Having just returned to Japan, I found myself in the position of having a rather sparsely furnished apartment. When the Japanese rent you an apartment, you get exactly what it says on the label; an apartment, and that’s all.

Not only is furniture an optional extra, but so are all the other fixtures, like light fittings, towel rails, curtains, doors, windows, gravity etc. Essentially, my first week was spent in a rather grim apartment that had two tatami mat rooms, a sink (with no hot water tap), a stove, a shower (which had a hand held shower head with no means of affixing it to a wall), my suitcase and a whole lotta nothing else. As I lay on my futon watching the tublweeds drift past, I realised it was time to go shopping.

Now, in this situation, the uninitiated rentee would immediately make for the nearest home store to overload on expensive household items. I, however, am made of sterner (and stingier) stuff and was prepared to risk a trip into Don Quixote.

Don Quixote is a group of chain stores in Japan. Like an aging porn star, they are famous for being cheap, slightly shabby and full of improbable things.

The stores have pretty much everything you could ever need. However, they are laid out in a completely random way, to encourage people to look through the whole store rather than just go straight to the section they need.

I am at a loss to understand why you would anyway, when there is so much to see in the shop. It is one of the only shops in the world where you will see crotchless panties rub shoulders (metaphorically speaking) with children’s videos.

Don Quixote’s mascot is a ubiquitous blue penguin who appears scattered on various promotions throughout the store. His general demeanor seems to change a lot between the different products he is being forced to display.

Examples include… this (justifiably) terrified looking chap in Osaka…

this cute little love heart seducer…

this angry looking stuffed toy…

and this Picasso alien portrait.

Of course, here’s no point in having the best furnished apartment in the world if there is no one to share it with. This is where some inflatable companionship comes in handy.

The main problem with the store is that it’s so easy to get distracted. I mean, this is a store that offers a huge variety in even mudane things like tissues.

The choices ranged from some yuletide paper for poolside capers…

and 48 patterns of handerchief love!

Eventually the distractions gor the better of me and I returned home far from empty handed, but no better off in the furnishing stakes. Not only that, but now my Air idol keeps complaining about my lack of ammenities.

Stay Cynical.

Oh, and a quick update on last week’s story. I have just been informed that I need to go back to the immigration centre to pick up my new visa… on December 25th. Man, will I be decking the halls!

Two years ago, I wrote a story called “the Cynical Traveller goes to… the Dentist”. Rather naively, I thought this would be my most painful experience in Japan. Well, leave it to the immigration service to prove me wrong.

Now, ordinarily the stories I write are anywhere from a few weeks old, up to a year in some cases. However, this happened to me yesterday and I want to write the story while the ignominy is still fresh in my mind. Apologies if it comes across as a rant, but the odd rant can be cathartic.

So, immigration…

Japan is a country not overly famous for opening its doors and rolling out the red carpet to immigrants. Indeed, foreign residents are about as welcome as bubonic plague victim at a naked pool party. There deep spring of mistrust for foreigners is personified in the often vitriolic rants of Tokyo Mayor, Shintaro Ishihara.

Therefore, immigration, an unpleasant place at the best of times, just seems that bit more dour and soulless.

Returning to Japan, I had entered on a tourist Visa and now had to arrange a work visa. This meant having to first negotiate the labyrinthine halls of the Immigration departments website to find the right application form.

Immigration site

This is a link to the immigration department’s website, obviously designed by the same kind of people who make the instructions for flat pack furniture. I challenge any of my readers to try and work out which form I need. The forms themselves are full of instructions like, “If the teacher is in the part of A, insert scrotchet figgle and go to question 21, except in the case of humanity buggle, whereupon fill out question h(i)32(mpv).”

Ok, so that’s not a real line, but this is:
“Place have been dispatched (in case the answer to question 20-(2) is dispatch of personnel)”

Or perhaps I’m being a bit harsh. I mean this pamphlet from the ministry seems fairly strightforward…

Anyway, three weeks ago I filled these forms out and took them and all my documentation into the immigration department. Unfortunately, seeing as I was going to be an English teacher, I had foolishly filled in the form titled “teachers”, rather than the more obvious “researcher / engineer / specialist in humanities” form. This meant that I had to return to the centre with two different pages to complete my application.

Luckily, there is an immigration bureau in the next town from me, a mere 15 minutes by train. Unfortunately it’s for a completely different prefecture, meaning that I have to go to the one in Tachikawa, about 1 ½ hours away.

In a rather ominous start to the day, I took the one train a day designated limited express, which completely bypassed the station I needed to go to and didn’t stop until it was nearly in central Tokyo.

However, I eventually arrived and sat down to wait, watching a video explaining Japan’s new draconian entry procedures.
My number was 68 and I was very keen to be attended before 12 o’clock, when the counters would close for lunch. At 11.45 my number finally came up, just in time for three people numbered 66 to come rushing back in, after smoking cigarettes outside.

In a triumph of segregation the people on the counter summon the applicants by country and then name. For example, they will say Chogokku Lee San (Chinese Mr Lee).

