Tag: Japan

Kamakura, Spring Reiwa 5

Brothers Istiawan.

Not sure we can use that. The Javanese have no surnames. Both of my first and last names are given names. Istiawan is my father’s last name. It too is a given name.

During my business trip to Tokyo, I visited my brother’s new home in Kamakura. He married a Japanese. It was a midweek bank holiday. We took the Tokaido Line to Ofuna, then the Shonan Monorail. He picked us up at the station with a red Mazda Demio.

It was the first time since last year I saw him. I waved and said hi. Out of my reflex, I walked past him and put our luggage in the boot. 

I forgot to hug him.

Our family don’t hug. Or our parents hug, but always awkward. Like something you do because everyone does that with family or loved ones. Just something to tick on a checklist. 

It was Dinda who hugged him. For her, hugging comes naturally. I had to set my mind to hug him. Like a beginner in a dance class, wary of stepping on their dance partner. 

I knew my hug, our hug, was awkward. We are the sons of our father and mother, after all.

‘You bought a car?’ I was concerned about how he manages his expenses with mortgage and everything.

‘It is Mako’s mum’s. She can’t renew her driver’s license anymore. So she gave the car to us.’

His mother-in-law moved from Hiroshima to Kamakura. Sold her house and moved into an apartment a few blocks from their home. It makes life easier for all. Mako can come quickly if anything happens. Her mum can cook for herself and them. And they both still have their own space.

He educated me that Japan has a very low interest rate. The homeownership loan he took is only 0.4% for 35 years. Even Mako’s mum, in her 70s, can still take out a loan to buy the new apartment. He found a good contractor and got another loan to renovate the house.

Tias and Mako’s home is like a house in Ghibli films. No fence, no gate. Signs of a safe neighbourhood.  A signpost of ‘Takimoto & Saputro’ with cats ornament is at the door. Saputro is my brother’s last name. Again, not a family name.

They bought an old house and renovated it. Like most Japanese homes, they are tiny but efficient. It is a two storey house. More than enough for a couple with two cats. 

A tatami room is inside the living room. It is another Japanese ingenuity in making the most of the space: you can use the tatami room for sitting, yoga, or sleeping. They prepared futons and blankets, it became our room for the night.

We unpacked. Offloaded the cobek Tias asked us to bring. We handcarried that 10kgs of stone mortar and pestle. He wants to make sambal

Momomi seemed to catch that we smelled of cats. She demanded us to pay our dues as humans: we stroked and scratched her. Mochako was rather suspicious. She was rescued from a breeder, thus her cautious approach to new humans.

Mochako Takimoto-Saputro

Mako told us that the ofuro is ready. I got the honour to take the first dip (the hot water is used several times, and family members usually take turns in bathing—based on seniority). Tias reminded me to shower first before bathing. 

Of course. Does he think I’m gross?

In Japan, the bathrooms are insulated to protect the walls from humidity and mould. It also makes them easier to clean. The home is squeaky clean, tidy, and organised. A Dyson vacuum cleaner and a vacuum bot are among the cleaning equipment. The cat litter is odourless. 

Japan is an embodiment of a first world country. Nothing is cheap, but everything is of a high value. Thanks to a relatively equal society. Some said it is changing. Capitalism and consumerism, in the end, are rationalisation. The goal is the cheapest items with the highest profit margins. Made in Japan, as Made in Germany—the shokunin—would soon give in to less quality for more quantity. The wage-inflation gap is increasing. The aging population and capital exports make young people work more.

Our childhood home in Jakarta, the Nimun House, is in a state of disrepair. The bathrooms have no doors. Lime and grime on the water closet and basins. The floors would black your feet. Mosquitoes and mould. The air is humid, the lighting dim. Ventilations are not well designed. The furnitures are hand me downs, mismatched. Clutters are hoarded.

It has always been that way. A brick-a-brack of construction, added on top of each other with little or no forethought. 

I am glad that Tias’ Kamakura home is a far cry from our childhood home.

We had dinner at a local sushi restaurant Osakanatei. The proprietors are an old couple. The husband cooks and the wife waits the tables. They don’t speak English, so my brother interpreted. Most, if not all, of the patrons are locals. The proprietress sat with guests. She showed a flyer of a play, set in the Italian Renaissance Era, at the community centre. She’d be in that play, as a dowager.

How cute. So first world. Where senior citizens can work and have meaningful leisure time.

The next morning we had a Japanese fishermen’s breakfast at Enoshima Koya. We were the first to queue. The place is so popular, we needed to arrive early (the Japanese like to queue even more than the English). As a rice boy, I say it was the best breakfast I ever had in my life. 

I dared my brother to send our picture together to Bapak. He didn’t see the harm, so he did.

‘Is Suar coming to Japan for vacation or business?,’ father replied.

‘He’s on a business trip to Tokyo.’

‘Oh. Happy that you all can meet up. Say hi to Mako.’

End of conversation .

Tias expected that Bapak would show a certain level of curiosity on what your sons are up to. Maybe even being offended because I didn’t tell him that I was going to Japan. But listening is not a masculine trait, as our father exemplified.

We went back to Kamakura home. Mako ordered a reformer, she’s training for pilates instructor certification. The delivery guy just dropped the package at the front door.

‘I am not paid enough to break my back carrying that heavy load inside.’ 

Not all Japanese are omotenashi. Should I say that we’d pay more if he did? But tipping is offensive here.

Good thing I lift weights. Tias lent me his work gloves. After we put that 100kg mainframe, Tias wanted to install the entire parts. He said he saw in a YouTube video it takes only 8 minutes.

I told him that the video shows an installation by a trained handyman—with cut scenes. Mako said he tends to underestimate how much time is needed. In anyway, he would install the reformer later.

We changed into trail shoes, trekked the  Hiromachi Greenery. I climbed a giant Enoki tree. I imagined Totoro was sleeping down there. We met another group of trekkers. We met a group of locals who lived in Jakarta. We exchanged pleasantries in English, a little Japanese and a little Indonesian.

Enoki tree

We stopped by a coffee shop cum library, Book Cafe So Common. I love how respectful the Japanese are to peace and quiet. The patrons were stylish, engrossed in their reading or chatting with proper volume and tone. Someone was wearing a black Leica M (from the ISO dial, it is an M10 or 11). Not many English books are available. I took and browsed a photobook, Appearance.

We sat by the fireplace. On cold days or nights, they would fire it with wood. But it was a warm autumn day. Warm enough not to wear a jacket, cold enough not to be sweating. A perfect weather.

The coffee shop is in the most expensive neighbourhood in Kamakura. The homes are big. Land Rovers parked in the garages.

We took a bus to Kotoku-in Temple, to see the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha Statue). Saw a Latin American pray, light an amber on incense, then made a cross sign across his body. Buddha would receive his prayer, not sure with Jesus or Yahweh/Allah. The Abrahamic God demands exclusivity.

The Great Buddha Statue

Had lunch at Antico Rondino, a prosciutteria. The restaurant is in a traditional Japanese house. Our favourite Asian food is Japanese, and Italian for Western. I felt so grateful to be able to eat Italian a few blocks away from a Japanese temple. Too bad, the toilet is also European: bidetless. The restaurant should have stuck with Toto washlet.

We walked to the beach. It is not that tropical paradise-esque white sand and turquoise waters you find on travel brochures. It has the charm of an English seaside town (but with better weather and food). The shops are modelled after Hawaiian or Balinese styles. People surf, kite, or just walk. A group of international karatekas were training and posing. It was the golden hour. I felt like in Keane’s music video, ‘Sovereign Light Cafe’.

International karatekas

There is also a park with a baseball field. Fathers and sons or daughters played catch. I caught an off field ball and threw it back to them.

