Rain Delay

With my hitchhiking status temporarily on “rain delay” and no old ladies to flirt with, I was stuck for something to do. I opened my journal to a blank page but couldn’t think of anything to write about.

Then a thought hit me. This is Japan! How can I not have much to write about? What do you see? Hear? Smell?

Inspired by that insight, what follows is a comprehensive sensory description of my rainy afternoon in the roadside service area in the town of Oumou, Hokkaido, Japan on Wednesday, July 8th, 2009.

Sight

To my left, two cheerful ladies are laughing while rearranging the displays in a little gift shop. They glance over at me from time to time, probably wondering who I am and what I’m writing about.

The service station itself is fairly nondescript – grey tables, grey rest rooms, and a row of vending machines filled with green tea and cigarettes. Out the window is a gloomy town, sulking under the relentless rain. I’ll venture out there soon, but I need to finish my…

Taste

…coffee. It’s heavily sweetened and is especially useful in washing down the awful Calorie Mate blocks I have purchased. They are a chalky meal-replacement that compete with North Korea's military food rations for worst meal ever. On the upside, I’m pretty sure they last forever. I wonder how long my…

Smell

…dried scallops will last. My pack is closed at my feet but I can smell them from here. The fishy scent competes with the odour of cigarette smoke, which wafts lazily in my direction from a group of business men, who are likely in a hurry and are very focused on…

Sound

…the noodles they are eating, loudly slurping them with the characteristic fervour common to noodle-eaters everywhere in Japan. The sound is expected – even encouraged – and I have, as a matter of pride, developed my own special technique of sending sputtering strands of carbohydrate noisily down the hatch.

Other aural surroundings include the laughing gift shop staff, the flat drone of the rain, and the hum of the nearby vending machines. And softly, barely audible, is the little scratch of my…

Touch

…trusty Cross pen, smooth in my hand, dutifully passing ink to paper and transferring just a touch of friction back to my hand in return.

A Decision

I scanned my map, considering my next move. My plan was to follow the coast Northward, but a great number of locals had tried to talk me out of it because traffic on that route was so sparse.

“Go inland -- you’ll never get rides along the coast,” agreed a group of bus tourists I’d met at the rest station.

Another factor I had to consider was the weather forecast. The local weatherman was talking about rain, rain, and more rain, which certainly works against the hitchhiker. One might think you’d benefit from drivers’ sympathy in the rain, but bad weather has the even stronger effect of making everyone look a little more sinister. Picture dark grey clouds, blankets of rain, and Mother Teresa standing on a street corner. Is she concealing a knife under her habit? Possibly. Never trust a wet nun.

No, inviting a dripping wet, possibly dangerous stranger into your car is simply not as appealing as doing so for a dry one. I’d learned this the hard way, spending rainy days catching truck spray beside highways and ducking into convenience stores for shelter. The “poor hitchhiker in the rain" sympathy doesn't really exist to the extent that I'd hoped.

I had to make a decision. Should I risk it? My larger plan was to complete a loop of the island. The map of my Epic Hitchhiking Journey just wouldn’t look right with a big wedge cut out of it. The naysayers had a point though; it was a very desolate area and there were other, busier roads I could’ve taken.

But those locals were forgetting something. Lower traffic frequency also means a higher per-car chance of pick-up. Drivers think, “He’ll never find a ride out here … maybe I should stop.” You might only see one car in half an hour, but you’ve got a pretty good chance that he’ll give you a lift.

And you know what? Rain is just water. H2O. Life-giving. Ubiquitous.

I made my decision. I’d head North.

Scallops

Eri dropped me off at a convenience store at 5am where I scored another ride.

At this point in the trip I was long past the stage of worrying about whether someone would stop. Drivers had been faithfully responding to my “thumbs up” for two weeks now and my confidence in the method was unshakeable. I’d mentally added hitchhiking rides in Japan to ‘death’ and ‘taxes’ as one of those few things that are certain in this life.

I hopped in with Naomi, who, despite a toothache (and the fact that it was 5:00 am!), drove me 20km out of her way to show me a famous wildflower park. She was in good spirits (oral-anguish be damned, I think she said in Japanese), and was happy to tell me about her work as a scallop factory worker. Apparently it’s a fascinating vocation, though I think the smell would get to me.

In the next town, that unshakeable confidence I mentioned earlier was challenged. It was a dreary fishing town, made even drearier by a steady drizzle.

Half an hour of walking on a nice day is nothing, but in the rain it’s pretty depressing so when another scallop-worker picked me up I was more than grateful. Wait – another scallop worker? Yep. Different company, same industry.

I support positive stereotypes, so spread the word: all scallop workers are friendly – this one gave me a sweet peanut butter sandwich (The Japanese add lots of sugar to their peanut butter).

A little further down the road, I walked into a rest stop to wait out the rain. I was sitting beside the window thinking about scallops when an old woman nearby told me to sit down beside her. I paused, but she motioned aggressively for me join her at the table.

