A Streetcar, Feigned Desire

Posted on 29/03/2015 by Luke

I decide that despite the warm weather today, it would be a nice idea to explore the area around my own neighbourhood on foot, rather than heading further afield by bicycle. Looking at the map outside of my apartment, I notice a few points of interest that I had never previously given much thought. The first is the Toden Arakawa Streetcar, the last remaining streetcar that still operates in Tokyo. I wander five minutes from my home in that direction. As I approach, I follow the sound of silent electricity until I arrive at the tracks.

At the streetcar depot, nobody is waiting to ride. The only sign of life here, other than the movement of old trams, is a superabundance of starving pigeons waiting for their next meal. Opened in 1913, this streetcar somehow survived when all other streetcars were scrapped in Japan some fifty years ago. I consider taking the tram, but because there is no official timetable, I fear that if I do, I will end up in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting back. Instead, I try to photograph this historic vehicle, but a blur of pigeon rudely interrupts my photography.

My next stop is at the nearby Jokan-ji Temple, a historical site and cultural asset of Arakawa. It becomes apparent as I enter the temple grounds that this temple contains some rather dark history. The temple dates back to 1665, and with such close proximity to the nearby Yoshiwara red-light district, it became known to the locals as the throw-away temple. A place to dispose of unclaimed or discarded deceased prostitutes.

The temple itself looks like any other temple, but beyond the shiny temple walls is a memorial to the unknown dead and a hidden entrance that leads into a vast cemetery.

The 1854 Tokai earthquake claimed many lives, including young women who had been sold by their parents to the Yoshiwara district. These prostitutes were often forced into this trade, considering themselves as living in hell, destined to eventually die and join the other women in a mass grave at Jokan-ji Temple. The deceased women were not granted a proper funeral or burial; instead, they were wrapped in a straw mat and left outside the temple gates for someone else to collect, burn, and add to the pile of death and ash.

I stroll through the cemetery, and it becomes evident where the souls of the twenty-five thousand deceased prostitutes are laid to rest. A small tomb is adorned with artefacts related to prostitution. An inscription above the tomb reads, “Birth is pain, death is Jokan-ji.” Cosmetic products, hair clips, and makeup rest on top, leaving a haunting reminder of death. It is even possible to peer inside the tomb through an overly exposed metal grate, offering no dignity to the departed. Inside, a stacked pile of white urns extends down into oblivion.

I leave the tomb with mixed feelings. I question why I even visited here; perhaps I should have simply boarded the streetcar and escaped the sense of doom and gloom. Another notable presence is a monument dedicated to the novelist Kafu Nagai, who used these deceased women as a source for his satire. I ponder on the motivations of someone writing about such a macabre subject, only to realise that, in my own way, I am no different as I write these words.

I depart from Jokan-ji Temple and start walking toward Minami-Senju, an area my friends have deemed extremely dangerous. As I approach, it appears to be like any other place I’ve visited in Tokyo: a Seven Eleven, a few shrines, a clean park, an old woman feeding a cat, bullet holes, a train station … Bullet holes?

Entsu-ji Temple stands large, featuring a twelve-metre-tall golden statue of Kannon. What is remarkable about this temple is that it proudly serves as the new location for the Black Gate. Kuromon was previously the gate at the entrance to Akizuki Castle, but after a gunfight during the Battle of Ueno, the gate was damaged, hence the bullet holes. The gate was moved to this location in 1907. Not one to dwell on death and misery, I leave the temple in a rush and forget to take a photograph of the famous Black Gate.

I head back in the direction of Minowa, and with prostitution on my mind, I take a stroll through the Yoshiwara area. What always strikes me as odd about Yoshiwara is that at one entrance to the legalised brothel district is a police station, and at the other end, there is a shrine that houses a goddess that offers protection to women.

