Yush 2010 was mad! Held at the National Stadium, the music was fast and furious. Looking forward to 2011!

 

 

 

 

 

In Hamamatsu, I hang out at a weekly English meetup called “Eigo Mura” (英語村) (English Village). It’s right below a sports bar and this is some footage of me and my friend Yuki hanging out and playing some pool.

My cousin is performing artiste Beniton the Menace, and in 2008, I designed an album-style image for him on a whim. I had no idea that this would be the most profilic image of him on the internet. In fact, if you google “Beniton the Menace” n google images, its this picture that comes up first; an image I created while on vacation in New York. He told me that the image had surfaced on Kanye West`s blog because of a new single he and crooner Marvin Priest (Maxi Priest’s son) had made called “Who’s Gonna Smoke”. The song has received good airplay and got Beniton a featured in Fader Magazine online. The link to the image on Kanye’s blog is below. You can download the single for free here:

http://www.kanyeuniversecity.com/blog/index.php?em3106=242059_0__0_~0_-1_10_2009__

 

I’m dressed as a spade, and I’m sprinting up a hill. Behind me, four small Japanese boys scream “Ashi hayai ne!!!”  (he runs so fast!) I crest the hill, and in front of me, is an army of little Japanese kids dressed like witches, goblins and ninjas. Giggling and screaming, they dart from place to place, in search of candy. The four boys behind me catch up, huffing and puffing. They point towards a thick grove of trees fifty feet away and we start running again, navigating between little bodies and screaming voices.

 

I’m a counselor at the annual Mikkabi Youth center Halloween camp.

 

Mikkbai is a quiet town about an hour from Hamamatsu by train. The vista I received after stepping off the train was exquisite. In the near distance I saw green rolling hills and fields of tall, dark grass. The surrounding had a panoply of plants and colours. The train station had a quaint touch; it was small and built of wood, and doubled as a bakery. The place immediately made me feel calm and relaxed.

 “From what I heard last time, the camp was a nightmare.”

Another ALT had told me this at a bar after a few drinks three weeks ago. At the time I hadn’t planned to go, and paid it no mind. But I had no apprehensions about doing the camp. At some points, I had envisioned a huge log cabin filled with wild young Japanese kids, screaming at the counselors and wreaking havoc. It wasn’t anything like that.

 

“This reminds me of Jamaica.” I said to Emma, another counselor. I ran into her at the station and we took the train up to Mikkabi together.

“Really? Why?” she replied.

“Well I realized something when I traveled to Osaka a few weeks ago. I noticed that when I got there I felt very calm and secure, but I wasn’t sure why. The Japanese people hadn’t changed, and nothing was horribly different but then I realized that in the distance I could see mountains. Then I said to myself, wow, I grew up for most of my life seeing mountains wherever I went. I even live in a community in the hills overlooking Kingston.”

 

My spiel revealed something else to me I didn’t realize either. Living in a foreign country has certain demands, which are mostly mental after you get adjusted to your work environment. Trying to escape for many people involves engaging in various activites to keep busy, but its not always garaunteed to make you feel that good.
For me I discovered that I had an escape. I just needed to find a place with hills.

 

The youth center was a large modern building that felt like a hotel. We were greeted by staff and a few volunteer high school students. Upstairs was a meeting room with several other counselors, mostly twenty somethings that lived in different parts of the Shizuoka prefecture. It was funny to see so many foreigners in one place. It had been weeks since I spoke much that English on a Saturday during the day.

 

As I sat there, watching the groups interact with each other, I got sudden flashes of the past from living in America and Jamaica; the fleeting glimpses of those memories a quiet echo of my western culture.

 

My charges were four young boys, whom I met at lunch. Kyoko, one of the founders of the event, explained to the children what the events would be. As we started singing songs and playing with the children, I felt more like the sensei  I had become.

 

Watching grown people play with children is always a little weird. In our adult lives we rarely do exaggerated things unless we are drunk or engaging in specific physical activities. Seeing tall young men and women running after little children, making smiling faces and gesturing wildly with their hands was interesting. In a way, I was looking at these people being parents, or practicing. I was seeing how humans are, and how our roles interlink from place to place. Our charges for the weekend were our kids, and we had to watch them and protect them, make them happy and not get exhausted in the process.

 

“Yes we can! Yes we can!” everyone chants after singing a halloween song. Outside, the sky is a cool gray, and the sea is near motionless save a lone boat sliding across its surface. In a gymnasium with one hundred and forty children, twenty counselors and another twenty staff, I feel quiet and at peace.

 

We do some early trick or treating and I change my costume three times before I decide on what I’m going to be, which is a Spade from a deck of cards. My guys are all dressed as a certain Japanese wizard, the name of whom I can’t recall. As night falls and Iget used to the routine of watching my group and playing with them, I learn about the people around me in soft sprinkles of information. The counselors are mostly from America and Canada with a couple Scots and English people tossed in for good measure. I am one of two Jamaicans in residence, which is pretty cool.

 

Later we make Jack-o-laterns. I’ve never carved a pumpkin before, and I take make sure to design the perfect pumpkin for my guys. Yutaro, a small, wide-eyed child with a man’s confidence is fiercely debating how we’ll make the eyes.

“Let’s use this stencil.” One of them says to me in Japanese, pointing at a stencil book.

The image is a frightening pair of eyes and a grisly smile.

“No, we need an original design.” Yutaro retorts, and they eventually decide on eyes that are shaped like Stars.

I’m proud of the finished product and so are my charges. They happily smear fake blood on the Jack-o-latern and disappear to their rooms before we head back to the gymnasium for some more games.

