Sleep can be an inconvenient necessity sometimes, like monitoring dietary habits or looking before you cross the road. Generally things that assist in self-preservation, I find a nuisance. Could it be that I am not long for this world? If so, that only increases my desire to by-pass sleep to make the most of everything. Certainly this feeling had no more arresting quality than it did in Japan. Both nights there involved a club so small and frequented by ex-pats that by the second night I felt I was already a seasoned attendee there, downing cup after cup of rum and coke whilst mesmerised by a middle aged Japanese mans dancing, akin to the writhing motion of a snake suffering from irritable bowl syndrome.
We got to Fukuoka by high speed ferry, a "hovercraft" like machine resting on three pin like poles penetrating the sea, cutting three fine lines, directing an inevitable course to the clean streets of Japan. The city was ordered and tidy, full of hidden codes and rules ordinary to the natives, alien to us, so eager to break thorugh to it. The city-scape from afar possessed the same order as street level views. Buildings were lego blocks in construction and placement, but lego blocks with unique modern character. Yellow, beige, pink, peach paintwork. Large panels of squares seemed to be a design of appreciation here; one curved building, a yellow edifice of pale yellow panels, outlined with black lines, something straight out of Blade Runner. All very cool. Then there are the people.
It is Japan, and with Japan came this sense of confidence and pride, a notion of being able to do what it wants, and no where does this make itself felt more than in the easily visbile form of fashion. Everything is extremely individualistic here. Yes, there are always fashion trends, but here trends are also viewed with a pinch of derision. They will wear jeans sown together from different materials, with one leg rolled up and the other down, clothes appearing where you think no cloth has the right to appear. Hair too has as large amount of stage space for their experimentaion to play with. It's hard not to keep on staring at the unique combinations of otherwise incongruous fashion elements. You can understand why so many art shops around the world have books on Japanese fashion. It's all so fresh and inventive.
There was this shop, a veritable forbidden planet of Japanese oddities, a shop selling games, comics, manga, models, anything that can host the label of some animation or film, from steam-punk to japanese animation porn (hentai). It's five story maze of cramped aisles and silver stairs, smacked of the universal law of these kind of shops all over the world; a cheap attempt at sci-fi futurism, or retro-futurism, I'm not sure entirely, read Rob's blog. However here there were things you may not necessarily see all over the world. One floor was dedicated entirely to hentai, suitably pink with men either anxious for anonimity or confidently browsing, head held high. One traditional style of Japanese porn involves monster like tentacles penetrating every orifice of a girl who, of course, is having a whale of a time. I mean who wouldn't if they were being molested by a tentacled beast.
Of course the next day was hard to get going, having just got a couple of hours sleep, waking up in time for the hotel breakfast. It was so expensive that such an opportunity for food must not be overlooked. When discussing it the night before - watching insane Japanese TV with overly enthusiastic presenters, cut by adverts where everything is sung (I mean why say things when you can sing it?) - as I was saying, as we were talking the night before it at all never occured to us that we could sleep through the breakfast period, it was given that we would have to wake up at 9am. I mean Japan is so fucking expensive! One day, before I realised fully the value of the Yen and the exchange rate, I was just about to buy a wicked hat, feather in brim and all, when just before I got to the counter my friend felt obliged to point out my folly.
"Do you realise how much 7000 yen is?"
"Yeah, that's alright. Its a nice hat." I casually responded.
"It converts to about 100 dollars."
I looked at my friend, a newly introduced tilt to my head, acknowledged the sales assistant politely, nodded softly, "mmmm, right, OK", u-turned as casually as possible with the air of someone who just realised that the hat was not quite to his liking (too much feather) and gently placed it back. Nodded again in grave appreciation and slowly backed out of the shop.
"What the fuck! 55 pounds!" At that point I realised I had to be very careful. Nowhere outside of England have I encountered a place as expensive as Japan. We were getting nailed.
A Godzilla model in the shop cost over 600 pounds. It would appear that the only thing Godzilla destroys now is your bank balance. The post-war nuclear fallout has now metamorphised into a commercial goldmine. Never did get to see the beast. I think he lives off the coast of Tokyo.