Every day, when a prostitute finishes her shift, she will walk past this shrine and bow deeply. I have seen it so many times, due to this shrine being on my route from my home to Asakusa. In fact, I pass this shrine twice a day, and almost always see women here, praying, bowing, and hoping to not share the same fate as those other twenty-five thousand abandoned dead women.

Welcome to the Lunar Industries

Posted on 26/01/2015 by Luke

Another intrusive start to the day in Japan. The ground rattles like teeth on an icy morning, the skyscrapers singing a chorus of concrete scraping together, pulled apart in directions against their will. It’s another earthquake, the strongest one I’ve felt so far. Suddenly, everything stops. Just as I begin to drift away, hoping to return to whatever fleeting memory lingers in my dream-filled head, the shaking resumes. This time, it lasts only a few seconds, but it’s enough to shatter whatever it was in my imagination that I desperately sought to remember.

I head outside to grab a can of Boss Coffee before taking a seat on the steps leading up to my front door. A homeless man, who resides in a cardboard castle outside the entrance to my apartment, stirs in his sleep. He coughs and groans before looking around and noticing me, perhaps awakened by the early morning shaking of the earth. The man speaks broken English and asks me the usual stagnant questions. It turns out he was once in a famous rock band, a drummer. Aged sixty-five but looking perhaps twice that, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Without knowing his circumstances, I decide it would be rude to judge him any further. I want to ask him why he keeps sleeping where I would normally park my bicycle, but I think my English words might be lost on him. He tells me something is happening on Sunday in the arcade that runs close to my house. With its worn-out shops and shutters, it might well be the first activity this area has seen for months.

After becoming fully awake, I can’t help but notice that the moon is still up. Although crescent, the moon’s light casts a shadow, revealing the clear roundness of its form, something I have never noticed before. I begin to wonder if I am still dreaming.

I cycle into Asakusa to find the streets littered with Australian tourists. It seems they have chosen to leave behind the glorious summer weather of their home country for the winter of Japan. Today is Australia Day, a celebration of the first British ships landing on Australian shores. I weave my bicycle between drunk people shouting and fighting on the street. I thought it was the English who didn’t know how to behave. Drunk before lunchtime, not even Mr. Sixty-Five-year-old homeless man can achieve that.

I head across the city for some exploring. Despite spending a lot of time in Asakusa, I’m continually surprised to discover new things every day. Today, I visit what was once a beautiful pond, now home to ghostly apparitions.

Ubagaike Pond is now enveloped in what looks like a construction site. The pond is completely dried up; only the old stone outline that makes up its shape remains. Many years ago, an old woman lived in a house close to the pond. She lived with her beautiful young daughter. The mother would send her daughter out into the streets to lure in gentlemen, hoping that they would spend the night in her daughter’s embrace. The unsuspecting gentlemen would join the daughter, and after lovemaking, when the pair were both sound asleep, the old woman would creep into the room. With a huge piece of stone, the mother would bash the man’s skull in before taking all of his possessions. This weapon was known then as a ‘stone pillow.’ One day, the old woman threw herself into the pond, an act that was out of character and has no bearing on the rest of the story. These days, at night, you can hear the quiet sobs of her daughter, or so the legend goes.

Back in the slums of Tokyo, I sit in my house, editing some writing that I have been working on, my mind rinsed clear by the haunting melody of Clint Mansell’s ‘Moon’ soundtrack. The drifting peace only lasts momentarily, though. At 5 p.m., the familiar sound of music penetrates my window. It seems that, despite the winter and occasional snowflake, ice cream is sold all year round in Japan.

“Aisukuriimu, Aisukuriimu, Aisukuriimayoou.” Typically, the song occupies the space in my head usually reserved for contemplation and creative thinking. Every evening in Japan, I sit suffering in silence, with the ice cream song playing over and over in my mind, like a broken merry-go-round.

I leave the house after an hour of silent anger toward frozen milk and cream, and cycle as usual in the direction of Asakusa. For no reason, I decide not to cycle through the red-light district (my usual route) but take a different path. It leads me to the sound of live reggae music and a smattering of distant applause seemingly from nowhere. I decide to leave my bicycle and head down a narrow side street to locate the source of the music.

