One particularly attractive Thai woman almost lures me to her vehicle with seductive eyes and broad smile, but I pull away just in time and find the official taxi line. Unfortunately, my assigned driver speaks virtually zero English and has no clue where I want to go. I show him the exact location on a map which has street names written in Thai script but he just stares at the graphical representation for several minutes and makes clicking sounds with his mouth, a sure sign that he is confused and frustrated. I trace driving routes on the map with my finger, repeat the name of my destination neighborhood (called "Thewet"), and point to a particular intersection of two major streets. Although the location seems pretty obvious, he continues to be completely flummoxed. It occurs to me that he may be illiterate and unable to decode my attempts to pronounce unfamiliar Thai street names. Though the taxi has yet to move at all, my queasiness surges and a dull aching penetrates deeper into my skull. I am increasingly desperate to lie down in a cool, dark, and quiet room.
He finally starts driving but fails to turn on the meter. I point to the device and ask for it to be activated as a way to protect myself against being ripped off at the end of the journey. He offers to charge 450 Baht ($13) as a flat fee but I decline and insist that we rely on the measured fare. He complies while nervously laughing, a clear indication that I've busted him trying to scam me. Five minutes after we have left the airport, he pulls over to the side of the highway to again study the map and appears no closer to understanding the route. I feel anger welling up inside and a rising urge to start yelling, but barely manage to retain my composure. I urge him to call the guesthouse on his mobile phone and point to the number listed in my guidebook. He starts to dial but then cancels and restarts the process a number of times. I peer over his shoulder and see that everytime he presses the "2" button it comes up as a "5" on the display. He keeps trying to make the call on his malfunctioning phone, hoping that eventually a "2" will register. I glance at the guidebook, see that the "2" occurs four times in the number, and determine that he will never be able to complete the simple dialing exercise.
I tell him to drive and insist that I can guide him to the right place. He resumes driving and keeps looking nervously at my map each time the car slows down due to traffic. He pumps the accelerator haphazardly so that the taxi repeatedly lurches everytime the gas is applied, causing me to jerk forward while sitting in the back seat. The uneven motion exacerbates my nausea. I contemplate what past bad deeds merit being cursed by a bad driver who cannot read a map, is trying to rip me off, and pushes me to the edge of car sickness. We finally get to the desired intersection and I locate the guest house. I shoot the driver a knowing smile when paying the metered fare of 275 Baht (compared to the 450 Baht he offered at the outset) and stumble into a combination guest house/restaurant on a quiet street lined with leafy trees. I quickly check into a pleasant wood-paneled room with thatched palm covering the ceiling and a private bathroom for 500 Baht/night ($15). My first order of business is to lie motionless on the bed with the air conditioning blowing at maximum and a bottle of water by my side. One hour later, my stomach settles and the knot behind my temples dissipates. I am refreshed and ready to reacquaint myself with the buzzing metropolis of Bangkok.
My return to Bangkok has the feeling of a homecoming. This is my third visit to the city over the course of 8 years, so I am already oriented and comfortable navigating through the downtown neighborhoods. Although many people dislike the heat, grit, pollution and noise of this major urban node, I find it exhilarating and filled with life. In contrast to the detached and sterile social atmosphere of Japan, I immediately feel more engaged in the flow of this city. Walking the streets feeds all the senses with the beautiful, the bizarre, and the nasty. I pass street vendors cooking savory noodles, curries, soups and unidentified animal parts threaded onto skewers. The sidewalks are cracked and strange pools of dank water create a fetid minefield. Mechanics weld and fix machinery on the curb, letting loose a torrent of violent sounds and flying sparks. Across from my guesthouse is an open air market packed with stalls selling vegetables, raw meat, cooked food, household items, flowers and clothing. I snake through the warren of sellers, careful to avoid tripping on electrical wires or hitting my head on low-hanging steel poles. As a giant-sized person in this land, I often whack my head on objects placed well above the height of a typical Thai. Even doorways are usually too low for me to pass without stooping a bit.
On my first full day in the city, I focus on buying a mobile phone and signing up for service. In Japan, not having a phone made me feel even more isolated and significantly increased the difficulty of basic social logistics. Not wanting to repeat this handicap in Thailand, I walk across the city to visit a famous shopping center with an entire floor dedicated to the sale of mobile devices. The scene is chaotic and somewhat overwhelming -- endless booths run by individual proprietors selling selections of new and used phones. I pass by a group of Arab men aggressively haggling with a laidback Thai vendor over the price for an unlocked iPhone and notice that there are already faux-iPhone (and even bogus iPod) knock-offs being sold. It is difficult to even focus on anything in particular, so I try to slow down the process by going to one booth at a time and scanning the shelves for something very small, simple, and relatively cheap. The vendors all try to push phones which can play mp3 files, have crappy built-in cameras, contain cool games, and offer bluetooth connectivity. None of these features matter to me. It turns out to be somewhat challenging to find a stripped down tiny device which just makes phone calls and sends text messages. Finally I stumble onto a new LG model which is light, can barely be felt when inside my pocket, and does all the basics (including speakerphone). The vendor agrees to sell at a price of 1200 Baht ($36) along with a SIM card (200 Baht/$6) and my first increment of prepaid minutes (300 Baht/$9). Within moments of making the decision, I am the proud owner of a working mobile phone with a local number. The speed of the transaction and activation feels surreal. Empowered by my new connection to the network, I carry the phone onto the street and begin to send text messages to various contacts in Bangkok. I am no longer off the grid.
