Month: March 2022 (page 1 of 1)

Once the taxi driver found out I was Japanese, he said, “I went to Tokyo last year,” “Kyoto is beautiful,” “I like sushi.” I had heard it hundreds of times. It was typical of so many clichés. I had been reminded of the annoying question: “How often do you eat sushi?” “Have you ever seen ninjya?” “Teach me karate,” and so on. The most baffling question: “How many times a week you wear a kimono?” … Only once as a child, maybe.

On the other hand, the taxi driver had a good conscience. I had negotiated with other taxi drivers at 200 TT-dollars (about＄30) for a taxi charter, but he was only one who readily agreed, so I had to play along with his talk―he was supposed to wait for me for two and a half hours while I was on the tour to see scarlet ibis at Caroni Swamp.

In the taxi, I soaked in the afterglow of scarlet ibis and said, “The steelpan, I just think about whether to go see. There is still time.” “I highly recommend it, so traditional, I will take you right there.” “Oh really? But you will work after this, won’t you? Besides, a little far from Woodford Square, where I got into. Will it cost extra?” “No, no, no worries,” he did not mention this any further; I wondered if it made business sense, and said, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” 

We got stuck in traffic on the highway. Then after a long silence he said, “By the way, tomorrow, where are you going?” “Airport, I’m going to Tobago, though hurricane is approaching.” “As always. Would you allow me to drive you the airport?” I balked momentarily―outside was dark―that would be the demanding task for him. Not only was I going to be early tomorrow morning, it was expected that he would be late. This was a Caribbean country. A sense of time is entirely different from that of Japanese.

“No, problem, I make an early start. I’m leaving seven a.m, so I’ll use a bus.” “But, you must carry heavy baggage. After I’ll call you, l’ll head for your hotel. Around seven a.m, okay?” I was so punctual, that it was better to refuse his offer, but I felt like I should accept his act of kindness willingly.

The following morning, his taxi had not parked. It is time for him to come here. I made a phone call to him, but could not get through, not knowing if he was coming or sleeping. I made up my mind to wait for him a little―he had been very good to me. Fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, I felt uncertain about when I should I give up on him, wanting to believe him … I put my backpack on and rushed toward the main road, where I would take on the bus. 

Dry wind drafting, I was lingering outside airport in Tobago. “K.” Turning around, I saw a woman put her head out the BMW window and thinking she was Amanda (anonymous), Airbnb host. After she showed me the host house, she drove me around the town: grocery stores, restaurants, a ATM―her action was exactly the same as the reviews that I had checked in advance. I needed a bicycle to go there and asked her to drop in at a rental shop.

“No, 250 TT-dollars for five days,” the clark said soberly. After payment, I rode the bike and headed for  the ocean, where Caribbean Sea and North Atlantic Ocean collide. But as I pedaled it, my buttock hurt and noise―the creaking sound of the saddle. I went back to the shop to have it exchange for another one, but it was closed despite one p.m. 

That evening after cycling around the town, soaked with sweat, I wanted to take a shower straight away. The light in the bathroom in the host house was out of order. I left its door open and went into the room that was very dimly lit. When I turned the faucet, the water came out with tremendous momentum, which hurt my back. I assumed that water pressure was weak overseas. That was too extreme.

The refrigerator did not work, either. I texted Amanda, the host. Then her tall siblings came to check it around midnight. As the tall man examined the fridge, it occurred to me that a landlord had blamed me for breaking the TV before: I was seen as a Chinese and she claimed that I hit it many times.

He said I could use another one in the house next door that they owned. I was relieved that they did not think that was my fault rather than I could. Inconvenient though I felt, I said thank you very much to them; I was concerned about Amanda’s review to me and feared she might think I was a troublesome person. The bathroom troubles were small things.

Whenever I rode the bike past the bicycle rental shop, it remained closed. There was a limit to what my buttock could endure. One day, the moment I got off the bike by the sea, the thong of my flip-flops snapped. As I was at a loss what to do, I remembered Amanda’s mother, who gave me mangos and who I thought might repair it, lived upstairs in the host house. 

