Mr Tokunaga was on top of the world. He floated happily around my apartment, and in no time had my new toy set up. He then called his wife to inform her that he was on his way home for dinner, and eagerly filled her in on my discounted purchase.
An angry buzz of a reply made him wince and hold his cellphone away from his ear. ‘No, no!’ he pleaded. ‘Mr Hamish wanted to buy the stereo. I didn’t talk him into it … No, no! He wanted to buy it … No, I’m sure.’
He paused and turned to me. ‘You wanted to buy that stereo, didn’t you?’ He looked close to tears. I nodded enthusiastically and stammered out my best assurance in Japanese.
‘See, see. Did you hear that? He wanted to buy it.’ Mrs Tokunaga was seemingly still unconvinced, and Mr Tokunaga was scolded again and ordered to come home. He bowed sadly, coughed and bade me goodnight. I thanked him sincerely for taking me shopping, getting me a discount and setting up my stereo. He smiled slightly, recommended that I refrain from playing the stereo too loudly as it might disturb the neighbours, collected his bag of AA batteries and departed, leaving me alone with the familiar comfort of English music.
The incessant summer heat prevented any decent daytime exploration of my new home town, so I limited my forays to the evenings when it was cooler. I enjoyed wandering the cobblestone backstreets of Jinaimachi. The town council had thoughtfully done away with the usual glaring street lights and winking neon signs. Instead, subtle pavement-level lamps illuminated the streets with a soft orange glow.
My intrepid scouting unearthed a wealth of interesting places. I bought ceramic chopstick holders at a small pottery shop, and regularly drank green tea proffered by the two old women who sat behind the counter. A wooden house down the road from my apartment doubled as a pub during the evenings: two small red lanterns signalled when it was open for business. Inside, a woman served large savoury pancakes to an assortment of toothless old men. There was a former warehouse that had been converted into a museum of artefacts from Jinaimachi’s glory days, and a brick building I dubbed ‘the old mill’
I enjoyed getting lost and then emerging somewhere new and unexplored. One nondescript alley brought me first to a small park, and then, after several more twists and turns, to a toy store specialising in plastic kitset aircraft and tanks, and a hair salon providing ‘ladies’ perms’. After several more twists and turns I encountered a florist and a fruit market. Soon afterwards I discovered several more short cuts to the train station, and a completely new train station I hadn’t even known existed.
My adventures became more daring, and I began to test the boundaries of my new world. The mighty concrete-lined Ishikawa River surrounded Jinaimachi to the south and east, and formed the border with Kanan Town. On a slightly cooler than normal day, I decided to follow a path that started behind the pottery shop and disappeared into some under-growth. After bashing through the scrub, I followed the path through a vegetable patch and on to the banks of the river, where families were picnicking and teenagers playing soccer on a dry brown pitch.
North of Jinaimachi proved a fruitless destination – Soviet-style apartment blocks and the absurd PL Tower lined the horizon, and multilane highways killed any hopes of a peaceful walk – so I turned my attention west. I had caught glimpses of rice paddies and scenic views from the train and I was determined to find them.
One evening, walking due west from my apartment, I crossed Tondabayashi’s main street and continued past Daiei. I was now in uncharted territory, amidst rotating sushi restaurants, barbeque-beef barns, gaudy casinos, hardware stores, car yards, video stores, karaoke bars, more sushi restaurants and more barbecue restaurants.
Suddenly I spied the field of rice plants. It was tucked away behind a second-hand CD store, and nowhere near as romantic as I had imagined. My search for a scenic oasis had failed. I contented myself with a visit to the CD store, where the stock consisted largely of tragically bad rock albums from the’80s. I then purchased a chocolate bar from a vending machine and set off for home.
As I walked down the road, I studiously fumbled with the wrapper. The seal opened and I licked my lips, ready to take my first bite. Suddenly, the ground beneath me evaporated and I plummeted headlong into a pit of mud and slime.
