Dateline: Asama 555 Super-express bound for Takasaki, Japan; October 16, 2011—Where does time go? The appointment in Osaka consumed many hours and days in preparation for a two and a half hour lecture on cancer in an auditorium (pictured left). And now it is over and the bullet train hastens me toward home base in Kamikawa, Saitama Prefecture. It was an interesting weekend.
A few years ago I met a pharmacist near Maebashi who was cut from an entirely different bolt of cloth than his fellow pill vendors. This man, I will refer to him as O-san, is more the neo-alchemist, hands-on Edgar Cayce purveyor of health by whatever means available type of guy. He picked me up in a pouring rain Friday afternoon in Osaka and took me to his place of business. There we met a middle-aged man, accompanied with his wife and daughter, who had been anxiously awaiting our emerging from the downpour. We cleared an area around a small table and went to work on the reason for his being there in such inclement weather; he was struggling with Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. There, beneath sullen shelves of amber bottles, a shrine to whomever, and foothills of papers, we began mapping out a strategy. O-san leaves no stone unturned in his quest for health. He is a sincere and very intelligent man.
Already the man’s voice was affected by the ALS and his swallowing seem
ed just a bit of a struggle. But as we made suggestions, many of which required radical lifestyle changes, it seemed as if the disease was more preferable than the changes. “No beer?” he would query with a real sense of panic. “No fish?” he would whimper. The more we talked, the greater the sacrifice seemed, but we felt confident his wife and daughter would keep him on the straight and narrow. Knowing the path he has to tread brings real sorrow to my soul, for him and his family. But O-san is working with five different ALS patients and having some measure of success in slowing down the progression of the disease, which right now is the best we can hope for. People are recognizing that the allopathic model isn’t working and are looking for alternatives. It is a daunting task.
O-san, a gregarious man, knows many people and one of them owns a hotel near his business, so I was taken there for my time in Osaka. The owner, a retired ship’s captain, is conversant in English and made me welcome in his retro-hotel. As a good forme
r ship’s captain would, much of his help is Filipino, the rooms are spartan but adequate, and you can’t open the porthole, or window in this case. And the constant drumming of the incessant rain lulled me to a comfortable somnolence as the gently rocking of the many ships I have served on would so often do.
Most people have one main concern when hosting vegetarians; how do you feed these creatures? O-san had made numerous calls to NKK, asking about my eating habits as if I were some feral animal in need of special handling. He was told I liked beans and rice, potatoes, edamame, any fruits and that I ate a lot of food. So, in 8x4x3 inch plastic containers it came, stuffed tight, enough food to have kept me satisfied for a week. Four of the large containers, four smaller ones, besides a bag of fruit and two commercial entrees probably intended for a microwave, which I didn’t have. All this for the three meals I ate in my room while in Osaka. O-san knows how to take care of a person.
On Sabbath my host not only took me to church, but attended church with me. There is one SDA church in Osaka major, which is a sad commentary, and a good number of its members are foreign teachers at their English language school and domestic workers. There were Africans, Filipinos and members from the Americas. When last there I had met a teacher from Zimbabwe who ended up attending our courses at Uchee Pines.
“You know winda?” O-san asked after church in his valiant effort to converse in very labored English.
“Yes, I have one in my room but I can’t open it,” I answered back.
“Ooooh. Uh, no, mean winda, teacher here before.” He was referring to the teacher from Zimbabwe.
“Oh, Lindah, yes, yes, I saw her this summer in Virginia,” I said happily, realizing we were communicating rather well now.
“Ooooh, virgin,” he replied, trying to grasp this new twist in the conversation or perhaps understand a new vocabulary word..
Backpedaling, I tried to right the sudden misunderstanding; “No, no, I saw her in Virginia, the state of Virginia, in America.”
“Ah, Virginia, you live Virginia now,” he asked.
“No, I was lecturing in Virginia, the state, and Lindah, for former teacher here, came to a meeting.” The picture was becoming clearer to him. Sometimes you have to listen very hard.
Sunday morning broke blue and cool; the perfect day. I had decided to take the train back to Tanshu after the meeting so was all packed up and waiting O-san’s arrival. We went to the meeting place, a civic center in a lovely part of town on the nicest day of my stay thus far. My translator was there and we sat down and in one hour went over the lecture. I had sent O-san a list of vocabulary words the translator might need to become familiar with, as I was talking about Cancer in post-Fukushima Japan. O-san had misunderstood my communication and made my three-page list into a handout for the attendees, all in English replete with my italicized instructions to the translator. Well, at least the people had some extra paper on which to take notes.