A good place to raise children. I thought. Expensive, maybe, but a good place. 

I was tempted to ask Tias and Mako on that subject. I imagine a cute mixed race nephew or niece. But as a child-free adult, I refrained from asking that.

We took the tram back. Packed our bags again, to return to Tokyo. Tias and Mako drove us to Ofuna station. We stopped by Awanouta for ramen dinner. Mako warned us that the dishes we ordered contained pork. Tias told her it was okay. She mistook us for our parents and extended family. We’re not halal people. 

We our said goodbye at Ofuna Station. I told him again that he should not think about going back to Jakarta. No matter how our parents and family emotionally blackmail him to return. 

Our mother wanted what most Indonesian mums wanted: a visit once a week (with grandchildren), a prayer time together, gatherings during Ramadan and Eid festivals. 

But Tias’gaijin life is a better life. In a high income country, you are 1% rich if you are middle class. If anybody tells you money can’t buy happiness, they are spending it wrong.

Hiromachi Greenery scarecrows: Candy Candy

A week after my business trip to Tokyo, it was our mother’s birthday. I know I should send something. 

I did.

Should I come to visit her? I have postponed visiting since 2019. Pandemic, I told everyone.

I didn’t in the end.

Tias asked for a videocall with Nimun House. 

Yes, videocall should suffice.

Tias and Mako dialled in from Kamakura. I from my home. We tried to have a conversation as a family.

Ibu was sleepy. Half-conscious. She slipped off from her chair, unable to remain on screen. She had a stroke last year, after a decade of losing her voice. She was on Xanax and Prozac, but always refused therapy. Relied on prayers. Now she is showing symptoms of dementia.

Bapak and our youngest brother Pasha—her only two dependants now—tried to animate her. Like a doll. 

I told them about Kamakura home. How beautiful it is. The forest and the beach. Tias translated to Japanese from Indonesian for Mako.

Bapak replied, ‘Oh nice. Why didn’t you visit it during your business trip to Tokyo.’

‘He did. I sent you our picture,’ Tias said.

‘Oh. It’s nice that your home is near parks.’ 

‘It’s a forest, not just parks. We trekked. And a beach nearby,’ I said. ‘People do wind-surfing too.’ 

Bapak did wind-surfing when he was young. As a little kid, I saw him surf at Ancol.

I showed him pictures from n the Lightroom app. But I realised he was already gone before I finished showing them. Only Pasha was still there. Ibu went asleep before the screen.

Silence. I couldn’t find things to say.

I pride myself on being a conversationalist. But my parents always disagreed with that self evaluation. They said I’m not much of a social person. Too stubborn and materialistic.

I saw a hole in the ceiling behind Ibu. I asked Pasha, ‘Is that a hole in the ceiling?’

He didn’t reply. He talked about his gig. Giving his labour to a friend’s business: supervising the loading and unloading of events organisation. 

I can’t remember what we talked about after that. I could have pressed on, don’t change the subject. But I didn’t. All I remember was Billie Eilish’s ‘What I Was Made For’ playing in my head.

And that hole in the ceiling.

Brothers Istiawan: we have the same strides

Tokyo, Autumn Reiwa 5

Foreigner disembarkation card [Arrival]

Family Name : SANUBARI Given Name : SUAR

PURPOSE OF VISIT :  [  ] TOURISM  [   ] BUSINESS   [  ] VISITING RELATIVES

I could tick all those boxes. It was my fourth time visiting Tokyo. I was using the same suitcase I bought for my first trip to the Eastern Capital, in 2011, when I was travelling with my big Indonesian family. My family’s idea of travel is a change of sceneries in a protective familiarity bubble afforded by an Indonesian speaking guide, halal foods; being transported from one sight to another, pictures to be posted to Facebook. 

It was, however, the beginning of my independent travels.

On my departing flight to Tokyo in 2023, I reread Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. I was so mesmerised by the book. My first tattoo is a Sputnik—the first artificial satellite that orbited the earth, the Soviet’s head start in the Space Race; Russian for ‘travelling companion’. Made in London, The Family Business tattoo parlour. I had forgotten what the plot was about. I just remember the feeling. I was prompted to reread it because it has been adapted as a play in London, playing at Arcola Theatre.

You cannot read the same book twice. You have changed. I feel that Sputnik Sweetheart is lighter now. I have developed stronger reading muscles. 

And it came to me then: Sputnik Sweetheart is about travel. About Europhilia.

Sumire is a promising twenty something writer. She writes everyday and lives a non-conformist life. She only wants to write and does not want to do the practical things people do to live in this modern life. 

She is passionate about writing. However, she couldn’t produce a novel. Miu, her older sweetheart, suggested and paid for her travel—accompanying Miu on business trips to Europe. Along the journey, Sumire learned the impractical but important things in life (like developing a taste for good food and fine wine) by doing the practical and necessary things (budgeting, preparing itineraries, haggling for transport). Things which cannot be learned from books. Allowing her to develop the strength, with time and experience, to dig deep and to open that lid of the unconscious.

Murakami makes an inference about this living-before-you-can-go-about-writing [novels] in Novelist as a Vocation (unless you are a genius like Dickens or Tolstoy, in his disclaimer). 

On my second trip to Tokyo the summer of 2013, I have already gained some mileage as an independent traveler. I know how to do research and how to plan, budget, and improvise (thank you, Lonely Planet). I fairly knew what I liked or, at least, what I didn’t like.

The firm I was working for had an outing to Japan. I extended my stay and met up with my wife and friends who travelled separately. We booked different return flights. I had to fly from Tokyo, they were flying back from Osaka.

I had one night as a solo traveler in Tokyo. I stayed in a hostel, K’s House Asakusa. I enjoyed (perhaps still enjoy) the convivial communality of hostels. You can meet with fellow travellers. Experience the unexpected connection that may not last but stays with us forever. If you are lucky.

That night I shared a dorm with an 18 year old American boy taking a gap year. Not rude or annoying. His suitcase stank when opened; full of dirty clothes. I was in my late 20s and thought about how disorganised ‘kids’ are. 

I got out of the room to avoid the stank. There was no one in the common area. So I went out that night.

I haven’t developed a taste for alcohol (or even coffee). I still needed ‘sights and attractions’ when travelling. Tokyo has plenty, but I was low on budget. I considered Robot Café, but even that was too expensive for me.

At least, I was already an avid reader. I bought After Dark and spent the night reading. I have been to the red light district of Kabukicho. The memories of male hosts loitering around, the pimps soliciting with broken English, the neon lights of the establishments, made my aloneness as a solo traveler a lonely experience.

A story of the exploitation of Chinese sex workers, psychopaths, and sociopaths among us. From my travel to Amsterdam and Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work, I know some sex workers are empowered. But there are actual victims of human trafficking or outright poverty.

Japanese sex establishments are not as straightforward as the rest of the world. Most of them are not open for business to gaijin. Many of the girls are not Japanese. But I read it’s changing now. With Japan’s current economy, sexless marriages, and a staunchly patriarchal society, more Japanese women are supplementing their income as sex workers.

My third time in Tokyo was in the winter of 2018. We stayed in a hostel dorm room because we couldn’t find other options (it was New Year’s Eve). We had awful roommates. White trash couple, loud and rude. They even fucked in the dorm (note to backpackers: the pod’s curtain does not provide sufficient privacy). Next to us was an awkward Asian who set his alarm but slept with earplugs. His alarm woke the entire room, except himself. I banged his pod.

In hindsight, the hostel is near a tourist hotspot. Budget accommodation too close to that kind of area is never a good bargain.

We met two Asian Canadian girls, of East and South Asian descent, at Keffir Lime, a Thai restaurant in Omotesando. Their main vocabularies are ‘Oh My God’ and ‘This is da bomb!’ to describe everything they ate. 