Sunday 22 August 2010
Friday 6 August 2010
Something Like a Work-out
This city finds new ways to fascinate, not each passing day, for that would be an exaggeration, seeing as some days, especially during my two week holiday I have only left my room to get some bread and ice-cream. But each passing week shall we say. A couple of days ago I went on a hike through some glorious mountainous country, a place where after a few minutes walk you feel truly in the middle of nowhere, but know that the moment you descend and exit the park perimeter you are immediately struck by the massive apartment blocks, white and delightfully dystopian. The utilisation of space is staggering, nothing is spared when housing is in consideration. There is no need to gradually grade the change from country to city, the city is far too important to bother with that. Don't worry there are plenty of parks, nice ones too, for they also value the need for green open spaces, but there is no sense of needing to pander to aesthetic tastes. You will note that if you see the apartment blocks. They all look the same and have large numbers painted on the white painted sides. "I live in room 3, floor 16, block 104" would, I imagine, be a very reasonable response to the question "Where do you live?"
The hiking trail took us under temerous canopies of evergreen trees, past solitary temples, over smooth plateaus of rock where you can catch a hazy view of south Seoul, and past Korean war bunkers sharing the same hazy view, although with markedly destructive leanings, as their barbed-wired entrances embody an historic dispute with current repercussions. The war is ongoing. At certain idyllic points there are watering holes where ladels are laid all over the place for resters dousing themselves with water. All sense of civilised decorum are atavistically eschewed as everyone guzzles water and tips it over themselves. We were particularly careless with the water, paying no heed to the need for dry clothing, cynically mocking colds' armies, as we chucked water all over our already sweat-soaked t-shirts. As we walked on we came to realise that the line between where the water ended and the sweat began was as diffused as the moisture on our clothes.
At the top of mountains, hills or parks in Korea there is always what you would call an outside gym, a very Korean thing seen in all parks. An array of weights, bars, walking devices (why would you need them after an epic hike? It shares a similar logic to Jack Bauer feeling the need to have a go at Metal Gear Solid) and stretching devices. You also have big wooden poles stuck in the ground which serves the specific purpose of hitting yourself against it. Yeah, I've seen it, it's the done thing, no fuss, men boldly striking their arms out at the poles, thumping their backs against it, generally bruising themselves all in the name of fitness. I think it's the idea of resilience and toughening up your frame that is the underlying purpose behind it. It also explains another painful exercise in these gyms; that of hoola-hoops with studs running on the inside. I've tried it and for a brief moment as the pain made me yell out in comic bewilderment, I tried to think "why?" Why would someone do this to themselves? The idea that it is good for you in the long run, possibly making you live even longer, is no way near a good enough reason for doing it. It helps circulation apparently, that and bruising. It also helps you feel a little bit wrong.
Another aspect of this typical Korean workout, that I try and do every once in a while, is the humiliation I feel when a seventy year old man is pushing 40kg weights while I struggle with 10kg. I try and act nonplussed by it, but it troubles me as I am sure it would you too. Such a reversal of strength serves only to remind me of my greatly limited mortality in comparison, and when I finish my set of exercises I don't get that sense of self-satisfaction that should accompany physical exertion, instead I just get a sense of personal shame and embarrassment. Maybe I should just stick to the star-jumps in my bedroom.
The hiking trail took us under temerous canopies of evergreen trees, past solitary temples, over smooth plateaus of rock where you can catch a hazy view of south Seoul, and past Korean war bunkers sharing the same hazy view, although with markedly destructive leanings, as their barbed-wired entrances embody an historic dispute with current repercussions. The war is ongoing. At certain idyllic points there are watering holes where ladels are laid all over the place for resters dousing themselves with water. All sense of civilised decorum are atavistically eschewed as everyone guzzles water and tips it over themselves. We were particularly careless with the water, paying no heed to the need for dry clothing, cynically mocking colds' armies, as we chucked water all over our already sweat-soaked t-shirts. As we walked on we came to realise that the line between where the water ended and the sweat began was as diffused as the moisture on our clothes.
