High Speeds, Hedonism and Hiccups in Hiroshima Part Two

Leaving earlyish so as to catch ourselves one of Hiroshima’s charming trams (why so many towns and cities in the UK ever got rid of theirs I’ll never know – honestly, cars become popular, the trams just get in the way so they’re taken out, and now we get congestion charges because there’s so many cars clogging up the streets, don’t make no sense, but I’m diverging wildly here) out to Miyajimaguchi (jima means ‘island’ in Japanese, fact fans), it was a gloriously sunny day. After the brief 20 minute ferry ride on board an old-fashioned vessel that bore some resemblance to a Mississippi Steamboat, we found ourselves outside Miyajima harbor surrounded by sundry tourists and, somewhat curiously, a large number of fawns and adolescent deer randomly wandering around. Turns out that these were one of the island’s more kawaii attractions, as they’re found everywhere, delighting visitors and very sweet they seem too, at least until one starts to notice the amount of deer crap trodden into the ground and sees packs of them rifling through litter bins at night in search of food.

First off, we headed straight for the ------- shrine (I can’t remember the name, I know, my memory’s frightful) and took the requisite photos of its water-erected gate. From here, we were interested in checking out some of the delights to be found at the top of the island. I’d hesitate to call it a mountain, but a cable car was there to take visitors to the peak of Miyajima’s high ground. From what we could see, the main point of interest was what appeared to be a monkey sanctuary.

When we emerged from the cable car station, indeed, there were quite a few. Whether it was a ‘sanctuary’ as such was slightly harder to tell. More specifically, they appeared to be red-faced baboons rather than actual monkeys, for the most part either lounging around picking flies off each other, or else dramatically scaling the walls of the nearby café/gift shop. Whatever, it was nice to be able to see them from close up.

Wandering around a little, we got to a look out point and took time to take in the pretty spectacular views of Miyajima, its surrounding islands and the concrete sprawl of Hiroshima City, glittering away in the distance. Repairing to the café for a couple of beers and the usual unidentifiable complimentary Japanese bar snacks, we rested for a bit and then embarked on a walk that was to take us the rest of the afternoon.

Our viewing appetites whetted by what we’d already seen from the cliff tops earlier, we made for the observation platform located at the very highest point on the island. On our way there, we encountered a fellow Englishman, John, there on holiday with a few friends. He was there on his own, having done a whistle stop tour of Miyajima with his companions the day before and wanting to come back and do it again, but properly this time. With Mark and I explaining the various intricacies of the JET Programme to him on the way, we made it to a couple of shrines, past a large clump of boulders and finally to the observation structure itself, complete with several small deer in attendance. How they’d made it so far up and managed to stay there, I don’t know. After we’d marveled at the even more spectacular views and dried off from the sweat we’d all accumulated after the exertion of getting there, Mark and myself attempted an extremely tenuous, not to mention highly inaccurate homage to the cover of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds like the good music geeks that we are. You can judge the results for yourself above.

After this, the brave decision was taken to hike back down again, rather than get the cable car. Alright, so it was downhill all the way, but when the path mostly consists of uneven steps and haphazard rocks, it puts slightly more strain on the old calves than a simple sloping gradient would. Nevertheless, we got back to town just as the sun was setting, passing through a picturesque shrine on the way.

Famished and desperately thirsty by this point, another Hiroshimayaki was called for, prompting John to claim it as by far the tastiest Japanese dish he’d had up to that point. Done with food, it was back to the ferry for a parting of the ways with John and a night of hopefully wild, reckless, drunken abandon for Mark and myself.

Once back in town, Opium seemed closed for a private party, so what’s to do? Hit Hiroshima’s prime generic faux Irish Bar ‘Molly Malone’s’, that’s what. Thus commenced much sippage of Guinness to the accompaniment of the Pogues, U2, the Undertones, The Divine Comedy and all your usual Irish favourites. Sometimes it’s nice to swallow your pride and embrace the comforts of the theme pub, after all.

After a being there for a quite a while, our thoughts turned to trying to find a club. With Japan’s club culture, such as it is, apparently consisting solely of awful meat market places designed to attract bovine foreigners, and really good places playing great music to fantastic crowds that are impossible to find, we weren’t expecting much. Consulting a map of Hiroshima’s night spots kindly lent to me by fellow Wakayama JET Gemma we set off in search of a place going by the enigmatic name of ‘Cover’, found it, but on the verge of entering heard the strains of ‘Stuck in The Middle With You’ by Stealer’s Wheel drifting up the stairs of a basement bar over the road. Well, clearly we’d found our place.

