Category: Uncategorized (page 4 of 5)

It was midnight when I arrived at Kurume in the south of Fukuoka. I loved this town, neither urban nor rural. The air was clean and cool and it felt like the beginning of autumn. I walked to my house. Anyway I was so glad to be set free from that agency, where Japanese value unity and a lot of rules, that I would never participate in what they call “International cooperation.”

Why did I join in the first place? I knew that working there did not make a real contribution to society because it was a public sector, a stability-oriented environment. I knew that the private sector, the tech behemoth like GAFAM brought real value to the world. It is indispensable in our life. Plus TESLA led by Elon Musk. He is a workaholic and people around the world look forward to self-driving cars, Hyperloop and space travel.

The agency was very boring. The staff’s first priority was to protect their own life and position. Basically, public servants or those who have a national qualification believe their future is secure, therefore no ambition, no business perspective, and information poor.

Before being dispatched oversea, I had a 70-day training period. There were an incredible amount of document to submit: “This is handwriting.” “Put this in a mailbox.” “Email is okay.” And fax, this super outdated machine is too widespread to be cool: “Fax it and call me to make sure you did that.”

They never thought that they tried to streamline their work and take the easy way out. They do not have the energy to try new ways and prefer the old ways, or might fear that increasing productivity that make you lazy will lead a reduction in workforce. I supposed if you could spare time, all you have to do is think something useful for the world.

For them, more significant than outcomes is showing off how hard they work. You would see Japanese business men facing their laptop with their back straight during a day. That is basic manners as a member of Japanese society, which do not tolerate the way Westerners work―leaning against couch, crossing his legs and having a refreshment―and which regard it as laziness, even though relaxing is the only way to come up with excellent ideas.

You would think like this: “What are they doing?” “ Why make this document?” “What’s the meeting for?” To put it bluntly, there is no meaning. But, Japanese have the answers to the questions: “It is important because my boss told me to do that,” or “It’s the rule to do so.” Most of Japanese do not recognize the true nature of what they are doing; they are obedient to authority and obey the rules properly. Do they make sense? No. I assert that they only trade their time for money. But you are better not to have such a question. You would are seen as nuisance and burden. Of course I just do as I was told, even if that never made any sense. 

For the above reasons, in Japanese organization it was difficult to move myself forward and it was a waste of time, but I had the reason I chose this agency. Looking back a year or so before belonging this agency, I was a backpacker, who respects a diversity of lifestyle. The year I enjoyed traveling all over the world was the year that I did not work. For which I felt guilty as if I received strong criticism from society―relatives, friends, especially Japanese working people.

In short, because I was “mushoku.” It says “I’m not working now.” It implies even further “I am a shady person,” “I don’t contribute to society,” and “I have no social credibility.” It sounds so embarrass that the great pressure had built up urging me to work. One day, I found by chance that this agency had the slogan like a mere masquerade, “International cooperation.” It was a perfect title as a member of society and I needed to gain it.

Sometimes I found myself recalling Dentsu employee’s suicide(overwork led up to her death). What brought her to this company? Of course I knew it was the largest advertising agency in Japan where highly educated people work.

Not only social problem is overwork, I did focus the reason she could not quit. She graduates from Tokyo University. She must have studied very hard where some tend to take a competitive attitude to each other, wishing to formulate her life on a big company everyone appreciates. That is what she undertook for and that is what she won. I believe that something she can strive meaningfully for throughout her life is so much responsibility with pride that ultimately lies with herself toward those who are expecting her. However I wish she could have imagined another life other than working there.

One thing I can bet for sure is that no matter what, she should have left. In Japan, leaving a company easily is shameful and foolish. Giving up once you have started is a failure. People who cling a company will definitely say “she can’t stick with anything.” I used to think so, but not anymore, because I was consumed with regret for the things I could not quit. “What if I left the company much earlier … ” “If only I had dropped out of such a third-rate college … ” I had been patient where I should not have been, so I had lost the opportunities to try new things, which develop myself.

The world is big. If Japanese society had seen diverse lifestyles positively as something natural, I might had been released from working, and she might still be alive.

September 26, 2019

I got to Fukuoka by flying from Tokyo, and taking a subway and a train from there to Kurume, the south of Fukuoka, where I lived for long. Every time I climbed up the stairs lifting my heavy trunk, so many overtook me. This was Japan.

It was not that I needed help, I am a man, but if someone supported it from below, I would feel light. Basically, most of Japanese do not help a person who was not related to him to avoid getting into trouble. He fears that people think he is strange and that he is stand out from crowd―from shyness, timidity and embarrassment. That is similar to bully in that Japanese dose not help a victim: if you save him, you might be a victim too. They seemed to serve advantage rather than the goodness and justice prevailing in the world. There is no benefit to say “may I help you?” so it is better to pretend not to see anything.

