Fat Men Should Not Climb Mountains

And so my story continues...

The next day I went to Miyajima Island to see my second of the three most beautiful sights in Japan. It was indeed beautiful, and took approximately 5 minutes to see. Not knowing what else to do on the island, I took the suggestion of the guidebook and decided to go up the local mountain. The guidebook said it was an easy climb. I hate that guidebook with all my soul.

As you know, I am fat. While I am smaller than I once was, I am still fat, and I need to make something abundantly clear: FAT MEN SHOULD NOT CLIMB MOUNTAINS! God himself should have decreed this in the form of an 11th Commandment or something. I don't know. But it should not happen. Yet still, I tried, I struggled, and I kept hauling my sweaty ass up that damn mountain. During the ascent, probably about 3/4ths of the way up, I was just too damn tired to carry on. I needed a rest, so I sat down on a stone step on the walkway.

At that moment, a group of four old women, once again probably 60+, rounded the bend with walking sticks in hand. They were quite alarmed at seeing me sitting there. Trying to reassure them, I smiled and said in Japanese I'm just taking a short rest because I'm out of shape and the climb is difficult for a fat man. They laughed at my joke, and told me I should get up and keep moving and try my best, or as the Japanese say, ganbarre. I told them I would in a moment, I just needed to rest a bit. That's when they turned serious.

The one in front gave me a bit of a lecture, and I didn't understand all of it, but from what I could make out, she was saying a young man like me should be able to beat some old women like them to the top of the mountain. I laughed, a little embarrassed, and said I will in one minute. Then she poked me with her walking stick. I was surprised, and so did nothing. She began to walk past me, and as she did, she kept poking me. The second walked past, face serious, and kept with the poking. Same with the third. The fourth, though, undoubtedly the oldest of the group, was not content with that.

She stood there, rapping me on my thigh. So, irritated by this, I stood up, ready to walk up the mountain. That's when she held her stick like a baseball bat, and with all of her might, cracked me in the ass with it, shouting the only English word I heard any of them say: "RUN!"

With no better ideas, and wanting her to stop hitting me, I started walking. Crack. She hit me again. "RUN!" Crack. While the blows were not painful (she was quite old), the combination of a small amount of shame and a whole lot of fear of this crazy old woman led me to start moving as fast as I could up the mountain, past the first three, who resumed the poking, and all the way to the top. The view was beautiful, but I was too bewildered by what just happened to appreciate it.

I did some other tourist stuff that day, nothing too exciting, ate some good food, and as night came I once again found myself bored. It is, I suppose, the main problem with traveling alone. So, I naturally decided to hit up the nightlife. In Hiroshima, there's an area not far from my hotel that is well renowned for its drinking establishments. That's where I had gone the previous night, but on this night, I took a different route, not wanting to accidentally run into the people I had met the night before (different story). This decision will doom me for the rest of my life.

As I was walking, I passed a building that caused me to pause and look closer. Upon inspection, I realized that this was exactly the same kind of strip club as the one I had visited on my last trip. I stopped for a little bit and thought it over. The last Japanese strip club I went to was quite bizarre, but it provided me with stories and Polaroid's that will last me the rest of my life. Realizing I really had nothing better to do, and as this could possibly be my only chance to enter this establishment, I decided to dare the gods and enter. After all, after the weird blindfold tree branch girl, how could this possibly be more bizarre? Dear god, I was wrong...

What I was presented with upon entering that club, I will not put into writing. I CANNOT put it into writing, because that will somehow make it more true. If you're reading this, you probably know me, and thus will probably speak to me at some point. Ask me about it. I will then tell you how horrible and cruel this world truly can be. I will only say this: that place has ruined me for all eternity.

After 15 minutes of a hell that was impossible for me to escape, other girls did rather tasteful and interesting numbers, but I was too damaged from the initial...... disturbance to enjoy or remember it clearly. I do recall one girl in a samurai like uniform giving sake to the handful of us watching, and then cutting melons in half with her sword. I also remember a drunk old man throwing a giant hollow basket onto the stage for reasons only known to him.

Afterwards, I found myself in the lobby, talking to the dancers after all the other customers have gone home. It was really interesting. Apparently, at these kinds of clubs, there are no regular workers. They tour the country, changing cities every 10 days. I learned a lot about their work, about how much time they put into their routines, and about how the buildings are getting few and the audiences getting smaller. There was a lot about what they did that reminded me somewhat of burlesque in the old days.

A professor in grad school, who I can't remember, once said that when doing resarch, you need to find a story that needs to be told, and then to tell that story. I think this form of theater, and I would say about 65% of it is performance art, the other 35% erotica, is a story that desperately needs to have it's history recorded and told, before it's lost. Unfortunately, I'm neither smart enough nor skilled enough at Japanese to do so. But goddamn I think it would make a fascinating book. I'm actually kind of sad that this story will probably never be told...

But then again, considering the fact that the first 15 minutes has rendered me unable to look at a woman again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Mental Scars

I think that one of the things I will regret as I look back on my time in Japan is not having taken more solo trips. It's not so much that I like traveling by myself, but odd, interesting, and occasionally frightening things seem to happen to me when I do.

