Quake and Bake - Shinjuku Fallout

I just got back home at 9:10am, 18 hours or so after the Quake, to find the fridge had journeyed to the center of the room and a sprinkling of shelf contents on the floor having bounced off my computer. Working backwards, there was a cold sunshine bike ride back from the station, a horribly packed and painfully slow train journey on the first train, some long waiting, a nocturnal ramble, a witnessing of the insane fallout when an urban machine goes haywire.

I was in Japanese class when it started, leaning back against the flimsy interior wall. I have had a few minor quakes here so was quicker this time to realize it was not a machine dryer on in a nearby room. At first everyone giggled - small quakes happen all the time and are fun. But this was already too much. The earth heaved to and fro like the deck of a ship. It's very unsettling to feel the terra not firma. I remembered the old maxim and placed myself in the doorframe. It might have worked if I wasn't barged out of it as everyone escaped in a mad panic. Outside the sun shone and drivers stood by stationary vehicles. Suited businessmen milled on the pavement. Japanese girls were witnessed without make-up - a once in a lifetime opportunity. Small dogs were comforted. One ran round in very small circles looking like it might explode. A distinct odour of sulphur in the air - was it Japan's geothermal water table or a burst sewage pipe?

Aftershocks bubbled for an hour. Sometimes you thought you'd felt a tremor and had to look up at the buildings' antennae, or the rocking trees to be sure. Phones were inoperable, classes, work, trains were cancelled, some people went bravely off on bikes. Buses moved by packed with people who already knew they had to get out of the city any which way - and fast. The organizational fallout had begun.

Streams of people filled the avenues, haemorrhaging in all directions. Worried faces were outnumbered by ones happy to be off work early. Hundreds congregated outside the many exits of Shinjuku station, trying phones again and again, looking lost. Squadrons of uniformed guards stood in front of every box or ticket gate, patiently answering questions from the onslaught. Every public telephone had at least 20 people waiting to use it. A vindication of old cable technology. In a pub images of destruction appeared on the screen and punters bedded down for a long wait.

In a sushi place I chatted with a guy whose office was on the 38th floor, which had led to chairs being thrown about. He wanted to talk about Premiership football and insisted on paying for my meal as a point of samurai honour. I decided to try make it home.

I bumped into an Israeli friend heading back on foot. He lives one stop away from Shinjuku. My place was at least 3 hours walk away in uncertain directions.

Walking through one side of the massive conglomeration that is Shinjuku station, thousands of people stared helplessly at closed ticket gates, repeatedly asking the same questions of the guards, sitting on the floor to wait all night. Would trains be running later? No. Tomorrow morning? I don't know.

The bus terminal was comical. Every stop bore a queue stretching downstairs through tunnels to curl around the bowels of the station. No buses were turning up. I pulled off a coup by finding a little-known bus stop with a mysterious route direct through to my neighbourhood. But it all turned out to be a cruel hoax.

The patrons of Shinjuku's million tiny bars had the same silent glumness they always have. It was difficult to tell the difference. A street tout from Togo invited me on a little tour of some bizarre places ending up in a weird subterranean R&B bar where he unexpectedly produced his father and brother. I sneaked past the check-in counter of a karaoke place and into a recently vacated booth where I slept comfortably for a couple of hours. By now it was 5:30am - time for the trains to start?

People slept, stood, stared with glazed eyes. Japan Rail's finest were maintaining a solid defensive line against an increasing multitude. Complex messages were communicated via megaphone. I don't know how long I stood there, at the front, watching these bizarre procedures go on. Stretches of yellow tape were stuck here and there. Pieces of paper were moved around. A tiny woman in an air hostess get-up would come over now and again to the yellow hard-hatted guy with the bearing of a lieutenant. A big guy in a suit strode around looking menacing. In their Japanese way, the masses silently waited. Astonishingly, one guy started shouting complaints at a bespectacled guard in a comedy Gestapo uniform. Everyone was quietly enthralled.

When the floodgates opened it was all elbows. My pass didn't work so I kicked my way through the barriers. No-one cared. And up on the platform was Heaven's First Train. Implacable and gleaming, closed doors cruelly keeping us in the cold but nevertheless, magically there. The means of escape. A bedraggled man next to me touched his hand to the metal, softly, with love. Half an hour went by until we could stuff ourselves on and inch along the line at 5mph all the way home. The urban machine was functioning again and as I rode my bike back I was amazed to see people starting their Saturday where they should have been after all.