In all the chaos of the days I traveled in the world, I knew that some people committed a kind of emotional justice―no one can take away from them―to the vulnerable. If someone is treated unfairly, they protect him at the cost of themselves. You might lose your castle that you built over the years. You might lose your job. You might lose your money. Still they fight for their beliefs that they have to do so.

In Japan, there is a lot of pressure to conform what the majority or the influential persons thought; if what is called black is put into what is called white, even if it is not logical, most Japanese who want to stay in a company will assume that is the right thing.

When my company was acquired in 2016, I had a new boss and colleagues, so one in power promoted a new system―a tremendous setback―to consolidate her position. I was completely shocked to find that she started to shift from a digitalized process to a “paper-based” one. 

Which is ridiculous, but it had happened. She was the stereotype of the middle-aged and did not know the world, but she knew enough if she left here, no one would hire her. For Japanese companies, more important than experience is youth. This big woman thought she was an ace at doing paper work and was so proud of it.  Although the world accelerated digitization, she worked diligently to let “paper-based” process penetrate; believing that doing overtime or on holidays is an excellent example of the good worker.

One day, the big woman gathered the executives and my team member in a room. My intuition told me of conspiracy against me. She shouted at me. “I’ve been working so hard, but you’re talking all kinds of shit about me.” This monster kept shouting and shouting, the executives nodding like they understood, the goddam chickenheads. Almost simultaneously, I realized that my existence had annoyed her because I was an old-timer and had earned the trust from my colleagues, and that this was not where I belonged anymore. “Tomorrow, I’ll give notice,” I said and left the room, deep down I fooled them. The rumor that I was punished as a warning to others flew around.  

Pity she does anything she can to build her castle. However I felt sad that everyone behaved as if nothing had happened. Interestingly, most of the eighty employee obeyed her way because they came to learn that it was the right thing. They were always at something.

Japanese live in a narrow circle of acquaintances, not society as a whole. They are willing to take care of insiders who share the same values, however, and ostracize outsiders who try not to assimilate into their world. It had taught me that in Japan it is easier to do the same thing as everyone does. I just wonder what it is good for.

When disasters such as earthquakes occur, Japanese unite and help victims with a kind of virtue or hypocrisy that everyone is doing good things. Either way, it is just that people copy what the other do. It is like a woman likes “ARASHI” because everyone around her likes it. Also, celebrities, to get “likes” on Instagram, post some photos of their visit to the stricken area. The real man never thinks of it that way because there is nothing special. A catastrophe never experienced in the past would reveal the true nature of the Japanese, which they had been protecting them from.

September 24, 2019

I came to Japan for the first time in two years after completing my overseas assignment. I stepped off the plane, Japanese were everywhere and what they said clearly audible. That made me realize that I was Japanese. People around me saw myself as Japanese and of course never teased for my Asian face.

When I approached a LAWSON, it made me nostalgic to hear its musical doorbell. I wanted to drink green tee. There were various option of payment―cash, credit card or electronic money: PayPay, Line Pay, Rakuten Pay, etc. Which reminded me of too many functions of Japanese product like TV: no one have a good command of it, unlike Apple product like iPhone that is simple.

It is a typical of Japan. It is good to promote efficiency, but they are not good at consolidating a system. I had decided to centralize my payment in Rakuten with a good point return rate. I took its card from my pocket the way American do.

I took Narita Express to Shinjuku. I felt comfortable with its great speed. Before long, however, a melancholy atmosphere came over me; I missed the ease of conversation that I can have with strangers the way I had been abroad. If you talked to a stranger without any particular reason, you are seen as weird. If a man did to a woman, he is a seducer.

Shinjuku is always crowded. I walked into a drug store and was satisfied to buy something I craved for. It occurred to me that I heard my fellows say “Let’s eat steak in Ginza.” It was none of my business. I did not want to be with the Japanese who prefer to act as a group that values harmony. No openness, no optimism, and tenuous friendships. It is always boring. I wondered why they would not spend time and money with their loved ones. I am not a Japanese who stick in a Japanese group. I am a man who is out in the world.

To leave my heavy baggage, I headed to the capsule hotel where many foreigners stay. Since I was a backpacker, I did not mind sharing a room. Though from the facade the hotel did not look like much more than an obscure building, it had a variety of facilities―a cafe like a manga library with free drinks, man-made hot springs with modern amenities and a coworking space.

In the cafe, I put the food onto the table, microwaved rice and poured hot water into the instant soup. But why eat steak in Ginza today? As long as we were abroad, virtually we could not do Japanese food. I placed natto neatly on top of my white rice with my chopsticks; putting a beaten egg and soy source on the whole. I took bites of rice and natto over miso soup and I was in heaven.