In Thailand (like in most developing nations), mobile phone service is purchased on a prepaid basis in increments of about $10. Refilling an account is easy -- just purchase a card at a convenience store (7-11 is a major retailer of phone credit). Switching networks is uncomplicated because there are no long-term contracts with service providers. And users only pay when they initiate a call or text message -- calls to anyone within Thailand are billed at around 3 Baht/minute (~$0.10). Recieving any communication is always free. So if someone calls me and we talk for an hour, there is no charge to my account. For an American, this may seem like an odd arrangement. The bottom line is that I'm happy to talk to loved ones from around the globe on my new phone, so long as they make the call.
After settling my communications protocols, I make a pilgrimage back to the most holy Buddhist monuments in the city. As I approach the famous reclining Buddha at Wat Pho, my body begins to tingle at the familiar sight. I have developed a special relationship with this Buddha over the course of multiple visits. Each viewing of this massive figure with the peaceful half-smiling face and mother-of-pearl inlay on the souls of the feet leaves me awestruck. I emulate his pose in an attempt to tap into a higher power and gain a shortcut to enlightenment. Unfortunately, this strategy does not prove successful. So I move to another temple building and watch a phalanx of monks chant in unison while prostrating themselves before a giant golden Buddha altar. Then I duck into the massage building and ask one of the practitioners to treat the intermittent pains shooting across my back. She obliges, pounds my middle back with packets of steaming herbs, and does some excellent kneading of the tender muscles.
On my third day in Bangkok, the outlines of my spiritual quest begin to emerge. In the morning, I sit at a small restaurant eating fried a plate of noodles amongst a crowd of students wearing their official uniforms and a single monk clad in his trademark orange robes. Upon finishing his meal, the monk begins to chant softly. Everyone falls silent and the proprietors approach, bow, and clasp their hands together in the prayer position. The remaining customers quickly freeze and assume the same pose while I do my best to imitate the appropriate posture. When the young monk, who looks to be around 20 years old, finishes the prayer, he gracefully lifts his body away from the table, turns, and glides away without a single word or gesture. At the moment he passes onto the street, the freeze lifts as both patrons and staff suddenly recommence the bustle of activity. I am amazed by the deference afforded to this monk and humbled by the sequence of events.
The experience prompts me to explore the religious icon district of Bangkok's old city in search of a suitable Buddha statute to provide inspiration in a future home. During my last visit in 2004, I wandered into a shop and encountered a dazzling Buddha statue so impressive that I was compelled to purchase it no matter the cost. But the store refused to oblige, claiming that the figure had been special ordered by a private buyer who had yet to retrieve it. When I attempted to place a comparable special order, the salesperson looked at me with no discernable facial expression and said "not possible." I pressed her and asked to contact the artist, to which she replied "not possible." So I left the store determined to find another Buddha as glorious as that one and scoured all the shops in the neighborhood. Fate was not my friend on that day -- no comparable Buddha revealed itself. Since my desire could only be satisfied by the one Buddha I was unable to acquire, that trip to Thailand had a Buddha-less ending. In hindsight (especially when considering certain events occurring in my lovelife at that time), I suspect the Buddha was trying to teach me a lesson about desire, attachment and suffering.
Since several years have passed since that frustrating search, I decide to revisit this district to see whether the Buddha of my dreams is now waiting for me. Is the time right to finally bring this Buddha into my life? My sense of direction leads me astray and I walk in circles for an hour before locating the store which originally hosted the glorious statue. Entering past rows of ornaments, life-sized figures, and shelves packed with Buddha accessories, I pray for the object of my desire to be waiting in the same spot. But it is not there. I scour the entire shop to try and discover a fascimile of that Buddha but only see low quality distant cousins. I describe my vision of Buddha perfection to the salesperson but there is no glint of recognition in her eye and she merely points to a section of the store with cheap and uninteresting imitations. It dawns on me that I may not be ready to have the Buddha object. Higher powers are repeating an important lesson about the fruitlessness of passionately pursuing something which drives me wild with desire. I accept my fate without bitterness and move onto other tasks.
Abandoning the pursuit of physical objects, I go to nearby Wat Mahatat seeking an introduction to the practice of meditation. After identifying myself at the front desk, a radiant older Thai woman sits with me and discusses the basics of Vipassana meditation. I demonstrate a genuine interest in learning more and she soon hands me off to Phra Suphe, an older Buddhist monk dressed in orange robes who speaks excellent English. Although his initial gaze hints at a certain wariness about my intentions, we talk for over an hour. He tells me that the only truth about life is impermanence -- all things are changing and nothing lasts for more than an instant. I am jolted by the realization that, in the months leading up to my departure, I often justified the radical life shift by reminding myself that change is the only constant. This notion provided comfort by helping me to understand the futility of trying to hold onto any situation whether it be an apartment, a job, a lifestyle, or a community of friends.
The monk practically mocks the fact that people clean their bodies on a daily basis but never take the time to clean their minds, an objective which can only be accomplished through regular focused meditation. Learning to meditate requires practice, devotion, and commitment. Since nothing persists in the universe, meditation must become an ongoing practice (even 15 minutes per day) in order to attain any benefits. These benefits include developing a more focused mind and ending personal suffering through freedom from grief, sorrow and greed. He reassures me that the introduction to insight meditation will not be accompanied by an attempt to convert me to Buddhism. This promise is strangely disappointing since my weak attachment to Judaism leaves me feeling quite open to conversion under the right circumstances. He laments that the world is in trouble because leaders have forgotten about cleaning their minds and cultivating merit and routinely abandon the key moral precepts of not killing, not stealing, not sleeping around, not drinking alcohol, and practicing meditation. Listening to his recitation of this list, I definitely agree with three of the five admonitions but don't have the heart to share my disagreement over the costs and benefits of sexual promiscuity or intoxication. So I nod and do not take issue with his list of societal ills.
