As an independent pure
blooded northerner, being overly mothered is not something I am accustomed, or
ever wish to grow accustomed to.
Having been warned that
Japanese people are helpful, sometimes too helpful, I was on my guard.
Nothing could prepare me
for the general public’s innate impulsion to offer their assistance with pretty
much everything, to levels incomprehensible to those back on home turf.
Having spent the previous
two years living in London,
where the extent of friendliness stemmed to the man in Starbucks begrudgingly
making me a new coffee after shouting at me because he'd botched up my order in
the first place, I was taken aback by this unfathomable desire to assist.
Alighting the bus in Hiroshima city centre in
my first hour on the Orient, laden with a rucksack and two suitcases large
enough to conceal a family of evacuees, the proceeding course of events set the
precedence for the year to come.
Accompanied by Scott and
Lucy, who I had met in the customs queue, an unfamiliar trio was
stranded at an unfamiliar bus stop with no idea which way to head. Lost in a
sprawling non-English speaking metropolis, our collaborated mental Japanese
phrasebook was limited and incoherent to the various city dwellers who did
their best to assist regardless.
Beginning to fear a
night, if not longer, co-habiting the doorway of McDonalds with the Hiroshima homeless, it
was in our hour of need that a miracle occurred.
A businessman,
accompanied by his three drunken employees appeared to us.
Putting their collective
beer tinted grasp of English together, they decoded what others had found un-decodable
to realize our plight.
We had been saved.
Expecting at most a
hand-drawn map, we were surprised to find three of the quartet slink away,
waving enthusiastically at their remaining colleague and our nominated
Samaritan for the night. The plight of the foreigners had become a shackle
around his neck.
Ignoring my objections,
he took the heaviest of my suitcases, trundling off down the street, with us
following hot on his heels.
Anywhere else in the
world wandering off down dark alleyways with a stranger, who has possession of
half of your vital belongings for the coming year, may be viewed as slightly irresponsible.
In Japan,
wisely or not, we felt no threat.
A good 20 minutes later
the Comfort Hotel appeared on the horizon. We thanked him graciously, making
failed attempts to retrieve my suitcase, but he soldiered on, right up to the
entrance before bowing countless times. As we edged into the building he
continued to smile and wave.
Japanese hotel lifts are
not custom made for three suitcase laden westerners. Despite our best attempts
to board, the doors slammed repeatedly, squashing our bags, various body parts
and at one point almost decapitating Scott, which wouldn’t have been such a bad
thing.
All the while the
Samaritan continued to observe, still smiling and waving with the same level
of unnatural enthusiasm.
After watching our
ridiculous display for a minute or so longer, he ceased waving and entered the
hotel lobby to assist, mastering the art of packing westerners into a
claustrophobic lift remarkably well.
As the doors closed, he
continued to wave and cheer through the glass until we were safely out of sight
and mind.
This first impression is
typical of Japanese culture. Despite their best efforts, the more I tell them I
don’t understand what they’re saying, the more animated and fast paced their
Japanese becomes, utterly oblivious to my growing confusion.
In restaurants I try my
best and order something I can pronounce. But their need to ensure
what is served up is exactly what the customer asks for usually has detrimental
results.
And so as they continue
to ask question after question, with the speed of a speed addict, my coping
mechanism is to say “Hai,” (yes) to everything until the gibberish ceases.
“Hai-ing” to everything
invariably saw the Udon, pizza, gyoza, tempura, sushi, whatever it was I thought
I was ordering transforming into fried chicken.
Always fried chicken.
Another time I pointed at
a delicious looking stir-fry a lady on another table was eating. With a nod of
acknowledgement, the waitress trotted off and ten minutes later, I’m served
fried chicken.
Sometimes upon spying a
foreigner restaurant staff are so eager to please that they develop an
unnerving ability to appear out of nowhere, eyes like saucers and milimetres
from your face before you’ve even had chance to sit down. They sit in wait,
despite it being glaringly obvious that you haven’t opened the menu, let
alone attempted to decode the gibberish that lies within.
Before learning how to
say “wait a minute”, this saw us falling into a wild and panicked frenzy,
pointing randomly at the menu and hoping for the best.
And the best was
always fried chicken.
After a month the day
came when I felt confident to put my Hiragana and Katana into practice. Excited
to try out my newfound ability, I proudly ordered us a pepperoni pizza.