Hot Springs and Hope Springs

Masks

There's something deeply sad about the city or it might be the winter. On a one-to-one level people are fantastically warm and friendly. As a grand movement there is something frozen and lost. On the train the stares and mouths drooling open. The eyes trained on phones, games. The shuffling, the face masks. It's enough to make you freak at times. Big cityness in all its impersonality.

More inspiring face masks could be found at the Setsubun festival in Shimokitazawa. It is a festival that celebrates the coming of Spring even though it's still plainly winter for another six weeks. Still, it gives you hope. Little children in devil masks threw soy beans at men dressed as devils. The littler ones wept and screamed with fear while their parents laughed. A good way of bringing trauma into normality at an early age. The soy beans were quite tasty and would make a good bar snack. But no-one else was eating them, preferring to lob them at the devils and then crunch them under foot until the streets were dusted in brown powder.

My coat burned to a crisp in a little bar in Asagaya where the barman supposedly plays Beatles songs on his guitar sometimes though that was during the holiday period and now when we were there it was definitely not of a holiday atmosphere and the coziness was provided by small electric braziers which were rather close to the customers, which is why my coat caught fire. By the time the thick smoke had become too invasive to ignore, the barman and some wrinkled regular were already in the doorway beating the fire out with vigour. I used to have a whole coat, and now I have a coat with a hole.



Onsen Mania in Nikko

We went to Nikko famous hot springs area to "take the waters." The hotel was fabulous and our window gave onto an enormous lake encircled by snow-capped mountains. The view from the milky mineral and viciously hot water was a cement wall. There were lumps of snow and icicles around, which were something to look at, but Mayumi was upset. Though not by the food which was elaborate Japanese gourmet style, with hundreds of tiny tidbits such as sea urchin pâté and sea cucumber, roe, sashimi on a plate made out of rock salt, beef stew, a DIY shabu shabu involving big red fish with large eyes and a "risotto" that was basically an eggy-rice soup cooked in the old shabu shabu water. We sat in yukata robes and felt imperial. The whole being naked in the onsen thing is okay. You have a little towel that David explained was a "modesty towel." Still you could catch glimpses of other men's knackers if you so desired. There was an incredibly thin man whose entire back was a bone and had no bottom.

The procedure is: go in, sit on a stool and wash yourself thoroughly with a high-pressure shower. Try not to think about the history of the plastic stool you're sitting on. Get in the various hot spring baths available. The one outside here was searingly hot and unbearable while my feet and hands were inside. I had to balance my feet out on the wall and use my middle back as a fulcrum to keep from drowning. It was quite effective.

Onsen etiquette seems to forbid chatting with strangers, at least in my experience. And also if there is more than one pool, you might want to move along when someone else comes. At least that's what everyone did when I turned up. But maybe that should be telling me something.

Monkeys and Dragons

The famous world heritage site Toshogu temple had lots of construction and an world heritage-worthy price tag. There was a big black and white dragon swooping around on one of the interior ceilings constructed to give out a ringing echo when a monk smacked two sticks together underneath it which one kindly did for us four times. The snow was deep everywhere and weathered men shovelled it with multicoloured spades. The three monkeys of "see no evil..." fame were carved in bas relief on the front of one temple. A parable of blissful ignorance, if you can get your three monkeys coordinated, which seems a bit of a tall order. Better off giving them typewriters and waiting for them to produce the Complete Works of Danielle Steele.

Mara and I continued to Kinugawa Onsen, a set of concrete blocks in the middle of a ring of snowy mountains. We ate lousy pasta and for the same money got the run of a huge hot springs emporium with eight baths for men and separately for women, including jacuzzis and one freestanding copper tub that I didn't go into because it had been recently vacated by a fat old man. The outdoors ones were something. On a promontory extended into the wide valley, sitting in the 42ºC rock bath, the snow fell thickly all around. I closed my eyes and emptied my head to the rush of the water and the patter of the falling snow.

Hermit Holes

Those crazy little bars are limitless. Going for these bars requires a leap of faith. Scaling stairs that would look especially dangerous and urban in the middle of Hackney can lead to a lush emporium of swish chairs, cocktails and elaborate decorations, or a small dark corridor filled with mumbling men. But how are you to know from the 30 year old battered neon sign outside? Answer: you're not.

