Under The Influenza...

Well, yay for me...25 today and I'm stuck at home having been diagnosed with Type A influenza following a visit to the doctor's last Friday, what larks. Well, it lets me have a quiet time of things I suppose, and it's just as well I'd earmarked next weekend for fun and hijinks in the city rather than this. So here's to me then, a quarter of a century in and...oh, God, enough already. All this talk of my own mortality when my current fits of coughing make it difficult to type properly is just unbearably depressing...mumble, mutter, grnrg, mutter mumble...

Ice, Ice, Baby...

To Sunday then, and the coldest I think I've ever felt before. After almost two hours of recovery in the sancturary of Sapporo's Excelsior Cafe, and with bleary eyes and tired expressions all round, we embarked on a journey to Sato Land, the festival's other major site one hour away from Sapporo by bus.

After all of us slept the whole way there, getting off was something of an eye opener - vast expanses of snow-white plains for miles around and by God was it cold. What we'd failed to appreciate was that cold though Sapporo was, at least the city had plenty of tall buildings to act as wind breakers. The place were now at had nothing as far as the eye can see, enabling the bitter winds to do their very worst...

Sato Land wasn't short of things to see or do by any means - enormous ice slides, snow labyrinths and a ride in a dinghy attached to a snowmobile promised much frosty fun, but with three hour queues for the slides and the thought of the cold winds whipping across my face putting me off the idea of the snowmobile, I contented myself with simply sampling the huge range of hot cuisine on offer from various stalls and trailers. Jared, Sean and Hannah weren't to be put off though and enjoyed icy drive around the track, the fools.

After a doner kebab, some corn on the cob, a cup of hot whiskey and as much time sheltering inside the site's main building that we all thought we could get away with, we had a quick wander around the snow labyrinth before admitting defeat and heading back ahead of the end of the closing ceremony.

With all of us in a near state of deep freeze, an emergency onsen-based thaw-out session was called for before heading down the road for a meal at a charming locale by the name of 'Nuts Cafe' and yet another extremely ill-advised nomihodai. The sensible ones (Mercedes, Jared, Hannah) made their excuses and left at a realatively reasonable time, seeing as we were due to be getting a bus to the airport the following day before 6am. The rather more foolish ones (me) thought they'd see how far they could push the fun before the voice of reason made itself heard and suggested that maybe another tequila wasn't such a good idea after all. The lost causes (Gemma, Sean) on the other hand, declared war on the forces of reason and the human body's capacity for alcohol absorption and stayed til nearly four, making friends with the bar staff, flirting with the bar staff, solemnly promising to one day marry the bar staff and ultimately yakking up outside, leaving a particularly colourful ice sculpture of their own.

All of which tomfoolery ended up making for perhaps the most chaotic boarding of a flight I can ever remember having. Sean had gone AWOL that morning from the capsule, and it was only with the kind assistance of the hotel staff that I was able to track him down to the lounge area on the top floor. With his basic motor functions seemingly shot to pieces and his eyes apparently only registering something else very far away when I tried talking to him, I ended up shoving his flight ticket in his hand and barrelling back downstairs to rejoin the others and seize our bus.

Three of us even managed to get through airport security together. Gemma got separated following a paged announcement for her over the airport's PA. Turned out it was courtesy of Sean who'd made it to the airport with moments to spare, only sans his ticket and mobile phone. Much negotioation later, Sean finally made it onto the plane and came to the back where we were seated to announce proudly that he was a 'star' before being led to the new seat he'd to reserve near the front.

So, that was Snowporo. A lot of snow, a lot of fun and one hell of a lot of drinking. Remember kids, one is never enough...

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow...

To the next day then, and what I can dimly recall another lengthy walk around Odori, this time by day, which much stopping off at various cafes and restaurants to get out of the cold. Make no mistake, Sapporo in winter is a bitterly cold place, putting my rantings over the past few months about winter in Kansai into some perspective. The average was -5 degrees while we were there, or thereabouts, resulting in a level of personal discomfort alleviated only by judicious use of 'heat packs' (plastic pouches designed to be stuck to the back, torso or feet that emit small amounts of heat when pressure is applied) or popping into a well-hidden Japanese restaurant below ground for a huge round of soba noodles, rice and bento.

After the cold finally got the better of us all, we all retired to Safro for a luxurious session in its well-equipped spa facilities. Or at least I and fellow lads Sean and Jared did. Owing to lack of space at the hotel, the girls we were with said they'd find something to do while we were off pampering ourselves, only to end up sitting in the hotel's lobby for nigh on an hour and a half. Did we feel guilty? Well, the thought did cross our minds, yes...

