Nineteen-O-Splash, 11,March 2009
Tokyo is a mega big city, huge by any standards. It’s crammed with people, living and working cheek by jowl. They even have teams of white gloved, uniformed pushers to cram passengers into their rush hour commuter trains. By the time you’re all jammed in there’s no need to worry about falling over, you can’t move in there. To me this world is impersonal. Men and women trussed up in uniform business suits, unseeing, ant like, all dashing to some unseen destination.
However, in spite of this manic behaviour I’ve had many friendly encounters with the Japanese people. I’ve met them professionally through my work and socially in the back street bars of Tokyo and Osaka. Some of these encounters have led do long term friendships with people I hold in high regard. One such friend is Isao Sakashita. Last time I saw Isao we’d arranged to meet after work at Ueno station for a drink and something to eat.
I arrived at Ueno early and spotted Isao as he came out of the station’s South entrance. I’d heard he’d been ill and even in the half light of dusk I could see he’d lost a lot of weight. His dark business suit seemed too large. I hung loose on his gaunt frame and his sharp cheek bones were more prominent than ever.
“Ah Isao sama… shibaraku desu ni,” I called out, as he approached.
“Yes Ted san it has been a long time… you look just the same as ever.“
I shook his bony hand, taking care not to be too rough on his thin frail arm. After pleasantries, enquiring about each others health and families, we joined a surge of commuters to cross the busy road running past the station.
Passing through a rustic iron archway, we entered the local night life precinct. From the drab main road we stepped into splashing colour as we jostled for room in the crowds coursing through the narrow cobbled streets. Here I knew we’d find a warm izakaya, a pub, where we could chat and catch up.
Our search took us past an array of exotic establishments. Bright light streamed from the chrome and mirror clad Pachinko parlours. Inside these bazaar temples, wide eyed salarymen fired streams of stainless steel balls crashing through exotic pinball machines. We passed the portals of dingy alleys plastered with signs offered the dubious allure of private clubs and hotels by the hour. Squeezing past a street stall over flowing with shoddy white high heels, Isoa spotted a low narrow doorway behind short red curtains. The red paper lamps hanging outside advertised the fare in flowing black kanji.
As I flicked the curtains up and stepped over the threshold, the buzz of conversation fell away. Inquisitive beady eyes darted in my direction. Inside, the place was a dingy narrow cave. But it was warm and the staff welcomed us. The heads turned away and the hub bud resumed. Customers crowded the narrow shelf like bar along one side and the few low tables in the cramped room. All pervasive, the aroma of yakitory, the fat of grilled chicken dripping on hot charcoal, made my mouth water. We found space and a couple of stools at the bar; got our coats off and ordered.
Over a couple of beers and some yakitori I caught up with Isao’s movements since we had worked together on a project in New Zealand. He’d been in Harbin, in North Eastern China, for the past year, working for his trading company and learning Chinese. Stuck in this cold, remote outpost he’d lost touch with the people we both knew and, more importantly, the rugby fortunes of the All Blacks. He said he’d enjoyed his time in China, but, having left his wife back in Tokyo, found it a lonely posting.
Eventually, the conversation turned to Isao’s return to Japan. He was now stationed in the company’s head office, a towering cube of black glass near Tokyo‘s Tamachi Station. Drawing on his new language skills and his experience in the sawmilling industry, he dealt with his company’s timber trade in China. I imagined his circumstances were significantly different to those he’d known in New Zealand.
“Isao, now you’re back in Japan, where are you living? Is it very far out?”
“Ah … We have an apartment in a company block out near Chiba… from work I catch the Yamanote line to Tokyo Station… then the Kayo Line towards Chiba, after that it’s only a few minutes on a local train and a short walk to get to my apartment.“
That’s a real accountant’s reply, I thought. I’d ridden the Kayo line twice a day for a couple of weeks. It’d taking over an hour to get out past Tokyo Disneyland to Makuhari Mise. From Makuhari it was still some distance to Chiba. Drawing on that experience, I found the thought of Isao’s daily regimen daunting.
“That’s a hell of a long way Isao, how long does it take you?”
“A bit over two hours each way on the train.”
“But that’s more than four hours a day… wasn’t it much better in New Zealand, when you were only a 10 minute drive from the office?”
A wistful look slipped over Isao’s face. “Sure, it was nice living in New Zealand, there was lots of space and getting around was easy, but I am back in Japan now.“
I didn’t understand. “Can’t you go back and live in New Zealand?”
“I could, but I don’t know I want to… I’m really pleased to be back home… coming back to Japan is like slipping into a warm familiar overcoat.”
“An overcoat?”
“Yeah, that’s the only way I can explain it. Japan’s home, I feel comfortable here.”
I didn’t have an answer to the warm fuzzy feeling of Isao’s cultural overcoat. The conversation drifted on to rugby and the misfortunes of the All Blacks in the last World Cup. This was a depressing topic for both of us and we rather ran out of things to say. So, being conscious of Isao’s emaciated appearance and that it would take at least two hours for him to travel home I suggested we call it a night.
Isao paid the bill. We gathered up our coats and, ducking through the low doorway, left the bar. I followed Isao’s thin shoulders through the crowded narrow lanes, past the smells of food stalls and menagerie of knickknack shops. Once the crowd thinned we walked together chatting about Isao’s recent illness. It seemed he had become ill just before he left China. Bedridden in Tokyo for over a month, his family were gravely concerned. I thought he looked as though he should be back in bed right now!
Arriving at the platform in Ueno Station we boarded the same Yamanote line train going towards Tokyo Station. Stepping on to the train our conversation ended, as if a curtain had come down. We both hung onto a strap and stared, trying to read, the screeds of advertising banners swaying from the ceiling. At Tokyo Station Isao stifled a bow before shaking my hand and stepping onto the platform. Watching him walk to the exit as the train pulled out towards my stop and hotel at Hamamatsucho, his comments about his warm overcoat pulsed through my mind.
I couldn’t begin to understand Isao’s culture, his warm overcoat, he certainly felt a great affinity for it. It was as if, coming back, he’d plugged back into some sort of collective intelligence or consciousness. I’d heard it said the Japanese are the biggest tribe in the world; perhaps that was it? But how could they stand the regimen of conformity; a land where even the dead fish in the supermarket freezers stand to attention! In my world, in spite of having all sorts of “freedom” I would never expect to feel the warmth Isao felt in returning home, all I could do was envy him.
