Japan: the Dark Side

At the end of March (it seems so long ago), I went with Sarah to the land of "Frank" Nakayama, my father's Japanese grandfather. It was about time for a break from Delhi - I was getting weary of the dust, garbage, dead things, monkeys, barbed-wire fences, being sick, did I say garbage? And here was a chance to bond with ancestral spirits and look over the waters that my great-grandfather sailed as a stowaway to America rather than becoming a monk. (Do you think that resistance to ascetic lifestyles runs in the family, perhaps?)

Aaah, I thought, Japan, land of smiling, bowing people - people who throw away trash and can eat several meals in a row without getting sick. Plus, wasn't it cherry blossom time? And yes, it was. You can see that the cherry blossoms were intoxicating. But I'll bet you didn't realize that they are LITERALLY intoxicating. Kind of like when Dorothy wanders innocently into the field of poppies - no, Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore. You're getting high on opium! And this cherry blossoms everywhere thing? It's got to be part of the plan . . . .





There were a lot of smiling people - and some even bowed. Trash was picked up and there were lots of things to eat. But there were things no one had told me about . . .

The first thing I noticed was that there were spies everywhere, disguised as middle-aged women wearing dorky hats. Does it seem like mere coincidence to you that this woman was only steps behind me in the crowd? Notice how she attempted to avert her gaze when I caught her following me and took her picture.










and what about . . .

the Franco-Japanese alliance to take over the world by forcing tourists to become obese?

When I went to Japan, I thought I wouldn't have to worry about fatty foods. A vacation from ghee-saturated foods that were probably "Killing Me Softly." Instead, seaweed salad, sushi, maybe some sweet bean paste - this would be an artery-healing vacation. That's what I thought.


But what were the most pervasive food stores? French bakeries. The first time we saw one we thought it was an anomaly - "Wow! Look at these great French pastries here in Kyoto! Let's eat as many as we can- who knows when we'll see something like THIS again?"

Ha - I started to wonder if "Patisserie" was actually a Japanese word. And they all had those sophisticated Arom-A-matics spewing out freshly-baked pastry smells. I've read about Japan's sophisticated technology in this area, and even though I didn't actually SEE the aroma machines, that's the point, right? I was being manipulated and had no choice but to go into every single one of those places. Once I was there, within the clutches of the French guy with the Japanese accent or the Japanese guy wearing a beret, they knew they had me. "Vat? You only want zee cream pastry? Vat about zee fruit gateau?" And I would not be able to leave until they had coerced me into buying at least two pastries. The amazing brilliance of it all - they program the pastries, just like banks that put exploding dye into bags of stolen money, so that the pastries get heavier the minute you leave the bakery. I could hardly walk a block without them becoming unbearably heavy in my hand, so I would have no choice but to stuff them into my mouth, without chopsticks or the slightest savoir faire.

When you tried to stop the insanity and just get coffee, barista cum lab technicians did strange things to the coffee to keep you programmed to order pastries









and if that didn't work they tried things that softened your resolve, made you smile -

Darn! It worked every time. I was starting to say "Arigato" with a French accent.

and what about . . .

the zombie bus drivers? The bus drivers talk a lot, but they don't move their mouths or say anything intelligible. You know the kid who sat in the back of the class and talked about the teacher in a low voice the entire time? In a voice pitched just so the students but not the teacher could hear? That kid has become the Chief Bus Driver Voice Coach in every Japanese city (that's 3) that I've visited. The drivers speak just loudly enough that you can tell they're saying something, but you have no idea what. Maybe this isn't a problem for people who know where they're going, but if you're listening carefully to discern the difference between "Shinjuku" and "Shibuya," hearing "bfzzzzzsslll" and "shhhhhhhhh" won't help much.

Now, just in case you think that I am being paranoid - there's no way that normal people, other than James Dean or Marlon Brando, talk like that. And doesn't it seem just a bit odd that every single bus driver we had did this same thing? My theory is that they've got to be zombies, raised from the dead and automated so that they appear to be human. Alternatively, perhaps Japanese bus drivers are required to drink a bottle of sake before reporting to work, in order to gain the requisite mumbling slurred voice.

They probably test each driver before s/he heads out for the day: "Say 'Toyota' . . . . er . . . sorry, I meant to cross that out - 'Honda'" NO, I could hear what you were saying! No vowels, remember? And turn away from the microphone! DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT with any passengers in the mirror, understand?

And while we're on the subject of directions - let's talk train stations. I experienced several. We stayed at a Tokyo hotel advertised on the website as "conveniently located near the train station." In fact, the hotel was IN the train station, connected to the "New South" exit, which was nowhere near the "South" exit. Maybe there is a new direction: hence, "New" South.

