A few travel anecdotes

Leif and Pat do Hokkaido

Leif Stout, ALT. 1993

Hokkaido. Fabled land of rivers, mountains, and wide open spaces. Mother of the famous Sapporo Yuki Matsuri Snow Festival. Place of spiritual enlightenment. The big island in northern Japan. And of course, home to the Sapporo Brewery’s all-you-can-eat-drink-slam-belch-and-stoop beef, beer and abuse you health special. Two hours of gastrointestinal hedonism and indulgence for a mere ¥3000. Yah! A small price to pay where you belly and liver are concerned, I think.

One chilly February morning we set out on the road to Hokkaido, stalwart and determined to see the world famous Yuki Matsuri Snow Festival in the capital city of Sapporo. My traveling companion was south Nara prop-man Pat Kelly from the remote JET outpost of Totsukawa (also known as “Village of the Damned”). Don’t bother looking for it on a map; it won’t be there.

The cheapest way of getting to Hokkaido from Nara (unless you’re good friends with someone who works for JR or the Yakuza) is by ferry. The ferries to Hokkaido leave from 2 ports on the Sea of Japan named Maizuru and Tsuruga. Both ports are about 1 or 2 hours north of Kyoto by train. The ferries run almost everyday alternating departures from Maizuru and Tsuruga, and arriving at Otaru on Hokkaido. A one-way fare to Otaru is about ¥7000 in the 2nd class rug-burn cabin, and about ¥9,000 in the 2nd class put’em on the rack cabin with a berth. Scrooges that we were (Irish and Scottish ancestry; what can you do?) Pat and I bought the cheapest tickets we could and headed for the rug-burn cabin where we shared floor space with about 20 other members of the poverty jet-set.

The ferry takes about 30 hours to get to Otaru, and though there are things to do on board (restaurant, games room, exercise room, o-furo), Pat and I later agreed that it probably would have been a good idea to bring along something to drink other than beer, something to read, or at least someone else to talk to for the duration of the ride. Motion sickness pills, if you feel ill on boats, or pain killers if you feel ill from the night before, are also a good idea. And there are beer machines on the ferry in case you feel the urge for a barley sandwich. After arriving in Otaru at around four in the morning, we took a 10 minute cab ride to Otaru station where we waited an hour or so for the first train to Sapporo. The train to Sapporo costs about ¥600 and takes about 40 minutes.

Sapporo is a fairly new city of about 2 to 3 million people and feels different from many other Japanese cities because it has open space. I think I actually saw a boulevard! Straight roads, street signs, distinctively non-Japanese architecture, and wide side walks all give Sapporo the feel of a western city. Since accommodation is notoriously difficult to find during Yuki Matsuri and since prices typically range from the moderately obscene to the biblically significant, we had already made reservations at the Sapporo Youth Hostel (around ¥2700/night, 011-731-4368).

The Yuki Matsuri happens every February when hundreds of spectacular snow and ice sculptures are constructed at three main locations throughout the city. We saw fantastically huge slides the size of buildings, made entirely from snow, hundreds of small and intricate transparent ice sculptures, entire nature scenes reconstructed in snow, replicas of famous buildings, and an international snow sculpture competition (The Canadian entrants consisted of two hung-over Quebeckers who mentioned that both the beer and the snow were a little too warm for their liking). At night the sculptures were lit with colored lights revealing curves and expressions and adding an entirely new dimension of fantasy and magic. And all that we experienced before we visited Susukino, the best nightlife and party district north of Tokyo.

Sapporo was a cool place (pun intended) but 2 1/2 days there were enough and we headed to Noboribetsu Onsen, a small resort town in the mountains a few hours from Sapporo. Noboribetsu is known for its many hot-springs, active volcanic vents, and the largest onsen in Japan, with various mineral baths, jacuzzis, saunas, walking pools, steam rooms, and an outdoor hot pool with a bar. Outside the town there are some good trails which wind around geothermal vents, a volcanic lake, and the mountains. The cheapest way to get to Noboribetsu Onsen is to jump a bus from the Sapporo bus terminal for about ¥1700. Naturally, any place as unique as Noboribetsu will usually be teeming with tourists, so bring along your peril/omiyage sensitive sunglasses. Luckily, most tourists seemed to stick close to the shops and the tour-bus parking lot, so the walking trails were refreshingly uncrowded.