 

By the time the kids go to bed we get some good news. A local hotel, called the Ryokan will be where we sleep. One of the event managers knows the hotel very well; her family owns it. We walk down a quiet street that opens into a wide view of an inland lake. In the distance like a burst of colour, are the spinning lights of a ferris wheel. It’s chilly, and I made small talk with a girl from California, practicing my horrible Spanish.

 

At the Ryokan, the natural progression of events leads to drinking. We all sit in a large room, chugging beers and playing drinking games. As things start to wind down, everyone for some reason starts speaking about names.

“How do you get ‘bob’ from Robert?” someone says.

“How do you get ‘Bill’ from William?” a female voice chimes in.

“How do you get ‘Dick’ from Richard?” a guy name Mike says to me.

I pause, then I respond: “How do YOU get dick from Richard?”

Everyone laughs and this becomes a running gag for the remainder of the camp. The next morning, I wake up to the sound of my phone alarm. Ben, an English guy sleeping in the room with myself and two other guys, groans.

“It’s cold. It sucks” he says from underneath the blanket.

I stumble over to the window, which gives an amazing panoramic view of the lake in the morning. We stand there, the three of us, in our underwear for all of thirty seconds. “Time to go.” I say, rubbing my arms to keep warm. I slip on a sweater, grab my bag and prepare to head out. Ben, still putting his clothes on mentions something.

“I had a friend named Richard.” he said. “He never liked the nickname Dick. It really bothered him.”

“You mean Richard didn’t like Dick?” I said.

Ben laughed.

“I walked right into that one.” he said with a smile.

 

 

The day is a whirlwind of activity including a campfire, toasting marshmallows and trick-or-treating; all things I have never done. As the day progresses, the sun breaks through the gray bank of clouds shadowing the city and it gets warm. The kids feed on this weather with rabid enthusiasm. The day becomes a melee of running, Frisbee throwing and field games.

 

As the event comes to a close and we stand in a line to take pictures with our groups, two small Japanese girls standing in front of me ask to touch my hair.

“Cool!” they say to each other.

I respond to them in Japanese and they proceed to pepper me with questions, tickle me and teach me Japanese words like “bag”, “shoe” and “glasses”.

 

The camp feels like it ended a little quickly. I enjoyed my spirited conversations in Japanese with the energetic little boys, and barking their names whenever they got into mischief. I take a picture with the mother of Ritsuki, the tallest of the group, and she thanks me profusely for showing them a good time. I wave goodbye to Koki, the most shy of the group. Shintaro, Yutaro’s twin brother, gives me a happy high five before he runs to his mother. As they each go back to their parents and start walking away I smile. It feels good.

 

Kyoko’s house is both a school and a residence. It is clean, spacious and has a small back yard. The deck oversees train tracks and hills in the distance. The counselors eat sushi, chips and drink beers while occasionally singing along to popular songs (A counselor named Kat could play the guitar). I was horribly comfortable, singing along to Oasis, trying to play a Bob Marley song in between drinking and snacking on food. The high school students who helped out with the event were in residence too, chatting with each other and occasionally interacting with the counselors.

 

Watching the high school students help over the weekend was like taking a hot bath in Japanese culture. If you didn’t know beforehand they were students, you would think they were employees of the Mikkabi youth center. They did every duty diligently, everything was on time and no one had a sad face.

 

Before I went home I took one last look at the brown hills in the distance, looking at the tall trees which dotted their surface, and the undulating patterns and bumps along their breadth. There I was, standing on a deck in a far off place, and a sharp feeling of familiarity hit me which made me smile, even though I was nowhere near home. Happy Halloween.

 

 

When I step out of the train that exits into Kyoto city, I’m greeted by huge modern posters advertising mostly American Brands. Thousands of people cross crowded streets passing very modern stores. For now, I’m a little confused.

As long as I can rememmbger, Kyoto has been a supposed place of history, mystery and intrigue. I had images in my mind of men dressed in monk’s robes, walking to and fro in their setas (Japanese slippers), calmly going about life down quiet streets filled with telltale Japanese buildings. I imagined Kyoto to be the real Japan, the kind that when I went there I would get washed in a feeling that was similar to the first time I watched anime, or starting reading about Japan on the internet. But so far, it feels very familiar.It has a touch of Tokyo right in the city center, with tall buildings and
large numbers of people. But in the distance, I can see the faintest outline of mountains, which gives me a sense like Oasaka. Then the buildings and layout of the city have an architecture that remind of of certain places in Europe. It feels a little scattered, but I’m still glad to be here.I am not the biggest sightseeing enthusiast at times.

My trip to Kyoto mainly came froma trip to Osaka, and I decided to come here in my down
time. I ask a man where the most famous temple in Kyoto is, and he
gives me some directions in Japanese. “Take the number six bus for
about fifteen minutes and you will be at the temple.”

He says. I nod in agreement, then go outside to look for the terminal.However, it is a holiday, the end of silver week and the streets are crammed with people. At every bus stop there are no less than fifty people standing in line for the buses to arrive, and I don’t see any terminals marked six, or any buses with six on them. After walking in a circle for ten minutes or so, I see a few girls in a coffee house. They all have dark hair and look European. I ask them about Kyoto. One of them, a tall slim girl with an attractive face tells me in a heavy accent they are in town for an eight week exchange program. They say that I need to walk thirty minutes north and I will find the temple. I start
walking.