Bang! I had landed heavily on my stomach. I lay still for a moment, unhurt but mortified. I had just fallen into a drainage channel. Japanese rice paddies were often ringed with these deep channels, which usually ran alongside footpaths and were seldom fenced. Luckily, my perfect dive had saved me from serious injury. If I had toppled sideways or on an awkward angle, I would probably have smashed my chin and teeth on the channel’s concrete sides. Instead I had merely dented my knee and sustained a small cut on one elbow.
I pulled myself out and limped home. My mud-stained clothes smelled bad, my elbow was bleeding and I started to worry that I may have actually fallen into a sewer. Never again, I swore, would I attempt to multi-task while walking in the Japanese countryside.
‘Futsukayoi,’ explained Mr Smiles, ‘is Japanese for hangover.’ He laughed. ‘Too much beer equals too much tension. High tension. Ha ha – you are very high tension. I am high tension too. Ha ha.’
He drank an imaginary glass of beer, and mimed an electric shock. ‘Ha ha. High tension. Ha ha.’
He was right though. I was certainly high tension. My head felt as though it were full of cotton wool, my eyelids were heavy and I couldn’t stop yawning.
Mr Smiles and Magnum PI looked on encouragingly. ‘You like beer. That is very good.’ Magnum still considered me his drinking apprentice.
It was Monday morning and I was sitting at my desk, still hung-over from Saturday night. I had spent Sunday in bed, surfacing at five in the evening to heat a supermarket pizza before crawling back into my pink and blue bed. This was my second hangover in as many weeks, and possibly the worst I’d suffered in my life.
I had spent the previous two Saturday evenings enjoying a newly discovered pleasure – Japanese beer gardens. These outdoor garden bars were usually situated at the top of high-rise department stores. Once you had paid a tiny entrance fee, you had full access to an extensive buffet of food and a bottomless pint of beer. They were open only during the summer months, when the warm evenings induced thirst. Fairy lights twinkled and soft elevator music played from small concealed speakers.
I had joined a small band of foreign English teachers, all of us newly arrived in Japan. Justin and Matt were both from New Zealand. I had met Justin on the train from Tokyo to Osaka; he was living in a town twenty minutes’ drive north from Tondabayashi. Matt also lived close by, in Sakai, a large industrial suburb. His ghastly twenty-storey apartment block could have stepped out of the streets of East Berlin. Blake and Wij lived downstairs from Matt. They were both from the UK, and I had met them during my short stay in Tokyo.
We had all arranged to meet up in downtown Osaka on our first free Saturday night.
Wij had heard about the Namba Station beer garden from a Japanese co-worker, who had recommended it. Namba was the second biggest train station in Osaka and, as well as its maze of underground platforms that stretched for several city blocks, it was famous for its sprawling department store.
Finding an elevator that would take us to the beer garden on the roof had proved to be anything but simple. Because it was open for only three months of the year, direct access was clearly not a priority for the management of the department store. After half an hour, we found a route through the twelfth-floor toy department, up a discreet escalator, down a deserted corridor, and then up two flights of what appeared to be emergency exit stairs.
Eventually we stumbled upon the twinkling entrance, paid the miniscule entrance fee, and were presented with refillable beer jugs and reheapable dinner plates. Scottishness reigned: we three New Zealanders had proud Scottish heritage, Wij was from Edinburgh and Blake was practically Scottish, coming from Newcastle. We were, therefore, intent on making the most of our entrance fee.
We had each paid 1500 ye
n. A pint of beer in a pub usually cost around 400 yen and a plate of fried noodles 500 yen. Four beers, two helpings of fried noodles, two steamed buns, a plate of fried beef, and an assortment of sausages, squid rings and fried dumplings later I was confident I had comfortably made back my money.
There was, however, still an hour before the beer garden was scheduled to close, so there was no time to waste congratulating myself. There was still plenty of food and drink to be consumed. My friends seemed to be streets ahead, and I realised I would need to develop a drinking addiction in order to keep up with Wij.
Forty minutes later, I had lost all track of the beer I had consumed. Things had become shambolic. Blake and Justin were throwing beans at each other. Wij was joking crazily with an equally plastered man next to him. I was giggling to myself like a simpleton.