While absorbing his speech, I realize that this type of meditation may be the exact practice needed to help me steady myself on the road and achieve my personal transformation goals. Travelling alone triggers sharp emotional ebbs and flows. Within the course of a single day, I can cycle through a range of moods -- elation, contentment, frustration, and alienation. In the midst of emotional volatility, I am seduced to judge others, engage in self-criticism, and obsess about the future. This protective mechanism disconnects my heart, mind and senses from the here and now, taking me away from appreciating the simple beauty of each moment. Can meditation offer a path to break free from these patterns, to generate inner peace and contentment, to remain confident about my ultimate destiny, and to learn to love myself regardless of external circumstances? Can judgement, fear and anxiety be replaced with compassion, love and connection? While restraining my enthusiasm for meditation being a silver bullet, I decide that it would be foolish for me not to see what this ancient discipline can offer.
I follow the monk into the basement where we stand in a long narrow room with tile floors and ceilings just an inch higher than the top of my head. He first takes me through the steps of a walking meditation -- gazing at the ground, propelling myself forward slowly with deliberate intention, and focusing on each movement of the foot (lifting, moving, dropping) by silently pronouncing the words inside of my mind. He demonstrates the proper sitting position (legs crossed, hands connected with palms facing up, thumbs touching) and instructs me to concentrate on the rising and falling of the abdomen with the intake and exhalation of each breath. Every time a thought enters my consciousness, I should note its presence, give it a label ("worrying", "thinking", "future", "past") and silently repeat the word several times before returning to my breath. We do these exercises together for 20 minutes then the monk leaves while my body is firmly locked in a sitting pose.
I attempt to focus only on the movement of my chest tied to the intake of air and cycle through 2 rounds of sitting and walking postures over the course of 45 minutes. Each time that my mind empties for a few moments, thoughts of the past and future flood into consciousness. Every quiet void is invaded by voices, visions and powerful emotions. I feel intense pain in my legs and across my back. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. Consistent with the monk's instructions, I allow these sensations to persist without taking any physical action to alleviate the suffering. To my surprise, I occasionally tap into a peaceful clarity and am highly present to sounds, smells and sensations. But I cannot inhabit this space for more than a few breaths before an array of unwelcome intellectual voices arrive to analyze the situation and offer real-time commentary on the experience. I worry that my mind is weak, perhaps past the point of repair, and become dejected by my failure to demonstrate even a sliver of mastery at this mind cleaning exercise. After mulling my failure to instantly succeed, I conclude that achieving any level of success will require dedicated practice and swear to take the plunge in order to explore what pot of gold lies at the end of the meditation rainbow. I return the next day for another hour of meditation practice, but it will be another seven weeks before I can honor my commitment and truly explore the potential of Vipassana.
The following day I rendezvous with another friend of uber-connector goddess Lisa Ruth. Kob is an early 30s Thai woman who has traveled extensively, works at a major design center in Bangkok, is plugged into many fascinating local communities, and spends much of her free time checking out cultural events, taking yoga and dance classes, and hanging out with her tight-knit female posse. Her friendliness and enthusiasm are contagious. Within minutes of meeting, she begins suggesting places to visit, people to meet, and a slew of activities which may be of interest. She is one of the most genuinely likeable people I have met in a long time, and I feel lucky to make her acquaintance. Over the next week I join her girl-crew on various occasions to attend a dance class, munch on papaya salad and curry, and lead a teach-in on the basics of poi spinning. We pledge to organize a bona fide party with full-on fire spinning when I return to Bangkok the following month.
I also visit with my former landlord and her boyfriend. When she lived next door on Sacramento Street in North Berkeley, Natalie was a lovely presence and would often come over to share an extra bowl of Thai curry and rice. Now back in Bangkok working for a major company, she exhibits a strong entrepreneurial spirit and we talk about various business opportunities such as opening an English language school or a Bangkok branch of the Cheeseboard. I remind her that the Cheeseboard is a worker-owned collective, so this model may not fit with her profit-making objectives, but she claims that it may be possible to copy the recipes without adopting the ownership structure. Natalie and Gon collect me early one morning and we drive almost an hour to the city of Nakhon Pathom to cruise the famous floating market and visit Wat Phra Pathom Chedi, the tallest Buddhist monument in the world. I consume so much food at the market that it becomes exceedingly difficult to stay awake during the ride back to Bangkok. The next night Natalie and Gon take me to Chinatown and treat me to a large steaming bowl of shark fin soup. Thinking about the ecological implications of this culinary choice, I wince for just a moment before slurping the meat and savoring the flavor. This marks the second politically incorrect dish in my diet over the past two weeks (the other being whale sushi in Tokyo).
Back in my neighborhood, I check email while recovering from my fourth massage of the week. While waiting for a website to materialize on an interminably slow computer, a dazzling and poised Canadian woman sitting next to me strikes up a conversation. Her name is Annie Lalla. She and her American boyfriend (Anton) have just arrived and both of them start quizzing me about places to visit in Thailand. At one point she mentions possibly attending one of the infamous "full moon" parties on the island of Ko Pha Ngan. I tell her not to expect too much, especially in comparison to Burning Man. At the mention of my favorite desert extravaganza, her face lights up and fire practically shoots from her eyes. She reveals that the two of them met at a previous incarnation of Black Rock City (Burning Man's location) and are still buzzing from their experience this summer. An instant and powerful bond forms as we start swapping stories, realize that our respective camps were only blocks apart, and marvel at our participation in the collective consciousness of this crazy community.