At the top of mountains, hills or parks in Korea there is always what you would call an outside gym, a very Korean thing seen in all parks. An array of weights, bars, walking devices (why would you need them after an epic hike? It shares a similar logic to Jack Bauer feeling the need to have a go at Metal Gear Solid) and stretching devices. You also have big wooden poles stuck in the ground which serves the specific purpose of hitting yourself against it. Yeah, I've seen it, it's the done thing, no fuss, men boldly striking their arms out at the poles, thumping their backs against it, generally bruising themselves all in the name of fitness. I think it's the idea of resilience and toughening up your frame that is the underlying purpose behind it. It also explains another painful exercise in these gyms; that of hoola-hoops with studs running on the inside. I've tried it and for a brief moment as the pain made me yell out in comic bewilderment, I tried to think "why?" Why would someone do this to themselves? The idea that it is good for you in the long run, possibly making you live even longer, is no way near a good enough reason for doing it. It helps circulation apparently, that and bruising. It also helps you feel a little bit wrong.
Another aspect of this typical Korean workout, that I try and do every once in a while, is the humiliation I feel when a seventy year old man is pushing 40kg weights while I struggle with 10kg. I try and act nonplussed by it, but it troubles me as I am sure it would you too. Such a reversal of strength serves only to remind me of my greatly limited mortality in comparison, and when I finish my set of exercises I don't get that sense of self-satisfaction that should accompany physical exertion, instead I just get a sense of personal shame and embarrassment. Maybe I should just stick to the star-jumps in my bedroom.
Wednesday 4 August 2010
Workings of a Holiday - Daegu/Busan
"The 16th most desirable place to live in the world." Not 17th not 15th, but 16th. Interesting I thought when I was checking up on my holiday destination, Fukuoka, in Daegu, a large city in central Korea where my friend Sebastian works. What criteria must be in the ranking process for such specific numbers to be issued out to places in the world; life-span, education system, refuse collection, whether officials doff their caps for you, how few drunks there are per square meter, how ridiculous you can dress, how expensive it is for an apple, beer, noodles, or whatever takes your fancy. The place is Fukuoka, and it's in Japan. I finally made it there, a desire I have had for the greater part of my life, I think. The land of the rising sun and Godzilla, and all that. But first before we get to the final destination we must build up in classic literary fashion what happened before, and how I found myself in Japan.
It was wednesday when I got the KTX train to Daegu to see my friend for an end of week/weekend holiday. I will not describe the train now, for you will see at a later point why I have chosen to leave it for a later time. I had the classic misfortune of waiting in the queue to realise that my card would not work, and I'd have to take out some cash and queue all over again, but embarking on a break from Seoul I decided to weather such inconvenciences with an unnatural smile on my face. The night in Daegu consisted of visiting the local ex-pat hang-outs, rock bars where you could choose your music, pool bars where every wall is covered with a Pink Floyd album cover, and the Korean girl who keeps looking at me who has "fucked nearly every westerner in town." Best steer clear I thought to myself. The final club we attended had an open mic night going on, refreshingly different at the end when a Hip-Hop act did some Roots covers. The rapper, a man so fat that you applaud when you see him perform the most basic of functions, like walking or drinking. "How does he do it?" I think to myself. More circle than man basically. It was exciting as Sebastian and I were talking about what plans we should make for the weekend, a real sense that we were sailors in a grimy bar, making plans for the revelry ahead whilst on shore leave. Maybe I've read too many nautical novels. I sat, necking more beer, when he went off to follow a friend. He sat back down again with a smile on his face.
"Do you want to go to Japan on Friday?"
Such statements must surely be met with the word "yes", and I was not going to differ. It turned out that the friend he followed was on a visa run, and knew of a good deal for two nights in a hotel and hovercraft there and back.
