Nagoya International

(John Brack 'Green Nude' 1971)

It started with Chinese new-year. The revellers and Kuala Lumper's eighty degree humidity made for another sleepless night among the hazy guest house partitions I had called home for the last couple of days. It was 1989, and I was a 23 year old ex-dishwasher on my first overseas trip. My very first long term girlfriend had fallen into the arms of a walking narcissistic personality disorder, and in turn, I'd decided to boldly launch into a South East Asian adventure, liberated by a passport and a fist full of dollars. In fact, I'd limped. But escaping had proved an inspired plan. I had spent the previous two weeks on Thailand's Koh Phi Phi Island and it had worked its particular magic. I'd met two German girls - Carmen and Lucy - in a reggae bar in Penang some time ago, and coincidentally hooked up with them in Krabi. From there we moved on to Phi Phi where the three of us instantly fell into a Cabaret version of Blue Lagoon, scripted by Noel Coward, directed by Fellini. We slept under coconut trees all day, ate and drank like centurions, and rolled around naked together till morning. We'd laugh at the lunacy of it all till tears poured from our eyes. To a sad, heart-broken boy, it was paradise, relived in the early hours of that sleepless night in KL.

The 5.00am taxi ride at to KL International was uneventful enough except that the Chinese driver had asked me where I was from, and to my immediate embarrassment, he began quickly waving his hand in front of his nose. Too many cigalette, too many cigalette. It was as if someone had dropped a red hot coal into his groin. It was true. I had spent my sleepless night chain smoking duty-free Marlboros, and my breath had a awful rancid smell. I had personally stunk out the whole cab. He looked disgusted as he threw me my change and sped off. I was convinced that he would report the foul breathed Australian to his family as they ate their noodle breakfast.

I checked into Japan Airlines for my flight to Nagoya and hunted out the restrooms. I wasn't looking good. My shirt was a bit grubby, filthy actually. I had chosen it over the last clean one because it smelt deliciously of the German girls and of Phi Phi. I'd saved my last clean one for the flight but had accidentally checked it in with my backpack. My unshaven state made me look slightly unhinged rather than raffish. Then there were the eyes. Was it the lack of sleep? The poisonous night smog of KL? Whatever, but in the mirror peering back at me were not human, but the bloodshot eyes of madness. They were the eyes of Danny the drug dealer from Withnail and I - sunken black sockets with peering red currents. Still, I figured that I could count on seven hours of sleep and that my monstrous face would assume some normalcy. A comforting theory.

I thought about catching up with my friends Tim and Sal as the JAL 747 cruised over the South China Sea. Tim was a son of the Wimmera wheat belt, part of a gang of mates forged by the strictures and privations of an arcane Christian Brothers boarding school. Sal was his Canadian girlfriend. I had introduced them years back. They were on the first wave 'teach English in Japan, make a fortune for very little work' racket. Sal was simultaneous immersing herself in Japanese language and culture while Tim expended his easy earned yen in the delights of the local off-beat bar scene. I had pre-purchased rail travel on the shinkansen bullet train, and had no firm plans.

The entry forms included a friendly looking card with a series of tick the box questions under various categories. There were lots of categories and what seemed like reams of questions. There were the usual (did I have a cold? when was the last time I had diahorrhea?), but also questions about height, weight, colour of hair, colour of eyes, tattoos or distinctive markings. One asked whether I was carrying porn. It reminded me of a job application form I had once half jokingly submitted for the Australia Security Intelligence Organisation. Still, it was important to cooperate, and resisted the temptation to write Holy Shepard, or Dog Barber under previous occupation. I also dutifully ticked boxes stating that I neither took drugs nor had visited Africa.

Both were true, mostly. Except the drug thing and that was a minor infringement. In Penang, a Swede I was drinking with told me that you could buy amphetamines locally over the counter. Stunned, the very next day, I went to what looked like a pharmacy and asked the attendant for some. He produced an entire shoebox of loose blister packets and asked me for which brand. So, for the next week or so I would pop a couple of these tabs after breakfast and head go out for a swim. Not the splash about, lazy sun-tanning thing but a sort of daily amphetamine fuelled death marathon. I'd thrash up and down the beach, going faster and faster, till my heart rate climbed into the red zone. I'd sustain that for as long as possible, before I'd let up, stagger back to the sand and collapse, ribs heaving with exhaustion, blurred vision, on the very verge of unconsciousness. It was the type of pointless, dickhead thing you do travelling.