Later the three of us share lunch and find other connecting threads. After hearing them both recite certain unique phrases, I mention Landmark Education and wait for a reaction. My hunch pays off as they practically explode with enthusiasm about these human potential and development courses and start testifying to the benefits for themselves, their family, and friends. My introduction to Landmark in 1987 caused me to enroll in a series of their programs over a number of years, so I share tales from the old days (back when Werner Erhard was running the organization). We revel in the power of open communication, of making highly ambitious and unconventional commitments, and of pursuing outrageous life experiences. I am completely energized by our interaction. We agree to meet again in the city of Chiang Mai a few days later.
Anton and Annie represent the kind of travelers who make me feel proud to come from a Western country. But they are the exception. Observing the actions of other tourists, I often feel shame by association. One day while touring the Vimanmek mansion and royal throne palace , I observe two German women standing at the ticket counter. As these two fairly overweight women hand over their money to the Thai woman sitting behind the counter, one barks in English "where can we find food here?". The ticket seller, not fluent in English, clearly fails to comprehend the question and shrugs. The German woman seems infuriated by the non-response, raises her voice, and practically screams the word "food" while closing her hand and pressing the tips of her fingers against her lips. Her disrespect and self-centered arrogance is sickening. I cannot bear to watch any longer and walk away in disgust. Another day I am checking my email in a shop located in a part of the city where many package and business tourists tend to stay. A middle-aged American businessman sits next to me and calls his office using Skype. During the course of the conversation, he repeatedly exclaims that he can't believe all the crazy things he has observed here in "Bangkok, Taiwan." I barely restrain myself from leaning over and correcting his major geographical faux pas. Listening to his conversation, I am saddened by his almost complete astonishment at the fact that other countries have different cultural customs. It only reinforces my belief that Americans lack a basic familiarity with what occurs outside of their own tiny universe. One evening I am eating dinner near a middle-aged American man sitting with an attractive younger Thai woman who is clearly serving as his rented girlfriend for the week. She looks incredibly bored and her eyes scan the perimeter of the room as they struggle to find something to discuss. When the waiter arrives with a plate of fried spring rolls, the American immediately sees that something is missing and demands "plum sauce". On the mistaken assumption that all Thai restaurants automatically serve "plum sauce" with this dish, he practically starts lecturing the waiter and says the word "plum" over and over again, as if the act of repetition will cause the waiter to recognize that he has forgotten to bring a standard Thai condiment. Despite his protestations, neither his Thai companion nor the waiter have any idea what the man is requesting. I squirm uncomfortably upon realizing that this American cannot distinguish between the Chinese restaurant serving Egg Rolls with plum sauce at his local mall back in the USA and the standard dips accompanying spring rolls in a Thai restaurant. His smugness and incredulity cause me to be extra polite to the waiter and I leave a large tip as if to compensate for the ignorance and insensitivity of my compatriot.
One of my final days before departing, I visit the Golden Mount and climb hundreds of steps to a viewing platform at the base of a shiny golden Chedi and survey the Bangkok skyline. Inside the shrine, I seek my fortune by shaking a can containing a series of small sticks tagged with numbers. When my shaking becomes sufficiently violent (aided by intense mental focus on the question at hand), one of the sticks pops out and lands on the floor. The number directs me to a printed fortune which reads as follows (typos preserved from the original):
All in the family will be happy and have good lucks.
Long journeys will be undertaken safe and sound.
Desires will be fulfilled. Patient recovering.
Legal case in your favor. All is good for you.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Chapter 4 -- Bangkok
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Chapter 3 -- Nagoya, Kyoto and my Tokyo return
While en route to the city of Nagoya on a relatively slow train, I contemplate how it feels to be alone on the road. Since leaving Tokyo, I have been deprived of much meaningful human contact apart from a series of weird, surreal and brief interactions with other humans. As this extended period of solitude begins to take its toll, I remember my loving community at home and begin to wonder whether my decision to take this sabbatical is a mistake. Why pursue this self-imposed exile when the consequence is social isolation and a creeping sense of alienation? I task myself for not being sufficiently aggressive in reaching out to strangers and fear that I may have lost my nerve. Am I really up for the challenges presented by this journey? Is it simply my destiny to walk alone down a road to nowhere?
Doubts continue to wash over my mind as the train arrives in Japan's fourth largest city but I manage to let them dissipate and turn my focus to logistics and orientation. After shuffling down the train platform to the information desk, I figure out the location of the local youth hostel and decide to walk there lugging two backpacks -- the main pack stuck on my back and the smaller one hanging loosely over my chest. Upon leaving the station, I notice a group of young men sitting on the sidewalk waving English signs proclaiming "Free Hugs" (apparently related to a similar crew in Tokyo). They seem so out of place that I suspect these men are part of a doomsday cult, a multi-level marketing scheme, or a reality television show. Determined to take advantage of any opportunity for a quality social connection, I walk up to the group and signal my willingness to be hugged. Three of the men come forth and offer enthusiastic but limp-armed embraces. One literally jumps and throws himself at me, landing on top of my front pack and wrapping his arms around my body for no more than a second. Although the quality of these hugs does not compare favorably to those I've experienced from random strangers at places like Burning Man, the experience is strangely uplifting and injects me a renewed sense of optimism about the coming days.
Unfortunately, my decision to stay at the Nagoya youth hostel turns out to be a mistake. I am placed into a room with 5 other men and expected to sleep on top of fold-out mattresses spread across the floor. Upon entering the room, I am keenly aware of a rank odor in the air that reminds me of decay and death. I cannot tell if this is linked to the cleaning supplies used by the staff or a natural scent emitted by my fellow roommates. It doesn't really matter.
