There is an old abandoned uncompleted golf resort in my town, located right next to another swank expensive resort. This place used to be special to me, when me and Harvey were the only ones who knew of its existance.
The first time I visited the hotel was in late September of 2002. Harvey had told me that the resort was an idea conceived during the peak of the bubble economy. A local entrepreneur pitched the project, including the creation of a full golf course and luxury hotel, to his fellow villagers. They all chipped in a fixed portion of their income and watched their guarenteed cash cow coming closer to completion with every passing day. The hotel was almost complete, and the earth moving equipment had pushed around the earth to accomodate a world-class golf course- there was every indication that from this point on, the cash would come a flowin, and everyone would be rollin in brand new luxury cars, soaking in champagne filled furos, etc… And then the bubble burst! The major capital that had been seeing the project through was suddenly cut off. Only a little more money had to be raised, but this proved impossible. No one had any money to invest, and if they did, they were very reluctant to do anything other than stash it away.
The project failed and the entrepreneur felt a heavy burden. He must have felt like the spectre in “The Rime of the Aincent Mariner” carrying a decaying albatross around his neck. There was only one way to lessen the dishonor that he had brought to his family and ancestors. And so he committed seppuku (so I was told). For those of you unfamiliar with this ceremony, it involves thrusting a knife into your stomach and slicing across from one side to the other. The longer cut you make, the more shame is erased. Pain through purification.
Anyhow, I made my first trip to this place alone close to dusk. I walked around, acutely aware of the total silence, broken occasionally by the buzzing of flies and the scurrying of frightened animals. The place was straight out of a Steven King novel, and I spent an hour exploring the three levels of floors and the clutter packed basement. I remember finding a balcony where I got reception, and calling Justin. It was a truly creepy experience, and he was shocked that I had gone in by myself. The more I described the eerie deja vu vibe mixed with the feeling of being watched, the less I wanted to stay in the hotel. I hung up, and tried to find my way out. The fading light of the late afternoon, filtered through the prisms of broken windows, through the stirred up dust, making richly hued beams of gold. Dusk would come soon.
I stepped up the pace and retraced my steps, or tried to. I had explored so many places that I had forgotten where I had started. The hallway that had come from the lobby spit me out at another hallway. The stairway that led to back to another exit took me to where I had just been. This was really creepy. I had a strong urge to run away, to get out as fast as possible, but I fought this. Ah, there it was, the unmistakable rotten mattress that led to the stairs ascending to the lobby. I dashed forward into the darkness and disturbed a couple of bats who flew almost directly into my face! That way was not going to work. Finally I worked out my orientation and got out of the hotel. Walking down the eroded road to my car, I had the feeling I was being watched from one of the many darkened windows (like Scooby Doo and the gang in any given adventure).
Over the course of time, I have taken many friends to share in the experience. They often are scared or at least unsettled, at the spooky environment. Soon, word got around and now everyone knows of this place. About six months ago I took a bunch of friends on a weekend and we ran into another group that had come to check it out. So the place has lost its charm. Its still a pretty fun place to go once in a long while. My friends like to go and kick down locked doors (there are no more of those now…), break glass, and smash anything that they can. However, visiting the site is done for a whole new reason than when I started.
What was mine has become everyones’. People always feel the need assert their braveness, to illustrate the size of their testicles. “That place isn’t so bad”, “The only thing I’m concerned about is the bats”, “I was expecting it to be scarrier”, etc… These people have also never gone in by themselves, and even if they had, they’re not going to have the same surreal experience that I had. They can’t. On my first visit, the place was unexplored by gaijin- a virgin chunk of wonder. Now, it is merely another curious place to visit in Aso.
I do know of other crazy abandoned places near my pad, but I think I will keep their locations to myself. One of them is the ruins of a partially burnt down love hotel. Again, I visited this place alone, and had a similar experience. Inside the pitch black rooms is old furniture and dusty relics from a time not too long ago. The beds are still made in some of the rooms, and there is a strange object that looks like a cross between massage and torture equipment (you can bet it was used to facilitate doing “the nasty” in various locations). I have not been back, and plan on keeping it that way, preserving the memory for only myself. It’s mine!!!
Anyhow, the Aso JETs want to have a halloween party at the hotel (thats right, its gotten that well known). I had thought about doing so when I first visited, but its a really bad idea. If they do have it there, I predict disaster in some form.
The Haunted Hotel
Loafisms
The word loaf has many usages and its meanings are dependent upon the context in which it is used in. “Loaf” is most commonly used hand in hand with “bread”. and is sometimes used as a verb (my boss is good at loafing), adjective (a loaf of whole wheat, what a loafer) and noun (I’ll take a loaf and a bottle of Lucky Charcoal Filtered Vodka please!).
“Loaf” often elicits a pavlovian effect on those who hear it, commonly making stomachs grumble. However, the expression “I’m going to pinch a loaf” makes normal people wrinkle their noses and verbally express their disgust. Equating the act of defecation with baking is so vile, that it never fails to be at least somewhat funny everytime I hear it.