But before Japan, there is always another step, that stepping stone, a gradual immersion into a hedonism that softly prepares you for what is to come, or what ones expectations of what is to come. How can I explain my expectations of Japan? It has always been of fascination and exoticism, but not one influenced by the abundance of bizarre popular culture and rich history (although these are undeniably points of great attraction) but more an idea that despite all this, it is also just another place, another place to live in at the end of the day, much like my fascination of the north of England, Manchester and Leeds in particular. The idea of what you imagine a place to be like, the fantasies, and the idea of it being an actual currently existing place where people work and live, are two ideas usually kept separate. Ones wonder and awe does not wish to be pragmatised with notions of infrastructure, working hours, and the behind the scenes functionings of a city. On the other hand, ones basic day-in day-out living does not wish to be distracted by the beauty you may find yourself living in. This is how people manage to walk past The National Gallery without looking up. However it is this marriage between the two that I find most fascinating, for it is here that you can transgress any preconceived notion of "place". You can feel on holiday when you are at work, something I felt a lot when working in the shop in the West End, and when you are on holiday you can also feel strangely at home, that this here place is as much your home, a place to live in, as the natives. Its quite a liberating feeling.
Liberation can also come in much simpler forms, like stepping outside of a train station when you arrive at a coastal town for a holiday, and Korea's second biggest city, Busan, lying on the south east coast, is a massive holiday destination. First things first though, we must book the tickets for Japan, so away from the sunny square with a drunk man lying on the floor with his bum literally hanging out, and the children standing over fountain jets, waiting for water to spray them. All very fun looking, but we had to get the tickets. It took a while and with each passing second as we were being told by the travel agent man in broken English what our beds would be like, I got more and more impatient to go to the beach and into the water.
"If room change on second night bed not 120 but 105, OK?" He looked up at me imploringly and kind. I was not quite sure what he meant, and when he took out a measuring tape I realised he was informing me of the width of my bed. THE WIDTH OF MY BED! Like I could give a fuck how wide my bed was, whether it was a grand king size bed, fit for what can only be used for Roman orgies, or a slim bench like bed fit for skinny unfussy people like myself. Now I could not exactly say this to the guy, so I just dismissively waved my hand, saying "its OK."
The beach was short lived, as we got there near the end of the day. I managed to get in a few dips before the lifeguard told me "no more swimming", then when he looked the other way I quickly ran in again. I think he soon cottoned on to what I was up to when I was always dripping wet when he walked past. What was most fun was that night and meeting the guy, Shawn, who planned to go to Japan in the first night, and the laddish exploits we got up to. Lots of beer drunk, we walked up and down the main boardwalk. Now this boardwalk is a catwalk for horny men and sexy girls, it's a marketplace in the true sense of the word, no matter how vulagr it sounds. The girls dress up to the max and walk up and down the boardwalk showing off their legs to the hungry men on the lookout. They walk with their friends maintaining reserve, pretending to enjoy the scenery, but all the while keeping a sly eye open to see if they are being watched, waiting to be approached. Very 1950's ish, impeccably made up, waiting for a man to chat them up, with all the power seemingly at their hands.
"Its like a sushi conveyer belt." said Sebastian, as my head was turned in another direction. That happened a lot on the boardwalk; conversation between the three of us, but eyes always averted to someone else, usually a girl who gave us a smile in return.
The night ended with fireworks, gin and fried chicken. We fell asleep in a Korean box room; just a floor with mattresses and pillows, a TV and sink also. Worthit though as it is very cheap and is the perfect kind of budget room for people like us. Very little sleep. Hard floor. Plenty of water. Even more snoring. Japan tomorrow.
It was wednesday when I got the KTX train to Daegu to see my friend for an end of week/weekend holiday. I will not describe the train now, for you will see at a later point why I have chosen to leave it for a later time. I had the classic misfortune of waiting in the queue to realise that my card would not work, and I'd have to take out some cash and queue all over again, but embarking on a break from Seoul I decided to weather such inconvenciences with an unnatural smile on my face. The night in Daegu consisted of visiting the local ex-pat hang-outs, rock bars where you could choose your music, pool bars where every wall is covered with a Pink Floyd album cover, and the Korean girl who keeps looking at me who has "fucked nearly every westerner in town." Best steer clear I thought to myself. The final club we attended had an open mic night going on, refreshingly different at the end when a Hip-Hop act did some Roots covers. The rapper, a man so fat that you applaud when you see him perform the most basic of functions, like walking or drinking. "How does he do it?" I think to myself. More circle than man basically. It was exciting as Sebastian and I were talking about what plans we should make for the weekend, a real sense that we were sailors in a grimy bar, making plans for the revelry ahead whilst on shore leave. Maybe I've read too many nautical novels. I sat, necking more beer, when he went off to follow a friend. He sat back down again with a smile on his face.