They invited us to come with them to a club around there. When I ask what kind of club. They said, ‘a nice one.’ 

I asked them to describe ‘nice’. They went silent for a while, eyes rolled to their left brain—thinking.

‘It is full of tourists, like us. And it has loud music.’

Unfortunately, we had different views on ‘nice’. 

This time, autumn 2023, I came for ‘work’. Meetings, networking (I almost puke using that word) with lawyers and clients exporting capital to Indonesia. 

Good thing those bengoshi are busy. Hosting me for two hours—non-billable—put a strain on their schedule. So our meetings were short and sweet, a series of quickies. Not those ‘Yamanote Line meetings’. 

Japanese corporate culture can sanction a meeting to discuss why the meetings are too long. 

I borrowed that from the comic Meshida. I came to his live stand up show, in English (or should I say, ‘Engrish’ as he pronounced it on stage). I got to know him courtesy of YouTube algorithms. Many of his jokes are aimed at Japanese and Asians. Of course, he punches Americans and white people too. As he said, ‘Japanese are not racist. We don’t differentiate people by skin colours. We just call them gaijin. We are just xenophobic.’ *Except for Korean and Chinese.*

For lunch meetings, I mentioned that Japanese food is my comfort food. I can eat them everyday. I don’t mind eating local food only whenever I’m travelling here (the same applies to France and Italy). A senior partner of the biggest Japanese international law firm took me to the Michelin star Sushi Umi for omakase

She is a member of the management board, speaks English with a hint of a British accent. In corporate Japan, only 6% of women made it to top leadership; female lawyers make up for 18% of the profession. That is the recent statistics on diversity. She has been practicing for decades. She must be so exceptional. No wonder many of the other partners seemed intimidated around her.

Her dad is a retired journalist, her mom’s business is kimono. She has a scholar and a merchant lineage. The perfect mix for a lawyer.

She lives with her parents. She said she’s more like a son than a daughter. She’s rarely at home. The firm has offices around the globe, so she’s a frequent flyer. But because of the pandemic, she could be a daughter. Spent time with her mom, cooking together.

I am glad that she is not the type of lawyer whose only interest is work. She is personally close with my boss. They travelled together to Timor Leste for a charity project. She thinks of my boss as her ‘little sister’.

She asked how is my stay in Tokyo so far. 

I went to Kitanomaru Park after a meeting. The ginko trees were blooming. Momiji leaves were starting to show brown and red hues. I did what a first world denizen does: sat under the autumn sun. The weather was perfect: not too cold (you don’t need to layer up), not too hot (you don’t sweat from walking). I listened to Arcade Fire’s ‘Photograph’. I attained Nirvana for 2 minutes 25 seconds.

Kitanomaru Park

I passed through Yasukuni Jinja. Unnerved that some Japanese still bowed towards the gate; the Hinomaru flag flown. The Germans would not salute any monument associated with their fascist history. My late grandmother told me that she was rolled in the carpet by her parents when the Imperial Army was doing a house search, looting for supplies and materials and ‘comfort women’.

I got to know Shiko Munakata at MOMAT. Like many 20th-century Japanese, he was inspired by Western modern art. He wanted to be the Japanese Van Gogh. But he did better: he became the Munakata. Thus the special exhibition: ‘The Making of Munakata Shiko’, celebrating his 120th birthday. I bought rubber stamps, imitations of his woodblock prints, at the museum shop. 

MOMAT, Shiko Munakata

I made spiritual pilgrimages, first to Aoyama Cemetery and then to the LV flagship boutique in Omotesando. I didn’t shop, I came for the ‘L>espace)(…’ installation by Cerith Wyn Evans. Exhibited at the ESpace, part of the ‘Hors-les-murs’ programme, on the fifth floor. We came at the perfect time: the sun was setting over the Tokyo skyline, basked it with an autumnal orange ray. We witnessed the atmospheric changes from the golden to the blue hour. It was a sublime visual and auditory sensory experience. A chandelier transmitting morse code, the flutes with discordant music, the neon lights, and the rotating bonsai. Their shadows fall onto the floor aesthetically.

LV Espace

We had cocktail drinks at Bar Trench, one of Asia’s Best Bars featured in Netflix’s Midnight Asia. Tasted wine and cheeseat Bar Bossa in Shibuya, pretending that we were in a Murakami’s story. Drank shots of single malt at Albatross in Golden Gai. Rubbed shoulders and elbows with Asian Californians who were equally annoyed by loud Japanese bantering with a Hawaiian and his Filipino girlfriend (no wonder Americans never said ‘I’m from America’, they always pinpoint the State; people from Austin, however, never said they are from Texas—another Meshida’s insight).

Tokyo overwhelms me. To wind down every night, I made use of the sento facilities of The Square Hotel Ginza (tattoos allowed). There is something liberating in communal bathing. It clears my mind of body image issues. When washing before soaking in the hot water, I look at my naked self in the mirror. One day, this all will decay. So enjoy while it lasts.

‘You enjoy Tokyo much more than me,’ she commended.

We did talk about the private practice industry. The firm is rebranding, changed the logo to be more modern and international, more visible. Hired a former marketing officer of a big Japanese fast fashion company. 

She said she’s old school. A Bubble Era girl. She likes wearing a kimono for official ceremonies, a hassle but it makes her move and speak more slowly—gracefully. She was taught by her mentor back then that law firms’ identity should be muted, colourless (‘Like Tsukuru Tazaki?,’ I said). Lawyers should be like kurogo, the black clad puppeteers in bunraku—moving things forward for the clients, behind the screen. We are business services, after all.

Of course, we should be visible when necessary. But the spotlight and focal point must be the clients.

Despite being a millennial, an elder one, I agree with her. I am skeptical of the bashful self-promotion normalised on LinkedIn. I am not denying that you need marketing. Private practice is a business. I just don’t think copying the marketing styles of tech companies—which are, mostly, B2C—is effective marketing.

Congratulating yourself or your firm (‘I am honoured…’) for a deal or a case that no one cares about seems like an arms race. Not to mention masturbatory.

I was impressed with the law firm’s office in Otemachi. The interior design is a modern version of a Japanese castle. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my inner voice. The support staff, all of them women immaculately groomed like flight attendants, made way and bowed to me; saluting me with ‘Sensei’. I felt like a lord in feudal Japan. This kind of strict hierarchal etiquette between fee earners and support staff is something you won’t find even in US white shoes or UK silver circle law firms.

The younger me would have been swelling with pride to have a business trip to Tokyo. But I am old enough to know that Murakami’s adage: of learning the impractical but important things in life (photography, writing, tasting exquisite sushi and Japanese whisky, enjoying coffee, sitting in a park) by doing the practical and necessary (presentation on ‘Indonesia related Commercial Disputes’, networkings, videoconferences in preparation for hearings). 

It’s not about how ‘important’ you are to be paid for making this trip. I’m always willing to pay for my travels (I am, after all, a traveler). It is just I also happen to earn my living (and my intellectual capacity) as a lawyer. I got some of my expenses covered and I get to do the important things.

When my business trip period ended, we extended our stay. Visited my brother who lives in Kamakura. Then we returned to Tokyo and stayed at Suzumeya Tsukiji. A Showa era styled minimalist accommodation. It has that Fumio Sasaki’s Goodbye, Things vibe. 

Waseda University has a beautiful campus. Tourists come for a photo at its square, with is Okuma Auditorium. As much as the clock tower is an iconic building, it is an imitation of European university halls. 

We came to the International House of Literature, the Haruki Murakami Library.