Upon entering and parting with the reasonable fee of 1,500 yen (including complimentary drink, yay!) we found ourselves in a very small, extremely dimly lit and quite busy bar, complete with compact dancefloor, stage playing host to a hyperactive DJ and a fair few extremely amped punters. After Mister Blonde’s ear-slicing waltz had ended, Mr DJ fired up some…Charleston. Yes, 30s style big band stuff with jazz drums and cornets. The crowd went appreciatively wild. Shortly after this came ‘Pretty Fly For A White Guy’ (not great, admittedly, but the jarring juxtaposition amused me greatly) followed by some bizarre eighties hair-metal theme to a Japanese kids’ cartoon. Great stuff – I for one am highly appreciative of any DJ that chucks a whole load of random stuff together and habitually wrong-foots the crowd.

Things kept getting better, with another guy taking over to play a mini set of ska, another delving into eighties British pop and fifties easy listening, and so on and so forth. Not only were the DJs delightfully loopy throughout, visibly getting off on what they were doing, unlike the po-faced bores that are endemic in the UK, the crowd were frenzied, all facing forward and ecstatically snapping away with phones and cameras. Even better, we were the only foreigners in there, besides one guy who wondered in, body-popped for half an hour and promptly wandered out again. Irritating, quasi-racist, holier-than-thou inverted snobbery though this may be, once you’ve been on as many nights out in this country as we have, you’ll appreciate that large numbers of ex-pats assembled together in one club is rarely a good thing.

All grand, apart from one thing – the mysterious Hiroshima Hiccupping Hex. I’d come down with a pretty bad bout of the hiccups the previous night for some reason or other and didn’t think too much of it, at least until I started having a thoroughly miserable time in this otherwise fantastic place. Now, having to leave a club because excessive drinking has left your brain unable to carry out basic motor functions is a valid excuse. Having to leave a club because a combination of lots of beer and giggling (usually over some hilarious recollection from mine and Mark’s university days or reference to a Chris Morris sketch) throughout the evening has led to an onset of hiccups so bad that you can barely breathe properly, never mind form coherent sentences is just a bit…well, rubbish really.

Yet that’s pretty much what happened. We had an innings of maybe two hours or so, which I didn’t think was that bad, before I personally had to leave. Passing the DJs huddled round the exit on our way out, we paused to show them our verbal appreciation in a typically cack-handed way, before we headed off, with me being propelled up the road by the power of my own diaphragm.

One final note on clubs out here – whether the place be hideous gaijin trap or none-more-hip place to be seen, you won’t find any bouncers anywhere. I can’t even begin to explain how liberating the total absence of those bomber-jacketed, knuckle-scraping Neanderthals whose greatest pleasures in life revolve around intimidating paying customers and hitting people and getting paid for it, actually is. All you get is door staff whose job is to charge for entry, most of whom look as though they’d be rubbish in a fight. Of course, should a group of punters get leathered, start getting lairy, and it all kick off, there might be a problem.

Who knows though, perhaps all Japanese bar staff are trained in karate? In fact, what I want to know is why it is that the home of so many martial arts disciplines is, on the whole, a non-violent society that doesn’t see the need for ‘security’ in places where the young go to get drunk and dance. Could it possibly be that the air of menace and barely-suppressed aggression that greets you in any provincial club in the UK before you’re even through the door is, in some senses, a self-fulfilling prophecy? You assume that everyone coming in is going to get smashed and act like a complete tool, therefore most of the people that come in get smashed and act like a complete tool. I don’t know, but I won’t be going out anywhere as much as I’ve done here once I’m back in the UK, that’s for sure…

After a convulsive sleep and a rather woozy process of coming to, the following morning left us with plenty of time to kill before catching our shinky back to Osaka at 5 in the afternoon. After watching Mark’s hopes of getting a roast at Molly Malone’s savagely dashed (Sunday’s only – well, duh) we had lunch and spent lots of time mooching around a branch of Time Records, drooling over the cheap and highly desirable music-making kit at a guitar shop and supping beers outside a posh brasserie before hitting the station.

So, that was Hiroshima – my expectations of the place were well and truly exceeded. To witness the dense, vibrant city that has emerged only 60 years after it was all but annihilated is quite an inspiration.