Dear All

Right this moment I am sitting in the foyer of the World Friendship Centre in Hiroshima, a lovely, homely place run by two American volunteers, Sarah and Kent Sweitzer, and open to travellers from all over. There is an Englishman, a Scottish girl,and I can even hear the male half of a Spanish couple snoring loudly upstairs from here. This is probably as youth hostel-ish as it will get though, given that such a place complete with communal TV rooms/bed bugs is not on our agenda, however we are surely bound to run into some characters at the Capsule Inn in Tokyo later in the week, so fingers crossed for that.

I am sad to report that, unfortunately, I do NOT have wooden slippers on, nor am I decked out in a kimonö’: it was time to calm down a little for a place like Hiroshima, where it wouldn”t be at all appropriate to muck around or, definitely, wear that ninja hood. No, the next bout of Extreme! piss taking will have to occur in Tokyo, and that will be in a few days and hence the clock is ticking as far as finding an appropriate outfit to match the headgear goes.

Here, once again, is a bulleted summary of the main events since the last email. Pardon the odd typo or weird character – these keyboards seem to be all different and I don’t dare press some of these keys.

* After leaving the Ryokan in Kyoto, it was to our profound relief that handing over our J Rail passes to book our Shinkansen to Fukuoka/Hakata did not yield any adverse results: no alarms went off, we weren’t stormed in on by a group of heavily armed police officers (actually the heaviest armed cop we have seen had a stick in a side holster and wore what looked just like one of those Tonka helmets from back in primary school) and there wasn’t the awkwardness of having to explain to mummy/daddy over a crackling international line exactly what happened while they stare, astonished, at the faxed-over black and white CCTV printouts of that one particular night previously mentioned. But I digress…the Shinkansen is bloody amazing and I just had to take advantage of the smoking carriages and plethora of vending machines, the latter of which I fear I am slowly becoming hooked to. Every Time is Suntory Time, or whatever. And how could I have neglected to mention this already…the funny signs! Oh we had a mighty good chuckle at the “Excellent Room” at Hakata Station. And Club Boob/Club Laid in Gyon!! I just love the subtlety.

** I have now come to the realisation that Ryokan women are not very chatty. “How are you?” I asked, from which came her reply “Domo arigato domo,” while bowing at a rate of about 10/30sec. “Errrm…how was your day today?” …”Domo arigato domo”…There goes my chances of using a phrase from the “Pick Up Lines” section of the book, then.

** New guests! Mike, an American, and his girlfriend whose name I’ve forgotten shared stories with us about their experiences …the red light districts, the pornographic anime comics, the packets of girl-next-door used-underwear for a couple thousand yen, the overlooking of important social cues while using a share bath with other men. Mike was awesome.

* Fukuoka/Hakata. Leaving our increasingly-heavy bags at the hotel and gleaning invaluable directions and methods of purchasing tickets from one of the kindest hotel receptionist ladies ever and heading off to the Grand Sumo, where we were immediately greeted by royalty: huge huge guys in colourful cloaks (kimonos? are they all kimonos? I need to ask around) kindly stopping for photographs and bowing conteplatively and with deep meaning. Buying our tickets with glee and being shown our seats. What a view! The crowd slowly piled in, bringing in banners with the names of their favourite sportsmen, the travelling group of kid fans from Mongolia who kindly responded to my “Konichiwa” with V signs for a photo. Going around the stadium, seeing the sumos come out of the dressing room; pumping themselves up, slamming into their sparring partners, completely accustomed to the celebrity status and the over-excited tourist. We saw Happy Go Lucky Sumo. Surly Sumo. Hairy Back Sumo. Handsome Sumo. Eczema Sumo (the modern day descendant of Leper Sumo). White Man Sumo. And my favourite: Facial Hair Stubble Sumo. I wanted him to win badly.