If Fujiko F. Fujio, with his Doraemon, filled my childhood’s literary appetite. Murakami fed me in my adulthood. Like all books I read, they seemed to appear in my life at the stages in which I require their contextual wisdom. Murakami’s books consistently reappear whenever I need them. Perhaps because I live a boring life. I have to find or make meaning out of the mundane modern urban life.

The library has a listening room playing Murakami’s playlist, where you can take any book and read (or just listen). But I didn’t read. The Library feels more like a temple to me. It exhibits the original and international editions of Murakami’s works. In my ‘networking’ presentation, I used the book cover of Tsukuru Tazaki Tanpa Warna dan Tahun Ziarahnya to show Japanese culture’s penetration in Indonesia. 

We played a game of title guessing. We had to look for keywords and images (for editions in languages with no Phoenician alphabets, like Hebrew or the original Japanese) for clues. 

I took La regazza dello Sputnik from the shelf. 

Haruki Murakami Library

Now I am older. I am of Miu’s age, instead of Sumire. I have travelled to more than 25 countries. I have read hundreds of books. I can write more and better. I am less gregarious now. Despite being a man, I have realised that I need emotional connection more than sex itself. Before Midnight is right, there are only a few people you met whom you’d feel connected. Something you took for granted when you were young. 

I have come to grasp the impermanence of our connections with our loved ones. Just because something does not last, it does not deprive its meaning. We must come face to face with our loneliness and work on ourselves. We have to find our values and do what we must according to them. 

On the last effective day in Tokyo, we pretended to be samurai. We attended an introduction class to Japanese swordsmanship. After contemplating the austere aesthetics of feudal warriors, we had lunch at Tokyo Sky Tree. 

Japanese swordmanship

Consumers’ paradise that is Tokyo. The bags, the Wagyu and Kobe beef, the coffees, the whiskies, the fancy hat, the dinner jacket, the longsleeved gym shirts, the pens, and the leatherbound notebooks. And of course, the books. I was a minimalist who fell from grace here.

I have a feeling that I will be back for more.

Naoshima

Yayoi Kusama and her polkadot pumpkins may be the most popular reason to visit Naoshima, a sleepy fishing island in Seto Inland Sea; face-lifted— soul-lifted—as modern art haven by Benesse Art Site. However, the true master of the island is Tadao Ando. A self taught architect with brutalist signature style: with concrete, metal, and wood as materials. Ando designed three grand art museums on the shoreline of the island: the Benesse House, the Lee Ulfan, and the Chichu Museums. There is also a little museum bearing his name, the Ando Museum—an old traditional Japanese house which inner-space is converted to Ando’s modern style. 

Benesse Art House shoreline

Navigation

Naoshima’s main sights are scattered in three areas: Honmura, Miyanoura, and Benesse House Area. The island is compact enough for a day trip. However, we spent a night to better explore the island. 

Accommodation and transportation options in the island are limited (or I should say, “curated”). 

You can either walk, cycle, or take the cute polkadot public bus (100 yen flat fare) to get around. Cycling will give you the best flexibility: fast enough to catch up with your schedule yet slow enough to feel the surroundings. You can stop anywhere; not being dependant on bus stops’ timetable (although, like everywhere in Japan, the buses are punctual to the minute). Some of the bicycles for rent are electric powered if you want to pedal less. Since my partner can’t ride a bicycle, we walked and took the bus.

For accommodation, we took the word of our bible Lonely Planet. The Top Choice recommendations are Benesse House (it’s also a luxury hotel) and Tsutsujiso Lodge (a campsite). We chose Tsutsujiso for being budget friendly and the novelty of staying in a caravan (for larger group, yurts are available). The bathroom of the caravan is converted into a luggage store. There is a dedicated building for shower and toilet facility. You have to pay extra for hot shower, but we took bath in I Heart You sento (public bath) anyway. We took Tsutsujiso’s breakfast and dinner packages for practicality. The meals are of high standards. We had sukiyaki for dinner. In the morning, I opted Japanese breakfast of rice, natto, and miso soup (rice boy forever!). My partner had continental breakfast.

Coffee, concrete, and sunlight. Buses, bicycles, and sento.

We entered the island through Honmura Port in the afternoon (took a speedboat from Uno Port near Okayama city of Honshu, the Japanese main island). Deposited our luggages at the town office (if you have not acquired the printed version of Naoshima Area Map, you can get one here) then explored the Honmura area. Our itinerary: the Art House Project, modern art installations in traditional Japanese houses. 

But first, we needed to have lunch. We went to Cafe Salon Nakaoku, a relatively hidden cafe in the outskirts of Honmura, for the omurice (rice omelette) and coffee. It has that Showa atmosphere, complete with old box-shaped Japanese made Alexander Graham Bell cup receiver model telephone unit.  We were seated on the bar, made the time to read after meal. And plan.

The first Art House Project we visited was Minamidera which houses James Turrel’s “Backside of the Moon”. We took a queue ticket for our time slot. When it our group’s turn to enter, we were ushered inside the house. It was dark inside. Light and noise discipline was enforced, we were instructed to wait in silence. Slowly, we could see a big white screen in front of us. My mind initial association was we were in a cinema and there were rows of seats in front of us. We were then instructed to walk and explore, I found out that the room was actually empty and the white screen is a window to a Zen sand garden with no ornament.

We were told that the light in the room never changed, but our eyes adapted to the low light—thus we could see the “white screen”. I understood the biology and the physics, but what fascinated me most was the psychology. My association of darkened room, where I was seated with strangers, is of a cinema (I love films). It was a positive association and I am glad for it. Maybe someone with traumatic experience would associate the room with something darker.

The other houses we visited were Kadoya/Tatsuo Miyajima’s “Sea of Time”, “Naoshima’s Counter Window”, and “Changing Landscape”;  Gokaisho by Yoshihiro Suda; and  Haisha/Shinro Otake’s “Dreaming Tongue”.

One thing I note of these modern artworks in Naoshima is that they are art for art’s sake. Indulging the senses, allowing the consumer (me) to contemplate their existence. They are objects of bourgeois humanism. The artworks are not art that was “created dangerously”—art for political purposes, as Camus asked artists to do—like Yoko Ono’s “Refugees Boat” and Ai Wei Wei’s “Odyssey” in Catastrophe and the Power of Art Exhibition at Mori Art Museum Tokyo.

Modern art, for me,  is fun since they are free of interpretations. I can be shallow and superficial in perceiving and enjoying them, such as taking pictures with them (but never selfie—I still have a certain degree of self respect). I can create my own personal narrative and express my associations when reflecting on the artworks.

Inserting myself to Kazuo Katase’s “Drink a Cup of Tea”.

However, it is still important to understand the artists’ and other people’s interpretation. Ideas are memetic and it can only expand if copied, exchanged. Naoshima’s artworks main narrative, I read, is about coexistence between humans and nature as well as critics against the vapidity of consumerist society. I think it’s paradoxical to see bourgeois artworks, delivered by a corporation, protesting the diseases of capitalism. Of course, “paradox” only exist if I see things as binary, black and white. In Netflix’s Une Fille Facile (An Easy Girl), a billionaire who also invests in art claims he is an anarchist. Anarchist don’t care about money; it is easier to not care about money if you’re rich.

Lonely Planet rated Project Art House as Top Choice. While they are great, I think Chichu Art Museum deserves more of such rating. I did not know who Tadao Ando is or even the term “brutalist” when I first came to Naoshima. My first impression of  Chichu reminded me of the Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum in Berlin. It looks like James Bond’s supervillain’s secret headquarter; felt like entering Cloud Atlas’ Sonmi scenes or The Matrix. The architecture is designed to adopt natural lights, therefore different weather will give visitors different experience. Ours was cloudy and rainy. The atmosphere was somber but I was ecstatic. The coldness and the barrenness—the brutal simplicity—seem to stir my consciousness; that feeling when you feel “at home”. 