I pass a bridge and see a river stretching far into the distance. At either side of the river banks, beside large sloping walls designed to channel flood water, are hundreds of people sitting down. They stretch for as far as I can look, and I stand there for a minute or two, just people watching. A few street artists are doing their thing, painting passersby or drawin caricature for a thousand yen. I pass more shops and mostly fast food places, then I reach a temple. There are no markings on the front, save two large Japanese dragon-dogs. It looks pretty big, and people are filing in and out in a constant stream. I go in.

The place immediately shifts from a city to something else. Around me are tall trees with thick leaves. The elements of the temple start to appear. Some bells here and there, an old building and then eventually the main area. I am by an extremely tall Japanese prayer shrine. People walk forward and pull the rope a few times to ring the bell. They clasp their hands and drop a little money into a large silver jar. I watch them do it for a while, taking in the vista of the temple grounds. It
is very spacious and well groomed, but crowded. I like the temple, but seeing people traipsing about with Deisel jeans and Louis Vuitton bags makes things less spectacular.

I walk further inside, and find a park, which hilariously has a statue called “JOOK”, which means “sex” in Jamaican vernacular. I watch a few boisterous young boys chase some people-friendly ravens for a few minutes while I think about life. I walk further into the temple, and find a beautiful pond with small fishes swimming clearly near a short waterfall. A Japanese man and his son stand by the water, feeding the fishes with breadcrumbs and watching the frenzy.

I go further into the temple, and I can clearly see a hill nearby, its green body covered in lush vegetation, with the lengthy bamboo shoots standing out like needles in a fuzzy ball of yarn. A bench provides another spot of solitude, and I drink some water while taking in the nature. After I’m done with that temple, I go back into the city, immediately transported back to reality. I find another temple nearby, a Zen temple guarded my tall men with police uniforms on. This is the Kennin-Ji,
Kyoto’s oldest Zen Buddhist temple. This feels like the “real” Kyoto. After I pay five hundred yen to go inside and remove my shoes, I am in a huge wooden building the likes of which I have never seen. Japanese architecture of this nature really has a therapeutic and balanced touch. Everything is expertly groomed, clean and calm. There are various historical pharaphernalia on display and there are rooms that guests cannot enter or photograph.

 The place feels very old andhistoric. Most of the people walking around are Japanese couples or
families, taking a break on the weekend. I walk into a room the size of a basketball court where people are in various states of relax; they are either sleeping outright, laying on each other, or just sitting quietly. I pass this room and walk across a semi-bridge that connects the buildings. There I see displays of statues showing a range of Japanese style sculpting. In here definitely feels more like a temple to me.’

I put on a pair of red slippers and walk outside through a rope towards another large building. This is the main attraction. The building is the size of a church and empty save three or four large sculptures beside an elegant shrine. As I walk in, I see everyone looking up, and
so do I. Then, I see it.

On the ceiling is a painting, an old, classic Japanese painting depicting dragons and various other mythological symbols. It is the largest painting of its kind I have seen thus far. People stand there and take photographs, and I do the same. Inside there is shadowy and ancient, filled with secrets and mysteries. I stay in there for a few minutes, and then leave. Outside, the air is cool and the leaves rustle in the trees. The property is very calming and there are less people there than the other temple. I make my way back to the large relaxation room, and lay there for a while, with my eyes closed and the occasional gust of breeze tickling my feet. A voice comes over the speaker, and I recognize the tone.

The temple is closing. I get up, slightly more refreshed, and head back to the center of the city. I pass the bridge again, and there are even more people this time by the riverside. It is an interesting site. I head back to the train station and then up some more, just to see what else is around. I end up at Terimachi street, which is the most famous shopping street in Kyoto. Many, many years ago it was a district where goods were bought and sold, when men had horses and carriages, and there wasn’t nicely manicured tile lining the street. The size was daunting, with three streets stretching for at least a quarter mile in a straight line, each one packed with different stores. I walked for a while,
browsing here and there ,and eventually purchased a small coin bag for my travels.

I went back to the station, a little tired from all the walk, but glad that I had done some sightseeing, and took a breather in a Buddhist temple.

Japan, I’m starting to discover, is a place that love fireworks and barbecues. It is summertime, and the days usually end with the sky a milky pink-white, with an armada of clouds slowly scrolling across the sky. After a great trip to Tokyo and Osaka on tour with my cousin Beniton the Menance and Maxi Priest I’m more open to heading to different places. I’m meeting up with Emily and some friends to go to the Kajima fireworks.

 Emily wants to meet at seven thirty to catch the fireworks, which start at eight-thirty. Since it will be a thirty minute drive to get there, it sounded like a good plan. However, Emi ended up calling me at ten minutes past eight to go, and it seemed like I’d miss the meat of the show. Still I went. Emi waved at me from across the street at Zaza city where we met up, adorned in an attractive Yukata. A Yukata is a traditional Japanese dress worn for these kinds of occassionas (not to be confused with Happis worn during Golden week).

The drive there is quiet, sprinkled with light conversation from Emi and her friends in the car. The fireworks are in Hamakita, just outside Hamamatsu city. As we near Hamakita, I can already see the flash of fireworks in the sky. A loud boom echoes through the air. I can just imagine the screaming crowds jostling to see what was happening. Emi was excited, more excited that I normally see her. “There is where my elementary school was.” She said, pointing towards a small building we drove past.

I tried to imagine Emi as a child, with the small smooth face, bone straight hair and endless energy. For her fireworks were a normal part of her life. She had invited me to no less than four viewings in a month and a half.

 We met up with some other friends of hers, all dressed in Yukatas and found some parking. We had a good walk to the river. Every fifty feet or so, I would see a firework explode in the sky, the boom sounding like quick thunder. Behind me, Emi, her friends and the other Yukatagirls walked and talked, smiling each time another firework exploded.