“Come here, sit down. Here, these are for you.”

As though it were the most natural thing in the world, she handed me a bag of dried scallops and continued to speak.

“I’m rich, you know. I have lots of money and a big house. Very big.”

She didn’t appear to be rich, but appearances certainly aren’t everything. I ate a scallop and played along.

“That’s impressive,” I said. “Do you live near here?”

“Yes, all my life. Yes, yes, it’s very big indeed. So many rooms, and you know, it’s only me living there. It’s very sad. Isn’t it sad?

“Yes, sad,” I said.

“I have so much money and so much food and no one to share it with. No one to share the warmth of my table heater. My children are gone; my husband is gone… If I died, no one would find me for weeks. Maybe longer.”

(What do you say to that? I bet the smell would be pretty bad …)

I didn’t have time to answer anyway. She surprised me with a question.

“Do you think maybe you and I could get married? You’re good-looking, and I’m rich.”

“Sure,” I said, popping a dried scallop into my mouth. It was raining out, and I was thinking that perhaps we could both benefit here – her from some much-needed company, and I from a place to sleep, and, well, she was an interesting old lady, if a bit depressed.

“Well, maybe you could stay at my house—“ she paused, thinking. “No,” she said. “No, it's too ______." And with that, she bid me goodbye and left.

Too what? Your guess is as good as mine. It was a word I didn’t know, and by the time I had the sense to check my dictionary I’d forgotten it. It bugged me for days. What was the reason?

I put the scallops in my pack, which, for the next 3 days, smelled like scallops.

Guilty as Charged

Your Honour, I hereby confess to having committed a blogging felony. Having no money for a proper attorney, I choose to represent myself in the blogosphere court of law.

To the charge of “Breaking from chronology in an otherwise sequential narration,” I plead guilty. I committed this crime under my own volition, with no external aid or influence. I am of reasonably sound mind and I am prepared to pay any necessary damages or heed any court ordered injunctions that may be issued.

In hopes that my sentencing may be reduced, I request that the court kindly allow me to put forward a defence, vis-à-vis the context of my misdemeanor.

As you may have guessed, I breached the aforementioned code in order to convey the terrifying tale found in the prior post. Frankly, screaming kids are too much fun to write about.

The two days that I skipped include myriad ‘touristy’ achievements including, but not limited to, viewing sunsets, touring museums, and sampling local cuisine. In short, I got a little ahead of myself.

In my haste, I missed two noteworthy points. I apologize for such omission, and will now take to the keyboard and shamefully assume the duty I so carelessly shirked in the previous post; I will fill you in.

First, I visited the famed Abashiri Prison Museum, which has the same aura as Alkatraz in the US, or Azkaban in Harry Potter (instead of death-eaters they have teams of hyper-flatulant sumo wrestlers). The visit was engaging and interesting.

Second, I was fortunate enough to have both a tour guide for the day and a brick-and-mortar roof over my head – another welcome break from tenting.

For these luxuries, I thank directly the wonderful Eri-san, and indirectly, couchsurfing.com, which is nothing short of a young traveler’s dream come true. It’s a global community built around a website, where people offer couches, spare beds, and floorspace at no charge to those trying to travel cheaply. That description fit me pretty well, and after joining the site, a quick search led me to Eri, a really positive, outgoing girl with a passion for meeting new people and trying new things.

She took me sightseeing to a horse and llama farm, the actual Abashiri prison, and to the beautiful cape Notoro, where we had a late dinner of spaghetti and donuts by the Sea of Okhotsk.

We were unsuccessful in fighting off the enormous Hokkaido mosquitoes, but as you already know, I did manage to succeed in terrifying the (far more vulnerable) Hokkaido teenagers.

The 3:48am sunrise didn’t disappoint.

I hope these proceedings have not been unduly lengthy and can assure you that I shall henceforth submit additions to this living document known as ‘The Blog” in proper, chronological fashion.

I shall now retire to my cell to await sentencing. Court is adjourned.

Fright

How can I describe to you that first scream? The one that came before all the other shrieking, and running, and sobbing. It was a scream I’ll never forget – a loud, terrified cry that set hearts racing and adrenaline flowing. It tore through the night, propelled by pure terror.

She was screaming at me.

Let me start at the beginning.

The night was special – in Japan, July 7th is the day of Tanabata. It’s a day to honour two lovers in the sky, separated eternally by a river of stars. The 7th day of the 7th month is the one time each year the couple can meet.

I hitchhiked to the beautiful Cape Notoro to watch the sunset, see the stars, and spend the night. By 9pm the last shimmer of light had abandoned the horizon and by 10 I couldn’t see a thing. I lay in my tent, completely alone in the darkness.

My solitude, however, was broken quite abruptly by a group of university students. I heard the crunch of gravel under tires and the closing of car doors. Voices rose and fell in conversation and soon I saw four small flashlight beams walking in the direction of my tent. There were two girls and two guys – perhaps young couples going for an evening stroll.