I woke up in the middle of the night because of jet lag and wandered around the hotel. This hotel was in a glass building overlooking pedestrians and vehicles in the busy main road that glistened in the city. Tokyo never sleeps. I was afraid that I would have to work to death, sighing.

When I thought this, I saw a group of businessmen stumbling through the sidewalk. I knew that drinking is to forge a relationship and share your true inner feelings. They complain about their company that they were never going to leave and conclude that they maintain the status quo. I simply thought it ridiculous. It is like symptomatic treatment to ease their distress, not radical one. If you had such time, you would be better off acquiring new skill to leave your company.

I do not necessarily like working, but hate drinking for work. Perhaps you want to go up, and if so, you had better join it. If you do not drink alcohol, you can find other ways to partake in golf, pachinko or mahjong, according to your boss’s preference or the custom in your company. Unfortunately, I am incompatible with all of them, that is, I am a social misfit.

On the other hand, women have the privilege to refuse to invitations. Sensible men (in Japan, most managers are men) fear being accused and punished for what they would perceive as harassment. Like a man hold a strap with both hands on a crowded train to avoid being mistaken for a molester. The best strategy to do it was to say “I have small kids waiting for me.” You would know that their children had not grown up over the years.

As for ordinary Japanese couples, men devote his life for work and women devote her life for her children without a housekeeper. Traveling abroad for a month is out of the question unless they quit their job. I never wanted my life to be controlled. I love traveling as a backpacker.

I was not sleepy at all and went down the stairs to soak in the hot springs, where I would talk with strangers.

One particular Thursday, to go to the church, she could not afford to prepare dinner for me. To this day, she handed me money. “Go Kentucky. Eat chicken.” In her mind, Eating out was KFC, like ordinary families and young people said ‘’Let’s go McDonald’s.” “Ah…Is there any other way? It’s so oily.” “You said you want to eat ‘chicken,’” she said with her angry look. that was when I knew, for her, speaking of “chicken,” nothing better than Kentucky Fried “Chicken.”

No matter where I eat, I can not enter her house by myself. “You’re right. I will go to Kentucky,” I gave in to her. “Sorry to bother you again. Please tell me how to open the door.” She still looked irritated. She fit one key after another into the locks and handled the door knobs roughly. “You understand?”she looked at me with a ferocious expression that was enormous pressure on me. ”Okay, thank you very much,” I said; she disappeared.

I remained standing by the door of my host house as a BMW drove up and stopped. A young chauffeur got out and opened the rear passenger door. She walked like a big shot through the darkness. “Phew, you waited for me, ha ha!” I did not know why she was in high spirits.

Next Sunday morning, she was trimming the shrubs in her garden. “Can I give you a hand?” I asked. “Phew, you want to cut, ha ha!” she handed me a pair of shears and sat in the chair shaded by the roof, and gave instruction: “cut one time,” “further in,” and “that’s right”―like she was a film director. Then she read a book over coffee. Then, one hour later, the neighbors came over, chatting. Now I was done and she had slept.

This afternoon, after swimming at Pigeon Island, I rushed home―she was so pleased I had done trimming that she was to take me to the church. The door was left open; she must prepare the chauffeur like her henchman. “Sorry, I was a little late,” I said, entering her house; she sat in her own chair. “K … I am exhausted,”she did not move from her chair.

The meals with sugar she cooked kept high quality, and the next thing I knew I ate up all the food on my plate. After dinner, I was supposed to study English in my room, but I went straight to bed and slept. Then I woke up midnight. She would sleep deeply. With that, I opened the door quietly and tiptoed to the dim glow near the kitchen, where there were a few cooking pots on the gas stoves. I picked up a pot lid―delicious pieces of fried plantain. This was my home and I reached for a slice.

Sugar is as dangerous as tobacco. I was always sleepy and craved for something sweet. In the evenings I would have watched the DBS news in my room. Diabetes. Diabetes. Diabetes. Every single day, everyday you would hear from the newscaster, the man like a bodybuilder who was irrelevant to it. When I rolled up my T-shirts, I realized I put on some weight around my waist.

In the mornings I ate breakfast at the dining table while she watched TV away from me. Sit in her chair, laughing boisterously. She would not look around unless I talked to her. I took bread, a muffin and a banana, curled myself in a ball around them, and left the room; saying “I’m done. Thank you for the good meal.” In my room, I put them in a plastic bag, stuffed them into my bag and went to my office. 

Whenever walking to client’s house, my colleague, a middle-aged woman dropped in at shop to buy snacks. And most of female ones bought box lunches that were sold by local shops. What astonished me was that they ate about three times as much as I did.  In contrast, I had never seen a Japanese woman do more than me.