 Hamamatsu isn’t a very metropolitan area, and more than once I saw a few people looking at me for long stretches, wondering who I was. We were walking on the main road, which eventually diverted onto a small dirt path leading to an intersection below an overpass. We walked pass some tall grass and then came back to a normal sidewalk. There I saw several thousand people, many of them in Yukatas walking around. There were dozens of stalls sell food, fireworks and liquor. It was a frantic mess of lights, voices and bodies.

I made sure to keep and eye on the girls near me, because the Yukata girls around looked startlingly similar, with their hair in buns, walking with a similar, practiced gait. A few more people glance at me now (I think at this point its impossible for them not to, I am the only black person I have seen thus far in a crowd of thousands of Japanese people) and we walk up a hill. It is densely packed, but as we near the top, I can see the outline of the river below, and hundreds more people sitting around there. A structure on a small field is setup, and a voice says something over loudspeakers.

“They are going to show the final fireworks.” Emi tells me, darting to a spot with a good view. I stand where I am and take in the last of the fireworks, which are magnificent, brilliant and beautiful.

One the last of the glowing particles faded into nothing, the crowd stared moving. The group of us–four Yukata girls, one husband and wife and another friend of Emi’s who wasn’t wearing a Yukata, decided to eat some Chinese food afterwards. I groaned inside a little… I don’tnormally like the mixed outings because most people order beef and pork dishes, but we all chip in for the final bill. But I didn’t drive there, and it didn’t really matter. It was only nine o ‘ clock or so.

I met the other Yukata girls, Yuka and Emily who were also regular Salsa dancers. They were both very thin with mischievous eyes. I like something about Emily, who had a thin, long face and a bright smile. We snapped a picture by the car before heading to the restaurant and headed off.

I had never eaten Chinese food in Japan, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if it really tasted that Chinese. I figured out a way to get enough chicken and shrimp dishes to survive, while chatting and laughing with the group. It was a good outing, and I was glad to take in the
fireworks as a start to my Friday night. Hopefully next time I’ll reach earlier to another such outing, and be able to see more of the stalls and mingle with the crowd.                                  

I first saw Maxi Priest at a celebrity football match in the late nineties. I was in the stands with my parents, on a overcast summer day. I had laughed at the clumsy way the artistes played football, with the crowd roaring each time Beenie man received a pass, or Spragga Benz took a horrible shot at goal. Maxi, like the other artistes, was having fun. In the distance I could see his trademark locks, swaying about like snakes.

In the distance, I saw his trademark locks flashing to and fro like black snakes. As the artistes (Mad Cobra and Spragga Benz were also playing) passed the ball to each other, I laughed at their clumsiness. Maxi got a pass or two, flashing his trademark smile if he was tackled. Something about him glowed like an ember. This, I thought, is star power.

In Tokyo in Augst 2009, I see him again for the second time. I`m walking behind my cousin, performing artiste Karl Zanders, whose stage name is Beniton The Menace. Everyone calls him Benny. A white bus with the Billboard Live in conservative print across its breadth sits idly outside the KOEI Plaza Hotel, in Shinjuku . We are the last to arrive.
“This is my cousin.” Benny starts.
Maxi interrupts him.
“You didn`t have to tell me anything big man!” he says with a laugh.
“From I see the `John Wayne` walk, I know is must your family that!”
I laugh, and so does the rest of the bus. Maxi looks exactly like how i`ve remembered him, a little under average height, his locks streaming from a khaki coloured hat.

The first thing I sense about him is a powerful energy. Some stars are notoriously moody, boring or eloquent. Some look at people they don`t know with disquieted eyes, and others are so gregarious their managers need to monitor people for them. Maxi had a laugh that came from the recesses of his soul. It was pure and exultant, filled with the confidence of a man who`s been doing what he wants to for the majority of his life.
“Yow, check them boots here.” He says to Marvin, his son. “Nice eeh?” He is wearing a pair of black designer boots with a thick white sole. I glance at Marvin. He looks like his father in complexion and height, but has less of the boyish features Maxi still possesses in his late forties. Marvin has quiet eyes, a firm jaw and a slightly muscular build. Once he speaks, I feel the Priest energy flow from him as well, as pure as rain. “Bless.” He says, giving me a firm handshake.

The bus rolls off and Tokyo flies by as the band members chat about a common topic when groups of Jamaicans meet: The state of Jamaican as it relates to violence. I sit and listen to opinions flow back and forth, laughing to myself that even in Tokyo, certain things never change.

At the Billboard event hall, we are greeted by courteous staff who usher us to the artist’s room. It is small but clean, and the band starts to laugh about a joke. Phanso, the drummer on duty for the tour, is chided for saying he will take a week to eat an entire gallon of ice cream. I observe the people in the group. There are mostly band members but a few people like myself tagging along for the ride. One of them who left an impression on me was Akico. She was sitting quietly at the table as conversation roared in Jamaican patois. Her face was strikingly beautiful, and she embodied the term “ageless”. Apparently she had been touring with the band for ten years, which made it even harder for me to discern her age. “I sometimes play piano for the band.” She says with a sly smile. That`s all she told me about her time with the band.