The elevator music changed to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and a bell chimed, signalling the last drink. It was suddenly apparent that we were in no fit state to travel across town on unfamiliar railway networks. Justin noticed some young women nervously sipping bright orange and yellow liquids, and inquired of the bar staff what they were. They were, he was informed, soft drinks called chuhai. They were available free of charge and came in a variety of flavours, such as orange, lemon, grape, apple and lime.
We unanimously decided this chuhai would make an excellent way to end the evening; a non-alcoholic beverage would dilute the beer and sober us up for the ride home. We each ordered three pints and lined them up on the trestle table, keen to drink the lot before we were ejected from the premises. I downed an entire pint in one go, and the others were suitably impressed.
The route we needed to find to get out of the department store was now a blur. My eyelids felt leaden and I leaned on Blake to stay upright. By the time we reached the street, I was in an even sorrier state. As I was now unable to open my eyes, Blake and Justin all but carried me to the platform of my train. Wij, meanwhile, had disappeared.
The others left to catch their own trains and I slumped pitifully against a wall. Quite how I managed to find my way home is a mystery. I must have staggered aboard the southbound train from Namba Station, somehow remembered to get off two stations later, and then transferred to the Tondabayashi express. This would have involved navigating the entire length of Abenobashi Station – another major train station – and purchasing a new ticket. I seem to have accomplished all of this with my eyes closed.
At Abenobashi, a distant voice in my head told me to choose the green train. I hopped aboard, not even checking its destination. My eyes were now firmly shut. I stood swaying in the middle of the carriage, arms draped through a handrail in a desperate attempt to stay upright.
The train started and I lurched sideways. I muttered drunkenly to myself, wondering where I was, and where my friends had disappeared to. I could hear concerned gasps from passengers around me, but could not open my eyes to see them.
The train rumbled on, and I grew sleepier and sleepier. After a long time, it stopped at an unknown station. ‘This is it!’ I boomed, untangling myself from the handrail and bouncing out the door. My eyes opened for a split second, long enough to tell me I was still far from home. The station platform was pitch-black – and completely unfamiliar.
Ooops! I lurched back on to the train just as the doors snapped shut. The ride seemed to be getting increasingly bumpy. I leaned against a skinny metal pole. My greasy dinner gurgled ominously in my stomach. ‘Where am I? Am I home yet? I don’t feel so good.’ I took a deep breath to steady myself. The train braked suddenly. I banged my head against the pole and nearly lost my footing.
What followed was one of the most embarrassing and depraved moments of my life. My stomach heaved, and I vomited its contents on to the floor of the train. I was still unable to open my eyes, but I could hear a woman screaming. Someone thrust a newspaper into my hand to clean up the mess, and I wiped my vomit-covered lips on it. The train stopped and I threw the newspaper out the open door. I lurched off the train to retrieve my ‘napkin’, blinked and discovered that I had somehow arrived at Tondabayashi Station.
I took stock. I still had my wallet in my pocket. My clothes were still clean, although my right shoe had vomit on the toe. I was, under the circumstances, in remarkably good shape.
The next day, however, was not enjoyable. My head hurt, and sported a deep bruise where I had banged it on the pole. I felt nauseous when I relived the events of the previous evening, and burned with shame when I realised what I had done on the train. I was baffled as to what had brought about my blindness, and decided I must be allergic to the green beans on which we had been snacking during the evening.
My friends had all made it home safely except for Wij, who had woken up at ten o’clock the next morning in Kobe, a city an hour north of Osaka. Having missed his train home, he had spent the night sleeping at Osaka Station. First thing the next morning he had boarded the train home, fallen asleep, missed his stop, and travelled to the end of the line. The train had then turned around and travelled north for two hours until it reached Kobe, where a friendly passenger had decided to rouse Wij from his drunken slumber.
Sadly, my first Japanese hangover was not enough to put me off drunken escapades, and the following Saturday evening the five of us again merrily hit the town. This time, however, research had been conducted. Trains stopped running at midnight, and beer gardens closed around 11.30 so patrons could catch the last train. Being keen to make the most of our Saturday evenings and not interested in scuttling home at midnight, we had devised an itinerary to see us through until dawn when the trains started up again.