Moments later, I arrive at a small outdoor festival. The grounds of the festival seem to combine a swing park and a school playground.

The festival is here to raise awareness for the area of Fukushima, devastated in 2011 by the Tohoku Earthquake and tsunami. The area continues to struggle, with people living without homes, families not receiving proper support from the government, and rice grown in the area seldom purchased. This festival is described as a ‘Nation’s rallying call for the Fukushima area,’ and in my opinion, it’s a worthy cause.

Inside the swing park, small stalls sell hot food. Inside the school playground, ice is being fashioned into a snow house. Children play within the igloo, while others pose before it for photographs. Reggae music continues to play from the stage, a song about everything being ‘fine fine fine.’ It warms my heart to see this. Something about today has contained a subtle misery — earthquakes and homeless people. A community rallying together to help those in desperate need. Certain people getting drunk without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the problems faced by others, lost to the oblivion of alcohol.

As I head back to the main road, my mind distracted by ice cream and lost in thoughts of others, I realise that I have completely forgotten where I left my bicycle.

Wheel of Misfortune

Posted on 09/01/2015 by Luke

Today is the day that I finish my pilgrimage. One temple, one shrine, and the final two gods. I start off in the direction of Uguisudani. My previous attempt to find Motomishima Shrine here was marred by the fact that this area is a massive red-light district and couldn’t possibly be the location of a sacred shrine. Once again, as I stumble through alleyways of neon, I see no signs of a god; just prostitutes leaving hotels with presumably married Japanese men.

Eventually, I leave the area to find wireless Internet, stolen as always from a nearby Seven Eleven. I punch the name of the shrine into my GPS and am redirected to the same area I had previously wandered. It is an unusual location for a shrine, an area littered with over seventy love hotels, but somehow I find it sandwiched between Hotel Exe and Hotel Foxy.

Motomishima Shrine is home to Jurojin, the god of longevity. This deity is always accompanied by a wild deer, believed to symbolise long life. It is said that Jurojin shares the same body as another of the Seven Gods of Fortune, Fukurokuju, which, if you ask me, is a rather unfortunate fate.

It is fair to say that to reach this shrine, I had to jump through hoops. Inside, I walk through a hoop to reach the stone steps that lead to the god. Here, I pay my respects with a deep bow before taking my fortune for the last time this month, at a cost of ¥200. With all these fortune readings, it’s a surprise that I have any money left. Not to worry, though—I have a frog in my wallet, so all is well.

“Whoever caught this fortune, please read. Further increases the happiness if familiar, money will come to the body when you strive daily and today. We are been obtained by loss. Performing without effort for others is within the range of possibility, always! Rather than hit the thing with the one person that you are waiting for, poor is a small problem, this time. You do not have to worry only for those who carried out jointly because the immediate profit will go up with your results. If you move a large bowl, results should come out.

“Whatever you do for other people, always take action for things in the future. Make yourself aware. Concentrate at the entrance; are you aware of the limits of their fitness? Also, the energy from long illness in the future will see recovery gradually. Concentration will add enhancement, especially to enhance the energy. No effort should not be in vain. Come back to be sure of the joy of tomorrow.”

Confused as to what all this means, I leave the red-light district and head over to Hoshoji Temple.

Bishamonten stands guard here, carrying a scroll. Traditionally, he is the god of warriors and war, depicted with a spear and dressed in armour. However, the statue here deviates from the expected representation. Unfortunately, it is the only photograph I have of this temple, and I am certain I am in the right place. There are no signs of other statues of gods here, leaving me with no idea about the identity of this scroll-wielding warrior—most likely Shonin or someone else. No English signs, nothing else to guide me.