Rather than checking out and finding alternative lodging, I decide to spend as much time as possible doing activities outside the hostel. The first night, I set out to explore the downtown vibe in the hopes of provoking random social encounters. After cruising through shopping malls and wandering along streets packed with shops and restaurants, I successfully find a dinner spot, eat a delicious meal alone at the counter, and then slowly start walking back towards the hostel. At the edge of the dense commercial zone, I stroll past a cluster of younger Japanese sitting on the sidewalk beside a folding table drinking beer and singing songs along with an out-of-tune guitar. As I approach, one of them calls out in English and offers me a beer. I quickly survey the situation and decide to accept his offer to join the group. After a few minutes of smalltalk, I take out my Oggz glow poi and demonstrate some spinning techniques. This display catches their attention and they all applaud after I complete a sequence of moves. Sitting down to rest afterwards, one of the Japanese men approaches clutching a guitar.
He introduces himself as Tatsuya and, in quite impressive English, engages me in an extended conversation. Strumming basic chords and wailing lyrical fragments, he plays a series of very unusual Beatles songs such as "Across the Universe", "Lady Madonna", and "Within Without You". I immediately appreciate his musical sensibilities. In an effort to reciprocate, I borrow the guitar and perform Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb". He seems surprised and elated by our musical exchange. We spend awhile conversing, singing, and drinking before it dawns on me that I am at risk of returning to the hostel after the official 11pm curfew (another strike against this place). So I say goodnight to Tatsuya, who invites me to meet the following evening, and jog back towards my hostel. Soon it becomes clear that instead of getting closer to the hostel, I am completely lost and disoriented (a rarity for me). It is 5 minutes before 11, so I hail a taxi with the expectation that this option is my only hope for getting back before the gates are locked. The taxi driver, who speaks no English, appears totally flummoxed by the language barrier and shows no glint of recognition when I point at the hostel's location on a map. He takes the map, turns it over, and spends what seems like an eternity trying to determine where I want to go. As the minutes tick away, I consider what might happen if I violate the 11pm curfew. Finally, the taxi driver is confident enough to start our journey. As we proceed, I repeatedly reach over the passenger divider and point to my destination on the GPS display mounted on his front dashboard.
Arriving outside the hostel, I quickly pay, dash out of the cab, and burst through the front door at 11:07. A few minutes later, I hear the front desk clerk locking the door and closing a set of internal shades. Struggling to regain my breath and suppressing my anger at the draconian curfew, I realize that my moleskin notebook is missing from my shoulder bag. While there is nothing of critical importance written in its pages, I feel daft at having left it in the cab while overcome by the panic of trying to return before the curfew.
I slip back into my room and am welcomed by the persistent noxious smell which forces me to wonder if someone has actually died in my absence. There are four other bodies strewn across the floor on mattresses but they all appear to be breathing. Quietly sliding onto my bed, I attempt to avoid the olefactory discomfort by drifting quickly into slumber. When at the precipice of unconsciousness, I am jolted by a bout of thunderous snoring coming from the man situated just below my feet. The intermittent snores resemble the sound of machine gun fire. I am shocked by the volume and intensity, unable to believe that one man can unknowingly be the source of such a brutal auditory assault. In an act of desperation, I try to dampen the sound by sticking my index fingers into my ears and curling the rest of my hands around my head. This trick appears to work, at least until my body has fully relaxed and the fingers slip out of my ears. During a break in the snoring, I manage to make the leap into sleep. At one point in the middle of the night, I am again awakened by a round of gunfire and dream of being caught in a rainstorm on an unfamiliar battlefield with no place to hide.
The next morning I flee the hostel early to catch a train and bus towards the ancient town of Magome. Based on the advice of a family friend, I intend to hike between Magome and Tsumago on a forested trail which winds over the hills through through other small villages in the area. It is Sunday and Magome is packed with Japanese tourists roaming the main drag, admiring the traditional houses, and desperately searching for things to purchase. Not enamored of the scene, I quickly escape the throngs and find the trail towards Tsumago and begin the 8 km (4.8 mile) hike. Within minutes I am practically alone on the trail and starts climbing towards a nearby peak. Unfortunately, I feel physically weak and a bit feverish (perhaps a touch of the old malaria from a past Africa journey). Each step forward becomes increasingly taxing. So I slow down my pace, press onward, and fire up my new iPod. I set the iPod to play random songs from my massive collection and wait for musical inspiration to strike. As I trudge along a trail which shifts from asphalt to cobblestone to dirt, a familiar haggard voice emerges. Dylan tells the story of a man who had everything and then lost it, urging me to ponder the parallels with my current state of existence:
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
As the chorus unfolds, my grimace turns to a smile and I start laughing at the absurdity of my situation. I am an anonymous solo traveler who abandoned a full life only to head nowhere in particular in an attempt to understand how it feels to be me. As Dylan's words continue to sink in, the Red Hot Chili Peppers suddenly arrive to remind me about the dark beauty of being alienated from society. Taken together, I feel strangely comforted by the realization that my struggle is common and others have been far more confounded in grappling with the meaning of their lives. This comfort gives me strength and the hiking becomes much easier. I pass golden rice fields, stop to admire a pair of "male" and "female" waterfalls, wander through a sacred bamboo grove, and stroll through clusters of well-preserved traditional dwellings. Each sight helps me to cultivate a growing sense of inner peace.