There are many interesting places across Japan, but Hokkaido is truly unique and definitely worth the journey there. I traveled cheaply and spent a total of ¥70,000 over one week, but I recommend giving yourself a little more flexibility and doing things a little more comfortably; unless you really enjoy eating nothing but peanut butter and steamed rice.

So when the cold, gray reality of February hits, take a few days of that nenkyu and see the land of sparkling snow where the air is clear, the winter looks like winter and the train station toilets have hot water…

Across Japan On Local Trains

Leif Stout, ALT. 1994

I have a hard butt. Not the kind that makes women salivate when I walk by in my Levi’s, mind you. No, the kind of butt I have is more suited to long distance train travel than enticing members of the opposite sex. In this society where personal appearance and buttocks are so important, mine is something I’ve learned to live with and on occasion come to appreciate. Me and my butt; partners for life.

Last year for my spring vacation I decided to see as much of Japan as cheaply as possible. The best way to do that, I learned, was to buy a Japan Rail Seishun Juuhachi pass which allows unlimited travel on JR trains, ferries, and buses during the seasonal holidays. The Seisun Juuhachi pass has 5 coupons, each allowing you to travel as far as you can in one day; 5 coupons for the set price of ¥11,500, regardless of how far you go. This means that you can take 5 separate journeys across the wonderful world of JR by yourself, or you and a friend can take 2 and a half separate journeys to wherever. Do it how you like for one set price. The only catch is that the passes are only available during the seasonal holidays and they’re only good for local trains. None of those fancy Shinkansen or limited expresses here. Ya gotta do it the hard way. In JR lingo, “the hard way” means either a futsu densha (local train), or a kaisoku (semi-local train), both of which take a long time to get wherever they’re going. And this is where my hard butt comes into the story:

Very early one spring morning I found myself outside the Miyajima-guchi train station in Hiroshima-ken waiting for the first train of the day. With a blinding flash of adventuresome spirit, I decided that I would test the resiliency of my buttocks and try to make my way to Tokyo that night, a distance spanning two thirds of Honshu. Brandishing my Seisun Juuhachi pass triumphantly above my head I marched onto the platform feeling invincible and decidedly Napoleonic. Within minutes I had boarded a rickety local train for the first of what would become many legs of my journey.

The train filled up as the morning travelers got on and jockeyed for space. Soon I was crammed into a corner seat watching the salarymen, office ladies and school kids snoozing with their heads back and their mouths open. Time passed slowly and from my unmoving vantage point I could observe the countless people who got on and got off the train as I traveled from ken to ken. Some of the people were very surprised to see a foreigner and stared openly at me, while others were very friendly. At a deserted stop somewhere in Okayama a pair of o-baasans boarded the train and wormed their way though the crowd until they stood pressed tightly together in front of me. One of the old ladies caught my eye for a moment. She gave me a slight bow and a warm scraggly toothed smile before turning to chat with her friend about how I was probably an American English teacher and didn’t I have long hair. Around the big cities at rush hour I was just another commuter bumping into everyone else like faceless bowling pins. In Nagoya a JR guy slammed his window in my face when I asked him a question. Generally though, the people in rural areas tended to be much more friendly and helpful than those around the big cities. When I got lost somewhere near Hammamatsu a cackling old man went out of his way to ensure I got on the right train to where I needed to go.

Boarding one train after another, I passed from the low coastal mountains of Okayama towards the dense urban clutter of Himeji, Kobe, Osaka, and Kyoto. The sunlight came and went as the weather changed with the landscape. Mountains became rivers, fields became rice paddies, and rice paddies became parking lots and high rises. Urban changed to rural and back again as I inched my way up the map. From Kyoto I passed through wooded hills as the train lumbered by Lake Biwa, across the plains of Gifu-shi and Nagoya, then down to the Pacific coast and along Aichi, Shizuoka and Mt. Fuji. Each prefecture was a new sensation of people, language, fashion, light, weather, and geography. The national smorgasbord was shake-rattle-and-rolling right by me.