The subsequent exploration of the island was hazy. I consumed—no, I was consumed by—art. It is difficult to compartmentalise my experience in a linear timeline, but I remember the clarity of a life fully lived for that brief moment. Claude Monet’s Water Lilies paintings and the brutalist impression of a Spanish neighbourhood “Time/Timeless/No Time” are in Chichu. But in which museum I saw the  “Banzai Corner” installation—Ultramen and Ultrawomen rising hands to the sky, the traditional Japanese salutation to the Emperor, lined up as a constellation of red-silver (the colours of Ultraman) dots creating a perfect circle? “The World Flag Ant Farm”? “100 Live and Die”? Where did we stopped for a coffee and lunch and bought a miniature “Shipyard Works: Cut Bow and Stern with Hole” from the gachapon vending machine? 

Some of the installations, such as Turrel’s “Open Field”, require visitors to take off their shoes before entering. All  require respectful silence as when one enters an Oriental shrine, a temple, or a mosque. 

Photography is not allowed inside the museums and most indoor areas. Flying drones in the island is also prohibited. This is to promote enjoyment of the art. Social media has made many of us experience life with Instagram eye. The artworks in Naoshima are mostly three dimensional, one need to be there in person to savour them. (There are, of course, commercial reasons to prohibit photography: intellectual property protection and exclusivity. Fewer images present on the internet gives the island the aura of a Secret Garden; nudging people’s curiosity to come spending their yens in the island.) 

My legs were sore from walking and bus hopping. The tiredness helped induce a transcendent state of mind. After dinner at Tsutsujiso, we had time to catch a bus to Miyanoura and took a bath at I Heart You sento. A few days before I experienced traditional onsen bath at Iwaso Ryokan in Miyajima, where  wood is the main element in subdued colours exterior and interior design. I Heart Yu is the contemporary opposite: neon coloured plastic dominates. The exterior looks like a brothel. The men’s changing room is decorated with Middle Eastern illuminations of Turkish bath and clippings of retro 60s-70s advertisements. A life size elephant statue stands on the wall dividing the men’s and women’s baths.

I was the only gaijin that night. I read that many foreign tourists are reluctant to experience Japanese communal bath. The idea to be bare naked with other men is so alien to many cultures, especially Asian. I grew up in a home and a culture with strict views on sexual taboos. I also have a body image issue; I always worry if I look good enough. I am self-conscious being topless, even at the beach or by the pool; I take off or put on my underwear under the cover of towel in gym changing room. I am still shy being naked in front of my intimate partner (unless I am with erection). However, I Heart Yu was not my first nudist bathing: I went to a sento bath with my brother in Kyoto (awkward—we had not seen each other naked as adults) and shared onsen with my coworkers in a hotel under Mount Fuji for an office outing (super awkward—there was my boss). So I was more relaxed. I soaked in the hot water, feeling the release of tense muscles, and enjoyed the atmosphere. I observed other patrons of the bath (not staring): a guy has bushy hairs on his legs and pubic areas, but smooth like a dolphin on his upper body; an old man’s wrinkled flat ass seems to foretell how I will look in my senior years (if I live long enough). 

My Norwegian friend told me that communal shower was common in his school year. It taught that bodies come in different shapes and sizes, not just the advertising driven standards of beauty. Only few people can have that Hollywood chiseled six pack abs. Also, nudity is not always about sex. I guess onsen and sento are a good way to to rewire my mind on body image issues.

I was the only one with tattoos. Many sento and onsen still refuse entry to people with tattoos. The body art is associated with the yakuza. However, I Heart Yu welcomes tattoos. Rather than imposing corporeal restrictions, the place only refuse entry to “members of an organised crime”.

Watching the steams and the water droplets condensing on the ceiling , knowing well I was protected from the cold of a winter night, ended the day with the satisfaction of an exploration. I Heart You is also designed by Otake. It is run by locals with a day job; they make sure the bath is always clean and the water temperature constant. I was grateful to them all for such a fine intimately indulging establishment.

We waited for the last bus to Tsutsujiso at Shioya Diner, a vintage rock ’n roll themed eathouse. We had a great night sleep in our caravan from the calmness brought by a hot bath and hot sake.

I Heart Yu sento

The sun was shining bright on our second day in Naoshima. Making the island and the modern artworks, both exterior of buildings and outdoor installations ripe for photography. The walk around the Benesse House was pleasant and made me glad I was alive. I know it is a privilege to contemplate on my existence. Sentiency is a burden, but it is also a gift. I think art helps me to appreciate the fact that I am a thinking animal.

We left the island by ferry from Miyanomura Port, where Yayoi Kusama’s Red Pumpkin greet and bid farewell to the visitors of the island. I wanted to take a photograph of it, but decided against it because there were too many tourists taking pictures of the installation. People began to flock the island for the Christmas Eve, we got our timing right to come before. So I just waited at the waiting area. 

I heard Christmas carols, but sung in Japanese. It was the local choir, some of them are senior local citizens. Christianity remains a cult in this archipelago despite its popularity elsewhere. During the Toyotomi and Tokugawa period, the Kiristan were persecuted. I remember a short story set in feudal Japan by Ryunosuke Akutagawa “Dr. Ogata Ryosai: Memorandum”:

A Christian mother begged a Buddhist doctor to treat her sick and dying daughter. The doctor refused to treat her because she vilified non-Christians, including the doctor, as heretics and devil worshippers. Medicine is a merciful art, but the doctor was afraid of the punishment of his gods and Buddhas. Therefore, unless the mother renounces her Christian faith, he could not examine her daughter. The mother gave in; she renounced Jesus and stepped on her kurusu (cross necklace). However, the daughter died even after receiving medical treatment. She was furious and frustrated because she believes that she will not be able to go to heaven to meet her daughter when she dies.

How burdensome can faith be.

The  Japanese rendition of Silent Night and other  Christmas songs are a testament to the beauty of modern democratic society: the freedom of belief (and unbelief). Too bad the roar of oncoming boat’s engine obscured the choir. 

We boarded the ferry. I stayed on the observation deck, watched the Naoshima’s landscape until it was out of sight. The winter wind chill sent me back to the passengers’ cabin.

Post trip notes

Now I know why I am fascinated by East Asia, specifically Japan. Hermann Hesse in Singapore Dreams posit that Asia represents paradise lost: the primeval forests; the primitive civilisations; and the superstitions represent something childlike and innocent (as opposed to European enlightenment’s rationalism, materialism, and industrialism).

The discontent arising from excess consumerism, the existential crisis caused by the newfound prosperity—the spiritual deprivation from the unveiling dogma by scientific knowledge; the status anxiety brought by the so-called meritocratic capitalist society—make modern persons fall to the golden age syndrome. Idealising simpler way of lives, ergo the exoticism of the Orient and the European obsession to the classics.

Japan is industrialised and modern. They have understood the need to preserve their ancient heritage, but they do not overly romanticised it. The East Asians are not apologetic to progress. They refused to satisfy the Western stereotypes of “traditional” cis “primitive” Asian people. Adopting capitalism and consumerism with glee. Therefore, suffering similar maladies: inequality, alienation, isolation, and the general meaninglessness of existence.

Many Asians, therefore, also seek refuge in Oriental Spiritualism. However, the line between spiritual and supernatural are thin and obscure. People who are anti-Old Age religions and suspicious to New Ageism (like me) tend to be skeptical to metaphysical claims. Yet I cannot deny that there is an existential—no, a survival—urgency to give meaning; to make life worth living and to make sense of our experience. Modern art gives that spiritual fulfilment without the need to make or submit to any metaphysical claims; enjoyable even without exerting my reasoning faculty (cf. philosophy).