Justin had unearthed a new beer garden, Blake had heard of a promising-sounding bar that was open until three, Wij had come across a 24-hour karaoke bar, and I had scouted out an all-night internet café where we could recline on sofa beds and drink complimentary coffee.
The night began well: greasy food, lots of beer, more greasy food, more beer, and big glasses of chuhai to help dilute alcoholic intake. During some friendly games of pool at Blake’s late-night bar, however, I started to notice the symptoms of yet another downward spiral. My eyes felt heavy and I was having trouble walking straight. I slumped down on a seat in the corner.
The bar closed and I clung to Justin and Blake’s shoulders as they ferried me to the karaoke bar, where we were ushered into our own private booth. I immediately ordered an apple-flavoured chuhai to sober up, while Justin, a guitarist and former rock band member, took centre stage, crooning through some rocky ballads, and then croaking out a duet with Blake.
Wij, meanwhile, had fallen asleep and I was feeling very unwell indeed. Matt started singing but I had lost all comprehension of where I was. I passed out and fell off my chair. A few minutes later I was woken by Justin performing a rousing version of ‘The Piña Colada Song’. My mind raced, my stomach churned, and I daintily projectile-vomited noodles and steamed buns into a puddle on top of the booth’s coffee table. Justin gasped. Matt laughed. Blake leapt to his feet and quickly mopped up the mess using the five-centimetre-thick karaoke songbook. The crowd applauded and the singing resumed. I was shunted into the corner with Wij and fell asleep.
Four hours later, having somehow got back to my apartment, I had a shower and retreated to the loving embrace of my pink futon. Some time later I awoke. The room was spinning, my head was throbbing and my throat was on fire. I drank a bottle of water and passed out. This cycle continued until five in the evening, when I summoned the energy to grill myself a supermarket pizza.
Next day, co-workers were overjoyed to hear of my exploits at the beer gardens. Mr Smiles flipped through my Japanese–English dictionary, eager to explain why my head hurt. Magnum was keen to hear how many pints of beer I had been able to drink. He counted these on his fingers, with a stern look of concentration. ‘Very good,’ he proclaimed. ‘But did you drink anything else? Sake? Whisky?’
‘No,’ I replied, sorry to disappoint my new mentor. ‘Only chuhai.’
‘Oh!’ he ex
claimed. ‘How many chuhai did you drink?’
‘I can’t really remember,’ I shrugged. ‘Five, maybe six.’
Magnum’s eyes bulged and Mr Smiles danced about excitedly. ‘Oh, Mr Hamish, very good. You like chuhai?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I prefer Fanta though. Much nicer.’
Magnum looked confused. ‘But Mr Hamish, chuhai is alcohol. Same as beer.’
I blinked in surprise. ‘Pardon? I thought it was a soft drink.’
‘No, no, Mr Hamish. It is alcohol. High tension!’ Mr. Smiles did an impersonation of someone being electrocuted, clapped his hands and dispatched one of the office women to fetch a can of chuhai for scientific observation. She returned minutes later, having purchased one from a vending machine across the road.
‘See see,’ Magnum said proudly, ‘chuhai is alcohol.’
I surveyed the white can. At the bottom were the words: ‘Alcohol content: four percent.’
My drunken escapades had really struck a chord with my colleagues in the Board of Education. Magnum proudly informed anyone who would listen that I was a great fan of beer gardens. Mr Smiles eagerly questioned me each day as to whether I had had a beer with dinner the previous night. George politely inquired about the popularity of various drinks in New Zealand, while Mr Tokunaga coughed nervously and asked if I ever found it difficult to catch the train home.
This bewildering level of interest in my consumption of alcohol carried on throughout the week. I was constantly overhearing my name, and when I looked up I would see Magnum and other men in secretive conversation in the corner.
The next Tuesday morning, I was sitting at my desk when Mr Tokunaga quietly approached and asked whether I had any plans for the evening. Members of the Board of Education were keen to take me out for a meal. Touched by this generosity, I happily accepted.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 4