"Do you want to go to Japan on Friday?"
Such statements must surely be met with the word "yes", and I was not going to differ. It turned out that the friend he followed was on a visa run, and knew of a good deal for two nights in a hotel and hovercraft there and back.
But before Japan, there is always another step, that stepping stone, a gradual immersion into a hedonism that softly prepares you for what is to come, or what ones expectations of what is to come. How can I explain my expectations of Japan? It has always been of fascination and exoticism, but not one influenced by the abundance of bizarre popular culture and rich history (although these are undeniably points of great attraction) but more an idea that despite all this, it is also just another place, another place to live in at the end of the day, much like my fascination of the north of England, Manchester and Leeds in particular. The idea of what you imagine a place to be like, the fantasies, and the idea of it being an actual currently existing place where people work and live, are two ideas usually kept separate. Ones wonder and awe does not wish to be pragmatised with notions of infrastructure, working hours, and the behind the scenes functionings of a city. On the other hand, ones basic day-in day-out living does not wish to be distracted by the beauty you may find yourself living in. This is how people manage to walk past The National Gallery without looking up. However it is this marriage between the two that I find most fascinating, for it is here that you can transgress any preconceived notion of "place". You can feel on holiday when you are at work, something I felt a lot when working in the shop in the West End, and when you are on holiday you can also feel strangely at home, that this here place is as much your home, a place to live in, as the natives. Its quite a liberating feeling.
Liberation can also come in much simpler forms, like stepping outside of a train station when you arrive at a coastal town for a holiday, and Korea's second biggest city, Busan, lying on the south east coast, is a massive holiday destination. First things first though, we must book the tickets for Japan, so away from the sunny square with a drunk man lying on the floor with his bum literally hanging out, and the children standing over fountain jets, waiting for water to spray them. All very fun looking, but we had to get the tickets. It took a while and with each passing second as we were being told by the travel agent man in broken English what our beds would be like, I got more and more impatient to go to the beach and into the water.
"If room change on second night bed not 120 but 105, OK?" He looked up at me imploringly and kind. I was not quite sure what he meant, and when he took out a measuring tape I realised he was informing me of the width of my bed. THE WIDTH OF MY BED! Like I could give a fuck how wide my bed was, whether it was a grand king size bed, fit for what can only be used for Roman orgies, or a slim bench like bed fit for skinny unfussy people like myself. Now I could not exactly say this to the guy, so I just dismissively waved my hand, saying "its OK."
The beach was short lived, as we got there near the end of the day. I managed to get in a few dips before the lifeguard told me "no more swimming", then when he looked the other way I quickly ran in again. I think he soon cottoned on to what I was up to when I was always dripping wet when he walked past. What was most fun was that night and meeting the guy, Shawn, who planned to go to Japan in the first night, and the laddish exploits we got up to. Lots of beer drunk, we walked up and down the main boardwalk. Now this boardwalk is a catwalk for horny men and sexy girls, it's a marketplace in the true sense of the word, no matter how vulagr it sounds. The girls dress up to the max and walk up and down the boardwalk showing off their legs to the hungry men on the lookout. They walk with their friends maintaining reserve, pretending to enjoy the scenery, but all the while keeping a sly eye open to see if they are being watched, waiting to be approached. Very 1950's ish, impeccably made up, waiting for a man to chat them up, with all the power seemingly at their hands.
"Its like a sushi conveyer belt." said Sebastian, as my head was turned in another direction. That happened a lot on the boardwalk; conversation between the three of us, but eyes always averted to someone else, usually a girl who gave us a smile in return.
The night ended with fireworks, gin and fried chicken. We fell asleep in a Korean box room; just a floor with mattresses and pillows, a TV and sink also. Worthit though as it is very cheap and is the perfect kind of budget room for people like us. Very little sleep. Hard floor. Plenty of water. Even more snoring. Japan tomorrow.
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