The Adventures of Tin Toys

Posted on 21/02/2015 by Luke

Yesterday, as I was walking around Yokohama, I noticed many interesting things on the numerous maps that adorned the streets. Having visited Yokohama only once before, I decided to stay the night and spend a second day exploring this historic city. While staring at the points of interest on the signs, one thing genuinely excited me: the Tin Toy Museum.

I begin my exploration by walking through the Yamate area. This place is characterised by interlocking stone pathways that bend and crawl at various steep degrees, reminiscent of my hometown with its steep hills and Western-style houses. Despite being a popular spot for tourists, locally known as ‘The Bluff,’ I am surprised to find that most maps in this hilly terrain are in Japanese. Needless to say, I get lost and eventually stumble upon a random Spanish-style house.

There is no charge to enter the house, but upon entry, I am required to remove my shoes. Inside, I find a woman playing the flute, accompanied by another woman on the piano, seemingly without any apparent reason. While I recognise the melody, I struggle to put a name to it. As I wander around, I am afforded the opportunity to explore a genuine Spanish kitchen, complete with old cutlery. It surprises me to learn that the house was built by an American but designed by a British architect, adding a layer of complexity to its Spanish theme that I can’t quite comprehend. The Bluff is dotted with many houses of diverse styles, allowing visitors to freely wander and experience the architecture of different countries. From the balcony window, I catch a glimpse of what locals refer to as the ‘British House’ in the distance.

I make my way into the dining room, anticipating tables and chairs, only to be surprised by the presence of strange artwork that clearly doesn’t belong in this space.

I leave the house, resuming my quest for the Tin Toy Museum. I meander through a cemetery for British soldiers and emerge on the other side. Stumbling upon the oldest wooden Christian church in Japan, I find it of little interest and continue walking for about an hour through maze-like streets. Finally, I locate a map in English. The Tin Toy Museum is on the opposite side of The Bluff, close to the house I visited earlier. I navigate steep hills and winding alleyways, and after another half-hour, I arrive at the museum, half-expecting it to be closed today.

At the entrance, I pay ¥200 and race inside.

As I step inside the Tin Toy Museum, I’m greeted by the sound of The Beatles’ album ‘Help!’ playing from the speakers—an unexpected but delightful touch. The exhibition showcases over three thousand miniature toys produced in Japan between 1890 and 1960. Most of the toys, ranging from cars and rockets to robots, form the extensive personal collection of Teruhisa Kitahara, a man with a passionate affection for all things toy.

A sign next to some rather unsettling clowns reads, “Clown and circus toys are highly comical, perfectly capturing the lively movement of the circus. They are popular for their acrobatic flair.” Inside the museum, there’s a second exhibit called the ‘Mini-Mini Museum.’ Included in the ticket price, this small shoe-box-sized exhibit initially seems like a pointless distraction. However, as I explore, I discover it features even smaller toys than I could have imagined were possible to create.

Back at the main exhibition, I find that JAXA astronaut Naoko Yamazaki has visited here too, and she appears to have forgotten a signed postcard of herself, left amongst Atomic Rockets and Space Ship X-7’s. I feel tempted to buy a remote control alligator for the price of a month’s rent, but I instead opt for a wind-up robot for ¥1242; quite expensive, but full of nostalgia, and I like robots.

I leave the museum and the Yamate area, heading for Yamashita Park. The park, situated on the waterfront, is unfortunately cast in shadow by the massive Hikawa Maru, an ocean liner that blocks the sunshine and seems unnecessarily colossal. Nowadays, it serves as another museum, overshadowing the park inconsiderately. Nevertheless, the reason for my visit to this park was sparked by a sign pointing to another point of interest that intrigued me – the Statue of the Guardian God of Water.

It’s no secret that I enjoy irony, so I find it incredibly amusing that the statue here stands within a construction site, placed in a small pond filled with bricks and completely devoid of any water whatsoever. I can’t imagine the statue is pleased with its surroundings.

My final stop in Yokohama is also within Yamashita Park – the Statue of the Little Girl with Red Shoes On. I didn’t have specific expectations, but the description on the sign proved accurate. The girl represents a children’s song from 1922 called ‘Akai Kutsu,’ written by Ujo Noguchi, translating to mean ‘Red Shoes.’

A young girl with red shoes, was taken away by a foreigner.
She rode on a ship from Yokohama pier, taken away by a foreigner.
I imagine right now she has become blue-eyed, living in that foreigner’s land.
Every time I see red shoes, I think of her.
And every time I meet a foreigner, I think of her.

I’m not too sure what the song is about, and the only explanation offered by the sign is that Yokohama City wants this statue to become a cherished landmark for its countless visitors. Sadly, most visitors seem to just walk along, not giving the statue a second glance.

I decide that there is little else to do in Yokohama; despite having enjoyed two nice sightseeing days, it is time to head back to the reality of Tokyo. I take the train over to Shibuya. As I leave the station, I navigate through crowds of photographers capturing images of what once was and still is – just a crossing. The bright lights of Shibuya act as a neon reminder of what I was expecting Japan to look like before I arrived here nine months ago.

I wander aimlessly for a while through the busy nightlife before feeling overwhelmed by the lights and sounds, eventually making me feel dizzy. After a tiring few days, it’s time for me to go home. I buy some takeaway food for the train, taken away by a foreigner, and head back to Minowa.

