Because I view my scooter as a demonic machine bent on my doom (though I think it's warming up to me), I often find myself on a bus going to and from the church in Tarumi where I teach. If I'm not taking the bus somewhere, you can probably find me on one of Japan's innumerable trains. Public transit in Japan consists primarily of a network of national and local trains and national and local buses. In any given city, a person can hop on either a train or bus and never worry about driving a car through often congested streets.
Both buses and trains work like clockwork, which is both very convenient and, at times, more than mildly stressful. If a bus is set to leave at 9:07 do not expect that bus to be sitting at the stop at 9:08. If a train leaves the station at 8:58, I would not suggest moseying up the stairs in the station at 8:58, and neither would any Japanese person below the age of 80 (once you turn 80 in Japan, your life's purpose becomes slowing people down on their commute on stairways, in doorways, or along narrow hallways or sidewalks as if to become a living obstacle course for the communter on the move). From my limited observations of Japanese business people, travelers, and from a small bit of personal experience, let me offer a couple pointers for commuting in Japan...
First, if running behind by even thirty seconds, begin your day with sprints. If unaware of the punctuality of public transportation, one might think a light jog or "power walk" pace is acceptable to catch the train out of town that only comes through every half-hour... not so. Only a sprint fast enough to endanger the lives of those you zoom by can ensure your standing spot on the morning train. When you step on the train, other passengers should be wondering what feryl animal has chased you all the way into the city and up to the passenger car. They should be expecting you to pull out your Olympic medal to remind them that you must, in fact, race everywhere (which I imagine Olympians actually do). If you are not doubled over wondering why all the oxygen has been removed from the car, you need to work on your pace.
Second, on busy buses or trains, prepare for one of two scenarios. Let's call the first scenario the "musical chairs commute." In this delightful traveling game, standing train and bus passengers are quiet and polite, checking their cell phones or listening to music or reading a book (which, by the way, is almost magical to watch as I hang on for dear life while the bus driver only knows 'slam on the brake,' 'step on it,' and the 'two-wheel turn'). Suddenly, when the car or bus arrives at a stop, the otherwise unassuming commuters race to fill seats left vacant by exiting passengers. Those who are "out," the ones who can't find a seat, then either file to what seems like the most promising or strategic location for the next stop or relegate themselves to a more comfortable standing space near the doors.
The second game is the exact opposite of the first. It begins looking like musical chairs... the train car or bus is full. Passengers are standing so tightly that, short of the car flipping, noone is going anywhere. Then, as the car stops, the game changes. As passengers file out at their stop, the remaining commuters play the "Statues" game (the one that your parents used when you got too rambunctious--its partner is the popular car ride game "The Quiet Game"). Out of politeness (I think), the passengers do not move at all to fill the seats. This leaves the new passengers, who inevitably remain standing because their hopes of reaching the newly empty seats is negligible, increasing the pressure on the bus or train as if being certain that only sardines in a can could fit more tightly than us on the bus. Each stop a few seats empty, and each stop more and more people mysteriously find new places to stand. This continues until a major train or bus stop. Then the game resets.
Finally, I hope you've been watching Animal Planet, because it is salmon season all year round at the train station. Each year, to mate, salmon swim upstream to the place where they hatched to spawn. In a show of humanity recreating nature, there are inevitably those select few (or many) who manage to find the giant group of people going one way on a staircase and brave the waters to "go against the flow." Sometimes this is an aforementioned elderly person who has chosen the station as his or her battleground. Other times, this is the sprinter who must get on the train that you just exited (which, if you are halfway down the stairs and this person is just passing you, take a moment and watch in wonder as they move at inhuman speeds to catch the train as the doors are about to close). A third group is the small coalition of salarymen/women who started innocently up the stairs to the platform only to be ambushed by the herd of exiting passengers (think wildebeest stampede in the Lion King minus the tragic result). Whoever the "salmon" happen to be, this scenario is all too common as people go, filled with purpose, from place to place.