Over the hours of the day my journey became very long and as I gradually lost feeling in my buttocks the Napoleonic excitement I had felt earlier drained away. By the time I reached the Yokohama-Kawasaki industrial sprawl it was nearing midnight and my entire body as well as my mind had gone numb. I was still awake but suffering from extreme sensory overload. It was what I’d imagined brain death would feel like. Still, I pressed on and the last train going into Tokyo carried an entirely different crowd of people from what I’d encountered before. Tired urbanites wearing Tokyo’s latest clothes and attitudes were returning from a trip to the “country”, while trendy clad foreigners, the only ones I’d seen all day, ignored me and talked about doing an all-nighter in some new club in Roppongi. As the train passed through the neon explosions of Yokohama and Kawasaki I suddenly jerked out of the travel induced stupor I’d been in. It was as if I had instantaneously popped into the electric roar of modern Japan.

The tracks stopped at Tokyo station and I wandered echoing through the dark and deserted walkways as the platform workers shooed people off the last trains. At the central exit, I tore one coupon from my Seisun Juuhachi pass and handed it to the sleepy JR guy, who grunted once when he saw how far I’d come that day. I had passed through eleven prefectures and traveled over 900 kilometers. Eight trains and 15 hours after leaving Miyajima, I walked out into the midnight Tokyo streets and took a few moments to revel in my own personal triumph of will over butt muscles. I had arrived.

A Trip To The Beppu Sex Museum

Leif Stout, AET. 1994

Before last June I didn’t know a lot about sex. Historically speaking that is. Or interculturally speaking for that matter either. Then again, I’ve never really had to know about such historical/intercultural matters; my ex-girlfriends seemed perfectly happy to dump me on the basis of my existing knowledge. Still, my lack of education bothered me and in June, after the Renewer’s Conference, I found myself at the gates of the Beppu Sex Museum.

Beppu is a lovely onsen resort town in Oita-ken on the island of Kyushu. It boasts a wonderful array of various onsens, sand and mud baths, volcanic vents and hot pools enticingly named “The 7 Hells of Beppu.” And of course the world famous (check for the write up on page 673 of the Lonely Planet Guide to Japan!) Beppu “Hinokan” Sex Museum. My fellow questers in the hunt for sexual knowledge were a Brit male and another fellow Canadian male. The American girl in our traveling quartet elected not to view the museum, having had better things to do like think about what color to paint the bedroom ceiling of her apartment.

The admission was officially ¥2000, but after bargaining with the ticket lady and convincing her that we were poor students in dire need of education, she took pity on our respective girlfriends and let us in for ¥1500 each. We walked through a dark hall way with the nervous excitement of school kids on the way to their first Human Health class. Indian sitar music began twanging languidly and the hall way opened up into a room lined with blue-lit drawings of Maharajahs and their many wives in various positions of marital bliss. The variety of positions depicted was truly astounding and lead me to believe that Indian Maharajahs must have been not only very imaginative, but also very flexible. Every now and then one of my compatriots would blurt out excitedly, “Hey! Here’s one I know!” I was quietly impressed. The only position of marital bliss that I recognized was the one where the wife sits astride the husband and pummels him with a frying pan.

We walked through another hall way which lead us into a room filled with fertility icons and charms. In display cases were hundreds of figurines of erotonauts and folkloric critters from bedroom culture around the world –all doing the horizontal bop in their own culturally unique way. Sitting on the floor like tubular Buddhas were statues of phallus’ ranging from the moderately life-sized to the truly gargantuan. Some of the wooden willies had coin receptacles in the tip. According to some Shinto thought, a cash donation to the gods followed by patting a phallus 3 times on the head brings good luck to the donor. Naturally, we emptied our pockets of all the change we had…

Passing through another dark hall way we entered the slap and tickle world of the animal kingdom. This room would have made even a zoologist blush. The Call of Nature complete with squawking parrots, trumpeting elephants and other excited beasts came drifting mysteriously from hidden speakers. Set in picturesque displays of the wild outdoors were the life size figures of bumping bears, mating moose, diddling dogs, cringing cats, even snuggling snakes. This was a scene that Mother Nature would not have approved of, but it was better than a national geographic television special. Marlon Perkins move over. Yeah!

The theme of the next room was not immediately apparent as we wandered closer to look at darkened glass display cases. Next to each case was an unmarked red button. What could it do? Taking deep breaths and steeling ourselves for the unexpected, we began pushing buttons. In the silence, motors began spinning, gears ground and mechanisms clunked. Suddenly the glass cases lit up and revealed a myriad of bumping, grinding, spinning and whistling figures doing the kind of things that fantasy novel writers can only dream of; dwarves emerged from giant toadstools, naked elves waved magic wands, frantic faeries frolicked on the fly. Phallic water cannons barraged unsuspecting viewers and bosom volcanoes erupted as the lands of the Never Never came alive. It was as if someone had combined a victorian romance with the works of JRR Tolkien and built a mechanical tribute to them. We had discovered the Try-And-Learn-Room of Fantasy and Fiction!

Already out of breath and wizened beyond measure, my compatriots and I entered the last and largest room in the museum: the Hollywood Hedonists and Famous People room. It was not a pretty sight. All of our favorite movie stars and historical figures were there on display in positions less dignified than those usually depicted in the encyclopedias. Life sized mannequins of Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo, and other femmes fatales were there in full frontal glory, while Napoleon, Ghengis Khan and Pocahontas performed tactical maneuvers in the bedrooms with their respective partners in passion. The lechery went on and on, unabashedly defiling one after another the memories (mammaries!) of world greats. But the piece de resistance, the flagship display, went far beyond the merely shocking. It was the product of a wonderfully sick and twisted mind, and it alone was worth the cost of admission. Pressing a red button, we stood back and watched the heinous masterpiece come to life: Pink, blue, and yellow cartoon colors shone in the light and glimmered on the figures which, one by one, began moving. There before us, to the cheerful whistling of “Hi-ho, hi-ho, its off to work we go” was the western world’s shimmering icon of innocence, Snow White, fiendishly frolicking with all Seven Dwarves –at the same time! History had been made.

In a daze of grateful comprehension, we walked past the theater and through the Big O Omiyage shop before silently returning to the car. We had gone in the museum boys, and come out enlightened men of the world…

Shanghai: People’s Park, May Day ‘94

Wil Fennell, Nara City AET

On May Day, the mother of all Communist holidays, my mate Mike “Let’s Internationalize” Davies and I found ourselves the targets of a fervent mob of Shanghai citizens. But in this post-Cold War era, we had nothing to fear but tired tongues: They just wanted to speak English with “foreign friends” in the government-sanctioned “English Corner” in People’s Park. Here, every Sunday for about 10 to 15 years, one or two hundred Chinese people have been meeting only to speak English. In some sense, it almost resembles “Speaker’s Corner” in London, Mike says.

Mike and I each conversed with large groups of people—maybe 30 to 50 at a time, for about four hours. Many of these folks were intellectuals, who spoke sophisticated English, with nearly perfect pronunciation. The topics of conversation were surprisingly political at times, as we talked about the Cultural Revolution, the idea of “democracy,” and eventually even touched on the Tienamen Square Massacre of 1989.

Here’s a sampler of some of the conversations. You’ll notice that many of our Chinese friends have taken “Western” names, at least during their time in English Corner. “MW” stands for Mike and Wil.

Topic One: China’s Cultural Revolution

(Talking to “Paganini,” factory worker, age 37. Paganini told us that he lives with his parents, and that his joy in life is listening to classical music and playing the violin.)