With all this good fortune flowing through my veins and having completed the pilgrimage of the Seven Gods of Fortune, one would expect that I’d actually receive some fortune. In reality, the opposite has occurred. Over the last few days, I have felt like a ghost, floating through life, completely devoid of any sense of belonging. Perhaps this is just a phase. A changing of the tides could erase all that I feel at this moment, and hopefully, that will happen. Maybe I should just move a large bowl. Right now, though, I am tired of walking around temples and shrines; it fills me with this strange empty feeling that is difficult to explain.

I wander back to Asakusa and am instantly drawn in by the flashing lights of a strange vending machine.

The machine costs just ¥100 and offers a chance to win excellent prizes. It’s called ‘Pocket Lifter,’ and presumably, it lifts money from my pocket by tricking me into thinking I can win one of the luxury prizes. Hidden behind its polished glass front are some trading cards, two Louis Vuitton purses, and tickets to Hanayashiki Amusement Park—the oldest amusement park in Japan. Despite seeing this park every day in Asakusa, I have yet to make the visit. However, Hanayashiki might have to wait a little while longer, as I am still somewhat traumatised by my recent visit to Tokyo Disneyland.

The machine says, ‘One-two-three-four-GET!’ Winning is as easy as counting. One of the Louis Vuitton purses can be won and sold for ¥8000 at a nearby shop, conveniently listed next to the prize—a gambling loophole once again exposed. Above the prizes, a wheel with bright flashing lights beckons, ‘Let’s Challenge!!’ How could I possibly resist? Keenly, I insert a ¥100 coin. ‘Thank you,’ the machine says as it swallows my money. The wheel spins and lands on the number one. The prize shelf moves up a fraction of an inch, then nothing happens. For a limited time only, I can get three tries for my money. I repeat the button-pressing process twice, and disappointment reoccurs twice more. No prizes, no amusement, no amusement park—just more bad fortune. Thanks, pilgrimage.

Eye Patches and Boxing Matches

Posted on 27/10/2014 by Luke

Today, I woke up to find that my apartment is shaking. Not due to an earthquake, but because of music. The A-Round festival is still ongoing, and the indoor shopping arcade near my house is hosting a live performance by ‘Ego-Wrappin”, a renowned Japanese jazz band. I suppose I better go and take a look.

Today, the arcade is free from the usual sleeping homeless individuals; they have all been replaced by small market stalls selling drinks and snacks. A stage has been erected at one end of the street, and a live band is performing. This market is usually dead, but today it has been transformed by music.

Ego-Wrappin’ originated in Osaka, and interestingly, one of the members grew up in this area. The band currently performing live on stage might be Ego-Wrappin’, but I can’t be entirely sure. Strangely, most of the members are wearing eye patches.

Some people in the crowd are wearing fancy dress costumes; Mario and Luigi are here, hanging out with some witches. A staff member comes over to me to practice his English. When I ask him the name of the band performing, he has no idea. “I’m just a staff member,” he explains. Meanwhile, three men are performing live graffiti on one of the shutter doors, and the sweet smell of toxic paint fumes fills the arcade.

Deciding to take a stroll through the market, I randomly bump into Gomez from yesterday. He is sitting and enjoying some of the cheap food from one of the small stalls, so I join him. I ask him about the area, and he tells me that horses used to walk the main street. He also mentions a very famous horse meat restaurant not far from here. A Japanese man sitting at the same table joins in our conversation about the local sights. He starts talking about the nearby red-light district, saying, “They take major credit cards; you should go.” He confides, “I want to go, but I’m an elementary school teacher, so if people find out, then my career will be over.”

The teacher eventually leaves, and Gomez goes on to explain that this shopping arcade is based on a famous character from a Japanese manga series, ‘Ashita no Joe’. One of the other main characters is an alcoholic ex-boxer called Danpei Tange. In the manga, his character wears an eye patch; at least this explains why the band is wearing them. In the story, this area is known as the slums of Tokyo; brilliant, I find out that I live in the slums. A statue of the main character, Joe, stands guard at the entrance to the arcade.

I stay and watch the music for a while; it isn’t too bad, but it really isn’t my style either. Besides, I have things to do in Shibuya. So, I decide to leave the festival and head to the train station.

In Shibuya, I head over to the housing office to pay my rent for next month. As I leave, a well-dressed young man stops me and says he wants to ask me a few questions. “Do you live in Tokyo?” he inquires. “We are looking for people for a fashion shoot, and I think you would be perfect,” he explains.
“Me?!” I respond, quite surprised. I provide him with my details: waist size, shoe size, height, and contact information before letting him take my photograph a few times.
“I will be in touch,” he tells me. I thank him, still confused, and head back to the station.

At the station, more live music is happening, and once again, the music is jazz.

Today is the Shibuya Art Festival, and there are many different events taking place throughout the day. I decide to have a little walk around Shibuya, hoping to spot some of the other artistic events happening in the area. After wandering for about twenty minutes, the only thing I see is an anti-nuclear protest march. I decide to call it a day and head back to Minowa.

On the train ride home, I sit and daydream about becoming a fashion model.

Round, Round, Get Around, I Get Around

Posted on 26/10/2014 by Luke

This weekend, a local event known as ‘A-Round,’ short for Asakusa Around, is taking place. Sixty-nine different stalls, cafes, and galleries have signed up for the event. I am fortunate enough to have been invited along for a small walking tour, hosted by my friend, local resident, and Japan expert, Gomez. We meet up at noon, and a group of five, including me, sets off on foot to explore some of the rich Asakusa history and to get a feel for some old Japanese culture.

We wander the backstreets tucked away behind Senso-ji Temple, an area slightly out of the way and not commonly visited by tourists. Gomez takes us to his favourite karaoke bar, saying, “This bar stays open until 7 a.m. I often visit here.” We walk through an area that used to be heavily populated by geisha many years ago and is now home to the geisha headquarters. Gomez tells us, “If you hang around this area at night, you might even see a real geisha!”

Our first real stop of the tour is a small leather shop. Outside, snake skins, sea lion furs, crocodile leather, and boxes of leather scraps are hanging for sale at very low costs. Like the other participating stores, this shop has a blue banner outside with the words ‘A-Round.’ All stores taking part display this sign and are each having an open day of sorts—a nice way to increase trade and boost tourism.

Inside, we are welcomed humbly, allowed to take photographs, and even given the opportunity to try a few things hands-on. Hanging from the ceiling of the shop is a huge black leather crocodile skin. The shopkeeper tells us that it’s the largest single piece of leather in Japan, measuring seven metres long. The store even breeds their own crocodiles specifically for leather production.

The next stop is a cafe called ‘Ameshin.’ The shop has been open for a little over a year and is run by artist and craftsman Shinri Tezuka. The cafe is all about candy, with candy-flavoured drinks served, and the spacious room nicely decorated with candy shaped like animals.

It turns out that the owner makes these sweet fish himself and has recently gained popularity by showcasing his craftsmanship at an aquarium in Nihonbashi. Today, just for us, he will make a fish from scratch.

He starts by rolling a ball of soft hot candy in the palms of his hands, forming it into a rough outline of a kingyo (goldfish). Next, using only his hands and a pair of scissors, Tezuka trims the candy to shape the fin. As he models the sweet, his strong concentration makes him look like he’s in a trancelike state.

This traditional Japanese process is done at some speed. After just a few minutes, the outer part of the candy has started to harden, and soon it will be impossible to shape it any further. Tezuka finishes the kingyo by painting it with a natural pigment before adding eyes to finish. “It is a beautiful kingyo made from candy. It shines as though it is alive,” he remarks.

Next, we head down a street that once was a small stream, now completely dried up. The stream used to flow from the Sumida River, running along the area behind Senso-ji Temple and beyond, toward the Yoshiwara red-light district. Gomez tells us, “Many sailors would tell their wives that they were going by boat to the temple to pray; instead, they would continue down this stream and into Yoshiwara.”

We head to the studio of the famous Japanese bag maker Kichizo Yoshida. Founded in 1935, the company is known for big brand names like ‘Porter.’ I learn that Yoshida died twenty years ago, yet he continued to make bags right up until the day he died. Today, his legacy lives on, and the birthplace of his bags has been transformed into a modern-looking gallery, juxtaposed by the original tools and machinery he used when he first started out. We meet his sister, who is taking care of business. She lets us take some photographs and gives us a chance to do some stitching. “Heart and soul into every stitch,” she says.

Next, Gomez wants to show us two very different places. The first one is a shrine full of cats.

Most shrines in Japan represent something, perhaps a different god or some superstition. This one, however, represents the harmony of marriage through the medium of felines. Maneki Neko (fortune cats) are famous across the world, but they originated right here in Taito Ward, at Imado Shrine.

The shrine is family-run, and many generations ago, they made a living from crafting fox statues from the rich clay of the Sumida River. The family also had a pet cat. One day, seeking a change from the usual foxes, they decided to make clay cats modelled in the shape of their pet. These cats are what are known today as fortune cats and are seen outside many restaurants and some small businesses, often signifying a successful future.

The cat with the black spot, I am told, is male. Nowadays, people visit this shrine to hope for prosperity in marriage. Couples visit before they are wed, buy a circular piece of wood with two fortune cats engraved on one side, write a message on the back, and attach it to a tree.

After getting married, the couples return and attach a second wooden plate to the original to seal the marriage and receive good fortune. There are so many trees and so many wooden messages hanging here that I can only assume every man and woman in Tokyo has visited this shrine and is subsequently now married.

After the shrine, we visit Matsuchiyama Shoten, a fourteen-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple that sits at the top of a large hill. The temple is so high up that it even boasts its own cable car to help people reach the top. The hill famously appeared overnight, as if by magic. Then, a huge golden dragon appeared from heaven and landed on the hill. This event is somehow connected to a certain root vegetable: the radish.

Usually, at a temple, a small donation of coins is gratefully accepted. However, here they only accept donations of radishes. The people inside the temple are worshiping radishes. You can even buy radishes at a small stall near the entrance for ¥500 each, just in case you left yours in the supermarket. I discover that the radish is a symbol of health, family harmony, and heavenly golden dragons.

Next, we wander back into Asakusa to Hatch, a small coffee shop with four floors of empty gallery space above and a lovely rooftop terrace. The gallery was supposed to be filled with paintings, but the owner got drunk and forgot to prepare. Instead of buying a coffee and admiring the artwork, we leave slightly disappointed.

Our final stop of the tour is by the Sumida River, in a large exhibition space close to the Azuma Bridge. Inside, there are many small stands, each selling different leather products. The shop that interests me the most sells leather artwork. The designer tells us that one piece of work takes three months to complete. All hand-etched using a soldering iron, he sits, burning detail into leather.

The piece above depicts the Sanja Matsuri, an annual festival held in Asakusa. His art comes with a pricey ¥300,000 tag. He’ll be waiting until the cows come home to get that kind of money …

The artist tells us he wants to spread the joy of Japan to the rest of the world. He is selling some lovely leather iPhone cases for ¥12,000; the detail is delightful, and they would make an excellent souvenir. He takes a photograph of our group, clearly humbled that we took the time to talk to him. After that, the tour concludes, and we each go our separate ways.

On my way home, I head through the area that we had walked through earlier today. A geisha in full makeup darts past me; her wooden shoes clanking on the hard pavement. I am stunned. This is actually the first time I have ever seen a practicing geisha freely wandering around. Other times I have seen them, they have been part of an event or exhibition. It appears that Gomez was right about this area.

After a few short minutes, I hear the sound of more wooden shoes on concrete and find that a second geisha is walking down the street. She moves elegantly but very fast, and although I take quite a few photographs, for some reason, they all turn out looking like a blur. Seconds after spotting her, she has floated away like an incredible ghost.

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