Did you ever play one of those mean kids' games where people push you back and forth between them, sort of like human dodgeball? (Maybe you didn't have the same kind of childhood that I did.) That's what these stations are - and it's brought to the public by the people who advertise JapanRail passes. Each person who is dumb enough to buy one of those rail passes (1 week for $420 vs. the actual cost of numerous train rides - about half that) has to show it to a JapanRail employee upon entering the station. That triggers a "stupid foreigner" alert throughout the station, upon which half of the arrows are reversed. The result is (and I'm a witness) that the Japanese railway users can stride through the station at top speed without even looking up, and still get to their destinations; while JapanRail pass holders (mind you, the pass can only be purchased OUTSIDE of Japan, guaranteeing that no hapless Japanese person will buy one by accident) either stand open-mouthed staring at signs and end up trampled by commuters, or try to keep pace with the commuters and end up going around and around the station and back to the same place.

Notice the sign that tells you that the West and East exits are both in the same direction? Exactly!

Ever seen one of those goofy Japanese sitcoms? The last one I saw involved a group of college-aged students in a "library" who were given a task that required them to make loud embarrassing noises and attract attention to themselves. They were doubled over with laughter most of the time themselves. Other than the fact that this reminded me a lot of my Third Period class, I didn't really get the point. Obviously, since there were TV cameras there, the "library patrons" were aware that this was no ordinary library. And, well at least for me, there are only so many times that a farting noise is funny.

So sitcom fans must really enjoy watching the videotapes of unwitting foreign tourists lost in the train stations .

In fact, they probably raise it to "Candid Camera Premium Channel" level when someone who not only has a JapanRail pass , but also has absolutely no sense of fashion, comes into the station "The JapanRail Show" employees put out multiple advertisements with tempting pictures of food or consumer goods, only to remove them when clueless tourists wearing tacky colors (anything other than black) try to find them a second time. There I was, in my bright red rain jacket (that I bought only because it was sized "XS") trying to find the sushi/tempura restaurant in the station on my last night. My LAST night - didn't I deserve one meal of something other than French pastries and sugary orange juice? After I had come back the third time to the guard who told me I couldn't go that way, I gave up and went to one of the vending-machine ramen places, where you push a button with a picture and then go inside.

I gave the ticket to a tired-looking man who turned out to be the dishwasher, and he handed it to the Vanna White of the operation, a woman whose job seemed to be holding the tickets and yelling to the cook and the customers. Other than me, she was the only woman in there.

I had happened on a POW camp! No, wait, these guys were all wearing suits. But they looked about as miserable as people could look in black suits, white shirts, and ties. And they were sitting in rows, staring at bowls of noodles and slurping them into their mouths with some help from chopsticks. It felt more like the Last Supper than my last dinner in Japan.

And then there are the REALLY mean tricks. One day I found my way to the waterfront - Tokyo Bay, near the beautiful Rainbow Bridge. Wait - what was this? Was I in Japan or on Staten Island? Was I delirious? Did I have a fever?

I went into a 7-11 to look for a thermometer, but all I could find were packages with drawings of smiling people with bandaged heads.












Was there a massive lobotomy operation focused on foreigners overdosing on Eau de Cherry Blossom and pain du chocolat?

It all started to make sense to me - the ubiquitous temples, the altars in every ryokan, the Buddhist philosophy that life is suffering - what was going on here?

I passed a cemetery, looking for some inspiring words on the gravestones, and found . . .

Who exactly are the"parties concerned" in a graveyard? I started to wonder if this was a message from the beyond - that maybe I was some sort of exchange for the unexcused emigration of my forefather's soul.

And, finally, the most pervasive oddity - what was with the mask thing? I stumbled into yet another convenience store and, confirming my suspicions, discovered a whole rack of masks for the average commuter (morning routine: black suit - check; black scarf - check; mask hiding half of face - check.) What kind of society divides families, even mothers and young children, into mask-wearers and non mask-wearers? It's civil war out there!

On a revolting note, signs advertised "14-DAY" masks. Ewww . . . if you weren't sick when you first put one on, you certainly would be after 14 days of sneezing into the same mask. What do masked teenagers do on their third dates? "I'll show you the fungi on the inside of my mask if you'll show me yours?"
So here were my thoughts after a week in Japan:

India, with its eternal hope for a better life the next time around, and rules that were broken more often than followed, and religious texts like the Kama Sutra ? Or . . .

Japan, with zombie bus drivers, "Artery-Busting in Only 10 Days" vacation special, grinning "Chucky" (ok, maybe they're called "Hello Kitty" here, but I recognize that Chucky grin) figures everywhere, the "Go to Jail Free" card known to us innocents as JapanRail passes, moving walkways to nowhere , and noodle-slurping Men in Gray Flannel Suits?

When I got off the plane back in Delhi, I embraced my plants, dead of heatstroke as they were, and kissed the dust.