I meet the rest of the band in stages. There`s Steve, the outspoken road manager who keeps everyone tickled with an endless stream of jokes. Taddy is the bassist, tall with thick locks and a quiet demeanour. Goofy is the pianist, nicknamed so for being a constant joker. The first show goes smoothly, and I am impressed by Maxi`s singing ability. I had never seen him perform live, and his stage presence was remarkable. The crowd was a tad shy and conservative, but soon they were standing up and singing along. “Domo arigato gozaimashita!” Maxi says in a perfect Japanese accent, creating a cascade of “oohs” through the crowd. To me, the show flows seamlessly, with Maxi hitting the high notes, all the songs end on cue and they don`t go a minute overtime.
During lunch, Maxi gives instructions to tweak some instruments. “I don’t need the guitar drowning out my voice, do you know?” he says to Steve, while sipping a bottle of water. “It`s like I can`t hear myself speak and I have to bring it up too much.”
His voice has dropped into his English inflection from his London roots, connoting a seriousness I hadn`t felt before.

Then, a large woman in an African print outfit with a small entourage enters the room. She speaks with casual Jamaican aplomb, and chats to Maxi for a few minutes with him before taking pictures. Behind her, a few men with locks and sharp smile and listen to the conversation. Maxi evolves into his Jamaican self, laughing it up for a few minutes with his fans. He smiles, chit-chats and watches them leave. After the door is closed to the artist room he turns to Steve. “Steve, people can`t come in here like that when the band is eating. Let`s not make it happen again.” His voice has that English lilt again; the boss voice.

After the final show two girls have followed us back to the hotel, Americans traveling through Asia. They have an early flight in the morning, and thought partying it up with the band would be a good sendoff. In the hotel room, one looks up a youtube video on my laptop while the other sips a beer. They look a little antsy, because no one is really moving. Benny is doing something down the hall, and I’m trying to find out what to do in this area. They head to Marvin`s room, and soon we are headed out into the nighttime life of Shinjuku.

*                           *
Benny is a notoriously savvy self-promoter. Every band practice was broadcasted live through his laptop. Within minutes of taking pictures with fans, or being snapped on stage by a photographer, he would post the pictures to twitter. His laptop was as much of a fixture as his trademarked hair styles.
“I call this style the Illusion.” He said to me the next day. “From a distance you think you know what it is, but as you get closer it changes.” The hairstyle is interesting. He has the slightest beginnings of a mohawk, with shaved blade-like patterns encircling his head leaving two small tufts of hair at the back which resemble miniature ponytails. He is a workhorse, doing the Maxi tours as well as his own production work and shows through the states.  He and Marvin get along pretty well, as they are close in age and mindsets. “Marvin!” Benny barks while looking at something on his laptop. Marvin enters the room with the casual swagger of a star. He is wearing a hotel bathrobe and black rubber sandals. “This is Serani on Good morning New York.” We watch the audio as Serani, a popular new Jamaican dancehall artiste sings “No Games”, his hit song from 2008, in a scratchy, cracking voice. Benny smiles and looks at Marvin.”Can you believe ten million people watched that?”

Maxi Priest is one of the most reknown reggae artistes in the world, but if he`s profited heavily from it, it isn`t immediately apparent. His style casual, with baggy designer jeans, relaxed dress shirts and a variety of caps. Whenever I see him he is smiling and laughing so hard he makes a cackling noise. I could see that the people that followed him weren’t necessarily sponging. He had fame and access, and with this came certain perks which I would soon see firsthand.
“You do photography right?” he said to me backstage on the last day in Tokyo. I nodded. I had become the unofficially official photographer of the tour. “I`m trying to remember the name of a camera… it starts with A.” he said.
“A?” I replied. “I’ll need a little more than that to work with.”
“Okay. It’s black with a red dot on the front.” Maxi replied.
I smiled. For about thirty minutes, Marvin and I try to find the camera he`s talking about. Eventually I find it. It’s a Leica. “Well it ends in A!” Maxi says with a smile. This entire time he has been on his cellphone, chatting to someone.  I`m in the back room, and a well dressed man of middle eastern descent in his forties is sitting beside a young Japanese man. He nods to the young man, who writes down the model number and the name as I recite it from my laptop. They soon leave the room, shaking hands with Maxi.
“That camera was on the UB40 tour I did in Australia a few years back.” He says to me with a bright smile. “It took gorgeous pictures man, beautiful. Those pictures from that camera ended up in the booklet of the tour.” I didn’t need a phd from Harvard to know that he was probably getting that camera for free.

On the second night, a fan gave us access to a party she was hosting in Roppongi. We went in four cabs to the party district. Inside, we received glasses of champagne and a hearty welcome from the hosts. It was a small place called Club Odeon, and it was a Pink Party night. Soon, a pole dancer would thrill the crowd with her heroics, as she suspended her body in difficult positions. Maxi and entourage enjoyed the event reasonably well, drinking champagne and chatting to fans. Then, Benny took the mike and the entire party changed.

He started Hellrazor Sounds systems several years ago, when he did parties and events part-time. Before deciding to go full time on his musical career, this was his calling. TheDJ. “My friends always used to wonder why I wasn’t doing music.” He said to me in the hotel before we went to the club. “These were some hard guys too, drug dealers, gangsters, but they didn’t want that for me. When I started doing the sound thing, guys that had been doing it even longer than me gave me this look like “he knows what he’s doing. ”

The crowd was spellbound as he coordinated some mixes with a Japanese DJ, and brought the house down. The club went from a casual party to a frenzy of dancing and cheering. After ten minutes or so, Benny left the microphone, prompting many to ask him to go back. At some point Maxi slipped out of the club back to the hotel, while the other band members partied a little longer.

