Japan Without a Clue
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29/08/2007: Journey to Yokohama
I was duped out of 1,500¥ by the downstairs exchange office at Heathrow, which offered a lousy rate. I an attempt to turn around my bad karma (everything’s gone wonky in the past three days—ever since that writers’ group meeting where I presented the first 3 chapters and synopsis of my ‘novel’ to exacerbated cries of “Whatever you do, don’t show that to anybody!”), I gamely tried to take the Keisei line and tackle the Tokyo subway system all the way to Yokohama, which would have saved me almost 2,500¥.
I don’t know whether that would have represented good value, seeing that I spent about an hour trying to figure out the subway system before chickening out and ending up on the bus instead. Since I do not have a guide book (that karma thing again) and consequently no maps, I wondered whether that was a good decision.
Since yesterday, the temperature around Tokyo has dropped by ca. 5°C and the clouds have moved in (predictably), but for the first time in ages I don’t actually feel cold. My sandals are giving out (also predictably: by wearing them in, I’ve worn them out), but on the bright side, the nicotine is winning the battle against jet lag (for now) and the caffeine fix from the single cup of scalding coffee served on the plane is boosted by the giddy knowledge that I’m at large and on my own in a country where I can’t read any of the road signs.
Entering a country for the first time—with the intention to stay, however briefly, rather than just passing through—is much like going on a first date. As the bus is swept along the river of concrete and steel that runs past Tokyo, my mind boggles with expectation, nurtured by images from the in-flight video. Adventure and excitement await among the maze of grey buildings. But for now, Tokyo looks just like any other city on a grey day.
My neighbour is snoring softly, almost inaudibly. The only other sound, apart from the engine and a occasional rushing-past of tunnel walls, is a gaijin (predictably the only other one on the bus) murmuring into his phone 3 rows ahead. Hang on, he’s murmuring. Where’s the yelling: “I’m on the bus. The bus! Are you there?!”
Outside, the motorways converge into a medley of grey Soba noodles. Spaghetti Junction has nothing on this. Four packed lines of traffic are oozing down the strands like streaks of oil. I’m a flea riding an ant lost in a maelstrom. It’s better not even to look.
Every now and then, a shudder passes through the bus as the driver eases down on the brakes, jolting me awake. No sound passes from his lips, no honking erupts from the cars and trucks involved in near-collisions in front of us.
Where’s the road rage?
The driver’s gloved hands pass through the smoky reflections in the windscreen like the wings of a dove.
Overhead, the sky grows darker, the air more syrupy with every breath. A mighty bridge arches ahead, suspended by steel ropes that seem to drop straight from the sky as the clouds descend. I can’t make out the Pacifico Yokohama—the city’s prominent landmark—in the haze, and we must be almost upon it.
The first heavy drops splatter against the windscreen just before the bus pulls to a stop. Thankfully, the bus terminal is not far from the station. And for the first time I enter the maze of interconnected malls that runs through the high-rises and underneath the streets like tunnels weaving through an anthill. I’m already lost. It takes me an hour to travel the single stop to Sakuragi-cho station.
The whole of Central Yokohama seems to be one continuous chain of shopping malls and station arcades on multiple levels. Your feet need never touch the street. Long moving walkways, like the ones found at airports, carry me past the view of a giant ferriswheel, bigger than the London Eye. I descent to ground level and gape at futuristic high-rises mushrooming around a surreal Fifties-style amusement park. There is a ship moored down the street.
The convention center ist deserted. There is no internet yet, apart from a few coin-operated terminals at the tourist information in front of the station. Internet cafés don’t seem to be hip around here, and why should they when everyone’s got the net on their wafer-thin phones? The people I see sitting around are actually socializing. Pity that I don’t know any of them.
I check into my hotel and spend the afternoon chain-smoking, swigging from a can of Kirin and getting increasingly bleary-eyed. The TV plays quietly in the background, purely for company. I’ve settled for coverage of the Athletics Championship in Osaka—at least the images look familiar.
Have you ever noticed that, when you’re unusually tired and background noise drones in you ears, that the commentary actually shifts to [insert your usual language here]? My hindbrain is filling in the blanks, wrapping words around soundbites.
A long time ago, in Africa, the road used to whisper under our wheels during long night drives.
(Whatever else my diary says, I can’t read. Ye gods, I was dopey that day…)
Tags: events, Japa, Japan without a Clue, NIPPON2007, Travel, Worldcon, Yokohama, Tag Index
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