Wig Trouble in Little Chinatown

Posted on 20/02/2015 by Luke

I am a little way outside of Tokyo, in Yokohama. The area was once a quaint fishing town where nothing much really happened. After the Americans came with their ships, Yokohama opened Japan up to the world of foreign trade, and these days, Yokohama has become one of the major ports for trade in Japan.

My first stop is the site where the Japan-America Treaty of Amity and Friendship was concluded. The treaty, also known as The Treaty of Kanagawa, was signed in 1854 on this very piece of ground and effectively changed the way Japan dealt with people from other countries. The signing also gave birth to the flourishing city of Yokohama. A memorial made up mostly of mirrors is here now, and uneven ground at the centre of this historic spot has become the ideal place for rainwater to collect.

With so much history in the area, Yokohama features many foreign buildings and places and is heavily influenced by various different cultures. It is one such culture that brings me here today – the Chinese. Today is, of course, Chinese New Year, so I thought the ideal place to celebrate would be in a city with its very own Chinatown.

Marking the entrance to Chinatown hangs a brightly coloured gate. The first thing I notice is that beyond the gate, the rows of Chinese restaurants and shops no longer resemble Japan. Tucked between two such restaurants sits a branch of Starbucks Coffee, instantly shattering the illusion that I might actually be in China. I make my way through the crowds and arrive at a temple.

Yokohama Kanteibyo is a Taoist temple dedicated to the Chinese general Guan Yu, now recognised as the god of war and victory. Built in 1871 by Chinese migrants, the temple has been destroyed four times but always rebuilt, a common theme in Japan regarding temples. These days, the temple symbolises good luck and good fortune in business, attracting a crowd of Chinese residents and tourists celebrating the Chinese New Year.

Inside the temple, people queue up to pay ¥1000 for a piece of scented wood. The lit incense is then placed into a pot. Burning the first incense of the New Year is considered especially important in Chinese culture, with participants believed to invite prosperity for the upcoming year.

After the incense, people retrieve their fortune, following a tradition similar to that of Japanese temples and shrines. Common themes emerge between the two cultures, such as celebrating the New Year by visiting a temple or shrine, offering the first prayer or burning incense, and enjoying traditional food. The notable distinction today is the upcoming Lion Dance.

I exit Yokohama Kanteibyo and step into the lantern-lined streets. Drawing in twenty-one million visitors annually, Yokohama Chinatown is the largest in Japan, boasting over six hundred shops and restaurants crammed into this compact area. Today, it seems like all twenty-one million have converged here, as both sides of the streets are teeming with people. The congestion makes it challenging for me to move freely.

I find a decent spot in the crowd and wait. Despite the imminent Lion Dance parade, the road remains open for vehicles, creating a potentially dangerous situation. A traditional Chinese vehicle labelled ‘Family Mart’ manoeuvres through the throng, coming perilously close to running over someone. Each time a vehicle passes, a man with a megaphone urgently urges everyone to step back, causing chaos. Additional delays occur due to a problem with the head of the lion costume, pushing the Lion Dance to start an hour later than scheduled, finally commencing at half-past four.

Firecrackers, louder than the Big Bang, shatter the silence. The abrupt explosion of sound startles me, eliciting frightened cries from children in the vicinity. Soon after, a man adorned in a lion costume emerges, prompting cheers from the crowd. Accompanied by the rhythmic beats of drums, the lion commences its dance. I manage to observe the lion’s performance for approximately four seconds before it vanishes into a Chinese restaurant, presumably continuing to dance around inside.

As the lion re-emerges from the restaurant, its head is removed, and the drumming ceases. This anticlimactic moment leaves me wondering if there’s more to come. I linger for a while, hoping for additional excitement, but the crowd has largely dissipated. The firecrackers echo once more, leaving the air tinged with a gloomy white smoke, and the lion resumes its dance into the next Chinese restaurant. Bored with the spectacle, I decide to bid farewell to Chinatown in search of something more intriguing.

Strolling around for approximately an hour, I stumble upon something of historical significance. In 1871, shortly after the signing of The Treaty of Kanagawa, a street named Nihon-O-dori was constructed. This street holds historical importance as the first modern street ever built in Japan. Originally, it was established as a division between the settlement of overseas migrants and the Japanese population.

The signboard reads, “This street presents the best opportunity to enjoy glimpses of Yokohama’s past.” I stroll along the entire thirty-six metres of the concrete street, attempting to savour glimpses of the past. However, my usual lack of enthusiasm is once again disrupted by the sight of a giant Ferris wheel looming in the sky above.

From Rush Hour With Love

Posted on 17/02/2015 by Luke

Today is Valentine’s Day in Japan. What would normally be a day of loneliness and misery is dissolved by chocolate. Unlike in England, where you are expected to buy flowers, chocolates, and take your partner for a meal, Valentine’s Day is remarkably different here. It is on this day that women buy chocolates for men. I have become very used to not receiving even a card on this day, so when I found myself unable to leave my house because of the vast quantities of chocolate blocking my path, it was a pleasant surprise. Even my dentist gave me chocolates, which is rather odd considering the high sugar content and the effect it will have on my teeth.