On the fridge in the corner of the office, I saw a notice up, saying,“inventory.” As they devoured their lunch, I opened it slowly. The inside was full of light-resistant bottles. “What are these?” I asked one of them nearby. “Energy drinks,” she stood up and took one from the fridge looking at the nutrition facts on the label. “Vitamin B2 … vitamin B6 ‥ good. It suffices for those who have diabetes.” They seemed to think energy drink offset diabetes. “But, high-carb …” I said. “Yeah,” she twisted it open and drank it in one gulp.

When I went home she put an ice pack on her knee. “What happened?” Basically I do not talk to her. “Swollen,”she said. “Do you feel pain?” I asked. “Yes.” She was silent for long. I left my stuff in my room and came back to her. “Would you show me your knee?” “Sure.” I kneeled down beside her, placed my hands on her knee, and begun massaging―“you’re a good guy … When are you moving out?”she asked. “Day after tomorrow,” I said, without looking at her. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a voice say: “I’ll miss you … ”

What a fucking fantasy. I thought the scabies had died out. Invariably, each night, what with the heat and humidity, it felt as if the scabies were crawling beneath my skin at once. It’s fucking scabies. With my eyelid and hands swollen, my cock like a cod roe and my shins raw and bleeding whose spots marked my bed sheet, I was unable to sleep through the night without drinking rum.

In my office, I showed my eyelids and hands to my colleagues to prove that the itch still had not gone away. I could feel their sympathy while they wondered why it would not have done. Of course, I washed my underwear and the bedding every day. When I was about to leave my office, I could see the staff spraying alcohol where I was. 

*

I arrived in Union Island in St Vincent in the early evening. At night I had walked down what looked like a main street. There were local males lingering about a few small grocery store. I had emerged at a small sidewalk cafe―the decor and music were exotic―with no customer standing alone. I took a seat, smelling salty winds from the sea. There were many art panels hanging on the walls, one of which said “LIFE IS BETTER AT THE BEACH.”

Here was a utopia surrounded by perfect blue. Tourism was inactive and the island quiet, which felt wonderfully refreshing. After solitary walking or running each morning, I striped down and jumped into the sea, where nobody come. Now this was comfort―I floated with my back to the sky, seeing tropical fish. The itchiness I had suffered was consigned to oblivion.

The wooden house I had rented for a week was large, inside was clean and the well-organized living room with the curtained window that looked out to the sea. The days stood hot, so I was in the house during the day, wishing I could stay here much longer. I had read manga about investment that was imperative to make my life easier, and concluded that money would work instead of me. Then I walked in the direction of the town. I became a regular at that cafe since I ate a tacos over special Caribbean drink. 

*

Autumn was so hot and the water was irresistible. My colleague, Aisha, sixty five, who had always tried her best for her clients, said that seawater was effective for my skin; I had believed this since I swam in Union Island. There were a few teenager playing on the beach in Laborie. After changing into my swim trunks, I soaked in the sea; scrubbing my face, scalp, especially my crotch, including pubic hair rather than washing. I did not know what that would be like. Then all at once I dared to swim, but at the same time, it was pitiful that this passed as a distraction.

I had long since ceased visiting clients and endured the itchiness with fortitude―ice and Permethrin seemed to help paralyze it. However, I have enough time to mull over my life. I did not really like my job. As a result of neglecting to study when I was young, I was a blue-collar worker. Never having admitted this, I was the least bit ashamed of what I did for a living. 

Winter was a little cool. The itchiness and rash had subsided. In the morning, I got up when I wanted to, because there was no work, and yet nothing had been schedule. In the kitchen, dozens of grapefruits I got from my colleague and a blender rested on the well-built shelve. I peeled one of them and put in blender.

After a leisurely breakfast, I checked the DBS news on Ipad sipping a strong bitter coffee. My favorite thing was to study English: I must have read the English text books in the daytime. When I was hungry I cooked dinner: crispy toast, fried eggs, and big local chicken. Though I was thrifty, but the meal delicious. Every single day. Every evening I went running and worked out at home, able to conquer myself.

At night, my spacious bedroom was dimly lit from above by just one or two lights. Unlike hot season, taking a shower offered catharsis. I had settled on the sofa―the fan blowing straight at me―drinking, listening to grunge rock such as Pearl Jam, whose sound reverberated within the bare concrete walls. I no longer wanted to go back to Japan.

It was spring when I detected the sign of the itch. As usual, it had proliferated rapidly. Why could not I heal completely? I was diagnosed with the itch, so naturally unable to work. I had made the best of it: cleaning my room, washing my underwear, using medicine and going to the sea. Of course, I do not have any pets as dogs and cats. What more can I do? It was hard not to think of it as the itch. If not, is it something like allergy? No, no. Because I had never one since I was a child because when I ate mangoes, as you might know, I felt happy. 

