the safety of the car as the man shouts “chotto matte” - (wait a little) and disappears.

Suspicions that these strangers are Yakuza sparks fears that the end is nigh. Fuelled further as skinhead returns with an equally dubious-looking friend, armed with a scooter, which he mounts and starts up, beckoning us to follow to our almost certain deaths.

Less than a minute later, we take a right turn, inducing an Hallelujah moment on a par with those Western Toilet instances.

A petrol station.

We rummage around for some Haribo to offer this Good Samaritan. But when we look up our knight in black leather has disappeared into the darkness with so much as an arigato.

We are saved and my involuntary stint of celibacy continues.

It seems the gateman actually informed us that the station was 20 kilometres away, and not 20 metres.

Hungry and craving wine to block out the terrors of the night thus far, we stop at a local shop for supplies.

Entering is like walking onto a hybrid set of Disney Pixar’s A Bugs Life and a David Attenborough documentary.

Insects with faces and eyes the size of frisbees, in an array a colours, shapes and sizes greet us with wide, menacing smiles turning the shop into an obstacle course we are forced to duck, dive and somersault our way around.

Upon finally returning to the apartment, three hours later than scheduled, I throw the door open, welcoming Catherine to my humble abode only to be greeted by the scream of an imprisoned cockroach as it leaps over our heads and to freedom over the balcony, plummeting into the infinite depths of the thicket below.

Looking out of my apartment window, a spider the size a newborn child’s head has taken up residency on the property opposite, less than two metres and once single pane of glass separating it from the futon I had laid out for my guest.

A trip to the riverside the following day was when I truly realised just how far removed my norm is, in fact, from normal.

Hula-hooping next to a riverside foot-onsen, overlooking an indoor hot-spring where elderly residents, male and female alike, go to chill-out in their birthday suits, sparked the interest of two drunk, toothless old men.

After peering through the windows of the building, they dressed and staggered, in a way suggestive that it was a struggle to walk even before they started on the extra strong Chu-hi (the Japanese equivalent of Special Brew).

As they accosted us, pulling the hoops out of my hands, and doing their best to impress, in our peripheral vision we could see another man setting fires along the riverbank before walking off, leaving us in the midst of a blazing inferno.

The three things that Japanese bumpkins like doing best are

Drinking

Taking their clothes off

And burning things

Often simultaneously.

This scenario washed over me until I realised the confused yet amused look on Catherine’s face, which was made even more comical when a huge van with a microphone big enough for ET to finally make that long-overdue call home, began blurting out all kinds of over-zealous gibberish, breaking the serenity of the valleys of Yubara further still.

On the walk home from our ‘quiet’, mainly wine-based picnic, we encountered a snake which, sadly, had come to an untimely end, strewn across the road up to my apartment. I could tell that, for Catherine, it really was like home from home.

One thing I had promised we would do during her stay was to visit the monkeys at Kamba Waterfall just minutes from my house. Ranking in the top 100 most beautiful places to visit in Japan, with monkeys of all ages waiting to greet you, I had built the excursion up just a little too much.

When we arrived, the monkeys had gone.

Talking to Lucy later that day, it transpired that there is an unusual and considerable high monkey presence, sunbathing on the road-side in her town, Muroto, some eight hours away by car.

Evidently the furry little fuckers have been taking full advantage of the cheap “ju hatchi kippu” summer holiday train ticket to take a trip to the seaside.

Next to Kyoto, land of Geishas.

Armed with a camera to capture them in their natural habitat, Catherine makes a bolt across the road to snap proof of her first sighting.

Which turns out to be a man, in drag. Who has, despite the layers of white stuff, the most obvious 5 o’clock shadow ever viewed by the human eye.

Coming from the North of England, Catherine’s reactions throughout her stay scream volumes of just how far the oddities of Japan stretch in relation to other, seemingly similar places around the world.

She ensures me she had the holiday of a lifetime and there are many amazing things we did do, which I haven’t blogged about as they are, quite frankly, too normal.

All that remains to say is that, scratch the surface and Japan is high up there in the realms of the quirkiest places to live on this rock which we are all lucky enough to inhabit.

Sunday 28 August 2011

Paradise Lost

Taking full advantage of the once in a lifetime opportunity we are currently experiencing, we decided to say Sayonara to the mountainous beauty of Honshu and Konnichiwa to Japan’s “little bit of paradise”, embarking on a 12-day island hopping adventure to Okinawa.