In Japan, one month after Valentine’s Day is White Day. On White Day, the man returns the gesture to those who gifted him by buying the women sweets. As much as I appreciate the abundance of chocolate that I received today, it becomes apparent that White Day will be extremely expensive for me.

It is perhaps a sad part of Japanese culture that on Valentine’s Day, a man will wait with anticipation to receive chocolates from a woman that he might like, if only for the opportunity to return the gesture a month later. It is this style of gift-giving that makes the shy Japanese male miserable when no chocolate is received. I suppose that this theme remains common among all other cultures; Valentine’s Day and the misery attached to it. I can hardly complain, though. I received many gifts, despite the fact that I don’t really like the taste of chocolate. I actually preferred playing with the bubble wrap, after a nine-month absence of popping pockets of air-filled plastic.

After consuming the equivalent of my weight in confectionery, I head into Asakusa. Today, I have decided to finally visit a temple that I walk past every single day but never visit. It is a temple that is always absent of people, possibly cursed, and is surrounded by some strange energy that I have previously been unable to bring myself to ingress.

The temple offers very little description about itself; not even a name. Before the temple sits a small rock garden where it is impossible to view all of the rocks from any one angle. It is said that if you are truly enlightened, then you are able to see the eighth rock. Despite the various viewing angles I deploy, I find it impossible to see every rock at the same time, and consider that even those that surpass the normal level of human consciousness would still find it difficult to see all of the stones at the same time. Other than a cemetery for the wealthy tucked behind the temple, nothing much else is on offer here.

I leave the temple and head over to Akihabara. Today, there is an art exhibition taking place at 3331 Arts Chiyoda, a former high school converted into an art gallery. The exhibition features students who will graduate next month from the Takarazuka University of Art and Design. A friend of mine works for the university and has invited me along to sample the artwork of his students.

There are seventeen displays here from seventeen students, all twenty-two-year-old women. The first thing that strikes me is that a lot of the pieces have some form of macabre imagery. Paintings depict homosexual angels, others heavily feature corpses, and some are simply storyboards for books about clowns for children; obviously, the clowns look deliberately menacing and have been painted just to scare me.

Other pieces here are heavily influenced by famous stories. One piece is based on Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s ‘The Spider’s Thread,’ a story about too many people in hell (known in the story as the Pool of Blood) as they try to escape and reach the paradise above. One man walking through a forest didn’t kill a spider one day, so the silk of a spider’s web is dropped down to hell from paradise in an attempt to rescue him. Everyone reaches for the web in an attempt to climb to safety. Obviously, the weight of everyone in hell is far too heavy for the silk, and the web snaps, committing everyone to the Pool of Blood for eternity.

The highlight of the exhibition is a piece by Ozawa Yuki. Her painting depicts a dream, more specifically, the moment when you become fully awake and are only able to remember fragments of what was left behind. Another artist that I enjoy is Ogawa Sayako. These two pieces offer less of a description but are once again based on dreams. Something about places in dreams never existing anywhere in real life. I suppose these pieces are my favourite due to their abstruse and rather abstract style. After the art, I take the packed rush-hour train back to Asakusa, somewhat confused by the imagery I have just viewed.

There are certain things that become written about more often than others in Japan: signs with bad English and vending machines. I am guilty of writing about both of these things, and perhaps they aren’t the most interesting to mention. But when I saw another strange vending machine, I got a little excited, so I decided to include it here.

This machine, covered in dust, sells batteries from 1931. These batteries, made by Panasonic, are no longer in production. Yet, this machine sells them for around ¥300 a pair. Even though they do claim to be a ‘Top Seller,’ batteries are the very last thing I need in my life right now. The machine doesn’t actually work and seems absent of any power. Somewhat ironically, what the machine could really do with is some new batteries.

Befall Upon The Watchtower

Posted on 14/02/2015 by Luke

For whatever reason, someone has suggested to me that I check out the area where the Arakawa River and the Sumida River flow into one. As I head out into what feels like a spring afternoon, I realise that my destination today might offer little excitement to anyone, including myself. Somehow, I feel drawn in the direction of Arakawa, the shackles of free will severed from my legs. Part of me feels like there is a demon possessing my very soul, controlling my destiny as I cycle at rapid speeds in the direction of Arakawa.

I see the remnants of a temple or shrine, but it looks as though perhaps it is trapped within the confines of an industrial site. Not letting that stop me for one moment, I park my bicycle and wander in. Seconds later, I am cornered by a security guard. He shouts angrily in Japanese as he waves his hand in the direction of the street. A strong urge to not give up consumes me, and I quickly find myself on the other side of the complex.

It is a strange sight. I am standing along the Sumida River, and there is nothing but tall yellow grass stretching off in every direction. No cars pass along the road in front of the shrine. No people are walking. It is silent, yet only ten minutes away are the tall residential buildings that make up my neighbourhood. Looming over the Shinto shrine are three huge green balls, presumably part of a sewerage station. Perhaps the god of water treatment resides here.

I carry on my journey, not wanting to disturb the sewer gods, and eventually find a map. Sure enough, the place I had just visited is marked as ‘Sewer Station Shirahige Nishi Pump Place.’ However, there is no mention of any temple or shrine on the map. There is, however, one other interesting point of interest labelled as ‘Ballpark for boy Ground of using combinedly.’ I excuse the terrible English and carry on along the river.

