Back in my Japanese days, Japanzine was the gaijin’s bible, the English speaker’s magazine. It’s classic: I remember articles about Hello Kitty dildos, a column by a gaijin ‘hostess’ (Japanese style no-sex whore), and ask Kazuhide (a racist Japanese old man agony aunt who my flatmates and I wrote to and were actually published – I think I brought home several copies which should now be in storage somewhere). Anyway, while checking my hotmail account’s junk mail (which only had 15 emails, compared with my inbox, which had 233; this makes no sense given that 99% of my inbox was junk, and about 60% of my junk mail was actual emails. Hotmail sucks bigtime), I found out I’m still receiving the Japanzine newsletter.

In honour of Halloween, there were ‘gaijin horror stories’, about experiences with weird creepy bizarre people (which seem to be in higher supply in Japan than in other countries). This one cracked me up and I had to share.

If you’re heading to Japan, or want to go, do check out Seek Japan and Japanzine before you go; its a brilliant magazine, and is a bit more reflective of the shit you’re going to see when you’re there.

For jobs in Japan on a site maintained by gaijins: http://www.seekjapan.jp/

For the Japanzine magazine online: http://www.seekjapan.jp/japanzine and while you’re there, read through the archive, there is some funny shit.

To see this article in the original context or to read more gaijin horror stories (and there are some doozies) go to: http://www.seekjapan.jp/article/jz/1817/Gaijin+Horror+Stories

Cocksure Hoodlum

By Jon Wilks

Years ago, back in the days when children were something other people got bogged down with, I accepted an offer from a colleague to go drinking in his ancestral town. I was still relatively new to Japan, so Iizuka meant very little to me other than being a distant, mountainous destination, some 2 hours up the line from my station. Obviously, I had a lot to learn. As anyone who has done time in North Kyushu will tell you, the area is a caldera-like mining region that suffered heavily when industry moved on, leaving the workers to relocate elsewhere or seek employment in less desirable trades. Iizuka quickly became known as a breeding ground for yakuza toughs.

The evening started well enough. We found a local bar that had been done up to resemble a cowboy saloon, and the amiable bartender got out his photo album and showed us pictures of what the area had once been. As the three of us began hitting the hard stuff, the bartender shut up shop so that we might embark on a quality lock-in. He was a great orator, and the evening splashed by in a pool of well-wrought memories and coursely brewed shochu.

At around 1am, he decided he’d had enough of his own place and ushered us out of the door into the late autumn night. He knew of a drinking den, he explained, where we might meet some of the locals who starred in his storytelling. At the mention of the place, my colleague looked uneasy and decided he might make his way back to the hotel. Still absurdly oblivious to what this adventure might entail, I agreed to meet him for breakfast in the morning, and set off in pursuit of the bartender, whose thirst for more shochu and continued conversation had set his eyes burning with a bloodshot hue.

It wasn’t until I found myself threading through a courtyard of expensive, black cars, that I realized what kind of den this might be. Any apprehensions I might have had walking up that driveway were confirmed by the amount of gold teeth and hair lacquer paraded inside. Talk about people living up to their stereotypes! Every man wore black shades, sported an outmoded quiff, and grimaced as though they were enduring an unending urethroscopy. Girls in glitzy chinese dresses flitted amongst them, lighting cigarettes, pouring drinks and making light conversation. No one responded. The grimacing continued.

“Ojamashimasu!” shouted my guide, slipping off his shoes and stepping into the large building – ostensibly a drinking den, but obviously some kind of headquarters. The interior of the 2-storey building was done up like an 80s winebar, and through the cylindrical windows I could see pool lights flashing up from a bubbling jacuzzi. Nobody was using it. Nobody was involved in any kind of action that didn’t involve wordless smoking and drinking. My friend’s exuberant entrance was met with a black silence.

Strangely enough, this was the first situation I’d been in where my foreigness counted for nothing. Either they were used to this guy turning up with foreigners, or the dim lighting and dark shades prevented it from registering. Whatever the reason, I was largely ignored. A lithe young woman came over, sat down, lit my cigarette and poured my drink. There was no small talk. I didn’t even have the nerve to tell her I didn’t smoke.

I decided I’d finish up my drink and then try and get out of there as politely as I could. In truth, the nature of their employment gave me no cause for concern; I had no reason to fear them, after all. But I didn’t like the chilly atmosphere, and I got the distinct impression that my bartender friend was out of his depth. These weren’t his friends. They had no interest in him, and our being here was starting to look like an act of drunken bravado on his part.

Just as I was looking around for my jacket, one of the black suits sitting across the table spoke up. “You live round here?” he said, his English as good as yours or mine. “I’m Koji. I’ve never seen you round here before. You an English teacher?” The shock was enough to knock the grimace off the most bitter of faces. Everyone stared at him. “You don’t need to be so surprised,” he continued. “I studied in LA when I was a teenager. My dad used to go there on business.”

And that’s all it took. Within minutes the room had settled into a familiar routine of backslapping and praising Koji’s English. Only the older guys at the bar kept up the act, upper-lips curled as though they’d been supping battery acid. Koji, meanwhile, was prevailed upon to act as interpreter, and together we worked the room like a seasoned manzai act. All was going swimmingly until one of the surly bruisers at the bar took offense, and so ensued the strangest incident of my life.

Perhaps his nose had been put out of joint by the international antics that had disturbed his gangster fug, or perhaps he himself was just mildly disturbed. I remember vividly that when he brought his open palm down hard on the bar, the room fell into silence. “Koji,” he intoned, almost inaudibly. “Tell this foreigner that I’m smaller than he is.”

“I… I’m not sure what you mean, boss,” stammered Koji, cooler than fuck only seconds earlier, now a turdy mess, wriggling in the spotlight.

“You heard me, you insolent prick!” he snarled. “Tell… him… I’m… smaller… than… he… is… PHALLICALLY!!”

How do you respond to that, I ask you? He obviously wasn’t in the mood for wise-cracking. I had to approach this scientifically.

“No, no! That can’t be true,” I fumbled. “It’s just a stereotype. I’m sure we’re both about average length.”

“You fucking foreigners think you know everything!” he hissed. “I’m a real Japanese! A Kyushu man! I have nothing!!”

Things had taken a turn for the utterly surreal. I stared at my shochu, wondering which of these bastards had spiked it. Nobody made eye contact. Everyone nodded sagely and stared at the bottom of their shochu glasses. Even my bartender friend seemed at a loss for words.

The odds weighed strongly against me whichever course of action I chose. Any right-thinking neanderthal would take serious offense at being phallically slighted. Then again, ‘right-thinking’ was obviously not an applicable phrase in this situation. Taking a deep breath, I decided to go along with him.

“OK, fair enough,” I said, as cooly as I could muster. “You’re smaller than I am. I have a bigger penis than you do.”

The air was so thick it was edible. All eyes were on Freud’s field-day, sitting at the bar. He grunted, and then a satisfied smile spread across his mad face.

“I’m a powerful snake-like being, while you… you’re a tadpole,” I continued, emboldened.

“OK! That’s enough!” he snapped. “I think it’s time you went home.”

Needless to say, I haven’t ever been back.