Shopping

I have often heard of Japan having a ‘bicycle economy’ - in other words, stop pedalling and you fall off. Well, most economies are like that, but shopping here seems to be something of a national sport. If you have enough yen and a tiny figure, clothes shopping could be great fun - especially if you love designer clothes, because even the scruffiest people here are fashionably scruffy. But I say ‘could’ because I have never attempted it. Apart from being a terrible shopper and having no interest in fashion, I don’t even bother to think of clothes shopping here; although I have no problems getting my size in the UK, in Japan I would probably have to find an outsize shop or look in a maternity section.

But the shops here are interesting. In swish malls you can find bright, fashionable clothes on the same floor that you might find all the necessary items for being a Geisha. Electrical shops are like an adult’s playground and there is no problem in trying out the goodies; while I was busy getting a massage a few days before by moving from one massage chair to another, my sister-in-law was having great fun trying out the exercise horses - little mechanical bulls designed for toning core muscles and thighs in the comfort of your own home (alternatively you could put it on its highest setting, get a couple of cowboy hats and invite your friends round for some beer and rodeo).

My weakness, however, is for homeware shops and 100-yen shops. Japan is big on cookery and food presentation, so it is a great place when looking for ideas. And as for the 100-yen shops, these are to be found everywhere. Surprisingly, they actually sell some pretty decent stuff too. (Just look for the Y100 signs, they usually can’t be missed.) And if you are between shops, you can always use a vending machine - cigarettes and non-alcoholic drinks are on sale everywhere in machines on the side of the street or at train stations.

The only disappointing thing about Japanese goods is that the really enticing stuff - the ultra-modern electrical items are for the very low Japanese electrical current (110v). If anything, I suppose it stops me from feeling tempted to buy a new stereo system, a massage chair and a mechanical bull. Shame. But I shall never be short of chopsticks.

Shinjuku

View of Shinjuku

"Did you see the Tokyo tower?" my friend Reiko asked. "You can see it from the bathroom."


"No," I admitted, a little embarrassed. "I was too busy admiring the toilets."

Sorry to lower the tone but I have to talk about toilets - because if I had my way, the UK would be flooded by Japanese lavatories. Okay, maybe that is the wrong choice of words but I know what I mean.

Anyone who knows me may also know that each time I return from Japan I spend at least two or three weeks mourning for the loss of the Japanese loo seat. So it is about time I explained. Not all but most of Japanese toilets come complete with a control panel at the side with buttons for heating the toilet seat, bidet, general wash or constant flushing sound. The heated toilet seat means that you get a hot bot when you sit down which, at first, can be almost as shocking as a cold loo seat, but is actually rather comfortable. The wash and bidet facilities are obvious, and the constant flushing sound is to mask any embarrassing noises you might be making. Instructions are usually in Japanese, but the pictures on the buttons are self-explanatory - it is very hard to not understand what a bottom being splashed with water means. But the ladies' loos in the Hotel Century Southern Tower in Shinjuku went one better in the cubicles with an extra finishing touch of pink ribbons adorning the spare toilet rolls. I was so impressed that even when I visited the ladies' second time round with the sole aim of sneakily taking a photo, I still forgot to admire the Tokyo tower out of the window.

Typical Japanese lavatory control panel

Best-dressed loo rolls. Well they do say the first bite is with the eye...

Shinjuku is a bustling shopping area in what might pass for central Tokyo. When people aren't buying clothes or lifestyle artifacts, they're drinking coffee or queuing up to buy Krispy Kreme do(ugh)nuts. The Shinjuku branch of that particular purveyor of the sweet stuff was the first ever in Japan and, according to my friends, people would queue for up to two hours before reaching the counter. Now the novelty has worn off the queue only looks about half an hour long.

Mum and I were in Shinjuku to meet Reiko, a friend of mine who has kindly shown me around the city in the past. She had booked Tribeks restaurant on the 19th floor of the Hotel Century Southern Tower because it commands fabulous views of the city. But it was after I privately nearly suffered a mild heart attack at the prices (one orange juice was Y1,000 - about seven pounds fifty pence in these days of the pathetic pound) that we ordered from a set menu; a goats cheese and mushroom cake to start, soup, roast lamb and dessert.

The descriptions on the menu were good and we awaited our food with anticipation. And soon our first course arrived, a delicious, white, savoury mousse atop.......erm..... what looked like a 3cm long crouton.

Okay, so whereas in America your plate will be piled up for a few dollars, Japan is known for tiny, expensive portions. Even so, I was a little surprised. I think we had all been expecting a bit more than a crouton, and I was wondering how it could have been described as a 'cake'. But nobody said a word as we tucked into our croutons appreciatively. Mum, who was brought up to always leave a little for Mr Manners even left some of her mousse on the plate.

Of course I felt a right twit when the real starters arrived. The crouton, it seemed, had been an appetiser and probably also a test to see how used we were to eating in posh restaurants - to see whether we would use the right fork, which to eat a crouton is a bit difficult I can tell you.

I am embarrassed to admit that along with photographing the loo (well, I had to photograph the toilet rolls and a control panel to illustrate what I was talking about) I did also photograph most of the courses. But in my defence, this was again to illustrate what I am talking about and also, ever since I saw a Japanese businessman photographing the peanuts in the upper class lounge in Helsinki airport, I decided the Japanese might understand. So here, for your delectation, is my dessert for the evening.... a white chocolate brownie, pistachio nut and fruit cake....

But the sweetest thing was yet to come (after Reiko fought for the bill and probably took out a small mortgage to pay for all of us). As Mum and I headed back to the outer fringes of Tokyo we jumped on a train which we hoped was heading for Tachikawa. "Tachikawa?" I asked a young girl who looked like she probably didn't speak English. "Mmm. Maybe," she said, before leaping off the train, having a quick look and nodding at us before getting back on. A few stops later she attracted my attention and showed me a notebook. There, in immaculate handwriting, she had written "that other train will be faster". She pointed at a train that had just pulled in on the opposite platform. While she hadn't had the confidence to speak, she had taken the time to construct a sentence for us before ushering us onto the other train. So sweet. Who needs Krispy Kreme, eh?

A star is(n't) born

A photo that has nothing whatsoever to do with karaoke

Even though karaoke has died a bit of a death in the UK, it is still big business in Japan, its homeland. And even though it has taken me since 2005 to try it here, I think it should probably be compulsory. Because while in the UK and elsewhere you can go to a bar and embarrass yourself in public, here in Japan you can go one better by booking a private booth where you can choose from an enormous selection of music, order food and drink, and howl to your heart’s content without embarrassment or annoying anyone else.

I have only vaguely tried karaoke in the past, but here in Japan I have - according to my brother - now discovered my niche. That isn’t to say that I am any good at it. On the contrary, I was rather embarrassed to discover that what has always sounded spectacular in the bath was pretty dire when put together with music and a microphone. I think my best performances were to Led Zepplin, Amy Winehouse and Queen, but trying to take off Robert Plant was bound to take its toll and soon my voice was worsening with strain to my vocal cords. It was probably for that reason that my brother looked horrified when his wife and I decided to add another 30 minutes to our two-hour slot as it was running out. But I was still there, squawking along to Whole lotta love long after my niece and nephew had passed out with exhaustion.

I would love to go again, but I’m not sure everyone else’s ears could take the abuse. Yet the beauty about Japan is that it wouldn’t be unusual or strange if I booked myself into a booth on my own. But it would be pretty sad, wouldn’t it…

Konichiwa from Japan

Stepping onto Japanese soil is like stepping into the future. From bathrooms with control panels, to electrical stores selling the latest and tiniest gadgets, Japan feels like a huge spaceship at times; quietly efficient and extremely advanced. Yet despite its modernity, it respects the ancient. Not only does it have its shrines to the native Shinto religion, but it also has that old-fashioned, quaint piece of technology - the public phone. Whereas the public phone is dying out in Britain for two reasons (people increasingly using mobile phones and morons vandalising them on a regular basis, making them expensive to maintain), in Japan, where pretty much everybody carries a mobile phone, they still exist because they do not get vandalised. Young people in Japan clearly have better things to do.

And if you head out into the city at night you will see the young Japanese out and about. Life expectancy in Japan is one of the highest in the world and maybe the younger generations, who have their own sense of fashion and aura of vibrancy, know that.

Of course it doesn’t mean that nobody misbehaves. A couple of days ago, as my family and I stepped onto a local train, a young man was completely sprawled out on the floor of the carriage, his t-shirt lifted up so his torso was on display, his head comfortably resting on his bag. He hadn’t just passed out, more bedded down for the night. So as everybody got on the train and walked to the seats away from him, my four-year-old niece, with a big smile, decided to sit on one of the seats near to him. We all then watched as a guard tried unsuccessfully to wake him, before fetching an emergency officer who also failed. Eventually they dragged the comatose man out of the train and propped him up, still trying to wake him. When he finally responded, they decided to put him back on the train where, faintly smelling of booze, he fell asleep again and probably spent the night going back and forth between Tokyo and Kawasaki.

I have been told that recently, after a heavy drinking session, a member of a Japanese boy band ended up publicly naked and shouting out that there was nothing wrong with being publicly naked. But generally people behave and so on this, my fourth visit to Japan, it still feels like the safest place I have ever seen.

A Japanese friend once told me that a characteristic of the nation was that everybody, regardless of their job, worked with a sense of pride. And wherever you go, everybody is extremely courteous. Even ticket inspectors on trains bow to and greet the carriage before carrying out their work. But then a Japanese ticket collector is unlikely to be abused or threatened…

This doesn’t mean that crime never happens. On my first visit to Tokyo in 2005 an apartment lent to me was broken into after my friend and I had left. Whoever did the deed smashed a patio door on the second floor balcony, let themselves in, stole nothing and then considerately patched up the window before leaving. Of course for a potential burglar it was all very polite, but we were left completely embarrassed because until the police found a man-sized footprint, it looked as though we had broken the window by accident, patched it up and done a runner without telling anyone. But from what I have been told, crime levels are low.

There are many things that I wish Japan would send to Britain; heated toilet seats with their built-in bidets, showers programmed to the exact temperature you want, really compact bread-makers, seasonal sweets made with cherry blossom, my brother with his wife and children, and shiatsu massage shops. Two weeks on from carrying my backpack and the hard bed in Dharamsala, India I was still suffering with a painful hip, sciatica down my left leg and problems with my left arm, so the first item on my Japanese list of things to do was to visit a walk-in massage shop in a busy shopping centre in Tachikawa. There, along with three other fully-clothed people on a line of massage beds, I lay face down as a young man with fashionably-dyed brown hair found all of my painful bits and poked them very firmly, transforming me into a new woman. My Japanese sister-in-law says that these massage shops can be found elsewhere but one word of advice is to look out for packets of tissues with slips of paper outside the shop. In Japan it is common to see people hand out little packets of tissues with a slip of paper. These are invariably discount offers and in the case of the Tachikawa massage shop, offered the first ten minutes for free. And when you have a sore back, painful leg and arm, and have to run after your fifteen-month-old nephew like a really decrepit old aunty, ten minutes of extra poking is a bonus.

Sex please, you’re British!

Sex scenes are common in Indian art, but morality remains strict

When the mercury hits more than 40C, most of us find our thoughts turn to nothing more strenuous than eating ice cream, with even the thought of sex being far too much effort. But not so the gentlemen of Delhi, so it seems.

Any woman travelling around India alone – or even with a friend or partner – will usually be on the receiving end of ‘Eve teasing’ at least once. Subtle harassment, offers of ‘jiggy jiggy’, and of course the well known ‘boob swoop’ are, sadly, common experiences. But recently, in a different form of harrassment, a friend has just spent three days fending off a whole line of men who persistently invaded her guesthouse, intent on getting her alone, and all seeming to think that they were entitled to bother her.

It started when a driver attached to the agency that booked her guesthouse smarmed his way onto the premises by claiming to be a friend of hers. Later there were attempts to get her alone with what turned out to be a phoney errand to drive her to the travel agency (he claimed they needed a copy of her passport, but once getting her into the car appeared to make a phone call only to conveniently discover that her passport was not needed after all, and so “where shall we go?”). But after she had managed to get rid of him, another turned up, and then another – all connected to the travel agency.

Because these men were connected to the agency and the guesthouse, they could use their social status over the servant to enter the place, sit around, order food and bother my friend. This was how they managed to get access to her – a woman alone – even going so far as to follow her into her bedroom. As she was the only guest in this small, private guesthouse, this left her feeling vulnerable, making her dependant upon the servant to protect her.

Of course what makes any sane woman angry about this is the assumption that:
a) she is interested in sex
b) she is interested in sex with them.

Never at any point did it occur to these men that my friend may not be interested in them. It was as if they assumed that a foreign woman is so rampant that she will do it with anyone.

One man who gave my friend the Indian version of ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ made his thoughts very clear. He’d had an arranged marriage, he told her, and so had ‘never had a good time’. It is quite likely his poor wife hadn’t had a good time either, but that was clearly not his concern. And when my friend asked if he thought that just because she was a woman alone did that mean he assumed she was ‘up for it’, he said yes. “You’re English aren’t you?” he said. Foreign women, he assured her, were always up for a good time.

Of course it is understandable how some men end up with this idea. Western women do go to India, wear next to nothing on the beaches, have affairs with locals, and generally behave in a way that most Indian women would not dare. Even I, many years ago, when holidaying as a young woman in India met a gorgeous young man and cackled inwardly that I was going to enjoy myself - before reminding myself that I was in a different country and culture and so had to behave. Had I been at home, however, a meaningless flirtation would not have been out of the question. So by Indian standards many western women are loose. But the problem is that then comes the assumption that we are easily available to anyone. For any men reading this, watch my typing. It is so not true.

But western women have always been seen as being morally loose compared to Indian girls. Years ago, Bollywood would show the slut or vamp as wearing western clothes, drinking and smoking. And now India has access to satellite TV, with a variety of American programmes that depict scantily clad western girls hopping in and out of bed as and when they like. In my opinion, it hasn’t done the foreign female tourist any favours. In the twenty plus years I have been travelling to India, I feel the choice of foreign programmes on Indian television - especially when contrasted against Indian media depicting more traditional roles - has given Indian society an even worse impression of us foreign girls.

So what to do? How do you react when your rickshaw driver (as happened to my friend) is making obscene gestures with his tongue at you saying, “You have love marriage? Love marriage? Lots of good sex?” If you had the energy you could call a policeman and tell him that the driver has been harassing you. You should actually shout at him and tell him off, but in fact you will probably ignore it. ‘Eve teasing’ is something that is covered in my book A girls’ guide to India, a survivor’s handbook. But in the meantime, here are some tips that can help:

Never sit in the front of a taxi. My friend did and was subjected to the driver’s inability to work out where the gear stick ended and where her leg started. Any driver who asks you to sit in the front is up to no good. Trust me on this!

Say your father has told you not to talk to strange men. Even if you are alone, this is language people understand and indicates that you are a ‘good girl’. I have in the past managed to get rid of a few people using this line.

If you are old enough to be his mother (as can be the case), make a big show of telling him off in a matriarchal way, ask him how old he is, and tell him you could be his mother. This will usually freak him out and shame him at the same time. Very amusing to watch.

Adopt a granny. When travelling alone, befriend an older woman – especially on trains. This will usually offer you a lot of protection because if you have an ‘auntie’ watching over you it is unlikely you will be bothered.

If a man asks you in conversation if you drink or smoke, if at all possible say you do not. This is often a way of working out how much of a bad girl you are and if you are horrified at the idea of intoxicants it will show that you are a girl with morals.

Do not flirt. Flirting in your own country may just be harmless banter or a bit of fun. Flirting in India is taken much more seriously and is seen as an invitation to a lot more.

A Girls’ Guide to India, A Survivor’ Handbook is by Louise Wates and is available through all online bookstores. It is also available as an ebook through http://www.authorsonline.co.uk/

The burning boy and a 'hot' Sim

As I dumped my bags in the hotel reception at 4am, time to check out and take a taxi, I realised that the night boy was sitting behind the desk with a scarf wrapped around his head, just over his eyes. Novel way to get some sleep, I thought, approaching the desk silently. “Good morning,” he said. I chuckled and asked him what the scarf was for and he told me that he was sick.

Because his English is so weak and I am too lazy to construct a sentence in Hindi, I decided from what he said that he had trouble with his eyes. “Touch this,” he said to me, pointing to his arm. I was a bit confused - why would an eye problem affect his arm? “No problem,” he said. “Touch this,” again pointing to his arm. I gently touched his arm only to find that the poor lad was burning. “Tomorrow hospital,” he told me. From our broken conversation it became clear that he thought he had malaria.

Although last time I went to my local travel clinic I was told that anti-malarials are not so strictly recommended for India, malaria is a real problem. My cousins in Hyderabad told me that they have all had it, but with the kind of irritation that we in England speak of the ‘flu. I was amazed that this boy was waiting to finish his night duties before taking himself to hospital. If the situation were reversed I would stick a blue flashing light on my head if I thought it would get me faster treatment.

And then my mind turned to the collection of bites on my arms and legs. Because there were no mosquitoes in McLeod Ganj I was less organised than usual and had not been eating B vitamins (in the form of Marmite) nor covering myself in Deet once we got to Delhi. As a result my arms and fingers were covered; and my ankles, which were by now unattractively fat because of the heat, were also itching like mad. I looked at my bites and wondered if one of them could be nasty.

But my taxi turned up and I had to say goodbye to the lad. Wongden House will book reasonably-priced taxis for the airport, but you have to give up any thoughts of luxury. Even on the new Delhi roads, because suspension and shock absorbers were a dim, distant memory for this car, I seriously wished that I had been wearing a sports bra, and was quite worried that my curves might have dropped by an inch or so by the end of the journey. But I was glad to get to the airport alive. My driver clearly thought that all of these new traffic lights that are springing up around Delhi are purely to make the roads look pretty, and as he swerved between lanes I did wonder if he had been on the toddy.

And so it was goodbye to India again, leaving Simita fast asleep in the hotel. We’d had a farewell glass of wine from a tiny bottle of Shiraz she’d managed to find during her last foray into Connaught Place - during which time she had brought much joy to the men of New Delhi by going out in jeans and a vest top (that showed her b-r-a straps! Chi, chi, chi!). Having lost weight while in McLeod Ganj (how come it never happens to me??) she also realised far too late that the top was now baggier than she recalled and so offered quite a few clear views of her bosoms. Apparently she had sat on the Delhi metro with her bag in front of her chest but, she said, that only made it worse because people then realised that she knew they could see her boobs. Either way, she got a lot of smiles yesterday… heheh…

The last days

This bull would park itself outside a McLeod tea shop and refuse to move
until he had been given some food...

This morning when we finally dragged ourselves into Wongden House in Delhi, I had yet another run-in with the boy who watches the desk at night. Again he wanted to hold my passport until the clerk came, and again I wasn’t going to let him. This time he became even more insistent that I leave it, and was very firm in his ‘yes’ to my ‘no’ until he realised he wasn’t going to get anywhere with me. After dumping our bags Simita headed off to Connaught Place while she could make the most of the chilly morning air (probably about 30C, or 89F for those of you who are still working in old money, predicted to rise to 37C / 102F), and I collapsed on my bed to make up for lost sleep.

Yesterday, while Simita spent the afternoon with a surprisingly good astrologer, I was with Tsewang discussing consciousness, form and attachment - nothing too heavy. And then, because I had whinged so much about having to carry our backpacks back up the Yong Ling steps, Tsewang had lined up two friends to help. As we retrieved my bag from the storeroom of the Pink House, Simita wasn’t around so Tsewang said we would take her bag too and leave a message. I suspected this could go horribly wrong, but left a message with the hotel manager to tell Simita that we had stolen her bag and gone off to sell the contents. No problem there. Tsewang’s two friends then took a backpack each while Tsewang looked at me in confusion. “Don’t you have any more luggage?” he asked. I also had a rather full hand luggage bag but, no, that was it. “Oh,” said Tsewang. “No need for two people to help.” Because of my complaining he had obviously thought that I needed a small group of Sherpas and possibly a couple of yaks. “The bags are heavy to us,” I explained, feeling rather pathetic. “They weigh a tonne!”

And so Tsewang and his two friends trotted off up the Yong Ling steps, carrying our bags as if they were nothing more than a couple of small bags of groceries, leaving me carrying nothing but sweating and puffing behind.

At half past five, when Simita arrived at the bus stand, she was in a panic because her backpack had disappeared from the Pink House. Unfortunately when she had gone to the store room, the hotel manager was not there and all the hotel boy could say to her was ‘friend’ and ‘okay’. Relieved to discover that we did have it, she joined in with the goodbyes as Tsewang hung the traditional white katas around our necks, and - dosed up on travel sickness tablets - we said our farewell to McLeod Ganj.

The bus ride down from McLeod is always worse, so travel sickness tablets are essential. Part of the problem is simply just that the drivers are able to go much faster going down than when going up, so as the driver skirts around hairpin bends on rocky roads, the bus sways from side to side as if it is going to tip over. For a long part of the journey it felt so bendy and rocky that I wondered if we had accidentally got onto a bus to Manali by mistake, and began wondering how I could get back to Delhi in time to catch my flight. But eventually, with the help of an inflatable pillow and a cheap MP3 player that refuses to play most of what is in its library, I managed to doze off until being woken by a couple of passengers shouting at the driver. Simita told me later that the driver had dared stop for a break and that two European passengers began shouting at him to drive, threatening to call the police if he did not. While the man shouted at the driver, the woman began kicking the luggage-boy, who was asleep in the bus gangway. Kicking him to wake up she demanded to know if he was the driver. Hmm.., well no he can’t be because your boyfriend is busy shouting at the driver…. Eventually a very angry driver shouted back and started up the bus, leaving me hoping he had rested enough to take on the rest of the drive. He seemed okay, but I think he also wanted revenge because I am sure that after that he was deliberately driving over potholes - especially because the shouty couple were sitting at the back where they would really get their arses slapped. And so it was with sore backs and bottoms that we finally got off at the Tibetan colony, said we didn’t want an auto/rickshaw/taxi about a dozen times, and then found our hotel.

So early tomorrow morning it is Helsinki and London for me. Simita, who isn’t due to fly out for another three days, will try to make the most of Delhi in the mornings and evenings when it isn’t roasting too fiercely. It was a short but good trip. Simita plans to go back to McLeod for sure. Me? Well right now I could murder a decent cup of tea.