After this, off we went to another nomihodai, this time a huge affair organised by Sapporo's JET population, only we never knew the start time before we arrived and were given the wrong information by the venue. After securing a seperate table ourselves, we then proceeded to consume an unholy quantity of Kirin Beer, whiskey cocktails, barbecued lamb and sushi. 100 minutes later, we were last to leave the aerodrome-esque indoor Kirin Beer Garden in the company of a group of Japanese pharmacists. Consciously taking pains to avoid the spontaneous snowball fight that took place as soon as we left, I scampered off to a convenience store, only to come a cropper in the middle of the road when my legs shot out from underneath me and leaving me painfully winded, which I managed to feel even through my beer armour. It still twinges even now.

Once again, the booze blinds descend over memories of the rest of the evening, suffice it to say that another bar and a club by the name of 'Booty' were involved at some point. To say that most of us got up the next morning somewhat the worse for wear would not be putting too fine a point on it...

Walking In A Winter Wonderland...

Last weeend saw myself and five others making our way to Sapporo, main city of northernmost Japanese island Hokkaido, for several days of marvelling at huge snow sculptures by day and taking advantage of Japan's dangerously relaxed drinking culture by night at the 2006 Yuki Matsuri or 'snow festival'.

We all arrived easily enough early Friday evening and wasted no time in making our way to Sapporo's premier spa/capsule hotel complex, Safro Spa, located slap bang in the middle of the city's notorious red light district, Susukino. The dubious delights of 'soap houses' and 'massage parlours' were passed over however, in favour of a tour of Odori Park by night.

Odori (literally, 'big street') is where this year's star snow sculpture attractions were located, centred around all manner of crazy themes. The really big ones were largely likenesses of obscure public buildings from around the world, (with bands playing on huge stages in front of them, which was a nice touch) or else were celebrations of Japanese sports stars such as golfer Ai Miyazato (pictured) or other pop culture icons, such as the recent release of 'The Chronicles Of Narnia' (also pictured in trippy technocolour).

These mammoth triumphs of of sub-zero engineering were very impressive to be sure, but the thing that got me slightly was the size of the advertising hoardings placed next to the larger sculptures. Obviously, it takes a lot of money to organise an event like this and sponsorship is a necessary evil, but I couldn't help thinking that the bloody great boards advertising the benefactors for many of the sculptures could have been placed a little more tactfully for the sake of the crowds wanting to get a decent look at them.

After this, it all gets rather hazy as we embarked on the first of our evening drinking sessions, including a nomihodai (all you can drink) offer. Most of us went in on one of these every night we were there, which goes some way to explaining later events...

A Day At The Races

After my last post of righteous fury and invective, on to something a little lighter. Last Saturday saw Sean, Jared and myself braving the bitter cold for a visit to Wakayama-Shi’s cycling track – not because we’re all huge fans of cycling, but to have a bit of a flutter. Yes, the huge legal grey area that is Japan’s gambling laws has resulted in a wide variety of off-beat betting opportunities, among them fights between beetles and hog racing. Cycling seems almost sensible by comparison.

With the assistance of Sean and his formidable command of all things kanji-related, it didn’t take us too long to figure out the intricacies of the betting system, which oddly only seemed to allow for spread betting. Interesting to note was also the fact that gambling addicts seem to be the same wherever you go – almost without exception, shabby-looking men in their late fifties puffing on cigarettes as though their lives depended on it, eyes dead to everything aside from the latest results on one of the many television monitors located throughout the track. Entertaining though it was, we all ended up leaving with less cash in our pockets than when we went in, though we’re already making plans for Spring when the elements are going to be slightly more forgiving of the track’s very open-plan design. Yeah, the Gods will be smiling on me then, I can just feel it…

The Return Of Mister Misanthropy

Well, not much in the way of entries recently for the simple reason that nothing very much of note has actually happened, besides me getting struck down with yet another couple of beastly colds leaving me bedridden. Following a blind dosage of some inordinately strong ‘cold pills’ I randomly picked up at a pharmacy, I’m now feeling considerably better and waiting to see whether they adversely react to the malaria pills I’m still taking.

So, by way of therapy, to fill up space and to satiate the borderline obsessive/compulsive need to make lists that I now have following my Sri Lanka write-up, I hereby present:

Callum's extremely petty list of top 5 annoyances in Japan

1) Taxi drivers

Alright, so it’s not the best the job in the world, it must be unbearably tedious a lot of the time and a frequently thankless task given that no one ever tips in Japan but even so, the taxi service here is far worse than it has any right to be. The language barrier is probably the main culprit, though I can’t get too uppity about that as, duh, it’s not an English-speaking country. What really bothers me is a) the costs involved in the average journey and b) the fact that 50% of the time the drivers don’t know where they’re going. Compared to their Sri Lankan brethren who know their neighbourhoods like the back of their hand and will usually charge you less than the price of a Japanese chocolate bar to get you to your destination, it’s a very poor show indeed.

