Sometimes It Just Doesn’t Pay To Leave Kashihara

The Nighthawk walks under cloudy skies on streets soon to be dampened by the early summer rain. He doesn’t think he should have made the trip to Osaka today, figures it would have been best to just stay in bed. Sometimes you can just feel bad days crawl over you. He had such a feeling. But he had said he would be part of a party to send two of his fellow teachers off, their year of teaching now over, and true to his word he would be there. Might as well make the best of it, he thought as he boarded a train seven hours early. Might as well make a day of it in Osaka. He would arrive in the city in the early afternoon, his throat parched and longing for his new favorite beverage: Pepsi Ice Cucumber. The soda has been very elusive since his first taste late last week, shelves vacant. He was certain the 7-11 near his home station would carry some but by noon they had sold out. His search would last all day. Instead he purchased a sweet custard Popsicle and made it disappear before he reached the next block. Even with no sun the day was oven hot, thermometer bursting hot, sweat stinging your eyes hot, deserts and infernos, and the cold custard on a stick was refreshing.

He stood at the turnstiles of Tennoji Station looking out at the street. The Nighthawk sees that this is not the most cleanly areas of Japan. The Nighthawk realizes that he has found the wrong end of the tracks. Graffiti, a common site in his cities back home, in Japan is virtually none existent in this country. Streets are mostly quite clean and walls bear no mark of the street artists and taggers. Yet here by Tennoji graffiti marred most of the walls with cartoon drawings, English curse words and images he didn’t understand even if he squinted. At his feet were graveyards of garbage, newspapers blowing by like prairie tumbleweeds. The air here was pungent, something you could almost taste, and the atmosphere was dismal. Maybe it was the gray sky talking but The Nighthawk was starting to feel depressed just being here.

He did come here for a reason. It was not as though he randomly choose a station on the map and wound up in the less revered area of the city. Truth be told, at least according to his travel guide, this area was a large tourist draw with the main attraction being Tennoji Park. He followed the signs to the park only to be surprised that this place wanted an admission fee. A park with an admission fee? The Nighthawk decided to walk around first. The fence around the park was clear plastic so he could see through and after two walks clear around the outer rim he realized the money would be best served on a train ride somewhere else. The park was clearly geared towards children and families with brightly colored animal statues scattered about, jugglers and a zoo. Mostly, though, he did not see what had brought him here to begin with, the highlight of this park on Sunday afternoons, his travel guide raved. He read that every Sunday the homeless that call the Tonnoji area home line the road through the park with generators, wires, mics and karaoke machines and there they belt out traditional Japanese songs with the vocal clarity of drunken sailors. They also invite others to join them for a modest fee. The Nighthawk, change readied to be departed with, was keen on being on of those stumbling through songs, as surly there would be some English tunes in those karaoke boxes. He supposed not hearing crooked crooning on the walk towards the park should have tipped him off but he walked on anyway only to be disappointed by absolutely no singers whatsoever. He figured the threat of rain and electrocution was enough to keep them away and after pushing his way through crowds with strollers containing crying kids, being pushed into by crying kids and seeing parents smacking obnoxious soon to be crying kids upside the head The Nighthawk decided that this felt too much like work and seeing no more merit to this place aside from parents having something to keep their kids occupied for a few hours, he decided to walk back to the station, pop some money in, and get a ticket to another part of town.

A walk wouldn’t be a walk for the Nighthawk if he didn’t get ridiculously lost and lost he was. Somewhere between the park and the train station, a relatively straightforward path, he zigged when he should have zagged and found himself in the Osaka skid row slums. No karaoke machines or wires or generators or mics here but there were plenty of homeless. Behind him came calliope music from one of the rides in the park and with it came the laughter of children. In the park were clowns and colors and flowers and cotton candy and rides. Just outside the gate was reality. Outside of the few bums down by Yagi, I have not run into many homeless here. Japan was not known for their jobless and during the boom after the war the wave of jobs and a high economy ran far and it ran long. It would not be until the start of the 1990s when Japan would start seeing a rise in the levels of unemployment and it was here in Osaka were things were at their most bleak. It is believed that over 10,000 are homeless in Osaka, a city still suffering from the decline of the construction industry. Most of the city homeless reside in Nishinari Park where a tent city is located next to a sewage-processing plant but it also looked to The Nighthawk that a good deal of those 10,000 were collected around Tennoji. Nobody asked him for change as he walked by, something he felt was strange having had to turn away from so many homeless back home asking for money. He cannot say for sure but he wonders if culture plays a roll in this. Sad eyes looked up at him as he passed, eyes belonging to people in torn and stained clothing smoking half a cigarette the found near a dumpster. Some sat on the news stories of the day and others scavenged bins and garbage piles looking for food. The scene furthered the days depressing mood and the Nighthawk kept walking and walking and walking. He was now in an Arcade walk, a large one, a maze and he turned corner after corner passing discount shops, dollar vending machines, cheap eateries with shady looking food displays and used stores, all signs to describe the area of town he was in. How had he lost the station? More shops. More homeless. More discount signs and adult stores and a few strip clubs. He kept walking. Soon he would spy a train rushing off and he followed it and the tracks to the station and was soon out of the shades of gray, saddening Tennoji area and into the glitz, shimmer and neon of Dotombori.