The small meeting hall was very nice with room for 78 people. We ended up with over fifty which we considered quite a good showing. After all, people were charged 5,000 yen ($65) for the 2½ hour lecture. I was to lecture under a spotlight that almost completely blinded me to the audience on the left wing of the stage. O-san had a projector the size of an average college textbook which projected a clear and bright picture completely covering the stage-
sized screen. My translator sat in a chair behind a desk on the right wing of the stage with her notes, two electronic dictionaries and a microphone before her. It was the smoothest lecture I have given in a long time. Before I spoke I noticed I had two little white holes in my double-breasted blazer. But they would be hidden behind the podium so I gave them no thought.
After the meeting there were some individual questions, some personal thank-you’s, and some sincere farewells. A tall young man was wheeled up in a wheelchair. He was visiting Korea six or seven years before, had caught a cold and somehow, so they say, the virus had settled in his T-7 vertebra. He could feel pain in his legs, would have muscle cramps, had tactile sensation, but he couldn’t walk. These types of cases are always baffling to me, and apparently to the medical community too as he was prescribed a wheelchair and that was it. Never even given physical therapy. Something is going on in his T-7. So, we will have to hear the rest of the story next year but we made some treatment suggestions that, if followed, could bring very favorable results if there is any anatomical possibility of recovery. One more thing to pray about. But I teach always that “perfect health requires a perfect circulation” and if we can promote a healthful condition of his spine, great things can happen.
It had been a great day and I was looking forward to a relaxing train ride back to Tansho. It had been suggested that I could come home on Sunday if I chose, as the tickets were good for three days. O-san gave me a thrilling ride to Shinosaka (he likes to look at the person he is talking to which is not a great idea in Osaka traffic) and soon I was on the Superexpress to Tokyo. Between Tokyo and Osaka, the two largest metropolises in Japan, up to thirteen trains per hour with sixteen cars each (1,323 seats capacity) run in each direction with a minimum headway of three minutes between trains. And it is not cheap for the convenience of traveling at between 240–300 km/h (149–186 mph). But being Sunday there were a few changes in store for me. One, this Bullet train was on a milk run, stopping at every station between Osaka and Tokyo. On the way down we stopped but four or five times. And it was more crowded heading home, but seating was available and I was able to relax.
[Okay, I am now back in my Japanese home and this is the rest of the story.]
In Tokyo it was a bit more problematic finding the right train. The security policeman directed me to the right direction and if you have ever been in the main train terminal in Tokyo, you know how important that might be. And you are also thankful the
y can all say track numbers in English and point in right directions. The guards have always been so helpful. Entering the wing through a turnstile, I scanned the marquee for Takasaki but could not see it. A helpful attendant pointed me to stairs leading to tracks 12 and 13 so I thanked her and headed up the long flight, looking back once to see the attendant pointing further down the hall. Emerging to the track level, sure enough the marquee announced Takasaki. But at all three mentions of Takasaki it said, OFF LINE. My only companions on the platform were pink and green dressed train cleaners, all looking at me with wondering curiosity. There was a problem here.
Lugging my suitcase back down the long flight, the smiling attendant pointed me to the next flight of stairs leading to tracks 14 and 15. Emerging again, I saw no mention of Takasaki, but every train seemed destined for Nagano. I showed my ticket to a helpful mother and she pointed me to the yawning doors of the nearest train, a mere ten feet away. Could it be that easy? I mean, this trip had been like clockwork, not having to wait more than a few minutes ever. Sure enough, on the moving marquee in the first car I entered, Takasaki scrolled by. What a great feeling. One more hour to Takasaki on a bullet train, a four stop ride on a slow train to Tansho, a ten-minute walk and bed. I was feeling great.
The trip to Takasaki was relaxing, but not so much as to lull me to sleep. Once fell asleep on a bus on the way to work when I was stationed with the Marines in Atlanta. Woke up at the end of the line in a part of the city I was not familiar with, all passengers having quietly departed, and the driver luxuriating up front at my discomfiture. Not again. The thought of waking up in Ohno, Japan, in the middle of the night is not my idea of a nice adventure, especially with the cost of riding on trains here.