Only a few others are hiking this path, and I do my best to nod at each one and utter an enthusiastic "Konnichiwa" as we pass each other. Most return the greeting, albeit with less excitement. As Tsumago approaches, I catch up with a Japanese man who (to my great surprise) initiates conversation. Although his English is basic, we establish that he is acting as a courier bringing an important document to a foreigner living in Tsumago. Without prompting, he pulls his precious cargo out of a backpack and shows it to me -- a printout of the Wikipedia page describing the life of Shimazaki Toson, a famous turn of the century writer who spent his childhood in Magome and, later in life, created a major scandal by publishing a book detailing incestuous relations with his niece. I find it humorous that this item merits transportation by courier since there are presumably computers in Tsumago. Instead of asking such an obvious question, I read the entry and feel lucky to have this real-time information about an important historical figure from this area. The Man then asks where I am from, and when I utter the words "San Francisco" his face lights up and he asks if I know Metallica, a band he believes to be from the Bay Area (although I later discover they are from LA). In limited English, he shares his love of hard rock and we recount the many great bands of that era. Then the sky rumbles and rain begins to fall lightly on both of us. He shakes my hand and runs off ahead to deliver the Wikipedia printout before his backpack gets soaked. I arrive in Tsumago just as clouds begin to make their own deliveries and hole up with a chestnut ice cream to wait out the deluge.
Returning to Nagoya, I experience the extremes of Japanese social dynamics. On the first train, some older folks sitting nearby insist on sharing a never-ending supply of snacks and drinks with me. I open one bag to find tiny (and crunchy) whole fish along with some wheat crisps. It is unexpectedly tasty and I quickly finish the entire bag. We end up talking about Iraq after I notice an anti-war pin being worn by one of the gentleman. After 45 minutes, I switch trains and end up in a car filled with younger Japanese who do not take any notice of me (or even each other). Most allow their gaze to be fixed on their mobile phones as they tap the keys and stare at images and text scrolling across the oversized screens. They are sending email, checking web sites, and reading "manga" comics. No one looks around and there is practically no noise apart from the sounds of the train itself. I marvel at how everyone exists within their own private bubbles without any obvious type of interaction. Even in a crowded train, I feel totally alone and practically invisible.
Back in Nagoya, I remember that Tatsuya invited me to come join him for drinks that night at a place called "The Hub". I locate this English-style pub, grab an outdoor table near the front door, order some fried food, and hope that I won't be wasting my time in this spot. Within 20 minutes, Tatsuya walks up and seems both surprised and happy to see me. He sits down and immediately hands me a vintage copy of a book by Bruce Lee explaining and illustrating his key fighting methods and techniques. Tatsuya then disappears for a few minutes to attend to other business, leaving me alone with this self-defense bible. For a moment, I worry that he expects me to use this manual to prepare for an imminent fight. Regardless, I find myself absorbed by the text and vow to renew my study of martial arts which lapsed after I stopped attending karate class at the age of 14. When he returns, we discuss the life of Bruce Lee. He tells me that it is one of his life's ambitions to remake Lee's last film "Enter the Dragon". When I ask if he is a filmmaker, he laughs and explains that he is a medical student and intends to become a psychiatrist. As if to prove the point, he pulls another book from his bag and starts showing me photographs of cancerous human tissue. We scan through several pages and, as he points out various types of malignancy, I secretly pray for my own organs to be free of such mutations. After the photos are exhausted, he reveals that his ancestors were low-level Samurai and launches into an overview of several hundred years of Japanese history. He scribbles notes and diagrams on napkins to illustrate each point. I am fascinated by both the content and his energetic intensity. He desperately wants to transmit this knowledge and believes fervently in its importance. I can only absorb fraction of what he says but make sure to keep the napkins for future reference.
At that point, other friends of Tatsuya come over to join us. One of them, an American guy, asks about my journey and, upon hearing the itinerary, insists that I should not carry more than $50 anywhere in Thailand because I'm likely to get robbed. He tells of being on a cut-rate tourist bus to a popular destination that got pulled over and held up by armed criminals. This story doesn't surprise me -- I've heard plenty of horrific tales associated with travelers who take these cheap charter buses used to ferry inexperienced tourists from one major hub to another. His story reminds me to always take the public transportation used by locals and allergically avoid special tourist vehicles.
After more rounds of discussion covering a wide range of topics, I realize that my 11pm hostel curfew is rapidly approaching and say goodbye to Tatsuya. Earlier that night, I had asked the staff about whether it would be possible to return later than 11pm. Despite my repeated pleadings, the Japanese woman working at the front desk pointed to a printed set of rules stating that only guests occupying a private room may get keys to the front door and refuses to yield. As I bid farewell to Tatsuya, I feel particularly incensed by a policy which seeks to prevent roommates from disturbing each other via a late night reentry into the sleeping sanctuary. This notion is laughable when comparing the impact of slipping back into the room and sliding quietly into bed with my roommate's engine-like snoring.
I arrive back at the hostel only moments before 11pm and spend another night enduring what sounds like waves of ordinance exploding only a body-length away from my face. The next morning, one roommate (an American) shares that he came back at 1am and just banged on the door until someone let him in. As I listen, this story makes me feel foolish for having played by rules with which I do not agree. I pledge never to make the same mistake again.
On my final day in Nagoya, I take a whirlwind tour of the Electricity and Toyota museums. In a land of cute figurines, stuffed kittens sleeping in woven baskets, and fantasy characters striking poses evoking wonder and terror, is it any surprise that this culture would create the Electricity Chicken, a superhero of alternating current who has come to teach the masses to embrace the wonders of clean and efficient energy? I encounter this wonderous being at the Electricity Museum while learning about the safety of nuclear power (even during a really severe earthquake), the promise of solar energy, and the difference between two and three phase distribution cables. Perhaps because of my profession, I am actually quite thrilled by the idea that such a museum exists (even if the information is somewhat slanted). Hordes of schoolchildren crowd the floor and practically get into fights to play with exhibits involving buttons and levers. I am content to watch the display of real-time electric supply and demand balance, to closely examine the mock transmission cables, and to try and determine which corporation is funding the museum. Later at the Toyota museum, I learn about the history of automated weaving (with demonstrations on antique machine looms), watch metal being forged into parts using a pneumatic press, and observe robots performing simulated welds on an automobile. I am left impressed by the tenacity of Japanese industrial engineers.