I had washed clothes by hand in the sink outside. That was so outdated. How dare that bitch. The landlord’s wife blamed me on breaking the washing machine, an old one with twin tub that took time and effort. As I scrounged them and wrung them out, it felt like the skin on my hands were torn. I lifted the bundle of laundry and put into a spin tub that worked properly. Unable to wait until that was done, I walked into the trees on the adjacent property, and there, hanging in bunches, were mangoes. I climbed up the tree to a big one.

I enjoyed the benefits from the lifestyle in a Caribbean country. Above all the secret that I could not speak of, I did not work hard all the time like the Japanese do; I had learned to slack off at clients’ houses―leaning back against the couch, chatting with the clients or enjoying tropical fruits that were abundant in this country.

May was hot. It had been eight months since I came to Saint Lucia. As I loitered about my house, I found a riot of mangoes in the dense cluster of trees on the property, where sheep was grazed. As I moved closer to them, I saw my neighbor’s dog barking at me. I gingerly climbed up a tree, picked  big green pinkish ones, and dropped between the rocks covered the weeds. My arms full of them, I went to my house. It took at least five days to ripen. I had done so occasionally, and as I choose a ripe one and ate, I felt giddy that I was doing something different from my regular meals.

*

Feeling my hands was itchy, I had woken up in the middle of the night. There were mosquitoes everywhere and I had had rashes on most of my body. One night, I could not bear that anymore, especially between my fingers, even my cock. It occurred to me that I had scabies because I had done that before. I rushed to the bathroom slipping off my clothes. While taking a shower, I had let out a scream of the itchiness of my skin. The more I scratched the rashes, the more I felt better, so that it got even worse.

In the morning, I headed to VFort Health Center. “I think scabies live in my skin,” I said, embarrassed a little. I stood still, naked, in front of the dermatologist, who examined my entire body. “That’s for sure,” she sat down at the stool and turned to the laptop. “Do you have Ivermectin(anthelmintic)?” I asked. “I know it’s a potent pill. In Japan, I had used it before. It worked much better than the ointment.” She seemed to look something up on the laptop. “Permethrin is enough for the rashes. They could be better soon. Every one had been healed. But, if you want it, go to St Jude Hospital. You may be able to get it.” I sighed, but smiled at her, covering my disappointment. “I will go from now.” “Okay. Next Tuesday. Come. I’m going to be here.”

St Jude Hospital was a sports stadium with olympic symbol. The interior was converted into a medical facility. It was a rainy afternoon and a dense humidity I could barely agree with induced the itchiness. I had shown the pharmacist the rushes between my fingers in an exaggeration. “You could get it at Victoria Hospital,” the pharmacist said. “Or America.” That upset me to guess there was no Ivermectin in this country. No matter what, I wanted to avoid going back to Japan, where Japanese never stop. I want to have time to breath and live in Eden like Saint Lucia.

As soon as I came back home. I put the doormat away and cleaned my house. Every morning I put my underwear and the bedding into hot water, washed, and had them dry under the sun. Applying Permethrin to my whole skin gave me temporary relief of itch and rash―to the extent that I slept through them somewhat. But after a couple of nights, I had found myself scratching my hands and felt anxious about the itch that was sure to return; craving to get Ivermectin I believed would obliterate the scabies. At least I have to keep getting Permethrin.

“Why isn’t the skin doctor coming? I’ve been waiting for her since early in this morning,” I said, wishing I could have set a time. “I didn’t know,” said a caregiver wearing the well-tailored yellow outfit. “I suppose she is at home and spend with her family. You should wait.” Her words did not astonished me, recalling my colleagues was always late and that they sometimes skipped work: eating lunch with her family, visiting her friends or shopping at Massy Stores. The only thing I did not comprehend was that grown men was at home during the day; drinking Piton beers on the terrace in a breeze. I was jealous, but how wonderful it would be to enjoy a happy carefree life.

It was past three. “Do you know when the skin doctor will come?” I asked another caregiver. “I’m not sure, Perhaps she is on vacation.” I did not know what to made of this. Next day, a physician prescribed me Permethrin.

The route from Vieux Fort to Castries―by bus of some sixteen minutes―was the steep winding road in the woods. I had seen the Japanese doctor via telemedicine and had my mother send me Ivermectin. It took two weeks to arrive. I loathed waste of any kind, and when receiving some parcels, I needed to go to Castries, the capital, and when the reckless driver jolted, I felt sick. But now I was going to become free of the itch that drove me mad all night, so I dreamed of Union Island in Saint Vincent―the waters is far crystal clearer than those of Saint Lucia. It thrilled me that I would make the most of my vacation.

I emerged at the ranch, on the other side from the University. There were the dotted horses in emptiness before me. The sun was still casting its ray all around. The ground had been consist of mud and gravel, though vehicles had worn it down virtually. I traced their ruts; the horses in a peaceful mood felt like a reprieve from the annoying things in my head.