Barefoot on one leg, pedaling the bike up the slope lined with exclusive hotels, I heard a voice. “Hey, Chinese. Are you having fun?” Stopping, in the parking lot of one of them, I saw the man, the clark who had done sloppy work, sticking his head out of the window of his car and the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “Yes, of course. I enjoy myself.” I blurted out without meaning to―I might not have wanted to intrude on them, not saying anything about the bike. But he said, “Good. You have to return it before you leave. Have a nice day,” he drove off; I pedaled it again.

I showed Amanda’s mother my flip-flops. In an instant she fetched the tool box from inside the house. And then I saw her pierce the joint of the thong with two short wires, which was crossed and fixed on the back of it. I was taken aback by her quick wit and thanked her. When I was about to go downstairs she gave me mangos and a map in Tobago, on which she told me the sightseeing spots in great detail. I had felt her warmth without a hint of self-interest.

The next day, from Scarborough, the capital of Tobago, I took a bus for Englishman’s Bay that Amanda’s mother recommended me. I told the driver that I would get off at Englishman’s Bay and sat in the seat behind him. As the bus went through the mountain road with ups and down, it began to rain and I started to feel motion sick. After a while, I checked my location by using GPS on my phone; the bus approached the bay.

The bus, however, went past that area. I totally thought he would pull up near the bay or say something to me before reaching there. How would I have misinterpreted the map? I begun to wonder if I should ask him. Probably he took a detour to avoid some obstacles. I waited and saw for a while. Obviously the bus moved away from the bay. It was getting cold and the rain had fallen steadily―I had long since lost my desire to go. In the meantime, farther and farther. Soon the bus stopped at the end of the line, where I alighted from the bus.

In the afternoon, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, and I felt a little better, ending up in Nature Park, where there was a unique and quaint atmosphere. It looked like some wildflower garden that housed a variety of wildlife: apes, sea turtles and Tobago birds.

The owner gave me a tour of his park that he had made himself; teaching me about the animals, encouraging interaction with them, and he said, “I consider whether to go Japan. I want to learn pottery. But, there would be few Japanese who speak English, despite a developed country.” Not shallow, how profound insight he had struck home to me. Then he went on. “From time to time, Japanese groups come see the birds. They are not good at English. When I spoke to one of them, she seemed to be puzzled and asked others for help, giving me a little smile.”

“You observe Japanese well,” I said. He never asked the mundane questions about Japan. “Are you interested in sightseeing?” I asked, never having asked such a thing. He stood with his back on an ape eating peanuts from back pockets of his jeans and hardly hear me; I felt that his affection to animals was what he cared for. 

“Why do Japanese not change the job? They don’t look at things with open minds. I don’t understand.” He got to the very heart of the matter. I felt myself interested in talking to him.

“They are averse to change, not wanting to fail, while most of them are insecure about current situation. They’ve been patient, so they aren’t used to being assertive. And they’ll have to be very patient, even when they will be sick of it or go in the wrong direction. Patience, it’s virtue. In other words, ‘timidity.’”

I got on the train from New Delhi to Haridwar and sat on a seat. What I had looked forward to was a train trip in India. I could feel myself relaxing, and I would be soon comfortably, savoring the view, the ambience and some refreshment. What the hell? I saw a portly man in his fifties with gray hair hovering near the train doors. Clearly Japanese. Stay away. I spread my legs, wrapping my arm around  the top of the seat next to me, and made it appear as if I was so nasty, hoping he would pass by me.

He looked around for an empty seat; I turned my face out of the window. Don’t come here, please. “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” he said in Japanese. What a disgusting man; he spoiled my mood. If I choose who I spend my time with, is not between Japanese, is between local people making me feel exoticism of India. It sucks. I gave a slight nod, frowning at him. He stood beside me and with sitting motion he said, “May I sit here?” He sat on the seat before I could answer. I sighed wearily. I was compelled to be with him for five hours on the train. 

He spoke to me: “Nice weather today huh?” “When did you arrive at India?” “Where did you come from Japan?”―a mundane talk. I said languidly a word, yes or no in order to intend that I was not going to talk with him, and then took a book from my backpack.