Satisfied that my time in Nagoya was well spent, I board another Shinkansen bound for Kyoto and pray that my social karma will continue to improve. I am met at the train station by Sheila and Jenny who serve as my local hosts for the week. Sheila, a Scottish expat living in Japan for the better part of 18 years, has agreed to let me stay at her house near the city center. Jenny, a Canadian who considers herself at home in England, is another houseguest with whom I share a bedroom. Both of these women served as tsunami relief volunteers in Thailand where they met my friend Lisa Ruth. This marks the first of many excellent social connections facilitated by Lisa Ruth over the course of my trip.
Back at Sheila's place, the alcohol starts flowing as soon as my backpack hits the floor. Several drinks are quickly consumed before we go out for dinner and continue to imbibe with others from Sheila's local expat crew. This group consists of an older British man, a German woman and her Thai husband. The British man shares bits of a fascinating life story -- working on a farm in Rhodesia while fretting over vicious attacks by pro-independence rebels, moving to Iran to help with another farming venture in the days leading up to the Islamic revolution, and living in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco exploring gay life and alternative culture. I am enchanted by tales from these past eras and practically beg for more details. By the time we reach the after-dinner Irish pub, I hit the threshold of total alcohol saturation and am forced to actively refuse subsequent rounds of beer. The others pick up the slack and laugh at my relatively low tolerance. I quickly realize that long-term expats in Asia are highly skilled and professional drinkers.
I wake up with a foggy mind and heavy head the next morning but recover quickly from the state of physical depletion and begin my exploration of Kyoto. This beautiful city offers a virtually unlimited supply of temples, palaces and shrines ranging from the grandiose to the scenic to the pedestrian. I admire 1500-year old Buddha images, zen rock gardens, imposing gates, and ponds surrounded by precisely arranged greenery. Some shrines offer promises of good fortune in life and love if one performs rituals and donates money. Many of the sites have been ravaged by fires, rebuilt repeatedly over the past several hundred years, and have signs chronicling each time the structures were damaged by conflagration and naming those who led the restoration efforts. Practically every building has an admission fee and many collect additional charges to see all the attractions. It can cost almost $10 to see all the offerings in each complex (or more depending on whether various lucky amulets are purchased). I venture throughout the city on a borrowed bicycle committed to seeing all the highlights and, after an extended period of relishing so many beautiful ancient sights, ultimately succumb to an acute case of temple fatigue. I take a break from the temple orgy to explore shops in the ancient city and am surprised to pass two Geishas dressed in full regalia. Upon further examination, I realize that these are actually faux Geishas -- tourists who pay a shop up to $150 for the privilege of being made up and allowed to parade around the streets pretending to be Geisha apprentices. I wonder how the proprietors would react to my interest in undergoing the ritual and begin to laugh out loud envisioning such a scene. Then I realize that this could be an excellent business opportunity in certain San Francisco neighborhoods.
In the course of strolling throughout the city, I observe that jaywalking is relatively uncommon in Japan. Most people instinctively wait until the appropriate pedestrian signal turns green. As a native New Yorker, I find it very difficult to restrain myself from scampering through any obvious hole in oncoming traffic. Discussing this phenomena with expats, one person asserts that although Japanese people are reflexive rule followers in this respect, they can be tempted to cross against the light if someone else goes first. I decide to conduct a series of experiments and attempt to become the jaywalking equivalent of the pied piper. My results show that, in many instances, by violating the crossing rules I actually embolden others to follow suit. Was I shaking them out of their conditioned blind obedience to the law? Were they just open to emulating a Westerner? My experiment do not include follow-up interviews, so I am left to speculate on how to explain these results.
As part of my efforts to interact with locals, I practice spinning poi in a central spot on the banks of the river running through the middle of the city. Nearby a band of young Japanese men play Irish folk songs with extreme proficiency. I sync my poi to their beats, which proves to be an interesting combination. Despite the large numbers of young Japanese in the vicinity, no one approaches to ask about the poi although I do catch some furtive glances directed my way. I am stumped by the continuing social distance separating me from the Japanese people. After spinning, I walk over and successfully engage the band in a conversation. One man speaks fairly decent English and invites me to see them perform at a local pub later that evening. It feels like a small victory and that evening I watch them play a set in front of a crowd of expats in the old part of the city. After the show, I ride home by following the river and observe clusters of young lovers and small social groups trying to find some private space.
One day I meet another friend of a friend for lunch. Taking a break from his career as a massage therapist in the Bay Area, Spencer came to Japan to study Aikido but ended up becoming an overworked English teacher slaving away for a ruthless and abusive company. A few weeks after I leave Japan, the company collapses and thousands of foreign teachers (including Spencer) are unemployed. Although Spencer seems grim about his fate during our lunch, I feel confident that he will find a way to weather the storm and try to provide some perspective and encouragement. We talk about Japanese culture, the difficulty faced by foreigners seeking to make meaningful social connections, and the pros and cons of Reiki versus other types of energy work.
Over the remainder of my time in Japan, I explore the social difficulties faced by foreigners through conversations with a variety of expats. Some suggest that there is a generalized fear of the outside world which is a vestige of Japan's historical isolation and traditionally inward focus. Indeed, the Japanese do seem to be quite fearful of outsiders. One evening I am directed to a truly disturbing youtube video which teaches English by showing a dramatized robbery of a terrified Japanese woman by two foreigners and emphasizes important English phrases such as "please spare my life" and "take anything you want". I am saddened by this paranoid perspective on life outside Japan and wonder about the prevalence of this extreme fear that outsiders are dangerous.