MW: We’ve heard only a little about the times from 1966 to 1976. How did your lives change during the Cultural Revolution? P: It was a terrible time, many mistakes were made. I was a schoolboy when it began. They closed my school, and we students had to “criticize” our teachers. Everything turned upside down. MW: What was the worst part? P: I wanted to be a teacher or professor. I liked studying English and other languages. When the schools closed, we were forbidden to learn foreign languages. For about ten years, my friends and I learned nothing … just propaganda. MW: What does “criticize” mean? P: It means we children took over the school and tried to re-educate our teachers. Chairman Mao said the educated were stupid, and ignorant farmers were geniuses. We even beat our teachers sometimes, to prove our loyalty to Mao. MW: How about your life now? P: I’m always reading and studying at night—English, science, history, economics, but it’s only for me. I work in a factory making sweet rolls. I can’t be what I want in life, because I lost ten years. Times are getting better here, some, and so now we can even get English books and magazines. But we can’t bring back the time we lost.

Topic Two: Democracy

(Talking To “Benjamin Shi,” bank employee, age 25. After our talk, we left the Park, and he walked beside us. As we parted, he moved up close and whispered, “God bless you.” We could only reply with the same.)

MW: Is your country moving toward democracy, do you think? B: It depends on what you mean by “democracy.” Some people here today, standing around us, think democracy is here because they can buy nice clothes and electronics goods these days. MW: Then what do you think democracy is? B: Democracy means everybody in the society obeys the law. There must be the law for democracy. With law, China can improve as a democracy. MW: But China has plenty of laws today. Some of them seem anti-democratic to us, to be honest. What if a country has bad laws, unjust laws? B: Then please tell us what democracy is. MW: There’s no pure democracy on the earth, that’s for sure, but at least in a democracy, citizens have a say in things. If you know Lincoln, you know he said … B: “Government of the people, by the people, for the people.” MW: Yeah, that’s it. That’s the simplest definition. But a good one. B: China will have its own kind of democracy, but I hope we can remove the corrupt government officials. That’s why I want to see the laws followed. MW: Right now, even as we’re talking, there are many people standing around us, listening mostly. But why are so many of you nervous, looking suspiciously at each other. Sometimes today, we could all talk openly. Then, the next moment, it seemed we had to talk about something “safe.” Why?

P: (Interrupting). I’ll tell you about this. Because maybe after we talk today, some police will follow some of us and take us to the headquarters. They’ll ask why we talked about these things with foreigners. Some people standing here right now—and maybe we recognize them—could be police. That’s why we look at each other so much. But me, I’m not worried about all this. I was in Peking in 1989 when the trouble came. We can improve the country by talking to each other and outsiders. Probably they’ll talk to me today, but who knows. (With that, he said “So long,” and casually strolled away.)

Some Afterthoughts

As corny as it sounds, I was left feeling that you and I are damned lucky to be citizens of democracies. Sure, our countries are fairly screwed up, but we can raise hell and maybe change things if we must. And we can always, always, speak our minds. Before that day in Shanghai, I never once imagined I could fear for the safety of people who were just discussing ideas. For me, that says everything about the inhuman conditions that Communism has created. Anyway, from now on, each June 4, I’m sure to be thinking about the people we met in Shanghai, and especially the feisty Paganini, who was in Peking, in the Square, when the tanks rolled in.

The Cheap Flight Home

Leif Stout, ALT. 1994

My friends tell me that I’m cheap. You know: a penny pincher, a tightwad. Okay. I can understand the concept and the theory behind it, but the only thing I don’t get is how my friends can call me a tightwad when I’m broke all the time. My father was going to explain this frugal, family trait one day by telling me about our forgotten Scottish heritage, only I couldn’t pay him the nickel he wanted for the story, so my roots are still in hock.

Over a couple of years I’ve learned that Japan is not the best place to be if you want to avoid spending a lot of money. I’m reminded of this every time I go into Osaka to eat $20 hamburgers and drink $10 beers. Still, Scottish ancestry and all, I remembered the lessons I’d learned from my father and ever since then I’ve been on the lookout for a Good Deal.