The past few days I went to Hiroshima. There, I saw images that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I went to the Peace Memorial Museum, and its images of what happened after the bombing were truly haunting. I highly recommend anyone to go there, as it was informative and impactful... but that's not what disturbed me during this trip.

I got there on Wednesday, and promptly went to the Peace Park. It was, like I said, informative, and I enjoyed it in the sense that I enjoy history stuff. But of course, you really can't enjoy such a thing in the normal sense of the word. After that I checked into my hotel, had dinner, and then went to the theater.

If you're reading this blog, you know me, and thus, you know I like the theater. Not as much as I once did, but still, I enjoy it. Not knowing what to do by myself in the evening in the city, I had checked the Internet and found a theater not far from my hotel. I couldn't tell exactly what kind of shows they had, but it looked Japanese-esque, so I thought I'd give it a shot. The fun begins upon finding the building.

It wasn't so big of a building, three floors and not overly wide. I check the map to make sure I'm at the right place. OK. I walk into the lobby and there are pictures of folks in traditional Japanese clothes on a stage. This is the right place, I find myself thinking. I walk a little further in, and notice the pictures had changed. Now, it was pictures of topless women who seemed to be in various states of distress. Ok, this is a little bit strange. I look around, hoping to find someone who works there, and find that I'm all alone. So, I start heading to what looks to be the doors to the main theater.

I never should have opened those doors. Why not? Because the warning was there. The pictures had changed again, now showing scantily clad men tied up by ropes. That should have been enough to keep me out. But I'd seen some weird things in Japan, figured it was just some random pictures (this is Japan, after all), and opened the door. The next 10 seconds will be etched in my brain for the rest of my life. All I saw was a giant movie screen, and on that screen were two men. One was tied up in a very complex rope web, and the other was... doing things to him. Painful things. Things that scarred me for life.

Naturally I hastily exited, shaken, and determined to find some way to scrub the image from my mind. Thankfully, I had no time to dwell on the matter, as I was immediately confronted by a man who seemed to be the owner/operator of this establishment. He looked quite irate, asking me what I was doing. I explained I was looking for the theater, the dramatic kind. He told me to go to the third floor, as this floor was a theater for gay bondage porn.

I should have gone home then, but I didn't want him to think I was trying to get a free look at some gay bondage porn, so I promptly went upstairs to the third floor. I do not know what was on the second floor. I do not want to know, and may god have mercy on whoever finds out.

I got off the elevator, and was confronted by a room of about 30 or so 65+ year-old women. All conversation in the room stopped as they began to stare at me. I bought my ticket. They stared. I went to the smoking corner. They stared. I went into the theater and took my seat. I assume they continued to stare, but I can't be certain as I tried to slink as far down into my chair as possible. This proved impossible, though, since I found that these seats were meant for use by old women, not for large, fat foreigners. I could not fit in, and I think there are still indentations on the sides of my legs from the seat. The old women filed in, and we sat there waiting for the show to start.

I have since learned that this particular brand of theater is known as Taishuu Engeki. What that means, I do not know. But it was a bit odd. The curtain went up, and on the stage were five men and two women dressed in feudal Japanese costumes. I say women, but I really couldn't tell. The Japanese theater convention of men filling women's roles may have extended here, but if it did, those two were the most convincing female impersonators I have ever seen.

While I expected a dramatic performance, I did not get one, at least not at first. What I did get was these seven people jumping around and dancing on the stage. I don't know what kind of dance, except that occasionally the lights would go out and the spotlight would focus on one of the performers' faces, and the old women would begin cheering wildly. This continued for about 30 minutes, non-stop dancing, spot light focusing, and old women cheering like crazy. At one point, there was only one guy on stage dancing, and as he neared the edge of the stage, a handful of old women ran up and began shoving what looked to be money into his clothes. I worried that somehow I had found myself in an old Japanese woman's version of a strip club, and found no comfort in the handful of old men that had filed in.

The dancing abruptly stopped, the house lights came up, and an announcement was made that there would be a short intermission. Thankful for the chance to get out of that godforsaken chair, I went back to the lobby and noticed the entrance of two young attractive ladies. They went into the theater, and lacking all common sense, I decided to sit behind them. Bored and curious, and since they looked about the same age as me, I tried to strike up conversation. They turned, looked at me with utmost revulsion and disgust, and moved to the opposite end of the theater.

What followed was a two hour play about samurai honor that in any language and circumstance would have been incredibly boring, but I was the only one that found it so, as evidenced by the constant wild cheering at odd times. This was followed by another short dance routine. During this second dance sequence, there was a point when the youngest member of the male cast was dancing solo. For reasons I cannot fathom, towards the end of his routine, a man in what looked to be his early forties ran down to the stage and gave the young dancer a case of canned coffee. He gave him a case of canned coffee. Not flowers, or money, or something else... Canned coffee. The dancer thanked the man and left, I hope as bewildered as I was. Not long after, I too left, having had my fill of whatever this was. I decided to go for a drink, and the places I went and the people I met are a story for another time. Afterward, I went to bed, believing the strangest of my experience for this trip were behind me. I was wrong.

TO be continued, possibly tomorrow.