Other expats suggest that the distance is the product of a culture predisposed to recognizing the hierarchy of social status, disfavoring spontaneous contact and placing a premium on presenting a completely dispassionate face to the world. This is compounded by the widespread lack of English language proficiency which creates huge barriers to interacting unless one speaks passable Japanese. I find myself continuously surprised by how few Japanese understand basic English despite receiving many years of language training at school and being continuously exposed to English through popular culture. Some expats remind me of the shame caused by the appearance of incompetence, so it can be preferable for a Japanese person to avoid trying to communicate when there is a prospect of failure. As a counterpoint to these negative views, one Japanese woman suggests that foreigners living in Japan may lack a genuine desire to make friends with the locals. In light of the fact that very few of the long-term expats are actually conversant in Japanese, and after listening to a steady stream of biting negative comments about Japanese culture, her theory strikes me as plausible. Upon deeper reflection I am confused by the whole issue and have a difficulty reaching any conclusions based on my short time in the country.
To gain further cultural insights, I watch some Japanese television and try to decode the meaning of the numerous game shows and reality programs. In particular, I am fascinated by eating contests and stay tuned as a woman consumes 184 pieces of sushi in one sitting and a man wins the ramen noodle soup tournament by downing 29 bowls. Later I discover that the sushi woman is a national celebrity based on her unnatural ability to pack unholy amounts of rice and fish into an almost elastic stomach.
My last night in Kyoto, I join a dinner celebration at a Turkish restaurant in honor of Sheila's birthday and invite Spencer to come and meet a large expat crew. The table ends up segregating by sexual orientation with the gay and lesbian folks at one end and the decidedly straight people at the other. I am positioned right along the dividing line between the two factions and regale a lesbian couple with stories about the wonders of Burning Man. Over dinner, one expat helps me to understand the Japanese bias towards establishing group identity over the Western preference for highlighting individual distinction. She confides that the Japanese approach is more compatible with her nature and expresses unease at the competitiveness of Western society where everyone tries to impress others with their achievements and judges those who do not measure up. In Japan, she feels accepted without having to prove herself or demonstrate that she is an accomplishment machine. As a product of the competitive society, I am almost blind to this dynamic and allow myself to consider how it may not work well for everyone. It is a good lesson to ponder.
After dinner, the group wanders through rainy and crowded streets towards a dance club. But Spencer and I become separated and soon find ourselves unable to locate the rest of the posse. Lacking both keys to Sheila's house and any knowledge of how to find the club, I ask Spencer for a place to crash and he generously obliges. We continue to discuss Japanese culture, stock up on sweets at a local market, ride a train filled with expressionless people, and then chill in his apartment where I am finally able to watch the Simpsons movie. The next morning I catch a bus back to Sheila's place and find both her and Jenny lying semi-conscious on couches with half-full liquor glasses and ashtrays piled with cigarette stubs sitting on the table. Within 30 minutes I pack, say my goodbyes, and am off to catch my final Shinkansen back to Tokyo.
Back in the capital city, I reunite with Amy who insists that I spend the night at the apartment she shares with her boyfriend (Masa) and their pet rabbit. As a token of my appreciation, I offer them the gift of a half-bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne (bought only after unsuccessful attempts to find any quality California wine for sale). Masa does not speak any English but does his best to welcome me into his home. They take me out for dinner at their favorite conveyor belt sushi restaurant where I am the only foreigner present. The sushi chefs parade around the crowd holding live fish and urging people to place their orders just before the creature is cut into pieces. Amy insists on ordering directly from the chef rather than grabbing plates off the belt, claiming that this approach will yield the best quality cuts of fish. I take a pass on the sea urchin (uni), stuff myself with various types of tuna (including the fatty "toro" cut), and gorge on the tasty eel (unagi). When cuts of whale meat are offered, I express disgust and explain my objections to the continued practice of whaling. Amy explains that the whales are only killed for research purposes but I counter that this rationale is a bogus smokescreen used to justify Japan's desire to provide an uninterrupted supply of whale meat for its domestic market. After a few minutes of this back-and-forth over the politics of whaling, I succumb to the urge to try new things and order a plate of whale sushi. The dark purple meat is fatty and tastes pretty damn good. I feel only mild shame while shoveling the flesh into my mouth and manage to justify the experience as an opportunity to conduct important research.
After dinner, Amy and Masa take me to the public bath a few blocks from their apartment. The establishment offers a series of hot and warm pools in sex-segregated chambers. It is a wonderful Japanese tradition. Although I walk around naked without any embarrassment, many of the Japanese men press small towels over their groins in a bizarre exercise of modesty. After taking a shower sitting on small plastic stool, I test the different tubs and am particularly keen to try the milky bath (filled some type of opaque white liquid) before stumbling upon the electric current corner. In one pool, two walls placed close together shoot electricity into the water. I sink into the middle of the field and start having difficulty breathing as invisible cables wrap around my chest and squeeze my entire rib cage. By adjusting my body position I manage to move the current to different spots and feel strange tingling and involuntary muscle contractions. I am totally fascinated by the discomforting sensations and puzzle over whether the current is physically helpful or harmful.
The next morning I board another plane and am soon en route to Thailand. During the flight, I decide that my trip to Japan was a success. Despite my frustrations and a sense of unfulfilled desires, I allow the experience to be complete and perfect. Moreover, I feel ready for the next phase of this epic journey and prepare for my return to a favorite travel destination armed with an ambitious agenda. My trip has only just begun.