Something changed inside me after my visit to Naoshima. It was a secular pilgrimage to a non-religious holy site. The prophets and saints and gods of atheism are philosophers, artists, and scientists. Ando is the pontifex maximus of the Naoshima “sacred” island. To borrow from Koil’s Mendekati Surga lyrics, he is “the architect who baptises consciousness”.

* * *

Hiroshima

Hiroshima. The first city on which a nuclear weapon was used.

I took the Nozomi shinkansen from Tokyo and arrived at Hiroshima train station in the afternoon. We walked to our hostel, K’s House. Crossed the Enko River. The sunset from the Enko Bridge was beautiful despite the sakura trees were dry and leafless. It was winter yet snowless.

I tried to imagine when the atomic bomb was dropped. Many of the towns people jumped into the river. Their bodies burning, flesh melting. Hoping the water would reprieve them from the pain. In the aftermath, the river was full of floating rotting bodies.

A contrasting image in my mind’s eye compared to present day Hiroshima. The city has been rebuilt from rubble and ashes; like Berlin. I can smell the newness. Gray concrete buildings with blaring neon signs, typical of Japan and East Asia.

Our first stop in Hiroshima was the Bake Cheese Tart and Bic Camera, the gigantic electronics store chain. Japan, despite their traditional arts styled in austere aestheticism–a legacy of warrior class, samurai, rule–is a gastronomical paradise and shopping mecca. The main traits of consumerist capitalist society. 

Hiroshima Station

I do not like shopping when travelling. However, Japan is an exception to such a rule. Jan Chipcase, a global innovation designer, in Hidden in Plain Sight, said Japan is the centre for design thinking and innovation. Japanese precision and attention to details have allowed them to create products which are aesthetically beautiful and practical. Their culture of hospitality and helpful nature makes great customer service experience.

Unlike Tokyo the overwhelming metropolis, Hiroshima is a compact city. Big enough to have a wide range of options for amusements and entertainments. Yet small enough not to be walkable.


Eat: Okonomiyaki

Wherever I travel, the main activities–aside from walking–are eating and drinking. Hiroshima is well-known for their okonomiyaki, an omelette like dish. Hiroshima style okonomiyaki has soba (buckwheat noodles) in them.

In our first night we dined at Hassei, a family run okonomiyaki restaurant. The walls of the restaurant was full of the local baseball team’s memorabilia—the Hiroshima Carp, photographs and graffiti by the customers. The chef cooked our meals on a large flatbed stove in front of bar (we did not seat at the bar because it was hot to be that close to the kitchen). Suffice to say the food was splendid.

Hassei Okonomiyaki

The other night we went to Okonomimura, a 5 storey building full of okonomiyaki stalls near the red light district. It seems touristy, but we saw the locals were eating there (and it’s Japan, the quality of food, products and services are consistent–a byproduct of an equal society). We randomly picked up a stall simply because the proprietor seems like a sweet old lady. We ordered the house special (I forgot what it was, but oba-chan’s okonomiyaki coupled with cold biru made a delightful dinner).

They were watching the television whilst the customers were eating. I have this bad habit of easily distracted by screens, so I could not help not to turn my attention. I do not watch television at home, but I like to flick through local channels whenever I travel. I think we can observe local peculiarities by watching them.

And I was in Japan. The land of peculiar television shows.

The screen was showing Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. Dubbed to Japanese. Seeing Maccaulay Culkin (and Donald Trump) speaking Japanese was a Lost in Translation moment. Even though I was not in a five star hotel room and not as cool as Bill Murray, it felt surreal and peculiar. A wonderful experience worth travelling for.

Drink

I read Hiroshima is home to many cool independent bars. We only went to two bars, and both seems to confirm such claim.

The first bar we visited was Organza. They have Grimm’s fairy tale style decoration, complete with chandelier and a deer head hunting trophy. There was a book club that night. A group of young people exchanging books and then, I think–they were speaking in Japanese, they read a part quickly and tell their impression. It was cute. The vibe is similar to Hepzibah in Seoul.

I ordered single malt whiskies. Unfortunately, they did not have Japanese whiskies. So I had to ‘settle’ with Macallan (just kidding, for me whiskies have to be either Scotch or Japanese. Irish are still welcomed. A good Scotch is good to drink anywhere, all around the globe).

The proprietor Suzuki like to dress in noir film style. Naturally, a charming subject for portrait photography. I asked his permission to take his photograph (Japanese are very conscious about having their picture taken, unlike South or South East Asians).

Suzuki, Organza Bar

The second bar we visited was Koba. It is a heavy metal themed bar with industrial style interior design. 80s glam rock bands’ songs were the only playlist. The projector was screening music videos of Guns ‘N Roses from MTV. Posters of 1974 Queen concert, Judas Priests, Kiss and other musicians with lion mane hairdo. They hung notes from the customers at the bar, giving close knit feelings among metal heads. I drew a leak (Balinese evil witch) and hung it as a memento there too.

Koba has a wide selection of Japanese whiskies. They are as good as (some even better than) Scotch. We decided to sample them. I only remembered we had Yamazaki and Yoichi. The other three glasses were a bit blurry in our memories.

We note that there were many gaijins that night. There were Mexican couple, an Australian solo traveler, and a British Royal Marine Commando medic. Then a group of Japanese salarymen came in. Unlike stereotypically shy Japanese, they spoke to all customers. Like a good host, they brought together the gaijins. They invited us to conversations.

There were three of them. Unfortunately, I only remember two of their names: Toji and Yuki. They work for a national broadcasting company. Unlike us the gaijins who knew the bar from the travel bible Lonely Planet, they were just passing by and followed their curiosity.

We talked about Japanese pop-culture; from manga (Japanese cartoons), tokusatsu (Japanese transforming masked superheroes) to J-Rock. I told them my childhood were enriched by Doraemon, Gavan, Sharivan, Ultraman, Kamen Rider and I listened to Laruku in my teenage years (although Britpop/alternative bands still dominate my playlists then and now).

On my carnal adult side, I told them JAV (Japan Adult Video) is my preferred porn (but not the ones which fetish are too extreme for a plain vanilla like me). I named them my favourite actresses: Maria Ozawa and Ameri Ichinose.

To avoid sounding like a dork/porn addict/basic bro, I also discussed about Japanese literature. I did some name-dropping of Japanese literati I have read: Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, Natsume Soseki, Kenzaburo Oe, Yukio Mishima, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Eiji Yoshikawa.

Toji is a fan of Murakami (Haruki) and has read all of his books. A kindred spirit. I told and showed him my Sputnik tattoo. I told him that it is inspired by Sputnik Sweetheart. Toji was puzzled, he could not figure out which Haruki’s novel is that.

I realised that Toji read Haruki in Japanese and I in English. I tried to say the title in (broken) Japanese “Sputnik Koibito”. He still did not catch it. I Googled the book and showed the Wikipedia page. He said “Ah! Supūtoniku no Koibito! Sputnik Lover!”

We laughed for that Lost in Translation moment and drank to that. Pronunciation in languages is a peculiar thing.

As for the ‘other’ Murakami (Ryu), Toji recommended his first novel Almost Transparent Blue. Yuki seems to prefer Ryu over Haruki. The recurring complaints against Haruki is that he is a one trick pony. There is even a Haruki Murakami bingo which demonstrates that his characters and elements of plots are recycled from one novel to another; such as mysterious woman, cats, old jazz record, urban ennui, parallel worlds, weird sex, etc. Haruki likes to ruminate a lot. Ryu’s fans claim that Ryu’s works are cooler, fast paced and intense.