Ten minutes later, my fanciful difficulty fades away, offering me some karmic resolve.

A watchtower. The best thing that has happened to me all week. It somehow feels like I am stumbling through an episode of the television drama ‘Lost’. For no apparent reason, there is a massive wooden watchtower sitting guard at the entrance to one of the bridges that traverses the Sumida River. What is it doing here? Who built it? Is this real? My mind floods with questions and possibilities, as if somehow collecting fragmented pieces of information and forming them into ideas in my head.

I park my bicycle, and ignoring the sign that tells me to stay away, I enter the wooden doorway. My body filled with an emotion that is yet to be given a name. As I climb the watchtower, I begin to wonder if all of this is just some giant metaphor for something else, something that can’t be explained with words. Each step toward the top tests me, as if life is testing me at this very moment. Eventually, as I near the top, the cracks in the surface become wider, making way for sunbeams.

The view from the top is of nothing of note. Tokyo Skytree hangs in the distance, slightly masked by concrete surroundings. In the direction I came from, I can see the water treatment plant and the barren riverbed. I stand at the top of the tower in silence for a while, watching the blue hue of the river for a time, before the sound of footsteps echo from below. A man appears. He looks devious, something very odd about him; like he means to cause trouble. He stands atop the watchtower with me, blissfully staring out into a void. The man doesn’t speak to me, and something about him makes me incredibly uneasy. I decide that I can’t stand here any longer, so I head back down the steps to my bicycle below.

I cross the river as fast as I can, somewhat unnerved. On the other side of the river, I take a right, following its path back toward what looks like civilisation. After twenty minutes of cycling, I realise I am slightly at a loss. I don’t really know where I am, and I’m not sure if the river I crossed was the Arakawa River or the Sumida River. Perhaps I have already cycled beyond the confluence.

I try to check the map on my camera, but nothing appears to work. I stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and take in my surroundings. Desolate. Empty. Nothing. Everything here looks abandoned, and it begins to reflect on me. Right now, even I feel completely abandoned; which is the strangest feeling I have suffered in a while. As I stand here, lost in the middle of something that might or might not be nothingness, a certain fear destroys my usual calm demeanour, and I begin to panic.

Everything will be fine, though. As if saved, I can just make out the silhouette of Tokyo Skytree on the horizon; so I point my bicycle in the direction of the structure. After what seems like an hour of following the river, I reach a bridge and am finally free to cross. This bridge takes me over the Arakawa River, so it appears that I never reached my destination, never found what I sought out to find. Regardless, I am finally back within familiar territory, heading back toward life. I stop to photograph a sign that probably has no relevance here, but perhaps it does. The sign appears to have been written by Yoda from Star Wars.

As the day continues to distract me, I inadvertently end up in Akihabara. Tired from three or four hours of intemperate exploration, I decide to leave my bicycle at the train station. Inside, I stand at the platform, waiting for the train to take me back to Minowa. It is here that I see yet another strange vending machine.

The machine offers four shelves of items, two of which are toys for children: two sets from the Nature in Japan series. Small models of various different animals native to the country. It is what is contained within the other two shelves that I find strange. At a bargain price of ¥200 per purchase, I can buy office ladies that sit on the edge of my coffee cup; legs open, underwear exposed.

Akihabara Station famously has signs at each escalator, warning women to watch out for ‘upskirting.’ Apparently, it is a law in Japan that all cameras must make a sound when a photograph is taken. With Akihabara being the home of electronics and comic books, lonely men have often been known to pry on women as they ride the escalator, sneakily taking photographs from below.

This vending machine perhaps tries to solve that problem. These coffee cup women are clearly exposing their undergarments, with no shame. The only shame is possibly when your co-workers see you with a decorated coffee cup featuring this type of imagery. ‘Make your office fun!’ ‘Happiness in your cup!’ are just some of the explanations on offer, scrawled in Japanese across the machine.

There are certain times in my life when my mind is simply not capable of understanding something, and this is certainly one of them.

The Age of the Gods

Posted on 11/02/2015 by Luke

Today is National Foundation Day, the day that Emperor Jimmu was declared the very first Emperor of Japan, 2675 years ago. This marked a transitional period in the country’s history, ending what was known then as the Age of the Gods. It is often believed that before the accession of Emperor Jimmu, Japan was founded in an entirely different way.

It was once widely believed that the universe was engulfed in a chaos of sorts. The sound of particles moving around in a ball of confusion somehow created light. This light sat above the universe for a long time. Eventually, the particles began to fall, creating a blanket of clouds. From the clouds, five gods known collectively by the name Kotoamatsukami appeared from seemingly nowhere.

The five gods decided to cast four single droplets of water onto the oceans that formed on the planet below. Miraculously, these four drops materialised into huge land masses that are recognised today as the four main islands of the archipelago known as Japan.

I take to the Sumida River to look at the sunshine and the clouds and think about the formation of the universe. The story of Japanese creation seems to completely exclude the genesis of all the other landmasses on the planet, but oddly, the theory is still believed today by some Japanese people. With no celebrations at all taking place, I decide to follow the path of the river in a new direction and end up in the area of Hashiba.