The next day, after the last Tokyo show ended, I saw Maxi in the dressing room. He was wiping  his face with a dark brown hand towel. I told him it had been a pleasure meeting him, and seeing him in action. He paused for a second and said, “You not coming with us to Osaka?” I smiled and said I might go, but in that moment, my decision had already been made. Later that day, I bought my train ticket to Osaka.

I’m in the shadows, and I’m kissing a girl with braces.

She’s wearing the cute Japanese summer style I’m accustomed to now: A short-brimmed  hat, shorts that reveal most of her legs, and a cute top. Her name is Ayano, and we met a few minutes before.
Monday nights are generally quiet and chill, ending with a laptop screen filled with porn or a me sleeping.
But this Monday, there were women, video games, and drinking on the street.
I’m idly looking at an empty bottle of whiskey near my laptop. I sigh, thinking of the night before, when I sipped on whiskey and coke while watching the mind-trip of a movie, Knowing.
It’s a Monday evening, and I roll. I’m in my usual gear. Hipster jeans, new balances and a tank top. Tank tops here are a necessity. Living in a coastal city in Japan is like living in a wet blanket. I can’t imagine wearing a long sleeve shirt in the summertime here.
Monday nights sometimes finds me at Eigo Mora (English Village) where I engage in conversation with Japanese people who pay about ten dollars every Monday to practice their English with foreigners. I like the experience, and I try to speak to a few different people every week.
A lot of the patrons are older Japanese men with jobs that took them all over the world so they speak very good English. Others are shy men and women who sometimes speak very well, but are too shy to engage in loud conversation and the occasional anecdote with us the foreigners.
At this Eigo Mora, I recognize a face; Niaya.  She’s a small girl from New York with a British accent.
“I hear there is an event at Second tonight.” She tells me.
“Oh really?” I say.
Second is a club near Junk, the western style bar where Eigo Mora is held. Second is  small and dark with graffiti covering ever square inch of the walls.
“Cool, we can roll.” I say.
After I say my goodbyes and sip on the last of my beer, I head out into the night with Niaya. She’s American, and sometimes her having an English accent is a little odd to me, but she always has interesting stories about being drunk and being hit on by strange Japanese men.  It’s about ten o’ clock, early for going out anywhere, but after buying a drink at the 7-11 near Junk, we head to second. Inside, is dark and hip-hop roars through speakers near the DJ. Behind the bar counter, is the owner. He is always in a black t-shirt with his long hair kept in a pontytail. He nods at me as I walk in, and I shake his hand. Inside, the dance floor is relatively empty, with four people standing at various points, covered in shadows. 
“Hey you!” a voice says from the Shadows. I see a familiar silhouette emerge and recognize Ten, the dancer. He’s bristling with his usual energy. He talks to Niaya while I stand on the dance floor. I’m feeling the music, and I groove a bit. To my left, two cute girls are watching me as I dance. I Go over and say hello.
“Your hat is cute.” I say to one of them. This is Ayano.
“I love your tattoo.” I say to the other.
The other girl has a tattoo of a scorpion on her left shoulder blade. I find this interesting, because having tattoos in Japan is very taboo, especially for women.
I go back to the dance floor and keep grooving. The girls are with a guy, and I can’t tell which one is with him. However, both of them rest eyes on me occasionally, which makes me wonder. Ten started doing his dance thing on the floor, spinning and doing rapid combinations of popping and locking. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm.
“Dekai…” she said.
I laughed and pinched her on the cheek. Soon afterwards, the guy with the girls pulled her into a corner. The girl with the cute hat, Ayano, came over. We spoke in Japanese.
“Where are you from?” she said.
“Jamaica.” I told her.
“Really, why are you in Japan?” she asked.
“You know, the usual. Working, trying to find myself.” I said.
She was very cute, and we agreed to meet later. Despite all the fun I was having, there were only five of us in the club. “Catch you later.” I told her.
Myself, Niaya and Ten left the club at the same time. Outside, surprisingly, we saw the two girls and the guy. He didn’t look too happy to see me. The girl with the scorpion tattoo came up to me and touched my arm again. She really seemed fascinated with me, which was a little unusual for the small-town-shy-girl vibe I’d been getting for a while.
I laughed and told her I’d see them later. They walked off into the distance. Ten was laughing.
“Did you see his face? Wow, he was worried man!”
Niaya wasn’t really saying much, but she suggested we head to Planet Café. Monday nights at Planet Café aren’t anything to really get crazy about, but sometimes there were enough people there to have a little fun. We headed to planet, chatting about nothing important on the way.
I came in and said hello to the bartender, a guy of average height with a calm demeanour and an attractive face. Good for his job. I introduce him to Niaya and she is immediately enamored. After a few minutes she tells him, “I want you to be my boyfriend.” He laughs, and tells her he has a girlfriend.
BehindCafe. They squeal when they see me and Ten. I start chuckling and Ten is stifling a huge laugh. Later he would keep telling me he wished I saw the expression on the guy’s face (the guy the girls came with ) when he saw us at Planet Cafe.
Scorpion girl  had shifted her attention to Ten now, and I started chatting with three women sitting at a table near the bar.  Ayano (girl with the hat) was chatting to the guy she came with somewhere near the main entrance. The ladies I chatted to were an interesting bunch. One lived in Nagoya and was subtly hinting to me her hotel was nearby, the other worked in some sort of music company and the last lady was mostly quiet. They were in their late thirties, looking a little bored. 
Soon, I heard Ten’s voice.
“Go to the dance floor. NOW.” He said.
I excused myself from the table with the ladies. Apparently, the guy who came with the girls had left, leaving the two cuties unattended in the bar. I walked to the dance floor, which was empty. In the shadows near four large speakers in the back, were three distinguishable figures, Ten, Scorpion girl, and Ayano. I chatted to Ayano over the loud music, occasionally dancing and pecking her on the neck.
Soon after, we made out and went back inside, sitting together on a couch and chatting. We talked about Dragon Ball Z, music and a lot of other things. I was working overtime doing translation for Ten, who doesn’t speak that much Japanese. It seemed the night was going well. After half an hour the girl said they had to leave. Niaya said she’d grab a cab and see us later.
We followed the girls to their car, a small white cube looking vehicle, and said good night.