I thought I’d found my Good Deal when I decided to fly home to Canada one Christmas. Usually, the cheapest flights out of Japan are on tiny African airlines whose countries always seem to be changing their names, and whose safety precautions include notices for passengers to keep their live goats and chickens in the overhead locker or securely stored under the seat in front of them. Surprisingly, my travel agent managed to get me a dirt cheap seat from Osaka to Edmonton on a major American carrier. “This is great,” I thought to myself. Not only would I be able to communicate with the flight attendants in English, but I’d be able to pronounce the names of the in-flight food. “And,” I smiled, “its so cheap even Dad will be impressed.”

And so with the faint drone of bagpipes ringing in my ears, I paid the measly sum my agent wanted for the ticket and found myself at the Osaka airport one chilly December morning, anxious and excited about going home. While I was waiting in the two hour check-in line for cheapie flyers I examined my flight itinerary closely for the first time. To my horror the route did not take the usual 14 hours that I had so naively expected. In a growing state of shock I realized that the flight would probably come as close to the Peary Expedition as I’d ever get.

The flight from Osaka to San Francisco was crowded and took 11 bumpy, uncomfortable hours. Still, the thought of being home for Christmas kept my spirits high in spite of the knowledge that my journey into hell had only just begun. Dry mouthed, tired and decidedly grungy, I arrived in San Francisco and settled into a one-and-a-half-hour wait to get through American customs and immigration. Four hours later I boarded a small jet bound for Seattle. While the plane was being refueled in Seattle, the flight attendants announced that for our comfort and convenience, passengers continuing to Vancouver should stay on the aircraft during the 2 hour layover. To pass the time I threw airline peanuts at my face and poured coke on myself. More than once I thought about how much money I was saving while the melody of Scotland the Brave passed through my mind.

Finally I was airborne once again; this time on the way to Vancouver. It had been over 20 hours since I left Osaka and during that time I’d managed to consume 3 airline meals, 14 bags of salty airline peanuts, 8 airline cocktails, 5 airline beers, 10 airline Cokes and 3 extra strength Tylenols. The toothbrush and toothpaste that I’d reminded myself to pack in my carry-on bag was nestled securely somewhere below in my checked luggage. Wired from the caffeine, buzzed from the alcohol, and carrying around a very distressed digestive system, I arrived in Vancouver looking, smelling and feeling my finest. The airport was swarming with cranky holiday travelers and by the time I reached the customs officer, my mood had gone from moderately irritable to full-on jetlagged hostility. If I heard “Peace on Earth And Goodwill To Men” one more time over the airport PA, I would freak. With frayed nerves and twitchy eyes I approached the customs guy. It went something like this:

CUSTOMS GUY: Merry Christmas, sir. ME: (grunt) CUSTOMS GUY: Coming from…? ME: (twitch) Japan. CUSTOMS GUY: Occupation…? ME: (grunt) (twitch) Teacher. (twitch, twitch) CUSTOMS GUY: (looking closer at me) Are you all right? ME: (twitch) (grunt) (twitch) Cheap flight. CUSTOMS GUY: Right. (pause) Anything to declare? ME: (twitch, twitch, twitch) (grunt) (twitch) Why do you ask?

And so on.

I cleared customs without incident and in a daze wandered throughout the Vancouver airport. I had reached the moment that I’d been dreading since leaving Osaka over 22 hours earlier. For my comfort and convenience, my wretched travel agent had booked me on a flight leaving Vancouver at eight o’clock… the next morning. It was the piece de resistance in my agent’s twisted, evil plan: an 11 hour layover in Vancouver Airport. The last thing that I remember clearly was the sound of “Silent Night, Holy Night” being played by a bagpipe choir over the airport speaker system.

From that moment onward I’m not entirely sure what happened, but I do remember that in my sleep deprived state I was aware of the perfectly insane beauty of my itinerary. In some bizarre way I became a player in one of those great Lessons of Life: you pay for what you get. In the end, it took over 35 grueling, tortuous hours to fly from Osaka to Edmonton. After finally arriving home, I gave my father a nickel and asked him to tell me the story of our forgotten Scottish heritage—when I woke up.