They weren’t walking toward the tent – they were on course to pass by it. But then my abode was noticed.

“Hey, what’s that?” I heard.

There was nothing especially funny about the question, or even the situation. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was possessed. But my response was laughter. Not soft, friendly laughter, but a kind of deep, throaty laughter that—given the circumstances—elicited quite a reaction.

The Scream.

First one, then both girls were shrieking, sprinting back toward the parking lot, away from the horrible laughing man inside the tent. One girl had erupted into tears.

I sat in the tent for the next 10 minutes, listening to the poor girl crying and the others discussing the tent monster. I felt terrible. I needed to apologize and prove that I wasn’t evil. I left the tent and walked slowly toward the parking lot, where about a dozen students stood chatting and consoling the two girls.

I knew that my task of appearing friendly would not be easy. I was a tall, foreign stranger shrouded in darkness – nothing but a pair of shoes illuminated by a flashlight beam, slowly emerging from the night.

I spoke to the group as I got closer. Somehow, telling people there’s nothing to fear always seems to indicate the opposite. But I did my best, hoping my muddled Japanese wouldn’t hurt my cause.

“Good evening, I’m so sorry, I’m really not scary, I’m very sorry – I’m just spending the night here in my tent. Where are the run-cry-girls? I must say sorry to them.”

A few pointed to the two girls cowering in the back. I called an apology to them, but they were clearly not ready to forgive. Many in the group were very friendly though, offering me hot tea and even a two hour ride the following day. They were all members of their university outdoors club, out for an evening of socializing and stargazing.

Eventually I met the frightened pair, one of whom spoke English.

“I am happy you are nice person, not ghost,” she said.

During Tanabata it’s customary to make a wish for the coming year. I wished that my laughter would cause no more tears. As far as I know, so far so good.

Nonbiri

“If you’re going in the opposite direction, you really don’t have to give me a ride.”

“No, I insist!” he said. “I have lots of time. Do you know the word, nonbiri? It means living the slow life.”

“Nonbiri – the slow life – I like that!”

So Uchida-san threw his Suzuki into gear and pulled a u-turn; we headed West. The area is famous for its delicious deer burgers so I asked if we could stop to try one. We each had one from “Cowberry.” a roadside service centre restaurant. Sometimes the slow life involves fast food.

Uchida-san proved to be excellent company and the winding mountain roads afforded spectacular views.

Taking our time exploring picturesque vistas and highway service stations, we eventually arrived in Abashiri, my destination for the day. I thanked Uchida-san with a piece of Native-Canadian art I’d picked up at a little Canadian specialty shop in Tokyo. (Imported is still authentic, right?) He bowed, got back in his Suzuki, and headed back the way we’d come.

I heard that word, nonbiri, from many Hokkaidans on the trip. The island bears a stark contrast to Tokyo, whose residents work too much, sleep too little, and don’t have much time to really enjoy life.

Everyone together now, take a breath.

In …………

Out ………

Nonbiri.

Fee-Zee-Ku-Su!

It was perhaps the shortest teaching contract in history -- 45 minutes and I’d be on the road again. The teacher, Arakawa-sensei, was grateful for my help though, and he paid me handsomely in dried fish snacks.

Jack Handy is known for saying that the face of a child can say it all. Especially the mouth part of the face.

You’ll find, however, that the mouth part of the face can sometimes not say it all, especially when that face is Japanese and the desired speech includes the English ‘v’, ‘th’, or ‘r’.

“Pronounce: arrive there”

“Alaibu zeah”

“Arrive there”

“Alaibu zeah”

“Uh … good!”

In this classroom, however, “interesting” pronunciation was largely overlooked in the name of making English FUN.

Arawkawa-sensei explained to me that most teachers think the main objective of beginner language courses should be a basic understanding of grammar and vocabulary.

“Sure, those are important,” he told me, “ but they can come later. They’re just kids! I don’t want them to go home and tell their parents about past and future tense -- I want them to report how fantastically fun it is to learn a new language!”

And in the fun department, Arakawa-sensei’s classes are an unqualified success. His enthusiasm and energy are infectious. As a student of mathematics I can attest that the following classroom poll is statistically significant by any measure:

“What’s your favourite subject?”

[in unison] “English!”

“What?”

“ENGLISH!”

“Tell me again?”

“ENGLISH, ENGLISH, ENGLISH!!!!”

With Arakawa-sensei running the show and I as his sidekick, we taught a fun, lively class. We only covered the days of the week and the names of some school subjects, but who cares? The kids were left smiling and laughing, their passion for English stronger than ever.

After class, as the kids were leaving for a break, two voices stood out – an impromptu game had started:

“Math!”

“Math, phys-ed!”

“Math, phys-ed, art!”

“Math, phys-ed, art, … … ehh … …”

On my way out I whispered to him. Physics.

“Math, phys-ed, art, Fee-Zee-Ku-Su!!”