 

All is dark, and people sit on the floor with legs crossed and eyes focused. Booming dancehall music erupts from a stack of speakers. An array of lights flash then we see her. She steps out regaled in a policeman outfit made of a dark, shiny material. Wearing dark glasses with a sneer on her face, she begins the routine. The Jacket flies off with a sweep of her hand, revealing a hard stomach and tanned skin. Then after a few seductive moves, she pulls the pants away, effortlessly tossing them to the side and continuing her routine. The music is pounding, and now the dancer, wearing a glittery top and boy shorts, starts moving her hips and body in ways that tease the imagination. A few feet away onstage, I’m watching this performance. The dancer is Junko, the first Japanese woman to win the Jamaican Dancehall queen competition.

I’m at a Reggae party called “Goodaz Fridays”, which is held monthly at the Hunters club in Hamamatsu. The crowd is thick, filled with cute Japanese reggae girls and gung ho guys who could rival many Jamaicans on the dance floor. A guy wearing a full white outfit moves with the cultural precision of a full-blooded Jamaican. Beside him a set of girls with platinum blonde hair and non-existent shorts go through routine after routine of practiced dancehall moves. I, the Jamaican stand there for a while, spellbound at the display. A few familiar faces are around; girls I’ve met through the Hamamatsu reggae scene. I see a girl in an off-white leopard print dress standing in the corner, she’s a local dancer. I see Ribbon girl as well, who greeted me with a weak smile. A few other dancers were there, all exhibiting a slightly different body language tonight, and they were all in close proximity to Junko.

Junko in person is reasonably tall. She’s thicker than the average Japanese girl, and thus has more presence. Years of doing headstands, dutty wining and complex routines has given her a very sexy musculature. She stands by the bar with a few local DJs, who are shamelessly soaking up the limelight with her. She laughs while downing drink after drink, casually exuding star power. I find her attractive but not beautiful, sexy but not skanky. In 2002, she came to Jamaica and stunned the audiences with her acrobatic display of dancehall finesse. From jumping splits to handstands and the occasional death-defying move, the other participants were powerless to innovate in her presence. I remember seeing her on TV, barely able to speak any English, happy to stand on her head upon request. “I love Jamaica.” She had said back then.

That was seven years ago, and seeing her in person is interesting. For the local reggae groupies in town, Junko must be the epitome of their world; that place which is a hybridization of Jamaica and Japan. She is their queen, the pinnacle of what they want to be. In their desires to learn dances, songs and Jamaican culture, maybe they all want to be little dancehall queens themselves, rising up into the limelight in shiny outfits with sweat-laced foreheads.

“Happy birthday.” I said to Junko in Japanese.

This was one of a few sprinkled moments of conversation I would have with her during the night. The first time I spoke to her, she replied in English.
“Why do you speak like a Japanese?” she said.
I laughed.
“I like Japan.” I replied in Japanese.

The party started to pick up at about three a.m. The music, fast and powerful was a blur of modern tunes interlaced with the screeching voices of amped-up selectors. River, a local reggae artiste was walking around with a camera, snapping the action. I was dancing too, and possibly making my Japanese media debut on a “Goodaz Friday” bashment DVD. Hilarious.

I ran into a friend at the party, and we mingled with the girls for little while in between dancing. One girl, tall and attractive with brown hair was enamored with my friend, who was a dancer. They disappeared to a dark section of the club for a few minutes while her friend ignored me.

I was on the prowl tonight, and as I would learn, things weren’t so easy. Every girl I’d met on the reggae circuit was in attendance, and they were all unusually frigid. Dancing robotically to the music and chatting amongst themselves, the party at times felt strange. Even when what we Jamaicans call “Gyal tunes” started playing, the crowd wasn’t intermingling that much.

See, in Jamaica, a party escalates gradually to levels that force people to dance. At the crescendo of a good party, many people dance together. So far, at the bigger events I’d been to in Japan, it seemed a lot of people were content to just dance by themselves all night. I saw Ribbon girl walking around alone. As usual she had a drink in her hand. She seemed lost; standing by a speaker at one moment, and in the middle of the dance floor the next. She wasn’t dancing with anyone, just drinking. Later I would see her on a couch, her legs oddly crossed as she stared forward blankly in a drunken daze. Maybe she had problems, I thought. Family, childhood, who knows. Like my life is any different.

At around seven I left the club, giving a chilly goodbye to a few girls I see all the time who decided to ignore me around Junko. I told (the now drunk) Junko all the best. She gave me a half-goodbye, half hand-squeeze and sipped more of her drink. Later, a friend would show me scandalous pictures of Junko dancing with some of the sound guys. I laughed when I saw these pictures, because one thing with a dancehall queen, is that she won’t just dance with anyone.

Morning sun hit me with a slap as I rode home, tired and stained with sweat. I vaguely remembered there was some number I had to call, or some e-mail to send. I forgot about it and fell asleep.