Hashiba is somewhat unusual. The first thing that strikes me is that there are no maps, no places of interest, and no tourists. Just plenty of graffiti. It always surprises me to see graffiti in Japan, something I had almost forgotten existed until today. The Hashiba area is connected to the river and was once used as a ferry terminal. A floating bridge existed here too, some time ago. Before that, this area was covered in overgrown fields.

An older Japanese person I met with told me that he remembers coming here as a child to catch dragonflies and play in the long grass. The only sense of nature here now is the piles of dirt mixed with rubble, forgotten about and never removed.

In this area, watching over the mounds of trash and the graffiti, sit election posters for the Komeito Political Party. The party was founded by members of the Nichiren sect of Buddhism and therefore does the unpopular act of mixing both politics with religion. I am not sure anyone is here to help Hashiba, though—a place that seems incredibly run down and feels almost absent of potential change.

I decide to remain positive, to try to discover the good things about the area. Mixed amongst the negativity sits Hogenji Temple—a rather beautiful place with an old well, many stone statues, and a cemetery. For whatever reason, the grounds of the temple are filled with the sound of a loud chainsaw, disturbing the silence and further adding to my gloom-ridden impression of the area.

Desperately trying to find a redeeming factor, I continue to explore. I wander around for a while until I eventually find a sign written in English. The sign is provided by the Tokyo Metropolitan Board of Education, which is usually a good indication that something important might be here. Finally, a point of interest. Finally, something to see.

What looks like another temple turns out to be a tomb. The tomb comes complete with its own nature in the form of beautiful trees and a huge aviary. As if deliberately trying to add to the contrast, the tomb also includes a basketball court.

I discover that this is the final resting place of Ando Toya, a famous Confucian scholar. He was known for his time spent studying the Chinese language and teaching it to the people of Japan. He once said about the Chinese language, “It sounds like the chirping of birds. I can write, but when I open my mouth, I truly cannot speak.” This doesn’t quite explain the need for a basketball court here, but it does perhaps explain the aviary.

I stand in the grounds of Ando Toya’s tomb, staring in silence at the birds for almost a full hour.

The beautiful sparrows chirp in their hundreds. The echoing of those words spoken by Ando Toya flows around my head. It makes me wonder if the birds are secretly trying to communicate with me in Chinese. Maybe they are.

Roasting the Masu-Bean

Posted on 09/02/2015 by Luke

Another day, another post about the endless goings-on in the Asakusa area of Tokyo. I wander aimlessly toward Senso-ji Temple, walking with my head in the clouds as I follow the distant bellow of a beating drum. It somehow slipped my mind that today was the official festival of Setsubun, but here I am now, standing in the cold amongst the eager crowd.

Thousands of people wait in front of a wooden stage constructed specifically for the event. Poor carpentry makes the stage look out of place, perhaps even unfinished. I hadn’t planned on attending today, but with nothing else to do on this gloomy afternoon, and finding myself standing here, I decide it might be best to stick around and enjoy the spirit of this age-old festival.

The television people are here, filming every second of the action. But sadly for me, and unfortunately for the television crew, the action is a little muted. First, an announcer takes to the stage and begins reading out names. Some get no reaction at all; other names cause the crowd to cheer with excitement. One name gets a huge reaction, but I was barely listening to a word the announcer was saying because I allowed myself to become distracted by a pigeon.

Eventually, the twelve celebrities waltz onto the stage. They each carry a large wooden masu box, usually reserved for large quantities of sake. At the announcer’s count, they all start throwing pouches of roasted beans into the crowd. Following the bean-throwing, each of the twelve ‘celebrities’ is given a chance to speak with the microphone, seemingly using the opportunity for self-promotion before thanking the crowds for attending.

The last person to speak on the badly erected wooden stage is Animal Hamaguchi, a famous Japanese wrestler who coached his own daughter, Kyoko. She went on to win two Olympic medals in wrestling. Kyoko was born in this area too, so it is no surprise that she was chosen to take part in the event.

After Animal has finished speaking, a man sings ‘When You’re Smiling’ by Louis Armstrong; he sings in very clear English. Some of the other guests join in too. Animal Hamaguchi decides to start shouting in Japanese and laughs deeply, much to the enjoyment of the people around me. Pigeons fly away in fear as his laughter echoes around the grounds of the temple. “Mwahahaha!”

The festival ends, and the crowds disperse. I decide to do a little exploring in the area close to my house. I walk to a small park and am surprised to see that there is another festival taking place, albeit a little stranger than one that encourages the throwing of roasted plant seeds.

The festival offers no explanation behind its meaning. The only clue here is an array of masked men and women. They march around the park, passing the swings and the slide before heading off toward the red-light district. I am completely oblivious as to what this festival is here to represent; my confusion further added to by all kinds of different Japanese costumes, including dragons, ghosts, foxes, demons, and flute-playing elephants.

After the festival, I decide to explore a little further. I stumble upon Tozenji Temple, said to house one of the six jizos of Tokyo. A jizo is a Buddhist saint in search of truth and enlightenment; they are also guardians of children. It appears that the statue of this saint has been stolen or is simply missing. The only thing of interest here is another large statue of Buddha.

After walking in almost a full circle, I arrive back in Asakusa and head over to the Sumida River. I stare into the glistening waters for far too long, looking directly at the reflection of Tokyo Skytree. The way the river shakes and shimmers distorts the image of the tower, and it does begin to take the form of a tree. After a while, I forget where I am, lost to the flow of time. It is only when my hands begin to feel frozen that I snap out of the trancelike state that I have allowed my mind to enter.