There was enough space for children to play soccer. Some of the boys darted toward me, “Faster, faster, faster.” I ran with them, and then sped off rather deliberately. Although I felt like I was being chased, when I looked back they had long since cease to run and played soccer with their smiles; besides, I had overlooked the adults barbecuing over beer and reggae. Caribbean people enjoyed a happy, carefree life, unlike most Japanese, who tried far too hard.

The road in the ranch finished abruptly at its periphery. A little way ahead was a row of houses. There was a path through the jungle and among the big fruit trees, a path beaten by vehicles. I recalled an evening when I had run through it. The ranch had disappeared into darkness and I become aware that a vehicle was edging up to me, slowing to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Startled, I got caught in a branch of green plums beneath the franks of dark trees. “I’m just running, sir.” I replied to the police officer. “Look at me.” I tugged at my UNDER ARMOUR T-shirt I wore. He looked me from top to bottom and accepted that reluctantly. “You have to wear something glowing. Or else a car hit you.” I held out my left wrist. “Apple Watch shed light.” “No. Reflection,” he said sternly. Not wanting to put on what was not cool, I said, “I don’t know where to get it.” “Home Depot,” his eyes fixed to my face. “Next time, without it, take you to the police station,” he rolled his eyes and drove off. A short while later, I passed the black man running with no reflection, assimilated with darkness.

The sun had retreated now, purple layer like an hallucination loomed in a residential district full of luxurious houses, and before long I passed by a a matronly woman wearing an off-white Panama hat. “K.” I stopped, looking back, astonished. “Aisha. I didn’t notice. It’s been so long.” She looked younger than her actual age of sixty five. In Saltibus, we had hiked more than three hours a day to visit the clients until she retired. No other person in this country would be as diligent as her. I admired her wonderful energy and bright manner―she invited me to her house for lunch every work day and gave me many local fruits. “Yeah, I’m going to my daughters house. Won’t you come for dinner?” “I wish I could, but … .” I was so happy just to see her.

By the time I could see Laborie bay, where I sometimes swam, the sky was dark. I rounded the corner of the bus stop, going right along the highway with many ups and downs, past large houses hidden behind the woods. A breeze gently shook the shadowy coconut trees and some vehicles had driven past me. I would have been greeted by a soft horn of the bus driver perhaps I knew.

When I saw a pickup truck with several boys on the bed, I knew they would stare at me. “Hey, Chinese,” one of them stood up. “Ack-chooww!” he imitated Bruce Lee with his limbs; the other laughed out loud. I had at least three names in Caribbean countries. Chinese, Chinaman and Ching Chong. I no longer gave a shit, not because of what teenager said, but because everyday someone called me names.

For a while no passersby in sight, but the large trees thin out, and the Massy Stores with lights out here. The woman selling avocados was still there by it. Although I had often bought some, I did not pause and greet her. Once I asked her to sell one for four EC dollar. “Five,” she said soberly. Nevertheless, I did so one more; she resented, turning away and yelled something at a fellow worker in the distance in Creole. Since then I had never decided not to haggle, for she sold so much more delicious and bigger ones than others.

Past the Massy Stores, I had sprinted the path, which descended, the grass poking my feet. In life, there had been so much injury, and it was far from perfect. Crossing the main road toward a tunnel of trees, I did so again as if to obliterate my tracks.

Gentle palm trees rustled in the wind. Along streams stood small wooden terraced houses. Around one of them were some half-naked men, drinking beers and talking boisterously. The heavyset neighbor. I supposed. I had never been asked to join. “K. Watch out for the bricks. I’ve put them away,” he hold a Piton beer in his hand, and I thanked and treated him lightly. The friendly Caribbean people I knew was somehow lazy, unreliable, or irresponsible. 

As I was approaching my house, I could hear the distant music of Gregory Isaacs. Ahead of me, the three small kids played ball. When I came nearer, they broke into a trot. I had no choice but stop and exchanged fists―’yeah man’’―in turn with each of them. At the same time, I saw, just beyond them, stray dogs I feared might attack me.

*

I looked at the torii gate jutting out of the bay, the morning sun overhead. When the tide goes out, you can go there. Every day, I passed the elderly woman running recklessly―her shoulders stooped and her gaze forward―in her awkward movement. She looked diligent and stubborn,  however her several muscles were so lazy that her figure lacked beauty. Why could not she stop and face her own weakness? But no one would stop her because she would never stop until she could be ruined. Her self-righteousness hampered her from knowing another world.

In Japan, I was running on the island. Office workers, rushing, can not stop except at traffic lights. Runners and walkers remained impassive. However, I sensed its perfection―skyscrapers and rows of houses, shopping malls and sports facilities, hospitals and parks. No inconvenient. These modern architectures and its ground had been clean and well-maintained. But, I never felt right about its beauty, the sidewalks draining my energy.