Which leads me to a question: can certain types of feces be considered “loaves”? I think so. A loaf can be defined as “stuff compressed or formed into a solid column-like form, through the processes of baking or squishing that stuff together”. After all, cold cuts are sliced from loaves of various nitrite injected proteins(think olive loaf). And, you gotta admit, the french baguette, fruit cake(vile in its own right), and other types of bread, tend to resemble our excrement. It is not uncommon for my brother to proudly describe what he flushes, and he can probably recollect his favorite noteworthy specimens. He might even have a photo album.
This picture though, put together two words that I just never expected to see together. Now, after being in Japan for a year, I have aquired a taste for many animal parts that are not commonly eaten in the States(chicken gristle, gizzard, hormone, stewed tendons and ligaments, etc…), among them tongue. But for some reason, when you add almost any bodily part with the word “loaf” it is transformed into something that is instantly disgusting. Here, why don’t you try: Think of a random body part (say, for example, skin) and add the word “loaf”. And presto! Mmmmmmm…. skin loaf! What a fun word! And who says learning English is no fun?!?
Hiking Kuju
This is an insect that was found at the peak of Mount Kuju. It was about the size of a large grape, and has the general morphology of a tick. It moved very slowly and didn’t seem bothered at all when picked up. As there were no visible animals at the top of the mountain other than people, their pets, and insects, and sparse vegetation, I am guessing that this monster tick eats volcanic rocks and dirt.
I hiked up the mountain with one of my elementary schools and their families on Saturday. The hike started at eight and ended at three. The sun was shining in the open blue sky, and a constant cold breeze chilled the sweat on my brow. It was such a nice day that there must have been about one thousand visitors hiking the trail on that day alone.My students went at their own pace, and so I was forced to climb from our check in point up to the top three times by three different groups! As soon as I descended (from the last rest point), newly arrived students would demand that I accompany them again!
Anyhow, this is my second “expedition” up Mount Kuju- the first one was much harder to complete, as I took a longer and steeper trail during deep winter in the snow- yes, it was dangerous, but a hike isn’t worth doing if it doesn’t have some elements of danger. The fact that if you break your leg, then you will either have to suck it up and crawl down, or freeze to death all alone, makes hiking more interesting!
Kuju is the tallest mountain in Kyushu (I think, maybe it’s Neko-Dake), and is still volcanically active. The smell of “Io” (or sulphur) permeates the air up there, and the landscapes are fantastically varied and scaled. Truly a magnificent hike if you happen to be in the area! As soon as I get my ISDN connection up and running I will post a bunch of pix.
Ojisan udedokei
This is my good ol Seiko Professional dive watch, which was given to me on my 15th birthday by Kohei. At 15, it looked ridiculous on my scrawny teenage wrist, but now, 9 years later, that has been upgraded to “slightly too large”. This thing is a tank, more a bludgeon than a timepiece. It can withstand great pressures, safely able to dive down as far as 200 metres without danger of implosion. This is my new watch of choice while teaching at my hoikuens and shogakkos, as even they won’t be able to harm it.
Another One Bites The Dust
Yes, I have sent yet another cherished watch to the junk pile… The Wenger was with me for many adventures and accompanied me on my various travels. It has been diving in Catalina, helped me to teach sailing in Newport, plummetted off of the Circus Circus bungee platform, and has kept me on track for this past year in Japan (among many other things). It was a faced paced round of Duck-duck-goose that finally did it in. I dove for the vacant spot left by the goose, and BOOM, the band broke.
This is not the first time that a watch of mine has died a violent death. When I was living on Picasso Avenue, I lost my Spider-Man watch (limited edition Fossil) in a similar incident. A group of us had just come back from a party on D.P. to our pad, and noticed that Diane was missing. She was last seen drunk, and talking to a couple of guys, so we were obligated to go retrieve her before she got herself into trouble! Me, Steve, Brian, and Chris jumped on our bikes and took off toward the coast. I decided that going down the ramp would only take away more precious time, so decided to jump the curb, between two cars, and join the convoy on the street.
My bike came down in an ungainly angle, and the impact between my front tire and the pavement catapulted me down over the handle bars face first. The impact was a hard smackdown, that I can only describe as “black”. With great effort I pushed myself up and uttered the words that would be used to mock me for the following months “I broke my watch!”, oblivious to my own state. It was completely smashed beyond any hope of repair. Bits and pieces of the obliterated face reflected the dim yellow glow of the streetlights, the braided leather band snapped in the same place. My bloodied jeans were frayed threadbare at the points of impact, a testament to the power of friction.
The sting of roadrash over my face, right hand, arm, shoulder, hip, and knees accompanied he realization that I was bleeding, and my chest hurt. I limped inside, and Brian took off to find Diane. They returned immediately.