My head returns to the clouds, and I wander around like a lost child, looking for excitement. There isn’t even a jizo around to guide me. Eventually, I find a clothing store that displays a wonderful sign. I believe the sign is trying to tell people not to consume food or drink inside their establishment.

Unfortunately for the shop, a translation blunder instead suggests that lactation is forbidden, much to my amazement.

A Mime to Kill (With Beans)

Posted on 02/02/2015 by Luke

The snow came and went faster than a fleeting thought on a cold February morning. Despite the chill, a very famous festival is set to take place across Japan in two days’ time, known as Setsubun. The festival involves throwing roasted beans at demons and marks the penultimate day of winter, according to the Japanese lunar calendar. However, it doesn’t feel like spring is coming anytime soon; outside, it is cold, and patches of frozen white snow cover the city of Tokyo. Perhaps it will stay this way for another two months, or perhaps the unpredictability of Japanese weather will strike again.

The bean-throwing festival will be taking place at most of the temples and shrines in Japan. However, I have decided not to attend. Instead, a group of performing artists, some of whom have been featured in my previous posts, and a couple of whom I have randomly become friends with, are celebrating Setsubun in a very different way—with comedy, clowns, and plenty of balloons.

I arrive just as the event starts. It begins with a man dressed as a ninja performing tricks. He jumps over chairs, stacks some chairs, balances on chairs (his performance very much focused on seating), before being randomly attacked by a man wearing a sheep costume. The sheep man throws a single bean at the ninja; he overreacts in a classic comedy style before falling over and playing dead for the remainder of the proceedings. The sheep man has a costume made up entirely of balloons, the handiwork of my balloon artist friend, no doubt.

After the ninja fight, two demons emerge. One is dressed in white, presumably to represent good, and the other is dressed in black. The demon in black wears a target on his back, seems far too happy for an evil spirit, and appears to be enjoying standing around on his high stilts, smiling at everyone.

Suddenly, the attention shifts to a group of clowns standing on a balcony above a pachinko parlour. They start shouting in Japanese using megaphones. After exchanges are made between the clowns and demons that I can’t quite comprehend, people in the audience begin to laugh, a lot. An elderly woman on a bicycle with an impossible number of shopping bags sighs as she tries to weave through the crowds. I might just add, this whole festival is taking place on a busy shopping street and is perhaps causing a little too much chaos for some of the locals who just want to get to where they need to be.

After the shouting, all hell breaks loose. Paper bags are dropped from the sky by clowns in their thousands. Children and adults alike scramble to collect them from the floor. I raise my arm and catch one in mid-air. Everyone is rushing around, trying to salvage one of the decorated paper pouches. People are crashing into each other, forgetting about the safety of others. Regardless of the carnage, it’s actually a lot of fun.

The pouch I caught predictably contains roasted beans. After a while, everyone goes silent before a chant occurs. Following the chant, people start pouring beans into their hands and throwing them as hard as they can at the demon. His smile is quickly wiped from his face by roasted beans.

As I run out of beans, a little girl walks over to me and smiles. She takes my hand and pours beans into my palm. “Quickly! Throw!” she says before giggling off and returning to her parents. Eventually, everyone runs out of ammunition, and the event draws to a close. As people start to leave, the floor becomes a hunting ground for hungry pigeons. A man with a megaphone starts shouting at the birds, and they eventually fly away. The last thing that happens is all of the performers, clowns, demons, and mimes begin to clean the streets.

Something about seeing a mime hard at work sweeping the streets fills me with a sense of disappointment. It kind of spoils the character and takes away from the magic. I offer to help sweep using one of the many brushes, but I am shooed away, just like the pigeons.

I still have some of the afternoon to kill, so I head over to Senso-ji. It is the weekend, and there is usually something taking place around the temple. Sure enough, I find a street market, the usual man with his performing monkey doing some tricks, and strangely, for the first time ever, the temples and shrines in the complex are each holding some sort of service. I head into the main hall of Senso-ji Temple, and although it is very difficult to get close enough, I manage to sneak a quick photograph before being told once again to move on.

With nothing much else to do, and Asakusa now mostly quiet, I head home to eat some demon-killing beans.

Journey to the Centre of the Buddha

Posted on 30/01/2015 by Luke

It has gotten very cold as of late, but today offers rare blue skies and a warm winter sun. Today might be the last day hot enough to do anything practical before spring, so I decide to make the most of it with a day trip out of Tokyo. My destination is a little over two hours away by train: the city of Kamakura.

Outside Kamakura Station, I am approached by a poorly dressed Japanese man speaking in English with an American accent. He is banging on about Buddhism, or something. When I mention that I have things to do, he looks a little disappointed before wandering off to talk to some new people just off the train.

I wander through the city, its streets lined with souvenir shops, gift shops, and stores selling various mementos. At this point, I realise I haven’t taken a single photograph in Kamakura, so I decide to walk up to the first temple I see.

Shu Genji Temple doesn’t exude much happiness. It was once the residence of Shijo Kingo, a renowned Nichiren Buddhist skilled in medicine. Following Nichiren’s death, Shijo Kingo attended the funeral but ultimately chose to end his own life to demonstrate his unwavering faith in the religion.