It was easy for me to become nostalgic, and there appeared to be much interaction on an island. I had lived in a magnificent house atop a hill. Here was where I seemed to develop a complete sense of isolation myself.

l opened the door and stepped out onto the terrace. There were bricks into pieces by my feet. I was hovering in the corridor anxiously; it occurred to me I had heard a thud yesterday. A raid on my house? It could not be.

The plantains (similar to banana) was covered with overgrown trees of my garden. It had been a year since the heavyset, half-naked neighbor opened a coconut and gave me, its milk dripping down and I sucked it immediately. I supposed he neglected to take care of my house.

Here was where this house commanded the colorful houses all the way to the clear sea. This was Saint Lucia, the beautiful Caribbean island, where the hot weather all year round and the old ways did not seemed relevant, where I was trying to invent myself.

“Hey. How are you? Are you enjoying?” A woman raised her voice. I could see the woman with her kids hanging out on the veranda of the orange apartment. “Yes.” I raised my arm feeling well.

On the adjacent property, there were the large trees that were a riot of mangoes; sometimes, I climbed up to gather them. I loved eating the big, ripe mangoes. It would be very expensive to eat such luscious ones in Japan, so I had done with every meal.

Recently, I had noticed a strange black woman sitting alone on the stairs next to my house. The beggar wearing filthy dark clothes did not seem dangerous. but I turned to the door, locked, and checked again. Indeed, I could recall the homestay in Gros lslet. The front door of the house was double with four keyholes―the way of turning the key was all different―I had been unable to manage to open. Protected with iron bars were all the windows of Caribbean countries’ houses. Once inside the house, you would feel as if you were imprisoned.

It was in the early evening and I turned on my Apple Watch on my left wrist, starting to run. The road had been descending steeply; past the imposing house where the rich white man resided. And at the same time I recalled a rainy day―that I had walked under my umbrella with the heavy bags after shopping at the Massy Stores. By the time a vehicle slowed to a halt beside me, I found I managed not to stagger along. “Ride on,” said a white-haired gentleman in a BMW, who picked me up and took me home.

Past the splendid pastured horse, at the corner of the two sky-blue drums that symbolized the Caribbean sea, a cat slinked about the overflowing garbage. The road now leveled. I crossed a small bridge and into the graveled path that rose. The grass field entered the picture―several goats that moved around, palm trees waving in the wind. There was no one there. I ascended the path for a few minutes, feeling clean inside, and here―the buses ran with the blare of music like reggae―was on the main road. If you raised your hand, the driver would jam on the brakes.

The path along the main road was uneven and uphill all the way, but I had a sense that I continued to overcome small obstacles. “K,” I saw the vehicle pulling up beside me; stopped running. “Everything is okay?” She was my colleague and on her way home. The aloneness of me would have made her worry. “Thank you. I’m all right.” “If you have anything, ask me. Okay?” she drove away and I felt light.

At the next bend, I was greeted by a black sign marked “GUINNESS” on the huge billboard; I would enjoy drinking it after running. To the left appeared Health Sciences University where the doctor next door, who was American over forty years old with no family, had worked as a docent. He seemed not to want to have much to do with me, perhaps because I was not a white-collar worker. A few months after I moved in, he simply said “good-by“ and left for Colombia.

On the other hand, there had been so painful things that I was wary of my surrounding. My memories was flashing before me―some off-leash dogs biting me. The owner scolded them at once, but showed no sign of apology to me, in spite of blood on my legs. Having barking excitedly at me, they tagged behind him, as though to have to defend their owner. At the sight of him surrounded by his loyal dogs, I was unable to say anything to him―you’re supposed to say something?

The other day, a fat woman holding her little boy’s hand pointed at me. ”Look,” she said to her son, laughing out loud. They started to march singing a racist song that insults Asian; I had ignored her with the utmost contempt. Who would not enlighten her on demeaning her own race before “Black Lives Matter?”

“K.” I heard a girl’s voice, and turning, saw the two cute girls skipping down the hill toward me. I stopped biting the mango, its yellow juice running down my wrist. “This is the invitation,” one of the girls said, holding out the card to me. “Oh, I knew you were going to graduate in September,” I wiped my mouth with my short sleeve. “Yes. You’d be a ‘welcome guest,’”she said. “Thank you. I’II go the ceremony,” I said in my teaching voice.

Covering their mouth with their hands, they faced each other, chuckled, and scuttled to the school, where I had taught 6th grade pupils yoga every Wednesday throughout the year the boys and girls thoroughly enjoyed my lesson.

As a matter of fact, I was reluctant to attend the graduation ceremony. Imagine a principal or executive giving a speech in the official language. It was just boredom. However, I supposed they prepared something special ―a gift or message cards or a photo album―so I could not let them down.