June 14th, 2009

A Daquiri, I say, Is a sweet drink. It usually has strawberries in it, or some kind of fruit. You blend it with vodka, ice and a little sugar. In front of me, nodding and somewhat understanding, is a bartender at Planet Café. I’ve been trying to explain for roughly twelve minutes what a Daquiri is.

I’m here on a Sunday, and I feel bored, even though my day has consisted of watching Terminator: Salvation at noon, passing through a barbeque with some friends and hitting up a video arcade. My city restlessness has a new face.

At the bar are a few people from the reggae parties I’ve seen around. A DJ from the T.P sound system crew, his girl and Gully. I order a gin and tonic after giving up on my Daquiri. As the bartender made my drink, he laughed and asked me to write down the ingredients for the Daquiri. I’m waiting on Ribbon girl, the one I met at the party last night. We chatted on the phone briefly after I went to my Barbeque. When I spoke to her, a twinge of excitement had trickled through me when her number popped up on my phone. At the time I was sitting on the sidewalk, chatting to a friend about nothing in particular.
I took a sip of my drink, when a flurry of activity beside me grabbed my attention. Two gorgeous girls with slim bodies and long brown hair came to the bar coasting on a sea of giggles. I thought one of them was a girl I met the night before, at the reggae party.

“Hug.” I said.

“Nani?” (what?)she replied.

I said it again, more Japanesey. “HUG-OO.” I said. She hugged me, and then I realized I’d never met her. I also realized in the same thought she was very drunk. Japanese girls never hug guys they don’t know. Unless of course, you are famous.
“Hi.” She said exasperatedly.
“Hey.” I replied.
She was pretty, with movie actress looks and flawless skin. She wore a stylish outfit that screamed high fashion. Her friend smiled as I talked to her, but chatted to one of the bartenders and left us alone.
“Where you from?” she said.
“Jamaica.” I replied.
“Really?” she said.
She said this with absolute surprise, in the way a child who swore he failed a test  realizes he actually received an A. I told her I was a designer. Incidentally, I was wearing one of my own shirts.
“I want to buy one.” She said, rubbing my chest. “I am a mother!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“Very cool.” I said. “One child?”
“Yes, I have one. But I am twenty-one!”
She said this with a bright expression. I held her hand and without getting up, beckoned her to twirl. “Very nice.” I said.
She was. If she hadn’t told me she had a kid, it would be impossible to tell.
“You think I am nice?” she asked. Her eyes were filled with desire.
“Yes, you are.” I replied.
A part of me wanted to exploit this situation, but as a rule, I never like drunk women. The only way it works is if I’m equally drunk when I meet them, but at present I was stone cold sober. Having a sexy mother of one on my speed dial would be cool, but alas, Ribbon girl would arrive any minute.
I was right. In the periphery of my vision, I glimpsed her. She was looking very cute, with huge designer glasses. She wore a black and white dress over a pair of tight jeans. I could see the taper of her body through the layers. She had lip gloss on and a purse that resembled a ribbon. The theme continued.
I saw her pause as she said hello to some of the people from last night. Her eyes were on me, but I didn’t move. I’m not the type to play too many headgames, I was just observing.
The hot mom disappeared with a guy onto the the dance floor, and I turned to Ribbon girl. “Hey! You been here long?” I said. She walked over. She gave me a weak hug and stood by the bar. Close up, I could see the glow of the bar lights on her lips. She put her bag down. She seemed a little nervous. I chatted to her about my day and ask her some questions about herself.
“I don’t do much.” She replied. ” I just like to dance.”
Ah, I said in my mind. She’s a party girl.
I’ve messed with party girls before. One word always comes to mind when I think of a party girl.
Dangerous.
Party girls always seem to have nothing to do, are often sexy and probably slept with a few guys you’ve met before if you go out a lot. This generally means it’s a bad idea to think you’re special if she likes you. Sometimes this can change after a few sexual encounters, but not always.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small camera. The LCD flashed brightly as it came on. With her glasses and jeans, she looked like a shadow of herself the night before.  The image of her leaping on me, her face pressing against my neck and the smell of her shampoo flooded my senses quickly. It faded quickly, like a puff of cigarette smoke.
She showed me pictures of her in Jamaica. “Maji de??”(Really?) I said. Then I remembered somewhere between tequila shot eight or nine she had mentioned living in Jamaica for a month. Through her pictures I was catapulted back home. I saw the bright glowing faces of people with dark skin and short curly hair. She showed me the hot spots; Stone Love’s headquarters for Weddy Wednesdays, Lime Quay beach for Sunday afternoon, Devon house for tasty ice cream, and more. There were pictures with famous Jamaicans, and a few of her Japanese friends going wild at big parties, like Passa Passa.
I playfully joked with her, but she was shy, different. She ordered Chozou, a popular drink (sake mixed with water). I didn’t know why she was nervous. After she put the camera back into her bag, her entire focused drifted to the UNO game the people beside us were playing. I hinted a few times at going to dance, but she kept saying she was watching the game.
That’s an incredibly fascinating game of UNO, I thought to myself. Then I remembered. She was a party girl. I’m new to the scene. Disappearing with her on the dance floor might put her on the bad news bus. While we were looking at the pictures, she mentioned some party on Friday she was going to. She watched the UNO game, and I sat, bored on the stool. I got up and left.
As I exited the bar, before the door close I heard my name. In a movie-scene way, the door slammed in front of her as I glimpsed her looking at me.
“I see you Friday night?” she said.
“Yes.” I replied.
She went inside. I laughed a little, because she had practically chased me out of the bar. Party girls are different, I thought. I left the underground passage leading out of Planet and heading outside, back into the nighttime and towards the bowels of the city.