Up on a fourth floor up some horrible steps, behind a door with no sign, we found a little red place packed with hanging musical instruments, chandeliers, birds, old telephones, an avalanche of period props. There was enough room for probably five people but our arrival pushed it to ten and the warm convivial atmosphere was an excellently-decorated rush hour subway train that's not going anywhere and doesn't want to. The barman put on some jazz - and then I realized that it was he, playing on an upright piano under the bar.

Then there was that place, Mother's Ruin in Shimokitazawa, with a gigantic dragon-cum-lizard on the ceiling, made of solid gold and threatening to crush the drinkers in case of earthquake. The toilet had handpainted wallpaper showing scenes from the Ramayana or something like that. I had a hot rum with a knob of butter floating in it like it couldn't care less.

Flowers on the subway. Tress in winter dress. Empty branches. Cold frozen ground. Plum trees blossom in the center of the university campus. The days are short and blue and very sunny. The air is dry and originates sometimes in Siberia.

Dock this

The London docklands seemed a tiny, perfect concrete adventure playground. Buenos Aires port, once the conduit for a continent's wealth, was reminscent of a couple of scattered building blocks. The Tokyo docks, in their wide inconceivable vastness, lay before us.

Our mission: to collect items shipped from London two months earlier.

Several different subway lines and a monorail that coasts along a riverside deposited us two hours later before the yawning impersonal greyness of DOCKLAND. Giant buildings in the distance loomed like some kind of industrial Mordor. We trudged through sticky humidity, through a landscape not intended for pedestrians. In fact, we were the only ones. Trucks and shiny lorries sped past. We passed large empty parks, tracts of greenery supposed to relieve the desolate wasteland, but in fact making it all the more desperate. Like trying to tackle India's starving children with one bag of doughnuts.

Hours of hunger and thirst staggered by. No friendly bedouins about to toss us a canteen of water. We found ourselves in a dizzying wonderland of multicoloured cargo containers. Memories of The Wire Season 2 flashed before our dilated pupils. Could one of them be filled with dead Ukrainian prostitutes? Chance would be a fine thing. Several attempts to get directions resulted in blank looks or, worse, lengthy, tortuous attempts to answer a question to which it was quickly apparent no-one knew the answer. Awkward silences ensued. In-fighting sparked up. Where would it all end?

And then we found it. Seino Logix. A boxy office wedged in the crevice of a warehouse complex the size of East Anglia. Who were these people? Port handling, cargo collection? Import middlemen? Not sure. We had already paid the shipping company but this was a separate matter, apparently.



Those who have seen Kurosawa's film Ikiru, a critique of Japanese bureaucracy made in 1952, will be surprised that in 2010 the offices look EXACTLY THE SAME. Stacks of papers and dreary resigned facial expressions. There were no computers in 1952 but if there were you can be sure they wouldn't have been changed. Antique IBMs of that nondescript dirty grey colour and gigantic prehistoric monitors. Japan is not the hi-tec paradise envisioned by generations of manga artists. People bustled around fending off all work thrown their way like cartoon ninjas using breakfast trays to repel shuriken stars.

First we were charged US$ 140. More than we'd paid for the shipping. Why? Seino Logix had been kind enough to transport our stuff to their office and issue the paperwork. It's true the paperwork was obscenely copious but printing costs don't really come up to that sum. Well the transportation then - it would have been extremely useful had we not discovered we'd have to transfer it back to Customs ourselves to get it inspected.

Remonstrations and exasperated protests were met with repeated apologies. The Japanese apology, extremely apologetic in tone, actually has "Fuck you" as its rough translation.

Ok, we have to take the stuff that we've paid to have shipped here to Customs ourselves. Fine. It's a hassle, so just give us the stuff and we'll get it over with. No, you can't have the stuff. Why not? You have to go to Customs to get permission. And then come back to get the stuff. And then go back to Customs to get it inspected.

So what are we paying you for?

You'd better pay or we'll torch your boxes of crap and piss on the cinders.

Oh right, sorry.

A whole day passed in toing and froing through the docklands with and without enormous boxes of stuff, convoluted taxis, nowhere to buy food and but a setting sun over a monochrome horizon to elevate the spirit.

Grunt for the Instant Birdie

Sibley House, the location of our modest but fairly (in Tokyo standards) spacious campus apartment, replete with "Japanese style" sliding doors, kitchenette, bathroomcito and large windows, was built in 1957, according to the proud boast of a sign on the façade. The sign makes no mention of when it was renovated. That's because it wasn't. We're not far from the tennis courts, where thousands of rippling youths scream rhythmically in unison. Concealed by dense greenery, it is unclear what they are doing in there. But whatever it is, I'm sure it is less entertaining than the mental images produced by their synchonised grunting.

