Driving me crazy

One of the most mind boggling things that I have come across in the past seven months is the unfathomable concept that is the stereotypical Japanese motorist.

Rumours that there’s as much chance of a person passing their test within the generous figure of ten attempts as there is of Saddam Hussein being canonised, are confirmed by our American colleagues. Due to some legal loophole and when they intend on staying in the country for more than a year, US workers must sit the nation’s test, which they repeatedly and without exception fail.

Adding to the list of contradictions, of a country people fall in love with for its contradictions, is the overt recognition that the driving test difficulty factor does not tally with the peril which ensues once a newly qualified motorist is set free on the nation’s roads.

Big on conformity the general consensus is that, as one does, everyone else follows suit. Parallel parking in supermarket car parks is the standard and anyone deviating is considered taboo and subsequently frowned upon. Unless, like me, you’re a foreigner in which case it is acceptable because you are an idiot.

In a car park as empty as The News of the World’s bank account, I park leaving once space between me and the only other vehicle, badly, with my wheels overhanging the space between.

As I am walking toward the store I spy another motorist pulling up alongside my own car, which has just been delivered back to me following work to repair the impact of a hit and run, before attempting to reverse into the space between - which is in fact only half a space because of my inability to conform to the strict regimental parking ethos.

Meanwhile another shopper has arrived, and is making attempt after failed attempt to reverse park between two white lines amid a sea of vacant spaces. Shaking my head in despair I look back to see that potential car crash has aborted mission and is also doing his best to back into the space at the other side of my shiny, newly fixed automobile.

Indicating occurs after a driver has slammed his brakes on and turned the corner, seeing gaijin such as yours truly forced to swerve into on-coming traffic in an unexpected and involuntary impulse reaction.

Habits of white transit vans on winding country lanes suggest that they are universally problematic. Trundling along with speeds fluctuating between 30 and 40kmph – the equivalent of an Ellestimated 18-25mph, is frustratingly dangerous, especially when you haven’t allowed yourself an entire morning to travel to work.

Yet these would-be Formula One racers wreak havoc at road works. Seemingly oblivious to red lights, they carry on straight through at the same break neck speeds into the inevitable stream of oncoming traffic, causing road closures, diversions and heightened stress levels of Ellie Mays. I exaggerate slightly, none of the above has ever resulted from a white van man’s rash actions but there is a strong probability that I will one day soon find myself entangled in this unfortunate sequence of events.

Not only are the motorists a menace to society, so too are the location of petrol stations. A country dominated by mountains, toll roads are the main gateway and most popular access route between two points. On a long journey a car can be on the highway for the majority of the day. Yet petrol stations are as commonplace as Anne Widdecombe’s sexual encounters.

To leave the toll to fuel up before re-entering increases the price, seeing a raised proportion of potential breakdowns with empty cars chugging to a standstill as people eke out every last millilitre in the vain hope that, like a mirage, a petrol station will appear on the horizon.

Invariably it never does.

We have encountered the dangers of absent petrol stations first hand when I was almost mauled by a dog before being rounded up and shot by the Yakuza as is accounted in an earlier blog.

There is a vending machine on the top of Mount Fuji but no fuel resources in the most essential locations countrywide.

Despite all this the longer I am here the more, like everyone else, I accept Japan’s flaws with a shrug and the fleeting thought, which provides a perfectly legitimate excuse for all the inexplicable idiocy which is the glue holding the country together.

“That’s Japan for you.”