I have
returned to my home in Singapore from my lightning dash to Tokyo and I am
fatigued. I would like to reveal much of what transpired in my meeting with the
Oyabun and his underlings but I cannot.
I have taken
an oath.
An oath is
not a stupid or loutish person – that is an oaf. I know this because I work
with many – oafs that is.
They are
predominantly English.
I should say
at this early stage - do not worry Mum – don’t panic – I am quite OK. My ten
fingers are intact and I remain un-inked by any Yakuza cult tattoos.
When I last
wrote I was awaiting a call from the concierge desk of my Roppongi Hills hotel
to inform me that a car had arrived to take me to the home of a Japanese
godfather. I met the godfather and his entourage on the plane to Tokyo from Singapore. I received that call not long
after I had pressed the ‘submit’ button on my last journal entry and I then
went downstairs where two imposing Japanese bodyguard-type men awaited me in a
very expensive German motor vehicle. The car had black tinted windows – the
type that you can see out of but no one can see in.
The men were
different from the ones who accompanied the godfather on our shared plane and
helicopter trip and both appeared to be fully digital in the hand department.
The rear door of the vehicle was opened for me and inside was awaiting the
gorgeousness that is Myoki-san.
Myoki-san is
the personal assistant of the Oyabun-who-I-cannot-name and when she greeted and
smiled at me my heart melted, imaginary turtle doves flew around her head, harp
music played and I felt all weak at the knees.
I am
definitely love struck.
Myoki-san and
I chatted pleasantly as the large German motor vehicle drove us through the
Tokyo traffic into the Shinjuku district of the city. Shinjuku is one of my
most favourite wards of Tokyo and whilst it has always been popular with
residents and international visitors - it shot to international fame following the release in 2003 of the Hollywood movie “Lost in Translation”.
This film starred Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson and it was set in the
luxurious Park Hyatt hotel.
It was a love
story.
The car
manoeuvred its way along impossibly narrow streets before it entered a
non-descript driveway and it came to a halt. The two big boys opened both my
and Myoki-san’s doors and we alighted simultaneously. We walked up a narrow
pathway and approached an intricately and beautifully carved set of wooden
doors that miraculously opened just before we arrived.
I suspect
that security cameras were monitoring us.
At the doors
was a smiling Japanese man of an indeterminable age. He was splendidly attired
in full butler’s livery. Myoki-san paused in her stride – as did I – and deep
bows were exchanged.
It was very
formal.
Myoki then
spoke some rapid fire Japanese to the butler dude, a further bow was given –
and returned - and we then walked through the doors into one of the most
beautiful gardens that I have ever seen.
It was like stepping into Shangri-La.
My words will
be quite inadequate to describe the stunning vista that Myoki and I entered and
I think that I must have gasped out loud – for Myoki asked me if I was alright. I told
her that I was and I tried to take in the majestic glory of the garden that
surrounded me.
For a moment
I suffered a sensory overload.
Our first few
steps took us onto one of many arched wooden bridges that crossed a series of
interconnected ponds that were teeming with enormous koi fish. A small
waterfall cascaded down grey-blue rocks and there were intricate beds of sand
in which were traced patterns of concentric circles. They were also impregnated
with smooth pebbles of all shapes and sizes. Incredibly ornate and wonderfully
shaped Japanese Maple and Cherry trees of blazing red and deep green were
everywhere and I had to pause on the little wooden bridge to take it all in.
“I have seen
many Zen gardens before Myoki-san – but none quite so beautiful as this”
“Yes
Peter-san” the Japanese angel
replied.
“Senpai
spends much of his time when in Tokyo in his garden and he enjoys times of
reflection and contemplation when he is here”
There is no
literal translation of the word Senpai. It is a term used in deference to
someone who is greatly respected or honoured. Zen gardens are a very ancient
part of Japanese culture. They have been around for more than a thousand years
and are deeply symbolic. Buddhist monks initially created them. Myoki explained
to me that the word ‘Zen’ is actually a western one. She told me that the
Japanese refer to these gardens as “Karesansui” - which means ‘Dry Mountain and
Water Garden’.
There is much
beauty in the meaning of many Japanese words.
There really is.
There really is.
Myoki told me
that the godfather employed monks to maintain his gardens and that they
regularly raked and re-raked the sand and gravel into new patterns to simulate
the changes that oceans go through. She explained that this was symbolic of the
way that human minds experience such changes – and that by altering the
patterns it prompted meditation, introspection and careful consideration.
I told her
that I thought that this was very beautiful and she told me that she agreed.
We walked
slowly through these peaceful and serene gardens and eventually arrived at
another large courtyard where the Oyabun-whose-name-I-will-not-mention was
tending to some bonsai plants that were laid out on a long marble bench. He was
wearing some sort of black silk traditional costume and he was holding some
very ornate looking scissors that he put down when we approached. Some more
formal bows were exchanged before he shook my hand warmly in the Western way
and he asked me how I was.
His English was very broken but his smile was intact and it was very genuine and warm.
His English was very broken but his smile was intact and it was very genuine and warm.
I told the
Oyabun that I was very well and that I thought that his gardens were incredibly
beautiful. Miyoki translated this for me and he beamed even more. I asked Myoki
to tell the godfather that my son was learning to become a bonsai master back
in Australia which sparked off a three way translated conversation that was as
interesting as it was protracted. I showed both Myoki and the Senpai some
photos of my boy’s bonsai on my I-phone and he seemed genuinely impressed. I
also told them that I sometimes referred to my son as my ‘little tree’ because
of his newfound love of bonsai and they both thought that this was very funny.