The unrecognisable smell in the gantry told me I was somewhere new, and that it was cold, really cold. I hadn't managed to sleep on the flight, and felt heavy as I shuffled to passport control. There are some strange constants in travelling. I'd always wondered whether there was a competition among international airport staff to see who could get their vinyl floor the shiniest, and whether there was an annual championship with national teams that compete for a world title. Another are the guys in uniform, the groups of two or three that seem to always be there, milling about, not doing much. Did they publish in Saturday newspapers - Wanted: Airport Layabouts. Where there position descriptions? The given right in front of me was the expression of the officials stamping the documents, a type of disinterested suspicion. It's the same in very passport control in any airport all over the world. Do they learn that? Are they taught? Was there a first, an original passport controller, perhaps the best passport controller of all time who looked like that all which subsequent passport controllers over the generations had striven to emulate?

I snapped out of that daydream, took two steps forward when the official waved me on, and handed my passport and other documentation over the counter. The controller gave me his best bored semi-sneer, and I knew he was a gun. He was a big guy, with big fleshy cheeks and malformed Elvis sideburns. I was in mental no-man's land, waiting for the stamps indicating I would soon be on my way. I didn't hear him at first.

No
What?
No!
Er, excuse me? I muttered
Itinery. You give me. Yes. Now. He demanded.
Is there a problem with the Visa?
What for you�....come.. Japan?
My mind snapped into consciousness.
I'm on holiday. You know, tourist, tourist visa.
Now he was staring at me, unmoved.
I've come to see friends, right here, in Nagoya.
I mentally raced through all possibilities as Elvis considered the likelihood that I actually had friends, and was here to see them.
What fren? You tell me. Now!
I gave him the names, and Tim and Sally's address. Elvis sneered at my filthy address book. It was only grubby because it was old, and it was old because I used it was a living a record of every miserable, certifiable woman I had been associated with. Flicking any page served to provide a wave of intense relief at having to no longer deal with the deranged. Still, that wasn't helping me now.
Here's the phone number I offered.
By his reaction I knew it wasn't good.
No! no, no. no. Too much number. Too many, pointing with a chubby finger.
Look that's the number he gave me. I'm sure it right.
No change.
OK, I don't know exactly if its right. I'm sorry I don't know about Japanese telephone numbers. I've never seen any others to compare it with, but that's the number of my friend. Go ahead and call him. I pleaded, making the international hand sign for telephoning. I knew it was getting desperate.
Try the number, try the number. Talk to my friend. Right here� in Nagoya� where I'm going to visit� as a tourist� on holiday.

At least his face had unscrewed itself somewhat. It was make or break time and I sensed it could go either way. He re-examined by passport, peered at me again (I was trying my best indignant supplicant look) and sighed as stamped my visa, scribbling a note in the back pages. He clearly couldn't be arsed making the phone call.

Relieved, I started to walk towards baggage, examining the passport. OK, I thought, a minor run in with some ignorant, dime a dozen, obnoxious, jumped up, tin-pot Hirohito. No harm. But before I had taken six paces, two other airport officials quietly sided up behind me, expertly slipped their hands under my armpits and had begun escorting me towards a small room. This was Customs� Nagoya International, and the fun was about to start.

They had locked me in a windowless room. One of the fluoro lights was flickering. There was an empty desk, a couple of chairs, and me in the middle. For good measure, they�d assigned a junior official to watch over me -a tall lanky teenager, with a pencil thin neck floating out of his shirt three sized too large for him, and a cop styled hat perched on top of a hair cut doing its best impersonation of a pineapple. Junior averted my gaze, and had a chronic case of bouncy leg happening just to put me at ease. I knew that I had nothing to worry about, but it wasn't helping. After an eternity, the door opened, and two more customs officials entered, blurted something to Junior who looked immediately relieved and scarped. One look at them, and my state of nervous discomfort progressed to nausea. The razor sharpness of the crease in their uniform trousers, the steely guns, the batons. They sat down silently, and placed their caps on the empty desk.