To illustrate one example, last week found me having to get a bus to one of my schools as my usual teacher-driven lift was unavailable. Thanks to the baffling complexity of Wakayama Shi’s public bus facilities (which narrowly missed inclusion in the top 5), I ended up on one that dumped me miles from where I wanted to be. Flagging down a taxi, I painstakingly ensured that the driver understood my desired destination, settled back and was rather alarmed five minutes later when he pulled up beside a convenience store to ask random passers-by for directions for what seemed like ages. This I could have just about coped with were it not for the fact that the penny-pinching swine left the bloody meter running. A swift call to my school supervisor was called for, who just so happened to be in Tokyo at that time, to get the name of some landmark near the school the driver would know.

Upon getting the information, leaving the cab was impossible due to the automatically locked rear doors, so in the end I, slightly frustrated by this point, had to wheel down the window and bark out ‘Oi, moosh, get back ‘ere now!’ which mercifully brought him running. After finally getting to school 14 quid worse off, I was not impressed.

2) The hopelessly inadequate housing design that makes winter and summer into months-long endurance tests.

I’ve written about this at enormous length elsewhere, so don’t really need go into detail here. In August you lose half your body weight in sweat. In January you contract colds while you sleep. Not good.

3) ”Samui desu ne?”

Heard at this time of year with insanity-inducing regularity, the literal translation is “Cold, isn’t it?” Now, being British and all, I have absolutely no problem at all with people constantly pointing out the obvious in an effort to make conversation which often happens here – the difference between where I’m from and where I am now though, is that there’s never any attempt to inject this phrase with a bit of variety, be it through understatement, exaggeration or any form of irony at all. Indeed, frequent has been the occasion where I have responded by saying “Hai, sukoshi ne?” – yes, it is a bit, isn’t it? The response is always “No, it’s really, really cold! Do you not think so?” My immediate thought, never voiced, is never mind…

Truth be told, when I first arrived the apparent lack of irony and sarcasm in everyday conversation and discourse was incredibly refreshing. Coming from a country where self-conscious irony within the media is pretty much approaching critical mass, making many conversations I remember having at the time far more cynical than was strictly healthy, it was great to behold the directness and borderline naivety of my students and colleagues. Perhaps now my homing instincts are finally kicking in, as I’m beginning to miss cutting asides and witty sarcasm terribly…

4) Small amounts of yen

Really petty this one, but I do find it incredibly annoying. Given the extremely approximate exchange rate of 200 yen to the pound, I have found myself driven to distraction by the quantity of 1 yen coins (0.5 of your British pence) I’ve somehow managed to acquire without wanting to. Tied in with this is the way in which cashiers tend to return large amounts of change from notes of high denominations – the note is placed in the palm of the customer’s hand first, followed by a steady trickle of change placed gently on top, making any attempts to place the shrapnel in one’s wallet all but impossible. At this time of year, when numbed fingers are struggling enough as it is, those pesky one yen coins attach themselves to the skin from where no amount of juggling can dislodge them. It drives me nuts.

Many’s the time when my precarious amount of change has gone spilling over the counter and onto the floor. Humiliating yes, but a useful way of getting shot of some of Satan’s own one yen coins. Until, that is, I’m half way across the car park when I suddenly get accosted by an anxious cashier looking to give me back the four one yen coins I’d dropped earlier. That’s two pence. This has actually happened.

The reason I really hate them is that none of Japan’s ubiquitous vending machines ever accepts them – you’re just stuck with them. So far as I can tell, the banks aren’t much good either when it comes to getting shot of the things, though as yet I haven’t been able to face counting up hundreds of the things and trying. Bank ATMs will happily dispense them though, should you wish. Why?

5) Motorists

As a non-motorist myself, (and a cyclist too, for additional self-righteousness), I’m not a huge fan of cars at the best of time. This antipathy reaches new heights, however, when I’m forced to contend with Ogura’s ridiculously narrow, pavement-less roads on a daily basis. Be it walking or cycling, nothing gets me madder faster than being unable to make my way past two oversized cars locked in a dance of “After you,” “No, after you.”

Furthermore, people often talk about how idiotic it is to see enormous People Carriers cruising down a High Street in Islington with virtually no room for maneuvour on either side. It’s doubly so when the road in question is little more than a treacherous causeway snaking its way between two rice paddies, lined on either side with three-foot deep drainage ditches. You do not know rage until you’ve experienced the blank-faced businessman in the super-sized Hyundai behind you trying to edge past, nearly knocking your bike off the road (because he’s clearly in such a hurry and his need is so much greater than yours), then watching, dismayed, as having overtaken you he then dawdles along without a care in the world, taking up what little space there is, doubling your journey time and making you late for the morning staff meeting. Hanging’s too good for ‘em.