I went to the bathroom and pulled out the good ‘ol hydrogen peroxide and cotton swabs. It took 30 minutes to sterilize all of the wounds and to scrape all of the small rocks and grit out. Everytime I applied the peroxide, it really hurt, so much that I would scream out in pain. This was followed EVERY TIME by waves of laughter, followed by insincere statements like “I’m sorry but its really funny”, or “we’re not laughing at you!” followed by more laughter. What good friends huh, laughing and making fun of my agony!
For the next couple of weeks I looked like the recipient of a good thrashing. Slowly, my wounds scabbed up, the scabs peeled off, the pink new skin got tanned, and I recovered. However, for months my chest still ached, and Brian and Chris took potshots, jabbing me in the ribs whenever an opportunity arose. My father visited some time later, and after inspecting the pain, he told me that I had broken my rib. Of course once they found out, this made the bastards laugh even more.
Moral of the story: Not only is BUIing (Biking under the influence) against the law, but it can be very painful physically and psychologically. But after a fall, you must get back up and ride again! With practice and perserverence, one can learn to BUI in a safe and controlled manner, maybe.
Well, its time to get a new watch. I can only hope that the next one will fare better than its predecessors…
Marmite Update: Britain`s Version Of Nato?
A Google Search yielded this page. Like natto in Japan, British children are fed this stuff at an early age, so they aquire the taste after rigorous feeding regimens. Natto is typically served as a condiment to rice, as Marmite generally tops toast (the most popular carbohydrate eaten with every meal in said countries).
In the Marmite page, this is a suggestion of a possible use for this particular “savoury spread”:
…Marmite is very effective as a topical ointment in the treatment of haemorrhoids.
And I’ll leave it at that…
Is This Stuff What British People Eat???
Yesterday was a free day. The birds were singing, there were “Ferris Bueller clouds” in the bright blue sky, and a gentle breeze, and so of course I got sick the day before and had to stay at home. But this turned out to be a productive day nonetheless. My place was really messy, so I spent most of the day sorting, organizing, and tossing stuff in the garbage. As I was going through, discarding things in the kitchen that had grown a layer of grey mold (everything- I am not even exagerating) I found this jar of Marmite. Contains various vitamins, 100 percent vegetarian, yeast extract… this looks like something that my father would recommend to treat you for whatever might be ailing you at the moment.
So I unscrewed the grimy yellow cap, and was treated to a whiff of stuff that smelled like a mix of Kyolic (fermented garlic infusion of nastiness), vinegar, and Karo syrup. It was thicker than honey, and had the color of spoiled chocolate pudding. Surprisingly (maybe not really), no mold had grown on this. Even if it had, this stuff could not be any nastier that it was in its natural state.
I know Brits eat some strange stuff. Steve’s Toad in the Hole and other lard filled dishes are proof of this. I mean, are you supposed to find pubes in this dish traditionally, or was that just a special treat created in honor of Pete? Anyways, what did Harvey (my predecessor) use this stuff for? Since it was in the kitchen, I can only assume he ate or drank it in some form. I was thinking, are you obligated to eat disgusting things if you are a vegetarian? I think if I were vegetarian, I would opt not to eat Marmite, even if it made me a pseudo-vegetarian, and all the other vegetarians looked down on me (while enjoying a heaping tablespoon full of stinky goodness). I find the other argument, that it contains vitamins, not sufficient to get me to put this stuff in my mouth. I prefer my vitamin fortified Froot Loops and Kix thank you very much!
Has anyone eaten this stuff? If so I am curious to know:
1. Why?
2. How?
3. Would you ever do it again?
4. Is this stuff big in the U.K.?
5. Is it traditionally served with pubes?
Zou No Zou
Still trying to figure out how to make an “o” with a straight accent line over it (indicating a long o sound). The addition of a “u” to the end of the “o” will just have to make do for now.
Ride On!
I have tried to ride many different things down many different steep areas around Japan. Snowboarding in the local hills, mountain boarding on Mount Aso and the Ubuyama Bokujo, cardboard down Kikka-machi’s huge steep astroturf hill, homebase down the long roller-slide in Kyokushi, Taro’s longboard down a jinja, et cetera. But this was the most fun I’ve had recently.
At English camp, I tried riding a sled down a really steep grass hill, and had many good rides. My students saw this and tried their luck at it. All of the boys couldn’t do it, and felt really bad because this girl could nail it from her very first run.
If you ever get the chance to ride sleds down steep grass hills, keep in mind that it is even more fun to wear zoris, and the key to successful jumping is looking good in the air (extra bonus for a good wipeout).
Inaka Tempura (Is What The Kanji Below Reads)
In English, “inaka” means “country”. I live in the cho-inaka (or uber-boonies, for you non Japanese speakers).
My village is so inaka that the local restaraunt doesn’t even make shrimp tempura. Nonetheless, this tempura kicked some major ass! It was every type of vegetable and mushroom tempura conceivable piled into a huge mountain of oily goodness (I am still trying to decide if this would be considered a healthy meal or not), and I was unable to finish all of it! Is this the equivalent of country style biscuits and gravy? The Japanese still have much to learn in the ways of fattening and unhealthy foods.