Hardly had I turned the page when he started to talk about himself; that was enough, leave me alone. “I had worked as a public officer for more than thirty years.” He flaunted his career as if he was decent person. I had heard that introductory phrase somewhere one gives a formal speech. It is virtue for his generation to work for the same place until retirement. But thirty years? I definitely can not, so boring that it is little less than killing me. No stimulating. For me, saying that is tantamount to saying you were not courageous to try something new. But for them, giving up halfway through as I did means contaminating their carrier, a shame or a failure.

Of course, he would have worked for family and devoted his life to his company. But, there would have been times when he encountered the unseemly situation―abiding orders that do not make sense, severe reprimands despite his good action, or personal changes against his will; there were no way around that. At the worst, he may have feigned ignorance for his colleagues who were treated unfairly―like bullies―while feeling pity for him. In any case, he proved to me that he had done whatever it took to survive in his company as wage slave, albeit good or bad.

“I retired from the work already,” he said with some dignity. “In Japan, up early every morning, I walk my dog in the park, and then relax at home all day.” He looked as if he had recuperated away from the battlefield, where he strived to survive for thirty years. I believed that the 50s and 60s are the most ultimate generation. The amount of his experiences that he has accumulated is immeasurable. He could have summed up his experiences that young people lacked and started up new business. Why let the special advantage go to waste? Young people would be animated by seeing older people be going to aim higher.

“On my last trip, I went to south India, where I ate curries. Those tasted different from the north ones,” he went on. “The south was good place, far more idyllic than New Delhi, it was tranquil. I recommend.” As he said this, I felt myself disarmed by his peaceful mood implying that he wanted to unwind and enjoy himself. He looked kind, but he was just a boring man with portly frame. I liked the person who poured his own passion and intensity into what he loved and who was always challenging.

Those who never tried doing many different things while young seemed likely to defend his own interest. I recalled my superior, who conceited himself and clung his position. He thought he need not improve himself any longer. And to consolidate the hierarchy between him and me, he often said he had worked so hard that he was now in a position to nurture young people.

Working so hard meant working long hours―work on a day off or overtime. Strange to say, getting results in a short period could be seen as cutting corner, laziness.

Meanwhile, however, I believed that the act of nurturing others meant that his own potential was reduced to zero. For instance, sports athletes culminate at the certain point. But soon or later, there will come when they will no longer able to earn money as active players. After that a retired athlete becomes a mentor to make room for others.

There would be a natural fear to be overtaken by young men who were competent. He knew it would be more difficult to find new job as he got older, so his first priority had to protect his own life and position; we all had lost sight of the essentials of the work—making products that ‘’delight our customer.’’

“This is my first trip to the north. I’m going to Rishikesh via Haridwar too, where I will take the cable car, to see Mansa Devi Temple.” He seemed to be full of life, and said, “Possibly I will encounter you in Rishikesh. Yoga, sounds interesting, I guessed, but not sure, I will try it.” It occurred to me that he would reward himself for making achievement and contribution for thirty years―he must have endured emotional suffering: demanding tasks, human relationships, promotion races, which I could not. As for myself, I just stood at starting point, to live my life by just doing what I liked.

We got off the train together, strolling for a while in Haridwar. He asked me. “Do you want to have lunch with me?” “I wish I could say yes, but I’m not hungry,” I said without hesitation because he is not my boss because this is India.

Japanese culture is based on vertically hierarchical relationships, a junior submissively follow a senior, and the atmosphere would not allow you refusing, even if the difference was only one year of experience among them. Whenever I went out for a dinner or a drink with senior, I just could not be myself by taking a back seat to him, and surmising how he really thought and resonating with his feeling, so exhausted.

I had once evaded my senior’s invitation for a drink. He said I was a kind of odd. Furthermore, I had tried to dodge it from my boss: “How dare you refuse my invitation,” he smirked. I was unpleasant that they said that. In Japan, being considered odd is as good as having no social skill.

“Oddball,” while it is unique, is far from ordinary people who devoted their life to one company. I loathed to do the same thing as others―just doing as you are told without saying your opinion, reading the atmosphere.

After He and I parted, I felt at ease. He would not have sensed he wasted my precious time. I wandered around the town, not wanting to meet Japanese any more. Every now and then, Indian stared at me. It made me feel exposed and in India where I was new.