** The lady in front of us and her daughter cheered as the home crowd favourite, Ama, wasted yet another opponent with the deadliest of deadly moves: the nipple cripple, which somehow hasn”t yet been outlawed. Oh the controversy(!) as we drew imaginary squares in the air begging for the video replay having already downed three Asahi’s and behaving, quite frankly, like boguns, as old men either shook their heads in disapproval or our hands in comaraderie.

** The tears flowed as Ama was knocked out.The lady and her daughter leaving…the last Japanese representative in the tournament, their final remaining hope, gone, thrown our of the ring onto one of the touch judges. According to the helpful man next to us, Japan is no longer a major player in their own iconic sport. Oh no. The title now belongs to the Mongolians, the Estonians, and the Georgians, aka Surly, Hairy Back, White Man. But in the spirit of the game, he stayed…longing to appreciate the sheer thrill of the fight. I admired the sportsmanship. In the end the Mongolian sumo won against White Man Sumo in a real battle of the titans: after 2 false starts the atmosphere was getting tense. We chewed our pistachio nuts in anticipation, hands shaking while getting ready to film the final battle on our cameras…get out of the way program seller!…and, almost in an instant, the place had been cleared out. Empty bar for stadium staff, sweeping the remaining sand and sweat and blood off the floor. It was all almost like a dream, the passion and novelty of it all. I shoved my freshly purchased souvenir sumo t shirt into my bag as we headed out, the Asahi starting to wear off, for a walk around Hakata. Running into the losing Sumos on the street, having to catch the tube home just like everyone else, the poor guys. It was truly a great effort and, you never know, with a bit of luck and a suitable dermatitis treatment you might one day be that lucky fellow who gets chaffeur-driven back to the 5 star hotel with the admiring fans, the body waxing, the title of Grand Sumo.

** Next: Canal City, a highly recommended “Futuristic Shopping Mall’ as the travel guides called it, was a bit of a letdown to be honest, but only in that Japan has wowed us so far in such a way that we were fully expecting hovercraft… shiny metallic flying pods…cyborgs. Instead we were left instead with just the one robot whose only purpose it seems was to stop if you stood in front of it. Lame. And maybe it was just me or perhaps something to do with how I was wearing my designated ratty-tourist-t shirt but the Hakata shopping district seemed a bit snobbish. I dunno. And lest I forget to mention it, PickYourDaughterUpFromSchool Night is seemingly RIFE at this place. One girl in particular had on, truly truly, the shortest skirt imaginable with, I hope to dear God it was, skin coloured underwear. Man, if that was my daughter I’d never let her out like that, never mind shouting her designer clothes and holding her hand. Sheesh.

** After some heavy debate about the rights and wrongs of fatherhood and the suitable severity levels of home detention, Eugene and I were on our way back to hotel when we stumbled across the night stalls on the streets. The famous food and drink stalls! In we went, selecting one with a red trim and being welcomed by the chef and local and visiting businessmen, all cramped together but enjoying the food and the intimacy. Cooked right in front of us, we enjoyed a wide variety of meat and yet more Asahi as we conversed with a pair of guys in suits from Sapporo. “Asahi good…but Sapporo beer is the best”. Delighted they were to hear that we were from Australia. “But you look like you are from Sapporo” they complimentarily pleaded, one of them far drunker than the other. They said they were in telecommunications, but given the number of times they uttered the word “Sapporo” as we downed our Japanese-style shish-kebabs the more I’m starting to think they were actually in marketing/tourism. Clinking glasses as the beer flowed, eventually eating practically everything on the menu, our new friends left and it was time for us to move on. To the next stall. Ah soooo. The bar stall.