Much aggressive grunting comes from restaurant staff too. The other day I had my first experience in a rāmen bar, down a Kichijōji side street. Three white-uniformed rāmen ninjas bellowed and stood to attention as I entered. It was lunch hour peak and once I'd sat down at the long bar, every stool was taken. This was not a place for lunchtime socialising. Solo diners sit, bodies contorted and faces parallel to the counter, 2mm from the soup, whereupon they slurp and snort their way through the giant portions at a frankly incredible rate. I tried to order the bountiful chicken my neighbour was ploughing into. They gave me the pork, possibly sniffing my Jewish ancestry. The soup had the kind of moreish comfort quality of pulverised chicken fat. I scarfed down about 3/4 of my portion in the time it took for a complete turnover of the entire restaurant clientele. While I ate I observed the staff dynamic. One hung near the door for no apparent reason. The giant middle one took orders and barked them to the final one, who had a more skivvy-like aspect but a cooler way of carrying himself. He stood above a huge boiling vat with suspended noodle containers. It was about 35º and yet he was cool as wasabi lipgloss. The soothing sound of gushing water was punctuated by spurts as the giant middle ninja sprayed the floor with a gigantic hose. As I stood up I braced myself for the deafening scream.

Speaking of rāmen, I'm addicted to the instant variety. Similar in concept to the Pot Noodle, yet thousands of miles away in distance, you can buy a bewildering variety in the supermarket. I have no idea what any of them are but make my selections based on shape and colour, animal instinct and other arbitrary factors. As a budding physicist delights in his discovery of the boundless possibilities of matter, so am I constantly amazed by the sheer range of things that can be made to appear with the addition of boiling water. Today I opened a bowl-shaped packet to find a yellow polystyrene cube lying seductively atop the dried noodle blocks. Stirfried egg. After the requisite four minutes I peeled back the foil to discover three rice paper discs with a yellow bird cheerily waving hello. Obvious concerns about the nutritionary value of such food barely managed to temper my childlike glee.

The Land of the Rising Barometer

The unbearable stifling humidity of Tokyo is taking me by surprise. Actually it's taken everyone by surprise. A rednosed besuited wag on Saturday afternoon alleged that it has been the hottest summer for 133 years. Other more trusty news sources have backed that up, partly.

Apparently the autumn is shrinking to nothing. Sub-Saharan heat will dissolve rapidly into Antartic cold. The word 'temperate' keeps bobbing up in my memory like a table-tennis ball in a green pond.

I have walked the deserts of the Holy Land. I have moisted the depths of the Thai rainforests. And nothing has come close. Even the gasping exhaust-fuelled February peak of Buenos Aires is like a temperate day in an English garden in comparison to this.

Japanese men dab at their sweaty faces with small, charmingly-designed towels. I have one, blue and white, bought for me by a certain someone.

Women JOG in the NOONDAY SUN in long tracksuit trousers, long sleeves, visors and GLOVES. What the fuck is wrong with these people?

I'm confused. I feel as if I've entered a parallel universe where I'm a 19-year-old Japanese boy from the provinces just starting out at the International Christian University in Mitaka. Living on the campus might have something to do with it. The thick forest hangs outside my window, the cicadas keep their cement mixers and pneumatic drills in motion, their little hard hats occasionally falling to the soft earth and rotting there in the warm soil. The ICU campus is an isolated world in an obscure suburb of Tokyo, a petri dish of wildlife, wild intellectual stimulation and wild times, baby.

Adolescent students arm themselves into brittle factions. Sporty jocks laugh heartily and scream deafeningly, while jumping up and down repeatedly. Girls caked in make up and wearing charmingly-designed shoes (of varying models), charmingly-designed socks (of varying sizes), hair spraying forth in fountains and marvellous hilly eruptions, group together and totter awkwardly around, giggling nervously. American students wait for their moment to amaze other 'gaijin' (foreigners) around them by nonchalantly babbling away in perfect Japanese...

In short, it's a campus. And one quite different from the awkward labyrinth where I spent my own freshman year back in 1999. Now I'm older, larger, less cynical and more... secure? This feels more like the setting of an American college movie, transposed slightly. In any case I can look upon the herd with distance, and enjoy it. Identity crisis aside.