Cut the clap.

DISCLAIMER: the title of this entry is not a reference to the myth that Japanese people mix up their "l's" and "r's". "L" doesn't exist in their syllabic alphabet, and the closest thing it has to an "r" only slightly resembles an "l"...anyway...

I’m on a very long holiday right now, and I love it. I have a life beyond public school education and English conversation classes – I can go exploring in Tokyo.

Nestled in between the super-hip neighbourhoods of Harajuku and Shibuya, Yoyogi Park is like the chill out space of a three-room club. It attracts creative individuals looking for a place to do their artistic thing, more often than not, varying degrees of pop group and a near residential tribe of dread-locked percussionists but it also sports jugglers and dancers wielding fans or Santa costumes (depending on the weather).

Yesterday, I discovered in a large concrete boulevard (the starting point for last weeks’ Tokyo Pride March) small pockets of break-dancers. I’ve always found something slightly ludicrous about hip-hop; I simply can't, won't and don't stop. This could be down to a combination of the absolute nonsense some rappers come out with, and bad luck – I’m assured that there is “intelligent” and “right-on” hip-hop out there, but I haven't found enough to convert me. To be fair, my own record collection hardly displays Wildean wit, but lyrical content becomes insignificant when one is witness to the astounding acrobatics on display to the tune of ripped wax.

Back in Kawasaki, itself no stranger to street performers, one such dancer had attracted a crowd of Friday evening shoppers. His backward somersaults were accompanied by a hip-hop soundtrack and the audience doing the unthinkable – there are few things I hate more in the world than rhythmic clapping. The appreciation of a good performance is dulled into shameful silence when one discovers their fellow punters have been reduced to a legion of imbecilic sycophant sea lions.

That’s a rather unkind analogy, reminding me of a trip to the dilapidated dream that is Coney Island, and my first and only attendance to a Sea World style performance. The audience was made up of an elementary school outing and a couple of squadrons of US Marines, clapping the rhythm of a turgid sub-Ibiza house drone, whilst a graceful, beautiful creature of the deep, a sea lion no less, spun round on a back flipper. Our entertainer didn’t clap once, and I was with him on that, although I would have given him a fish had I the chance. Truly, he was a seal of quality.

Ice Cream & Salt.

Sailing away from Tokyo bay at night, millions of light bulbs dimly sketch the outline of skyscrapers, whilst more prominent and famous landmarks have their own source of illumination. Having this notoriously cramped city spread before you grants a perspective of scale previously only offered by outings to towering vantage points. Even the pale imitation of the Eiffel Tower looks impressive.

This metropolitan manifestation of the ever-imminent future recedes into the black distance with each wave, and we seem to travel back in time to Hachijojima (八丈島), southernmost of the sub-tropical Izu islands.





Formerly a prison colony of the Edo period, the island boasts an extinct volcano, Hachijo Fuji, Nazumado (one of Japans' top ten scuba diving locations), consistently warm water and no less than seven varieties of mushrooms that glow in the dark. Significantly, it has two features absent from Tokyo; an abundance of space and comparatively few people.



Not ten minutes walk from Sokodo Port lies a free campsite commanding a view of a dark volcanic rock beach and the Mihara mountain range. For the past eleven years, from July to September, a typhoon shelter on the grounds has accommodated Watanabe san, a construction worker from Tokyo who visits the island every summer to go fishing. He is a deeply tanned, well built man of fifty-eight, with a disco-stud curl to his salt and pepper hair, a gold chain hanging around his neck, and a mouth of perfect teeth which appear to be false, but reside in a genuine smile. He is well known amongst the fishermen and professional chefs of the island, and draws a crowd when bearing his prizes from the ocean



There is a great supply of dry wood and fire pits. Our clothes bear the aroma of a week spent cooking by campfire. The highly suspicious Japanese sausage (related to the wiener) is rendered more than palatable with a smoky taste, whilst corn on the cob is fired with a more vigorous character than if it had been boiled, but no campfire pleasure can best baked potatoes and beans after a lengthy abstinence.

In contrast to the emptiness of the streets, the beaches and oceans are teeming with life. Amongst the rocks, coral and rippling polygons of sunlight, it's possible to see puffer fish and stingrays, but also less notorious denizens; butterfly fish sporting black and yellow stripes; long and incredibly thin flesh-coloured creatures, with large eyes and no discernible mouth; lone hunters who seem to change colour, red, blue brown and green; glittering, silvery fish like a shoal of daggers with quietly chattering beaks; graceful streaks of brilliant yellow, delicately nibbling on the nutrition-rich sea-bed; a multitude of tiny flickering wisps of light that swim together like a breathing cloud.


The Uakari is commonly known as the English monkey, as its' red face resembles those of Britons in hotter sunnier climates than they're used to. Within two hours of pitching our tent, we were sunburned to within an inch of our pallid lives and spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade and complaining about the weather.
The Japanese word for sunburn is "hiyake," a fact conveyed to us many times by passers-by. Such is the hospitality and helpfulness of these island folk that we merely had to walk into a shop in order to be directed to the suntan lotion. Aloe Vera is also a suitable balm for this bugbear of the travelling Englishman.

Time is meaningless when you're being a beach-bum for a week. There has been no urgency to our activities, no need to be anywhere or do anything. A week with nothing to do in a beautiful spot has been enlightening, especially upon returning to Tokyo bay. The air became dusty and harsh, eyes itched, previously un-sneezing noses erupted in abrupt reports and we found ourselves surrounded by millions of people, with very little time to do what they had to, crammed into a space which appears both colossal and absolutely tiny. I wonder about our chances of getting a seaside cottage on prescription.