After a while
we moved into yet another courtyard where a very low table was laid out with a
stunning ceramic tea set and a vast array of food. We sat down cross-legged
Japanese style while two young girls dressed in gorgeous kimonos poured us
steaming cups of ginger tea. Myoki told me whilst I was taking my first sip
that the tea set was more than four hundred years old and it belonged to the
Senpai’s great-great-great grandfather. I nearly choked when I heard this for I
am famous for my clumsiness and from that point on I drank my tea very carefully
and with both hands gripping the cup.
We chatted in
an easy and relaxed manner for nearly an hour and having Myoki-san interpreting
every word that was said was no burden at all.
Like the waterfall in the godfather's garden, our
conversation flowed.
After tea the
godfather asked if I would like to see his collection of Samurai swords and I
once again replied with the question, “Is the Pope Catholic?” I uttered this
same response on the plane where we first met and it elicited a similar
reaction of amusement from the old fellow.
He expressed
much mirth.
Senpai led
Myoki and me through a series of corridors and rooms decorated with beautiful
Japanese art and furniture and we eventually emerged into a huge hall. The
dude’s entire house was simply enormous. The hall that we entered was lined
with swords that were all hung on a wall. There must have been at least one
hundred of them.
Possibly
more.
They were
exquisite.
The Oyabun
led me up and down each wall and he paused often to tell me – through Myoki -
about the history of many of the swords – which era they were made – and by
which craftsman. It was one of the most fascinating displays that I have
ever seen. We must have spent a couple of hours in the hall but it is difficult to tell.
It was one of
those moments where time gets lost.
Then it
suddenly ended.
The godfather
announced that he had meetings to attend and Myoki informed me that we had to
go. I bowed very deeply to the Senpai as we left – and I asked Myoki to tell
him that I felt most honoured and humbled and privileged to be invited to his
home. My bow was returned and I was a little surprised when the old dude then
gave me a hug.
It was my
first cuddle with a Japanese Oyabun and I was quite chuffed.
When we got
into the car Myoki asked me if I wanted to go to one of the Senpai’s clubs that
was nearby and I told her that I did. She barked some Japanese at the driver
and ten minutes later we were in a back alley in Shinjuku. We walked up some
stairs and emerged into a very high-class club that was throbbing with the doof
doof of music and it was full of beautiful people of every race and gender.
The place was
pumping.
Myoki and I
were ushered into what I presume was a VIP area and over the course of the next
few hours I met an amazing array of characters. I had a couple of funnily named
cocktails – which is quite unusual for me as I am not much of a drinker. I
recall chatting to one very big and much-tattooed Japanese guy with a missing
little pinky. Miyoki-san told me that in the ‘family business’ as she described
it, the cutting off of one's finger is a form of penance or apology and it is
not just ‘being in the gang’ as I initially thought. She told me that such an
act is called “Yubitsume” - where the transgressor must cut off the tip of his
left little finger and give the severed portion to his boss. She told me that
sometimes an underboss might do this in penance to the Oyabun if he wanted to
spare a member of his own gang from further retaliation.
Myoki
informed me that the origin of “Yubitsume” stems from the traditional way of
holding a Japanese sword. The bottom three fingers of each hand are used to
grip the sword tightly, with the thumb and index fingers slightly loose – and
the removal of digits - starting with the little finger – and then moving up
the hand to the index finger - progressively weakens a person's sword grip.
Nice huh?
I told Myoki-san that my son Tom - the little tree - had many tattoos and I would be happy to cut off one of his fingers and send it to the Oyabun as a token of my respect. She laughed at this and so did I.
I don't think that Tom will be too happy about it though.
I told Myoki-san that my son Tom - the little tree - had many tattoos and I would be happy to cut off one of his fingers and send it to the Oyabun as a token of my respect. She laughed at this and so did I.
I don't think that Tom will be too happy about it though.
As night
moved into early morning I met and conversed with a number of interesting
people including some men who I first assumed were African Americans – but I
soon established that they were actually English. They wore hoodies and they said
‘innit’ a lot – often in quite strange parts of their sentences - and they
referred to me as a ‘geezer’. “Innit’ is geezer English for “Isn’t it?”
For example I
was asked:
“So you
live in Singapore innit?”
To which I
replied with some delight:
“Yes I do
innit”
I recall a
bit of a drunken conversation with a group of these geezers about the fact that
I go to Nepal and Hong Kong quite a lot and I recollect talking about the
subject of mules too.
A mule is a
hybrid breed of animal that is formed when a horse is bred with a donkey. They
are commonly used to carry people and things and they are regarded as beasts of
burden. However mule is also a term used by gangsters to describe very silly
people who smuggle illegal substances across international borders. I think
that the hooded English lads were referring to the latter rather than former
type of mules in their conversation with me.
At one point
I suggested to the ‘innit-geezer’ boys that I thought that it might be a good
idea – if they were that way inclined – to use an actual mule as a drug mule –
and to declare to immigration when they arrived at the country of destination
that they had a mule.
For some
insane reason they said, “that is fuckin brilliant bruvver innit’
The whole
night was madness but was great fun and I arrived back at my hotel not long
before the sun came up.
Myoki sent me
back in her employer’s car.
I saw and heard a whole heap of other stuff that was interesting and kind of secret but I can reveal none of it here.
I will not.
I have taken an oath.
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