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.