** Sake time, served by bartenders dressed immacutely in bowties amidst an incredible selection of alcohol, giving us a few concerned looks. Eugene progressively got drunker and invented new words in the Japanese vocabulary as he welcomed in the newcomers as soon as they pulled aside the curtains and found a seat; the initially hostile staff slowly warming to his charms. A man in a suit and glasses poking his head in and becoming instant mates with us, talking about his work, laughing with his accompanying lady friend, and the superiority of Japanese cigarettes compared to the American Kools I was busy sucking down. “Try a Lark!” And then it all kicked off. One of the bartenders, a lovely lady named Shinchan I believe (regretfully, all the names of these people I had written down on a piece of paper, but darn it I’ve lost it and fear I won’t be able to recall them all) offered me Peace cigarettes as we traded words in Japanese and English as the tiny bar began to get noisy. It was rocking. Photos of random locals! Random locals taking photos of us! And what better a time than now to whip out the ninja hood! On it went, and the next thing I remember is shooting a video of Eugene, completely passed out on his bed in the hotel with a towel over his eyes like he was in a sauna, snoring like it was the apocalypse.

* Hiroshima. Shinkansen part 2, slightly hungover. We saw Peace Memorial Park and the Atomic Bomb Dome. We were on our best behaviour. Trams! Efficient, regular trams…even today on a Sunday evening they come every 15 minutes. Ridiculous! Schoolgirls even, on a Sunday! I took photos of a Japanese video game store. We ordered Japanese fast food via a vending machine. Everything I am writing is out of chronological order. We went to Hiyajima Island and climbed the mountain, hoping the “monkeys” would come and try to steal our things. Just TRY it, monkey! But yeah right…there are no bloody monkeys. I reckon it all started when some bloke lost his passport and blamed it on the first animal he could think of, and hence came the myth? I dunno. I found the Japanese dolls my mum wanted, now onto worrying about how the hell I’m gonna be shove them all in my almost-full luggage case. We went through the main shopping district to browse. We found, quite possibly, the best t-shirt store in the universe and went slightly mad. We ran into an American student named Rebecca who invited us to visit a cool arthouse bar called “Kobä”,and so we obliged after further browsing and t-shirting. Saw a sign for a place called “Dental Art”", or something like that. For all your root canal and Monet-appreciation needs! Found Koba… a cool tiny two-storey bar, packed with people. After sussing out the place,a Japanese guy informing us in excellent English that it was a private party, and yeah…rejected. That sucks. He even referred to us as “Gai Jin” to puzzled partygoers…”foreigners”? Upon leaving, a Japanese guy with long dyed blonde hair and a goatee, wearing a kimono, complimented me on my t shirt. It was the Sumo shirt. Man, how cool would it have been to have stayed. Dammit. Damn you Private Party!! Seeing a two-man busking team made up of a couple of young lads who harmonised brilliantly. I will be checking out their website from the pamphlet handed out to us. The buskers here aren’t after coinage, funnily enough; happy to spread their art. I love that. Receiving more nice comments on the Sumo shirt and lots of eyes going up and down all throughout the night. I think I have a new favourite sport.

And finally…a thought for tonight as it hits 1:30am: I would have loved to have been able to say that Hiroshima has made me a bigger man. You know, more mature,more worldly, more fulfilled as a human being. More appreciative of the importance of goodwill and peace, that kind of thing. And in many ways it has, yet what is going through my head right now? Right this very second? ….The glory of defeating a Japanese guy at Street Fighter IV in a local gaming arcade (just hear me out, ok). In a game that hasn’t even come out yet in Australia …beating a local…on his home turf… in a game the Japanese created. So maybe in that respect I will be leaving Hiroshima a better man. But no no, seriously. Like…absolutely seriously. Hiroshima has been amazing. The city feels so different to the other places so far, and I’m so totally not just saying that. There is a tranquility about it, and peering out into the suburbs on the tram back to the World Friendship Centre, all the buildings appear to be white. There is something special about this city. The smiles, the polite nods, the konichiwas up and down the mountain, the V-sign kids, the quiet understanding everyone seems to have. And, yeah…smashing some guy 3 rounds to nil. Owned!

Good night all, take care. Will write again soon.

Will Ooi