Dotombori is a famed area in Osaka where glam doesn’t just kiss you, it mauls you. In 1612 Donton Yatsu, a local businessman, wanted to bring more traffic to the area and he started to build a canal to connect the Umezu and Yohori River. He was killed during the Siege of Osaka and after his death other family members finished the canal. The street was named Dotonbori to commemorate Donton’s efforts to build up the area. It was designated officially as the entertainment district in 1621 and over the next few decades the area would be populated with many Kabuki and Bunraku theatres and with these additions came many restaurants. This area is the main reason he came out to Osaka today, his camera dangling over his shoulder. This area is the main entertainment district in the city with dozens of restaurants, game rooms, pachinko parlors, trendy shops and whatever else they can manage to cram into a place already full of stuff the Nighthawk didn’t care about during the light of day. He was waiting for the night when all this would be neon, a scene his camera eagerly waited to claim in photographs in an area that he has read resembles scenes (and is said to have inspired them) from Bladerunner when the sun sets. The area of particular interest here as Ebisubashi Bridge where the neon glowed it’s brightest, a place of legends, curses and potential dates. He hoped the nighttime would vindicate the dismal day but he still had a few hours before the sun set and one hour before he had to be at the party. He spent that hour wandering Dotombori and looking for spots to set up photos. The area to him was complete madness with so many people and so much noise. He normally does not go for such insanity but a little craziness every now and then, he figured, wouldn’t hurt. Here in Dotombori his search for Pepsi Ice Cucumber would be over. He had been seeking the drink all day going in and out of stores that didn’t stock it or had sold out. This 7-11 in Dotombori looked well stocked. He’d just gulped down about a liter of cold coffee so he made a note on where to find the tasty drink so he could return later on in the evening.

At the station he met up with two other members heading to the party and together the walked to Namba Parks. Namba Parks is not a park, he soon learned, so it was a good thing he had people with him who knew where they were going or he might have been wandering about for hours looking for a park there in the towers of this growing Osaka district. Namba Parks is actually an area of trendy shops and restaurants located where the original Osaka baseball stadium once stood. The centerpiece to the area is Parks Tower, a 120 tenant mall of wonders showcasing all types of merchandise and dining spots of every genre and culture. It truly was a marvel of architecture but the Nighthawk would have liked to see more green in someplace trying to call itself a park. His group rode the escalator to the 6th floor where other members of their party were awaiting. He didn’t know anybody, these being the other teachers Japanese teachers, and so he sat to himself quietly smiling politely when he was introduced but doing little else. Soon familiar faces would arrive and he’d have some conversation. The restaurant that had been chosen was a pricey joint with everybody signing on to a Y2000 buffet (about $20 Canadian). The food was all organic and there was over two dozen dishes to choose from complete with complimentary drink bar. For that price the Nighthawk wanted near nude girls to serve him but he would not get his wish. Normally not one to dish out such an amount for a meal he figured he’d make an exception but would ensure he’d eat enough to cover the expense. This would prove to be a mistake.

A buffet in Japan for the Nighthawk is more like a guessing game as he could not read the signs displaying what the items were in the bowls and dishes. Instead he had to rely on his sense of taste, sight and smell as well as his willingness to attempt new things. His first visit to the buffet landed him many different items: salad, noodles, something that tasted like candy but looked like potato, some peanut sauce dish, lots of fried chicken pieces, some soup, rice, some fish and a few things he had no idea of what they might be but he was feeling adventurous and onto the pile they went. Fresh organic orange juice was his drink of choice. Tables were pushed together to accommodate the large crowd that had formed. He thought he saw one of his own Japanese teachers there but could not quite be sure and if it were it wasn’t a teacher he was particularly interested in after the events of the last week. In between mouthfuls he mainly chatted quietly with two of his fellow Canadian teachers, at one point engaging in an interesting –and disgusting—conversation regarding certain Japanese sexual fetishes, a topic spurned on by a clumpy white dish of tofu. Going back for seconds and then the large portion of desert (fruit and cream as well as various Japanese rice and bean snacks) may have just done him in. There were far too many food variables rolling around his stomach. He didn’t feel it at first but then again he wasn’t standing. As the hour grew later and with photos of neon still to be taken the Nighthawk would excuse himself from the party and bid everybody a good night. Partway down the escalator his stomach started making noises stomachs should not make. He ignored these sounds but could not ignore the nauseousness he acquired with every step. Somewhere between the restaurant and the neon he realized he was going to blow. The capacity of his stomach was not built to withstand the amount of food consumed. He desperately searched for a bathroom, a dark ally, anywhere to unload his sickly burden of organic delights. He began to worry that he would soon be the victim of a few public eruption until he saw the familiar washroom icon, turned left at a Starbucks, hung a right into a stall and then straight down, way down, to the squat toilet on the floor where he soon unleashed a violent heaving of his $20 buffet lunch. Money well spent, he thought.

A good pastry chef will tell you that all good cakes need equally good icing and the icing on the Nighthawk’s cake came in the form of a downpour. All afternoon the clouds teased rain and now as he stepped out of the vomit spattered toilet stall (squat toilets, he learned, were not built for his reasons for entertain the stall this evening) and into the street the rain had finally started to fall. First came sprinkles. Sprinkles he could deal with. Sprinkles would not destroy his camera. He could still photograph the neon with sprinkles. He hurried towards Dotombori but with each passing block the rain hammered down upon him even harder until he was there in the flashing neon drenched and standing in an all out attack by the forces of that vengeful bitch they call Mother Nature. Well, at least he had the 7-11 and the Pepsi Ice Cucumber. He walked into the store already tasting it, walked up to the soda shelves and walked right up to a now empty spot where his beverage of choice had once been. Sold out. Expecting the train to crash into another train and then a plane to hit both trains and then a giant lizard attack to take care of anything that may have been remaining, The Nighthawk sighed as he sat in the corner of the train car on the way back home. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to leave Kashihara.

And now some pictures and a video of the insantiy that is Dotombori: