Culture shock in Tokyo

Paddy Rangappa visits Japan and finds the country has its own ways of baffling unsuspecting travellers.

 I received my first shock in Japan soon after I landed in Tokyo and lined up for a taxi behind a balding European in a business suit.

I smiled at him and asked, “How much is a taxi?”

“About US$250,” he said.

Thinking I had misled him by the wording of my question, I explained that I was not interested in buying the taxi. He clarified that he was talking about the taxi fare; then, as he saw my jaw sagging, he suggested I take the train if I wanted a cheaper option.

I fairly bolted from there. After all, I had spent only $400 one-way to fly from Singapore to Tokyo, having — like a normal, healthy Indian — scrounged around to find the cheapest flight. I wasn’t keen to squander more than half that amount to get from airport to city.
At the train ticket counter, I learnt that this “cheap” option would set me back by $45. Wincing in pain, I paid up and boarded the sleek Narita Express. As it slid out of the station — on the scheduled time to the dot — I leaned back in my comfortable chair car, stretched my legs and began to relax. Closing my eyes, I could almost imagine I was sitting alone in a monastery: it was that quiet and still. In reality, we were zipping fast through hills and forests dotted by small residential colonies and golf courses, but the train seemed to be gliding soundlessly as if its wheels were made of foam. And it was almost full of passengers but the people were reading quietly and talking so gently that I wondered if they actually spoke words or simply relied on lip reading.

In the midst of this church-like silence, my cell phone rang.
“Saare jahaan se achaa, Hindustaan hamara, hamaara,” screamed the singer in a rich voice. My neighbour, an elderly Japanese man in a dark suit, jumped.

“Hello, hello!” I yelled into the receiver, “Yes, I reached safely.”

It was my wife making her usual enquiry. I babbled on about the flight, the weather, the horrendous taxi prices, the smooth train journey, the absence of any noise in the compartment…. I stopped. I noticed the sign on the wall for the first time: “Please leave the compartment if you wish to use your mobile phone.” Now the silence was deafening. Even the gentle lip movement had stopped. People stared stonily at the seat in front of them. My neighbour had stiffened like a wrinkled cardboard left too long in the sun. It looked like he had stopped breathing.

Mortified, I immediately tried to end the call, but in panic, pressed the ‘loudspeaker’ button instead. Into the silence, my wife’s voice, powerful at the best of times, boomed through the speaker: “WHAT

Happened? Why are you quiet?
Whispering “Hold on” into the mouthpiece, I slunk out of the carriage.

At Shinjuku station, I jumped into a taxi and for a mere $10 was whisked to the hotel one kilometre away. There I was greeted with a deferential bow by the receptionist. I didn’t want him to think we Indians are not taught manners, so I bowed right back. In response, he bowed again. I was a bit flummoxed about the correct response to this. Playing it safe, I bowed again. So did he.

Finally, after we had bowed to each other several times, I decided to break the deadlock and asked him if he had a room for me. If he was disappointed that our game was ending so soon, he handled it stoically, completing my check-in formalities and handing me a key. I requested him to send an ironing board and an iron to the room.

My room was small — the double bed appeared to fill the floor area but on closer inspection, I found there was space to walk around it if I moved sideways. Soon Housekeeping delivered my ironing apparatus and I got another surprise. There was nothing wrong with the iron except that the knobs were labelled in Japanese but, instead of a foldable ironing table, I had been given a thin rectangle block, about the size of an A3 paper, covered in white cloth. I realised this was a Japanese space-saving strategy to cope with expensive real estate in Tokyo. It’s a neat trick but unfortunately the board is designed for Japanese-sized shirts. My shirt overflowed on all sides. I had to iron it a few square inches at a time, painstakingly manoeuvring the iron over the shirt while the board kept sliding on the bed. When I examined my finished handiwork, I could not see much difference — absence-of-crease wise — between it and the next shirt waiting its turn for the iron. So I abandoned the project with some relief.

I then visited the toilet in my room and got my next shock. The toilet seat was a technological marvel, probably designed by NASA. I had seen something similar only in an aeroplane cockpit. I managed to figure out where to sit: the moment I did so, a deep gurgling noise started. I looked around in panic, wondering if I’d done anything wrong. On both sides of my seat were a series of buttons — all of them were helpfully labelled… in Japanese. Not having a clue about what to do, and feeling a little shy to call the front desk (“I’m sitting here in the toilet, and am wondering…”), I pressed the buttons one by one and somehow navigated my way out.

But the experienced had drained me. I changed into my night clothes and gently lowered myself on to my bed, half-prepared for a Japanese lullaby to start playing immediately. That did not happen but as I drifted to sleep, I wondered what other surprises lay in store for me in a country that had provided approximately one jolt per hour on my first day.