I had never felt so
liberated.
Reading the Japanese
alphabets had opened up endless possibilities.
We were served garlic
pasta.
At least it was a
variation on fried chicken.
A prime example of their
inability to comprehend that we don’t comprehend was my first expedition on the
toll road.
With no barrier I was
unaware that I had to stop and collect a ticket at the start of the journey.
This lead to an unfortunate encounter at the end as the ticket guard smiled and
spoke at rapid rates. I shook my head and repeated “Watashi wa Nihongo ga
wakarimasen” (I don’t understand Japanese). But still he continued, gesturing
wildly and smiling like a man possessed.
A coping mechanism at
times of immense frustration like these is to respond in English, uttering all
sorts of socially unacceptable phrases, lessening the blows of frustration and
allowing the perpetrator to survive their brief encounter with Ellie May
unscathed.
On a night out in Osaka we stumbled out of
a karaoke bar at around midnight. With the night still young on our first visit
to one of the most popular Japanese cities, we collared an unsuspecting couple,
asking them if they could recommend a good place to go.
Again no maps, no
directions, they insisted: “We will take you somewhere.”
Ten minutes later we’re
sat in their friend's bar, drinking cocktails and playing cards as we muddle
through stilted conversation, an ability greatly assisted by the streams of
free alcohol.
Already full from an
earlier meal of chicken parts, ovary, liver (which was decidedly fluffy) and
unidentifiable entrails, we had no stomach for the tray of octopus balls
covered in a sweet, tar-like substance that the chef kindly cooked up as a free
treat for his new western friends.
And so Lucy’s handbag
became a smuggling vessel for inedible fish parts.
Out for a bite to eat in
my friend Johnny's non-entity of a town, Hokubo, it transpired that 7 o’clock
on a Friday evening was an unreasonable time to expect to find an
open restaurant. Not helped by the fact that, as neither of us can read
Kanji, attempts to walk into somewhere which ‘looks’ like it might be a
restaurant could well see us charged with breaking and entering, followed by inevitable
deportation.
However we did manage to
spy through the curtains of one shop and took the plunge. Entering an empty
restaurant we were greeted by a couple who defied the laws of death by old age.
The wise pair stared and gibbered as we asked what time they closed and made
eating gestures.
In return the man, living
proof that Yoda does exist, scurried off into the back room. He re-emerged brandishing
two large oranges and, handing us one each, showed us out of the door while
making wild eating and driving gestures.
And so we drove.
And drove
And drove
For half and hour or more
before deciding to abort mission and u-turn home. It was at this turning point
that, like the moment Mary and Joseph were accepted at the stable, it
appeared. A lowly shack standing proud and erect amid a mountainous wasteland.
Excitement overcame us.
We parked, entered, and, with a floor like a teenaged rock club, struggled to
the nearest table with shoes intact. Sitting down the tables were no better,
years of grease and spilt beer forming a sticky varnish-like coating.
The waitress approached
immediately, staring at us expectantly as we prised open the menu. When we
thought things couldn’t possibly get better, out of nowhere a guardian angel
appeared by Johnny's shoulder.
“Johnny?” he asked.
With Johnny too
embarrassed to ask who the friendly stranger was, we allowed him to help us
order and engaged him conversation for quite some time until beer allowed us to
confirm his identity.
He was in fact the
rent-a-car assistant who had delivered Johnny’s set of wheels a few days
earlier.
I cannot remember the
names of my fellow teachers, the students or even some of my closest friends.
Yet this man, who’s name ironically escapes me, can remember Johnny following a
quick exchange of keys.
And so our evening was
saved by a man I cannot remember and his idiot friend, Honda, who’s only
knowledge of the English language was to shout,
“My name is Honda” every
so often and do an impression of a motorbike.
The kindly angel even
ordered us a taxi home so we could both drink. But it didn’t stop there, he got
in the cab with us to direct the way back to Johnny’s apartment before finally
wishing us a goodnight.
In my final week on the
orient the taxi driver taking me home from school for the last time searched
his front seat in excitement before sacrificing his can of coffee as a leaving
present from him to me.
Wiping a tear from my eye
I reflected on not just the kindness of this stranger but the entire nation his
small but selfless act represented.
A nation it is impossible
not to fall in love with.