I was supposed to meet Ms Watanabe, who we had spoken to on the phone and just hand her the two different pieces of paper. However, after a 45 minute wait, I made it to the counter and was informed that Ms Watanabe wasn’t working there today. Further questioning discovered that Ms Watanabe had never in fact worked there. Further questioning discovered that Ms Watanabe had never existed and that all knowledge of her activities would be denied.

I asked the man if I could give him the papers. He replied that I couldn’t unless I had my passport, which I hadn’t brought. I told him I didn’t bring it because I had already brought it, along with all my other documents, three weeks ago. He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I asked him if I could show my driver’s license. . He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I asked him if I could tell him my passport number which I have memorized. . He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I called my boss to speak to him in more fluent Japanese. He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I cracked the shits and went home.

And the great thing is, I’ve got to do it all again tomorrow! Ah, the joys of living overseas!

(Nothing but random pics this week [except the last pic]. Sorry.)

One of the things I’ve found with holidays is that no matter how much time I’m allotted, I always have 20% too much time. This happens whether I have 2 weeks or 2 years of holidays.

And so it was, with 3 days remaining of our holiday, that we were ready to return home, which of course meant returning to Yangon. After our adventure on the train, we decided to fly back, despite the rather appalling safety record of the Myanmar airlines.

The taxi ride to the airport was memorable. I noticed that the taxi we were in actually had a radio, one of the few that hadn’t been ripped out in the whole of Myanmar. I remarked upon this to the driver, who was so proud that he showed us how well it worked. Myanmar music is basically stolen tunes from western music and dubbed over with Myanmar singers. After 15 minutes of screechy “Time after time”, the driver obviously noticed our pained expressions and informed us that he had an English tape.

Unfortunately, this mysterious English tape turned out to be Aqua; a whole Aqua album. Obviously some tourist had bought it in a drunken stupor in 1997 and had been trying to offload it on some unsuspecting local ever since.

The airport arrived none too soon. The single proviso my sister, who hates flying, put upon this trip was that it had to be a direct flight. The woman who booked the flight for us assured us it was direct. However, upon arriving at the airport, we learned that the flight was being directed to Myanmar’s new capital, a government city built in the middle of nowhere, so Tang Shwe could avoid assassination attempts. We were being redirected to pick up some VIPs. My sister was so upset by this that I didn’t have the heart to show our airplane, which was a very small, dodgy looking propeller driven craft, or to point out the hulk of an obviously crashed plane at the end of the runway.

Still, we made it to Yangon okay, to find out that it had been raining for three days straight. And it continued to rain for tree days straight after we arrived. The problem with this is that the drainage system in Yangon doesn’t really work. The full extent of this problem became apparent on our last day.

We had been invited to a party at the American embassy. Taking a taxi in was a joy in the pouring rain, especially as the roof had peeled back above where I was sitting. However, at 3am, after a heavy night of beer and tequila, there were no taxis to be had and the only available transport was with Christine’s Burmese friend, Christina.

Soaked and inebriated we got into the jeep with Christina. This turned out to be rather a large mistake. Not only was Christina only marginally more sober than we were, she was only a marginally better driver than a one legged albatross. With chronic myopia.

Not that it mattered anyway. By this time, there was so much water on the road that Michael Schumacher would have struggled. A boat would have been more suitable than our jeep, which aquaplaned from curb to curb like an oversized, rusty pinball.

Eventually, we decided that driving with Christina was too terrifying, even for our alcohol sodden minds, and we jumped out the back to walk. Except it wasn’t really walking. At this stage, the water in the middle of the road was up over our knees and on the sides it was closer to hip height.

I forged on down the middle of the road, while my sister and Christine set of on the banks. Of course, the main problem with all the water was that you couldn’t see under foot and my sister managed to fall down a hole that should covered by a concrete slab which had long since split in two. Fortunately, I was just in time… to turn around and laugh my arse off as her head disappeared under the water line. Christine did the same and promptly leapt over the drain…. to immediately disappear down the next drain.

At this stage I was in danger of drowning, as I was doubled over with laughter, my head perilously close to the water. However, my laughter was short lived when my sister revealed that she had lost one of her flip flops down the drain, and both girls forced e to put my hand in and try to find it, not a pleasant activity in the dark.

Unfortunately, the only thing I was able to find was an acute case of cholera. After what must have been close to an hour struggling through the water, a jeep pulled up next to us. It was Christina again. It turned out that in close to an hour, we had managed to walk around 100 metres. This time, we were willing to stay in the car for the entire journey despite the perils, figuring that it was slightly less perilous than walking.

Arriving at Christine’s, I peeled of my clothes and collapsed into bed. In the morning the full extent of the damage we had wreaked became apparent. Despite losing a shoe, we ended up all square in the clothing department, as Christine had stolen a t-shirt from the embassy. More searches revealed drink cards and a key to the toilets, where we had been taking pictures, as it was supposed to be forbidden to have a camera on the embassy grounds. So much for security!

That afternoon, hung over and tired, we boarded our flight back to Australia. I had two days at home to get ready for my return to Japan….

Next week, back to the Japan stories!