A little further from the temple, I spot a strange machine covered in stickers. The ‘Happy Capsule’ machine costs ¥100, and each capsule contains at least three prizes. I try to resist, but as if possessed by some demon from another world, I find that I have already inserted a coin.

My capsule contains a small glass fish statue with fried eggs randomly painted on each side, a colourful ankle bracelet with a small relic in the shape of an ice cream, and a teddy bear with the word ‘Love’ written on it. I also receive a ‘Lucky Sticker,’ which I am free to add to all the other lucky stickers that litter the machine. Noting the sign for ‘No Garbage,’ I take another look at my happy prizes and stand for a moment, enjoying the irony.

Eventually, I arrive at the place I came here to visit, Kotoku-in Temple. It is home to a giant Buddha, the same Buddha featured in Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘The Five Nations.

A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold,
The meaning of Kamakura?

I pay ¥200 to enter the grounds of the temple and stand for a while in awe. The Great Buddha of Kamakura was housed within a wooden temple three times. It was destroyed by strong winds twice but rebuilt on both occasions. Eventually, in 1498, it was destroyed for a third time by a tsunami and was never rebuilt. The Buddha survived and now sits outside in the cold of winter, patiently waiting for the seasons to change.

As I walk around the statue, I notice two windows located in its back. There is a sign in Japanese emphasising the importance of showing deep respect when walking around inside the Great Buddha. A man sits half asleep at a small booth, and a sign above displays a price of ¥20. For such a low price, I would be a fool not to enter. I squeeze my way into a small hole in Buddha’s side and take the steps up into his massive belly.

Inside the Great Buddha of Kamakura, the acoustics are fantastic. I speak softly to myself and find that my words are thrown around by the bronze interior, echoing off into infinity. However, a bit of graffiti inside slightly spoils the experience — a complete lack of reverence by some.

I exit the Buddha and leave the temple. On the way out, I spot a sign warning about a particular type of bird in the area that likes to steal food from tourists. I start heading back toward the train station, stopping off at a small food shop to enjoy a sweet potato croquette. All the while, I keep my eye out for the hungry birds. Unfortunately, the birds don’t materialise, which is a shame.

I decide to take a different route for variety, and eventually, I spot some steps that sweep up a mountain. Intrigued, I take a little detour to see where they might lead.

I find myself standing in front of Amanawa Shinmei Shrine. The place is deserted, seemingly untouched for years, presenting a stark contrast to the other places I have seen in Kamakura. This shrine, founded in 710 AD, is the oldest Shinto shrine in the city and is dedicated to Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun and the universe.

The view from the shrine is stunning, offering a different perspective of the area. In the distance, I see mountains, old houses, and multiple temples and shrines. From the top of the steps, I can also glimpse the sea. As I am about to leave, I spot a small path carved into the side of the mountain above, and with nobody else around, I decide to investigate.

As I climb, the path is relatively easy to follow, twisting around the mountain and becoming less obvious. I have to brush away cobwebs from my face as I follow the steep approach. With every step, I am careful not to lose my footing as the mud gets wetter and the path becomes steeper. After about five minutes of climbing, the overgrowth becomes too much, and I can’t continue. I stop and take a look around, taking in my surroundings, and realise that this was probably not a good idea.

I struggle to get back down, having to crawl a little to ease my way down from the path that has clearly not been used for years. I use my hands on the rocks as I work my way back to safety. I am slightly disappointed that I couldn’t find where it leads, perhaps to the sun goddess, or maybe just an escape route lost over time. There’s nothing for me to see, though, and eventually, I am back at the shrine, taking the steps back toward the main road.

I wander down deserted side streets that are full of old houses, some with massive gardens, others with disproportionately small ones.

Back at Kamakura Station, I get ready to endure another two hours sitting on trains. Day trips are fun but rather exhausting at the same time. It’s nice to escape, though, and see places that offer a difference. I think about climbing up that mountain path, feeling completely free for a short time—free from anything but my own eagerness to explore, or perhaps to escape altogether. I decide that my next day trip will be to a mountain of sorts, a place unlike those I have been discovering of late. Somewhere new and exciting, where I can rekindle my sense of adventure. A place flowing with natural beauty.

As I arrive back in Tokyo, a chill consumes the air. Above, thick clouds made of snow hover over the skyscrapers, lying in wait—almost ready to unleash their flakes of misery over the city.

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.

After the Form

Posted on 24/01/2015 by Luke

Bang, bang-bang. Bang, bang-bang. Bang, bang-bang.

The repetitive yet timely sound of drumsticks hitting against stretched animal hide stirs me from peaceful dreams. Not one to miss out on an opportunity to write about whatever is parading by my house, emitting this loud but perfectly rhythmic noise, I decide that I will follow the source of the sound right after I wake up with a coffee.

I haven’t written for a while as I’ve been extremely busy researching and organising paperwork, the details of which will become apparent later in this post. But for now, drums. I head outside to find that whatever was causing the loud banging appears to move at astonishing speeds; either that, or I drink coffee a little too slowly. I jump on my bicycle and follow the distant echo of drums before eventually locating the source to a small shrine in Imado.