For Ryu’s fans, Haruki is the ‘mainstream’ Murakami. They seem to take pride that Ryu is less mainstream.

Hipsters.

After my trip to Japan, I decided to give Ryu a try. I read Almost Transparent Blue and Coin Locker Babies. Blue is plotless, a story about a group of junkies in Okinawa. Naturally the story revolves around sex and drugs; heroin, orgies with American soldiers, abusive relationships, suicidal tendencies. Like Trainspotting, but with some surreal elements albeit not as much as in Haruki’s story. While Babies is about twin babies left inside coin lockers by their biological mother, adopted by a couple from a small fishing town. I finished Blue, but I did not finish Babies.

Ryu’s writing pace is too fast for me. The surreal elements are dominated by descriptive actions with little room for narration. I think I will stick with Haruki.

At a certain point, our conversations I moved to cultural wars on matters of excretion. I praised the innovative comforts of Japanese toilets. Those ‘washettes’ settled the hygiene dilemma between East and West. Asians think it’s gross if one does not wash one’s anus with water after shitting. Westerners believe a contact between your hand and your anus after shitting—which is often required if you wash with water in traditional/primitive manner—is disgusting; therefore the toilet papers. I personally prefer the Asian approach; even NHS suggest you to wash with water. You can (and should) always wash your hands after going to the toilet. However, the bidet or the bum gun gives you the best of both world; and Japanese washettes are the gold standard of bidet. Washettes are a complete comfort system, they come hot/cold waterspray, seat warmer, and even music player to cover the sounds of your sharts.

Toji said he is balding because he is a hibakusha (literally translated to ‘person affected by the atomic bomb’, the Japanese prefer the term ‘survivors’ instead of ‘victims’. This preference demonstrates the stoic attitude of the Japanese). I laughed at his joke, but the Westerner gainjins were a bit uneasy. Even the  RMC medic asserted that he is English, not American.

All of us had a great time at Koba. The Mexican girl did a handstand (apparently she is a yogi), Toji danced with his black umbrella, singing Singing in the Rain. He said goodbye and ‘merikurismasu’ (Merry Christmas) before leaving.

When it was our bedtime and we asked for the bill, the proprietor said Toji has settled everyone’s bills. I hope one day I can repay his kindness. It was the ‘unexpected connection that may not last, but stays with us forever’.

Toji singing, Koba Bar

The A-Bomb

I think it is inevitable (and important) to learn about the history of the atomic bomb and subsequent developments in nuclear proliferation when one visited Hiroshima. The A-Bomb Dome and the well curated Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum are two must see sights in Hiroshima. The Peace Memorial Park and the surrounding area, which was the epicentre of the explosion, is a nice place to walk around.

The Atomic Bomb Dome

The atomic bomb is a grand scientific achievement. An advance on human civilisation, paid with significant costs. I read that the Americans chose to target Hiroshima for political and experimental reasons. There would be no authority to surrender if Tokyo was targeted, and the relatively flat topography of the city allowed them to measure the optimum effect of the explosion. Additionally, the US Government wanted to demonstrate the ‘deliverables’ of the Manhattan Project which costs significant sum of taxpayers’ money for the research and development of the atomic bomb.

The justifications for the atomic bombing on Hiroshima are, to put it diplomatically, controversial at best. The Japanese Empire would have lost the war—with or without the bomb. However, they might have surrendered to the Soviet without the bomb. The Empire was an aggressor and has declared total war, under which everyone is a combatant.

Nevertheless, not all Japanese were pro-fascist militarist government. Blanket labels may be necessary (or at least effective) at times of war but, as cliché as I am writing, they always failed to give us the nuanced view of a society or a group. I read John Hersey’s Hiroshima before I visited Hiroshima. While it is a good reference for understanding the plight and heroism of the hibakushas,  I would recommend reading the 10 volume series manga (or graphic novel, if you want to sound more artsy) Barefoot Gen by Keiji Nakazawa to understand better the anthropological nuance of imperialist Japan.

Gen tells a story of an elementary school student named Gen’s struggle in surviving the fascist Japanese regime and the aftermath of the atomic bombing. The characters illustrated in manga style; wide eyed with hyperbolic facial expressions (unlike real life stereotypical Japanese). However, the historical and cultural context are very realist and impartial.

Gen’s father was an anti-war and anti-fascist writer. Due to his family’s political affiliation, they became an outcast in World War II Japanese society. After the bombing, Gen has to adopt ‘every man for himself’ approach–he begged, stole, and borrowed to survive in a disorderly Japan.

It is a personal historical account of the time by Nakazawa (Gen is his alter ego). He tells how the dissenters against the fascist militarist government were persecuted and suppressed during the war. The birth of yakuza (Japanese organised crime organisations; the word refers to the losing hand of an ancient card game, implying the members that they have been dealt with bad cards in life) which control the black markets, often the only places where people can get supply of goods in lawless and disorderly Japan could (at that time, the Japanese police force was disorganised and were not allowed to carry firearms). How the American occupation enforced censorship, despite claiming to be champion of democracy and freedom. In Nakazawa’s account, no side is spared from being exposed of their ‘sins’.

The graphic novel also pictures high degree of domestic violence (it was an acceptable norm in Japan for a parent to beat their kids as part of educating them) and nudity (although not in a sexual manner), but they serve the cultural context accuracy.

One of the most interesting points of discussion related to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima was raised by Art Spiegelman, author of Maus, in the foreword of volume 2: ‘Would the Americans use the atomic bomb on Nazi Germany, a white nation?’ Michael Ondaandtje’s The English Patient posit that ‘they would never dropped such a bomb on a white nation.’

The fascist militarist Imperial Japan also advocated racism (reversed, if you are white) with their Pan-Asian ideology. However, the Japanese are, perhaps, the first Asian nation which can disprove that modernisation and industrialisation are reserved for white nations as well as dispelling the myth of ‘European’ racial superiority. The Pan-Asian ideology gave rise to the idea of self-determination for many Asians, many of which were under European colonial rules; thus seeded the birth of modern/emerging states such as Indonesia.

Despite advocated Pan-Asian ideology and their propaganda as the ‘Older/Big Brother for all Asians’, Japanese occupation in Asia was brutal. In Indonesia, the Japanese soldiers were known to be ruthless compared to the Dutch colonisers. My grandmother told me she was once hidden, spun inside a carpet, by her parents when the Japanese soldiers came to their home. The Japanese Imperial Army were notorious for kidnapping local women from the occupied lands and forcing them to become jugun ianfu (literally translated ‘comfort women’, an euphemism for sex slave). My grandmother was a pretty girl, she would have been taken.

After Hiroshima 1945, sapiens entered the nuclear age. While nuclear technology can be used for peaceful purposes such as energy (albeit environmentally controversial), great nations entered into nuclear arms race ever since then. Oppenheimer, the lead scientist for the Manhattan Project, understood the terrible consequences of his scientific achievement. He cited Bhagavat Ghita after the successful experiment of the atomic bomb:

‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’

Visiting Hiroshima is a pilgrimage for me; a chance to reflect on our existence as a species. Is it not fascinating and terrifying to see apex predators which can divide atoms? The probability for a nuclear war to happen is small given the ‘balance of nuclear powers’ (perhaps increased quite significantly with President Trump as a factor), yet a nuclear war only need to happen once to expedite our extinction.

Hugin & Munin

I made my 5th tattoo with Shinya of Studio Muscat in Shibuya, Tokyo. I learned about the studio from Instagram. I travelled to Japan in 2018 Christmas and year end. I made a booking by email one month prior to my departure. Late December—holiday season—was a busy time for them, many people are travelling to Tokyo and booked tattoo session. However, they managed to squeeze in an appointment on 28 December 2018 at 11:30.