Landing in a place incomprehensibly hotter than the heat we have now grown accustomed to, we were looking forward to the white sand beaches, clear blue seas and beach parties, which all the guide books had promised.

So upon catching a bus into Naha City on the main island, we were surprised to come face to face with what was more akin to a run down version of Beirut.

Booked into a hostel which hadn’t seen a cleaning cloth since the 1970’s, we made a vow to leave on the first ferry to an island strongly recommended by fellow travellers the following morning.

Rising with the cicadas, we escaped to Tokashiki where we were indeed rewarded with an idyllic beach, azure seas, peace and tranquillity. But prices per person for one night in even the cheapest hostels started at around 6,000 yen, the equivalent of £45 English pounds, no food included.

On a budget tighter than Shylock’s purse, and left with no alternative, we were forced to camp near to countless schoolchildren on an overnight visit for a far more affordable rate of 1,000 yen.

Taking to the sea, the hazy bubble of tranquillity immediately burst as we were swamped by schoolchildren, mesmerised by the token Westerners so far away from home. Climbing on us, splashing water in our faces and screaming in a combination of Japanese and broken English, the afternoon turned from paradise into little more than a crèche. A situation unaided by Scott, who continued to vie for their attention long after they finally lost interest in us.

Kitted out in bikinis, we provided a great contrast to other beach dwellers, who looked like they were about to embark on an artic expedition. With every inch of flesh covered, they transformed the beach into the direct opposite of a nudist colony. Many were in the sea clad in items of clothing far exceeding the total baggage allowance I was permitted to bring to Japan for an entire year.

As the sun set over the beach, more stars than I have ever seen littered the sky, with one after another plummeting to their deaths, symbolising the end of galaxies millions of light years away.

Again an ideal setting.

That is until two young boys began skinny dipping and doing all they could to get us involved. Rumours of Okinawan Japanese youths, breaking the prudish stereotypes of the mainland, most certainly rang true. But despite warnings that people are far more liberal on the island, nothing prepares you to have your knee humped like a cocker spaniel by a skinny, incredibly drunk, 21-year-old.

The next morning we awoke covered in sand and drowning in our own sweat to discover that ants had claimed colony over our faces. It was only at this point that it came to our attention that the campsite was also infested with poisonous Okinawan snakes.

Having stared death in the face, and survived, we returned to Naha.

And the next day, to Kume, which the guidebook promised contained “everything you need for the perfect Okinawan holiday.”

Finding a more reasonably priced hostel at 2,000 yen per night and backing onto Eef Beach, the “best beach on the island,” we were relieved to have found somewhere we could finally relax.

As far as hostels go it was stunning, clean and spacious, with the added bonus that snorkelling gear was all inclusive. And so to the beach. Snorkels at the ready, we ran down to the promised white sands of Kume.

And were confronted with litter, seaweed and razor sharp coral which could cut through diamond.

Despite these drawbacks, and having spent 6,000 yen on the ferry trip alone, cash was dwindling and we were determined to make the most of our time on the island. Entering the sea, it seemed feasible that a person could hobble through coral and reach Australia without the water level reaching anything over thigh-deep. Crouching, we attempted to snorkel anyway but the water was so misty that it was impossible to see anything at all. I did manage to spot two fish and then screamed, gesturing our designated danger symbol as what could only be a huge lump of faeces bobbed towards my head.

And so we evacuated the waters of Kume.

Leaving the beach, we noticed a large stone slab engraved with the words “Eef, voted in Japan’s top 100 beaches.” Needless to say, this left us speechless.

Expenditures on our adventure had left us no cash for meals out. As we drank cup-a-soups for dinner that evening, I realised the advantages of my overpaid, under-stimulating job back in London as Japan had reverted me to levels of poverty we had not known since the Withnail and I-esque student days. We wallowed in self-pity, uncertain when or where our next pint would come from.

The following day, money was scarce and we were forced to return to the main island and sweat it out until our flights home.

Again the guidebook displayed a beautiful photograph of the island’s one and only beach. And so, as a final extravagance, we forked out 150 yen each to hail a taxi to transport us to yet another of the island’s utopic highlights. Letting us out at the other side of a slope leading to the beach, the taxi sped off and we made our ascent.

And so it came into view on the horizon.

A man-made beach.

Overlooking a motorway.

With strict borders the size of a public swimming pool.

At this point it was impossible not to laugh at the utter failure our holiday had become.

Yenless from futile efforts to seek out paradise, we were left with no option but to change our flights, come home early and live off rice and water until pay day.