It seems that I have inadvertently started my day with a funeral. The five monks stand within the shrine grounds, chanting and maintaining a steady balance of drums. I head back home to pick up some paperwork before cycling over to Asakusa. Outside the train station, the same five monks pass me again. This is quite a walk from Imado, which adds confirmation to the pace of these speeding monks. I take a train over to Ueno Station. The usual random mascots are here, serving no clear purpose but to frighten me.

I change to the Yamanote Line and head to Shinagawa, a place I have only visited once before when I felt the need to stand inside the belly of a whale. This time, I am here to visit the Tokyo Immigration Information Centre. A note on their website claims that, ‘This is where all inquiries should first be made concerning immigration issues, wherever you are in Japan.’ Luckily for me, I am already in Tokyo; otherwise, this would have been quite the journey. Also, seeing as I am in need of information pertaining to immigration issues, it looks like I am heading to the right place; the so-called ‘centre of information.’

Much to my delight, as I leave the train, I find that a bus service regularly runs to the offices I am here to visit. Everything is running a little too smoothly.

I am greeted outside of the immigration office by hordes of people giving out paraphernalia advertising their respective companies or cults. A woman is spreading the joy of Christianity, a man hands me a document offering ‘Legal Support for Aliens,’ and another man is holding a sign demanding China stop the act of organ harvesting.

Inside the Immigration Centre, I head over to the advice and information counter, take a ticket (147), and then find a seat. The woman at the counter is talking to a young French couple in broken English. Every few seconds, she lets out a yawn or scratches her head, illustrating her apparent boredom.

Eventually, the French couple leaves. The woman at the counter presses a button, and the bright red display shows the number 145. She waits less than three seconds before pressing the button again, displaying 146. Without much delay, she presses it again, showing 147—my number. As I approach the counter, her finger hovers over the button to call the next number, her eyes filled with resentment that I might sit down before her within my three-second window. I take a seat just as she sighs. I understand that maybe I am the one hundred and forty-seventh person she has seen today, not counting the people she frantically skipped, but this is her job. To counter her obvious state of disregard, I greet her in an overly cheerful manner, smiling as I sit.

The woman I talk to speaks limited English, looks bored, and probably hates her job. I inquire about the application form that I should take in reference to the activities I want to pursue in Japan. My questions are generally ignored, and at one point, the woman randomly says, “So you want to stay in Japan to study Judo?”
“No, I didn’t say anything about Judo.”
“Okay, but if you are studying Judo, you need to go to End Counter B, second floor.”
“Okay, I actually …”
She cuts away my words with metaphorical scissors of despair. “End Counter B,” she reiterates, “second floor.”
So much for the best place to visit for information and advice.

I head to the second floor, to End Counter B. As I approach, the woman, slightly more miserable than the last, looks me up and down and says, without any hint of emotion or benevolence, “Passport.” Just one word is all she spares me. I hand her my passport. She adds rather sternly, “What do you want?” I explain that I want to collect an application form for … Before I have a chance to finish my sentence, she says, “Application, go queue over there,” pointing to a line of about thirty people.

I join the queue, wait thirty minutes, and then find out that I am in the queue for application checking. I am not here to have applications checked; I am here to collect application forms and ask for advice. So far, neither of these two things has transpired.

My third and final stop is back on the first floor. I wander over to the desk marked simply as ‘Information.’ “Excuse me, where can I collect an application form?” I ask.
“Here.” she says, as if she wants to add the word ‘obviously,’ but she conveys it only with her tone of voice. Eventually, she begrudgingly hands me an application form.
“Thank you,” I say. No response. My politeness falls on deaf ears. The woman just flashes me a frown that contains the absence of all the hope in the universe before trudging off into a sea of misery.

Three counts of rudeness in one hour. It is no surprise that the hundreds of people here, waiting with folders or loose paperwork, look so dejected. Of all my time in Japan, a country that prides itself on politeness and good customer service, this is the rudest I have been treated and the smallest I have felt. The service here is disgraceful, not helpful, and has filled me with no confidence at all going forward. Perhaps this is the hidden agenda: make everyone feel unwelcome so they never come back to complete their applications. Regardless, I have to come back, most likely next week.

Outside, I am handed more leaflets for various different things. A woman tries to give me a newspaper. I say I am fine. She asks me where in Canada I am from. I say I am not from Canada but England. She mutters something about Elton John and then walks off. After wasting what was effectively a whole day, I leave with none of the much sought-after advice I had taken the trip here to receive. Instead, just an application form that I could have quite easily downloaded online and printed out myself.

I head over to Asakusa in need of a drink. On the main road, a protest is taking place about atrocities caused by North Korea. The people here have megaphones and sound extremely angry as they shout in Japanese.

Trying to take in their words, I can’t help but be distracted by the late January Christmas decorations that loom over the protest.

As I walk toward one of my favourite bars, an elderly woman on a bicycle drops her handbag but doesn’t realise it. “Excuse me!” I shout in Japanese before she has the chance to ride away. She stops her bicycle and looks back. I scoop up her bag and walk over to her, promptly passing her the handbag. She apologises and thanks me, nodding her head more times than I can actually count in Japanese. She is so thankful, so happy that I helped her, and at this moment, just a slight bit of the decency and politeness of this culture finally returns—the kind of decency that has made me love Japan but has almost been entirely washed away by the events and abhorrent treatment I had experienced this afternoon.

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