Perhaps the strangest part of all of these "games" we play as commuters is that they really do feel like games a lot of the time. Maybe it's just new-foreigner syndrome (NFS), but I can't help but chuckle a little when 7 seats are open and we all pack in around the seats. Sure, they could be filled, but how bad would you feel when the older lady that laid down a mean block on the stairs has to stand up for her thirty-minute commute to the city? Very (I found it out the hard way when I mistook my Statues train car for a Musical Chairs car). And though I may be sucking air for 20 minutes, the sprint I make to the train is done so I don't have to find my way through an otherwise incredibly confusing array of streets and cities by my own (expensive) car. I would be lost forever if I had to drive everywhere. And though it is unfortunate to be the salmon, I have yet to see any collisions going up or down stairs. People flow like water right around the person.
Japanese public transportation gets an A for cleanliness, promptness, and overall appearance, but an A++ for fun. Next time you're stuck in traffic, think of me zooming by overhead in a packed train car on my way to pretty much wherever I could ever want to go in Japan. Adjusting to life continues and so do the joys and challenges that come with it.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Small Victories
Moving to a foreign country to live is full of challenges. Japan is certainly no exception to this rule, especially for Westerners settling into the Eastern mindset thoroughly ingrained into nearly every facet of Japanese culture. What has been fascinating to me in the short three weeks I've resided in the country are the small things that quickly become part of a daily set of folkways, ways of fitting in that aren't huge in and of themselves but together build a foundation upon which the door to this new culture might slowly open.
As I burst into my apartment with hands full of groceries (the most American things I could find at the store all crammed into four poor plastic bags) I began to notice the numbness in my fingers from the blood circulation being cut off. My dining room was so close, promising relief, but an invisible barrier barred my path.
Before I could move any further than my entry, to Japanese holy ground, I needed to wrest the shoes from my feet. On a normal day, this was no problem, but today I was wearing my new tightly tied, unbroken in crosstrainers. As my springloaded door shut behind me, my groceries and I became close companions in an evercontracting box. In trying to remove the first shoe I slipped on the entry rug and fell back into the door, which thankfully was securely latched shut. my sock kept slipping on the second shoe, making it seem like I might be trying out a new little jig I picked up an Irish Riverdance performance, all the while holding the bags high enough that if I fell eggs would not be smashed and Frosted Flakes would not be crushed into sugary dust.
Finally, I felt the shoe slip off my foot and nearly dove forward into my dining room (perhaps falling forward would be more accurate as a full dive would probably get me all the way across my none-to-spacious apartment into my living room) freeing my hands, now well on their way to purple, from the precious treasure of my mostly-American delights.
Three weeks ago, I would never have expected this story to unfold, but now I have begun to find myself inextricably bound to the notion that one MUST remove their shoes prior to entering their living space as if the earth itself might stop rotating if I place one dirty destructive sole on my faux-wood floor. While I speak condescendingly toward this small custom, I noticed last week a scuff-mark in bedroom from a time I had forgotten something in the apartment and simply left my shoes on, leading me to chastise myself for not quickly slipping my shoes off at the door. Later that night, as I was rubbing out the mark, I found myself silently promising to myself and the apartment to always honor the no-shoe code.
Whether I'm racing to a crosswalk because the green-light chime has stopped ringing or unnecessarily taping my grocery bags shut at the store or nodding off to sleep with other latenight train passengers on their trek home from what was probably at least a 12-hour day, I have begun to notice slight changes or nods to changes that may make my transition to this vastly different culture a little easier. At the same time I am noticing that, as I'm sure is true with American culture in as many if not more ways, some of the smaller elements in the culture are also the building blocks for change, for positive transformation.
There is one ideal specifically that seems to be crying out for change. Simple questions of consideration, for acknowledgement of difficulties or a bad day, seem to be absent from an otherwise courteous culture. At church, friends are free to lament the woes of their busy week, but with other friends, they report an inability to share, to be open with the people with whom they work or walk or go to school. While this may be small, it sure appears that an ever-rising suicide rate (8th in the world in 2008) might indicate a greater need within the culture for people to feel acknowledged, accepted, especially in times of what is otherwise silent crisis.
I am beginning to see that in the small things lie opportunities for me to learn and experience different ways of life and also to encourage transformation as only one person. Each Sunday, and during many of my English classes, I have the opportunity to ask students about their week. While this act is so small, it gives me an opportunity to let people express themselves. At least, I hope that this is the opportunity I'm creating. After only three weeks, I am only beginning a journey into the lives a people unknown to me, but I sincerely hope that my first observations are the beginning of a window of opportunity opening that could change at least one life while I'm here for so short a time.
As I burst into my apartment with hands full of groceries (the most American things I could find at the store all crammed into four poor plastic bags) I began to notice the numbness in my fingers from the blood circulation being cut off. My dining room was so close, promising relief, but an invisible barrier barred my path.
Before I could move any further than my entry, to Japanese holy ground, I needed to wrest the shoes from my feet. On a normal day, this was no problem, but today I was wearing my new tightly tied, unbroken in crosstrainers. As my springloaded door shut behind me, my groceries and I became close companions in an evercontracting box. In trying to remove the first shoe I slipped on the entry rug and fell back into the door, which thankfully was securely latched shut. my sock kept slipping on the second shoe, making it seem like I might be trying out a new little jig I picked up an Irish Riverdance performance, all the while holding the bags high enough that if I fell eggs would not be smashed and Frosted Flakes would not be crushed into sugary dust.
Finally, I felt the shoe slip off my foot and nearly dove forward into my dining room (perhaps falling forward would be more accurate as a full dive would probably get me all the way across my none-to-spacious apartment into my living room) freeing my hands, now well on their way to purple, from the precious treasure of my mostly-American delights.
Three weeks ago, I would never have expected this story to unfold, but now I have begun to find myself inextricably bound to the notion that one MUST remove their shoes prior to entering their living space as if the earth itself might stop rotating if I place one dirty destructive sole on my faux-wood floor. While I speak condescendingly toward this small custom, I noticed last week a scuff-mark in bedroom from a time I had forgotten something in the apartment and simply left my shoes on, leading me to chastise myself for not quickly slipping my shoes off at the door. Later that night, as I was rubbing out the mark, I found myself silently promising to myself and the apartment to always honor the no-shoe code.
Whether I'm racing to a crosswalk because the green-light chime has stopped ringing or unnecessarily taping my grocery bags shut at the store or nodding off to sleep with other latenight train passengers on their trek home from what was probably at least a 12-hour day, I have begun to notice slight changes or nods to changes that may make my transition to this vastly different culture a little easier. At the same time I am noticing that, as I'm sure is true with American culture in as many if not more ways, some of the smaller elements in the culture are also the building blocks for change, for positive transformation.
There is one ideal specifically that seems to be crying out for change. Simple questions of consideration, for acknowledgement of difficulties or a bad day, seem to be absent from an otherwise courteous culture. At church, friends are free to lament the woes of their busy week, but with other friends, they report an inability to share, to be open with the people with whom they work or walk or go to school. While this may be small, it sure appears that an ever-rising suicide rate (8th in the world in 2008) might indicate a greater need within the culture for people to feel acknowledged, accepted, especially in times of what is otherwise silent crisis.
I am beginning to see that in the small things lie opportunities for me to learn and experience different ways of life and also to encourage transformation as only one person. Each Sunday, and during many of my English classes, I have the opportunity to ask students about their week. While this act is so small, it gives me an opportunity to let people express themselves. At least, I hope that this is the opportunity I'm creating. After only three weeks, I am only beginning a journey into the lives a people unknown to me, but I sincerely hope that my first observations are the beginning of a window of opportunity opening that could change at least one life while I'm here for so short a time.
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