So right at 11 PM I was in Takasaki and went looking for the small spur line to Tansho. Surrendering my tickets to Takasaki to gate attendants, I asked “Tansho?” The two of them looked at each other, scanned a little book, and said, “No train.” But I had just arrived here a few days before on a train from Tansho, so one had to go back. So I asked again, “Tansho?” figuring they might not have understood. But they had understood. Then it came to me; weekend schedule. The last train for Tansho had departed at 22:27. The next train would be 05:28. As Oliver would say to Stan, “Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into.” But then I thought, A new adventure.
Adventure it was too. There is a hotel attached to the train station named Hotel Metropolitan Takasaki. There a moderate single room costs $143. Not even an option. Wandering about the station, I was considering my options. I could walk home, but remembereing the time I went for a short afternoon walk and took six hours to find my way home, that idea was nixed. Besides I was lugging a very large suitcase which had gone to Osaka filled with 40 bags of herbs plus my clothes. I thought of just wandering aimlessly for the six hours, but knew I would be completely wasted the next few days, so nixed that idea too.
Outside it was lovely. Cool, a good portion of moon tracking across the sky, and a mostly deserted promenade with little alcoves fitted with marble benches trimmed with shrubbery. I had found my Budget-bed motel. Now and then people would hustle by, bundled against the falling temperature, but I slept comfortably till 2 AM when the cold shook me awake with its icy hand. But I was so thankful two hours had passed. I am reminded of a favorite Bible verse; Psalm 130:6 “My soul waits for the Lord more than they that watch for the
morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.” Anyone who has ever walked guard at some lonely bunker, or sat by the bed of a sick loved one in the darkest hours, or huddled in the darkness of a cold night, knows what David was talking about.
Rising up, it seemed prudent to reenter the train station. It was then I noticed every “room” along the promenade was filled; street people occupied every bench. I wondered whose bed I had occupied that night. Strange; I called it an adventure, they call it home. Back inside, where it was very bright, there were small bundled mounds of humanity sprawled everywhere. One woman, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded with her bags, kept sleep-filled sentinel at the door. Another man, a ways up the hall, was stretched out on a blue tarp. In one well-lit area off the main hall there were perhaps a dozen denizens of the deck, chaff of choice or circumstance, sleeping blissfully. Most had suitcases, not your American-style homeless one with a
shopping cart filled to overflowing with seedy possessions, but respectable and nobly reclin
ing in such a way as not to offend a passer-by. The Japanese are very respectful for the most part, not like the rabble occupying the Wall Street jumbles around the world right now.
I chose to stand guard at the doors opposite the woman at the other end of the station. Two sleeping guards. Wow! I remember when I was Officer of the Day in Okinawa back in ’74 and found two guards sleeping at an armory. But that is another story. No need to stay awake here as the station police were there all night.
My fellow campers.
Now, God, who knows the end from the beginning, knew all of this was going to transpire, so He had allowed me to make a little mistake. I had left a double-breasted blazer in Japan last year and brought another one with me this year in much better shape. Before leaving Friday morning I had packed the wrong blazer, the one with the two little holes, the one that should have been turned into rags. But now I had the perfect sleeping mat. I would not have used the good one for such a purpose, but here I was, needing at least two more hours of sleep, and the jacket made a perfect mat for me. And the jacket I had worn on the trip was one I had bought in a Salvation Army Thrift store in California just before departing for Japan so I’d have an adequate garment in which to climb Fuji-san. It looks brand new and is an insulated Columbia jacket. Nothing but the best.
By now I was one of them, the street people. I felt not one twinge of embarrassment, or shame, or humiliation. No, rather there was a freeing sense of, “This is okay; this is a blessing.” All the other occupants of the Down & Out Inn were family and I felt a great sense of…well, happiness and thankfulness. I slept comfortably till 04:30. Freshening up in the public restroom in another part of the station and then proceeding to the turnstiles, which were all still closed as no trains were running yet, my roommates were slowly stirring. One woman looked over at me walking by and said, in perfect English, “Good morning.” I smiled and returned the greeting. There was a sense of belonging, of something shared that was not sordid or demeaning, but rather a sense of shared satisfaction at making it through another night peacefully. It had been a good night.
I caught the 05:28 to Tansho for 320 yen and was soon climbing the stairs to my snug little garret on Kamikawa Street. It had been a good weekend.
More on Okinawa later. God bless, Don