*

I sat an empty seat at the back in the auditorium. Colorful balloons strung from the ceiling adorned the whole room, people smartly dressed with dreadlocks: the men wore red, blue or green shirts, the women shimmery or partly patterned dresses. I was, in fact, unremarkable in a white shirts and black trousers with an Asian face.

The presumptuous speech of a principal and executives seemed to be no different from that of Japanese ones. Then, I was seeing each alumnus holding his diploma, taking a photo with his homeroom teacher, and it made me smile a little.

As I watched a slideshow of the alumni on the big screen, the yoga photos―several pupils lined up in wheel pose (yoga pose) by a seaside―was projected; I was delighted to learn they did it outside of class. And then a girl begun to introduce me. “K is from Taiwan … .” No, no. You are funny. I am Japanese. I am certain I had said that many times. Then a boy followed her. “He loves ‘Jackie Chan.’” I laughed. Not me, it was you who always mimicked his actions. I never even said the word, “Jackie Chan.” 

Some people exchanged a quick smirk and glanced back at me. Meanwhile, I had leant forward on my chair so that I would go up to the stage when my name was called. But the next moment, the yoga photos switched the other ones of a picnic in the woods―I was somewhat disappointed and sat back on my chair.

Now, one by one each alumnus handed his teacher or educator a small gift and hugged each other. What was in the boxes: food, drink, daily necessities? The presentation ceremony was nearly over; when I saw a pupil approaching me, I would get to my feet, reaching for him, and maybe I would pat his head instead of a hug. I would say something good and shake his hand strongly, and then I would take graduation photos surrounded by the alumni―that would suffice in what I could do.

There had been the lively hubbub throughout the auditorium. A number of guests begun to stand up, then I saw a couple leaving the room. No one pupil came.

I walked out of the auditorium into the narrow corridor, and made my way to the 6th grade classroom next to it, looking at its stage from outside the window. Just as my eyes met with a few pupils, they yelled at me. “Yogaman,” “Jackie Chen.” I smiled and waved to them, but almost Immediately they begun to fool around, barely paying attention me.

“K.” Hardly had I turned to a voice when a girl in a glittering ethnic costume tugged at my arm. “Come.” A tumult of shouting and laughing came from inside it, but she had kept her arm in mine and we now walked back down the corridor; descending the staircase. I was a “yogaman” with Asian face, notably popular with the locals and guessed there would be something of the hospitality to me, recalling the word “welcome guest.”

*

We were standing in front of a dimly lit door by the playground. The glittering girl opened the door and let me in first. The room was packed with people and some stuff; the air stagnant―in the slant of sunlight, a column of dust motes floated upward. At the corner, there was a pile of scattered tools: pairs of scissors, packing tape and crumpled paper. I could see some people eating around a few small tables, including the 6th grade homeroom teacher giving me a cold look with her languid posture, and others putting some food onto their plates from glass bowls.

“We’ll treat you to dinner,” she said, pointing at the plates. I obeyed her. The wood floors were shabby and creaky. I took a plate and regarded the choice: neither fried plantains nor green figs agreed with me, stewed chicken was dry, salad and fruits no fresh. I normally had eaten such meals, felt a little bad.

I put my plate on the empty table, being careful not to bump into the people stranded in the narrow aisles. Straddling a fixed wooden stool, back to back with the person behind me, I was forced to sit up straight.  Under the table, I  had stepped on a tube of paint and it had leaked.

After the dinner, I found myself alone in the playground, gazing at the pupils clustering around a teacher. Some children ran around with snacks. There was the convivial atmosphere around me―to pop music, the man and women in brilliant native dress dancing in a circle, other people enjoyed talking and laughing in little groups who would not have anything to do with me.

Hovering in the middle of the playground, I poised between solitariness and joviality amidst an aloofness just where I could be myself, and came to the conclusion that joining in such atmosphere was no part for me. I could recall the drinking parties, where I always feigned that I enjoyed myself. I sat awkwardly by myself on the tatami floor, giving a feeble smile, while people around me talked with much jollity and wandered from table to table. Not wanting to be seen as isolated, I expected someone to talk to me.

“K, hurry up.” Turning toward a girl’s voice, I was relieved to hear my name called again, since I had been isolated since the beginning. Whether home or abroad, I did not know how to interact with people. At the school entrance, a pupil beckoned me to follow her. Not expecting anything so special, I started walking in a trot to.

We both went through the school gate and stopped in front of the hillslope. “K, cross the road,” she pointed to the hilltop; the rattling sound of a bus (they call van bus) could be heard in the distance. “The last bus.” she said. I found myself at the bus stop in no time and raised my hand to ride on.

Just as I got into the bus, it begun to pull away. The reckless driver warned me of something; I noticed the door was ajar. “Disclosed … ,” he muttered.

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.’”