Studio Muscat’s senior artists are women. I was hoping I could work with a female tattoo artist for the first time. Nevertheless, only Shinya who was available at that time. I never have doubts on Shinya’s artistic qualifications. I browsed his portfolio and love his works. It just seems that tattoo art industry is still male dominated despite tattoo artist is a gender neutral profession. I wanted to have more gender diversity on my skin.

Regardless of my feminist aspirations, working with Shinya was such a pleasant experience. He has a J-Rock looks: blonde-dyed hair with beard and moustache. My pre-conceived notion is that he has this bad boy personality. But when I met him, he is the calmest and quietest tattoo artists—with Japanese overt-politeness that is borderline awkward—I have ever worked with. Unlike Chris Hewish the Londoner and Adith Setya the Jakartan, he does not chat while working. A sign saying something like ‘Please be quiet. Your tattoo artist need to focus and will finish faster if not talking’ is posted on the wall.

Shinya of Studio Muscat

I have low tolerance to pain, I always screamed during tattoo sessions. Chatting with the tattoo artists is one way to distract myself from the pain. But this time I did it the Japanese way: to suffer in silence. I only sighed and dropped some tears.

Shinya finished quickly. For such a complex tattoo with brush effects he finished within less than 2 hours. We did not chat much even after the session. He has limited English, but we connected beyond words. We are connected by the image, the symbol, on my left arm: Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin. Thoughts and Memories or Reason and Intuition. 

I became interested in Norse mythology after following the film series American Gods, which are based on Neil Gaiman’s book with the same title. I first read the book in 2008 and reread it in 2017 in order to understand better the series.

American Gods is a great book, but the film series allow further expansion. The book, which was written in early 2000s, made no reference to the ubiquity of social media and the internet as one of the new gods. Jesus—one of the most powerful gods in America—was only briefly mentioned in the book (trying to hitch a ride in Afghanistan). While in the series, Jesus is manifested in multiple racial personalities (White Jesus, Mexican Jesus, Black Jesus, etc). This time, the film is better than the book.[1]

Gaiman is fascinated by Norse mythologies. He even wrote a book about it (with the same title).[2] Norse Mythologies are his version and interpretation to the myths. He may not be the first or the most authoritative scholar on the subject, but he is a great storyteller. Therefore, his book is an entertaining and reliable source to learn from.

I also read D’Aulaires Book of Norse Mythology, an illustrated children book, and National Geographic Magazine issue March 2017. I binge watched the series Vikings on Netflix. It is like Game of Thrones, but the plot centred on the Pyke, and the places and characters are historically real. All the violence and sex portrayed in the series are so carnal and appealing to our reptilian brain. Hot muscled men and sultry fierce women fighting and fucking are enjoyable to watch—especially Katheryn Winnick. However, the series are also educating on the moral matrix of pre-Christian Europe. The pagans were more violent but sexually liberated and less patriarchal.

I learned that Norse gods may be as cruel, yet their gospel is less confusing than the seemingly compassionate but wrathful Christian god (or other Semitic religions’). Vikings’ belief celebrates virtue of warfare: courage, strength and cunningness. Their version of ‘paradise’, Valhalla, is a continuum of fighting and feasting until the end of times Ragnarok. The only way to get there is to die in battle. Hel is reserved for those who died of old age and sickness. The Vikings and their gods were unapologetically brutal.

Among the Nordic pantheon, my favourite god (who is actually a giant) is Loki. The god of chaos, the cunning shapeshifter. However, no god is as sophisticated and charming as Odin. American Gods’ central character is Odin. The All-Father is beyond good and evil. He is the Wanderer who is willing to give an eye and suffer great pains of the gallows for wisdom and knowledge. His ravens are representation of human mind. Naturally, Viking’s chief god is also a storyteller. Viking culture acknowledged the power of narrative in shaping reality (or perception of it).[3]

I don’t believe in any god (at least not in a limited conventional religious concept of personal god) but I understand the importance of god(s). They are the symbolism arising of the unconscious. They live on because of the Werther effect.[4]

I am always impressed on how esoteric pursuits of prophets, saints, buddhas and philosophers from different cultures can articulate—by way of representations—almost universal archetypes, the psyche which are later defined by modern psychology. Ravens are beautiful animal. They are considered as sacred in many cultures. There is a belief in England that as long as there are still ravens in the Tower of London, the Kingdom will not fall apart. Raven is a totem animal in Native American religions.

I always try to justify tattoos on the pretext of self-expression. Therefore, I want my tattoos to have meaning(s) and demonstrate the depth of my personality. I tell myself that I will not be that guy who gets tattoo just for vanity. I made a promise that when I got inked, it will be more than aesthetics. Therefore, I try to include cultural, scientific and/or literary references. Then mix it with my personal experience that can be associated with the image (or words).

Therefore, I spun this story. Citing ancient mythologies, history, anthropology, sociology, psychology and other humanities science, to establish a notion of almost universal significance in symbolisms associated with ravens. Then I drew an arbitrary connection with my individual associations: my memetic experience binge watching the Vikings series during the months off from work,[5] the fact that I was born on Wednesday—Odin’s day, and my fascination with the exploration on human mind after reading Jung, Haidt, Sacks, Harris, Hesse, Wallace, and—yes—Gaiman.[6]

Nevertheless, all these arguments, these reasonings I presented, may be a sign of insecurities. Maybe I am just trying to look smart, a façade of intellectual snobbishness. Nothing has meaning, therefore everything can have a meaning. Art can be for the sake of an art. Aestheticism alone is sufficient reason to have a tattoo and there is nothing wrong with vanity. I (or anyone) can have a tattoo just because I think it looks lovely and makes me look better.

Shinya has a classy taste. I was considering to have the Hugin and Munin tattoo on my upper arm or forearm. He advised for forearm. I am glad I took his advice. Tattoos on upper arm can make a man look tacky. After the tattoo was finished, I was doubtful. I thought it may be too simple. But as I revisit my perception, I like it the more I look at it. It’s like dark chocolate, black coffee, or single malt whisky. I may not appreciate them on my first tasting, but I can stand them on longer term. Simplicity, the austere aesthetics, the main elements of Japanese culture, apparently suits me.

Hugin & Munin



[1] American Gods is another Gaiman’s book that is better when adapted to screen. The first one is Stardust. As of the time of this writing, I have not watched How to Talk to Girls at Parties and look forward to see it.

[2] Norse mythologies, were originally told as oral stories. The Vikings had no writing culture other than the runes. Later, Christianity brought writing and reading culture. Therefore, the stories of the Nordic gods and heroes were handed down but with twists and modifications by the storyteller. Gaiman, like Brothers Grimm, retold the stories in writing.

[3] My blog name is inspired by Hugin and Munin.

[4] The central theme of American Gods is that the gods live as long as people believe them and die when they are forgotten. The gods give power to people who worship them and offer them sacrificial objects. The rituals, from praying and bowing to Mecca to cheering to our favourite team in a football stadium, provide strength and communal bond to the believers. To quote one line from the American Gods film series: ‘The gods are great but people are greater. For it is in their hearts that gods are born and to their hearts that they return.’

[5] I am particularly drawn by the characters of Ragnar Lothbrok and Eckbert. They are both sophisticated, charming, and cunning. Good corrupted men.

[6] CG Jung et al, Man and His Symbols (Dell Publishing, 1964); J Haidt, the Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Religion and Politics (Pantheon Books, 2012); O Sacks, the Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Stories (Touchstone, 1998); S Harris, Waking Up: Searching for spirituality without religion (Black Swan, 2015); H Hesse, Siddhartha (Kerala Bookhouse, 2006); BA Wallace, the Attention Revolution: unlocking the power of the focused mind (Wisdom, 2006).