One was older, dark skinned, thin and drawn, with a weary, heavily lined face - a Japanese Harry Dean Stanton. He didn't look the friendly type. The other made Elvis look like health nut. He was taller, somewhat younger and much fatter. His face was a mass of broken capillaries with a huge, hairy mole on his neck, the sort that you did your best or ignore but couldn't. I'd seen pig arses more attractive then this guy. He already had sweat patches under his arms. Both of them clocked me for some time, as if they were mentally reading me for the tell-tale signs of criminality. I was transfixed in a state of shock. This was turning all wrong. Harry gave some kind of order in Japanese. He barked it out again when I'd gestured limply with my hands, trying to signal my lack of comprehension. This time, the order came with a fluttering his hand, motioning me to stand up. I stood awkwardly to attention. They conversed sternly among themselves. Harry started up again.

Where you come from?
I'm from Australia� Australian.
No! Where you COME from?
Er, Melbourne, Melbourne Australia..down south.
NO! Where you COME FROM?
I'd misunderstood. They though I was being a smart arse.
Oh, Japan, no, Thailand, no, shit, what am I saying, KL. horrified at my fumbling response. Kuala Lumper, I'd come in from KL, before that Thailand.
What for Thailand?! He barked.
What did THAT mean - what for Thailand? Did he want to know why I was in Thailand? Does he want to know what I was doing? Why was I there? What else could it mean? Damn it, it could have meant lots of things. I really did not understand.
Holiday I offered tentatively.
Harry angrily barked back again - What for you go Thailand?
I had to talk.

I was, am, on holidays. Thailand is close to Australia, not very far, and it's cheap. Lots of Australian's go to Thailand on vacation. It's like a tradition� like Bali, but without Kuta Beach. Many Australians go. I'm travelling, backpacking. I started in Malaysia, in KL, and spent some time in Penang, took the overnight train to Bangkok, stayed in Khe Sanh road, went north, Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai, did the islands. It's beautiful. It's a great country, and the people are lovely. That's all. Just travelling. You know. Being in a new country, seeing new things, seeing how people live their lives, seeing their culture, talking with locals, eating the food, playing with the kids, having fun, hanging out with other travellers.. drinking Mekong Whisky� just having fun.
Both their faces were telling me I wasn't winning.
I've come to see my friends in Nagoya. Just to visit my old friends, Tim and Sal in Japan, just to continue my vacation, do the same, travel, visit Japan, talk to Japanese, go on the Shinkansen, look at the cities, the countryside, how people live, have an experience.
At which point, the fatman stood up, and with face red with rage, and literally spat at me, FUCK...YOU?! What for say� FUCK YOU?

They thought I had told them to get fucked. I thought I had pleaded a semi-cogent case, hopefully perhaps even a slightly lyrical narrative about travel and experience, and why at this point in time and space, I just happen to be in a small dimly lit room with a flickering fluoro light in Nagoya International with nothing to hide� and they thought I had just told then to get fucked. A wave of nausea hit me like a bolt.

NO, NO, NO I pleaded, wildly waving my hands, desperately trying to point out the misunderstanding� I no say,fuck you, me, no say, no!

It was pointless. Harry motioned me to sit down, and blurted out something that could have only meant shut the hell up. I sat down and felt like being sick.

After a series of terrible, pointless, misunderstood questions, two other officials entered and dumped my luggage on the desk. Harry and Fatman sneered at me as they made way. The new guys unzipped my bag and my hand-luggage, carefully laying out each item, handling them as if they were radioactive. It was basically a pile of embarrassing dirty laundry and sundry essentials. With studied determination they manually rubbed every seam of the backpack. They unlaced my shoes and turned them inside out. They emptied every container - shampoo, conditioner, deodorant - opened, emptied, examined. They cut my soap up. They squeezed the toothpaste from my tube, and cut that up as well. They emptied all of my Brylcreem and spread it on a tray to see what I may have concealed. They examined the pages of my guidebooks and journals, poking skewers down the spines. They disassembled my camera, my walkman and my alarm clock. They emptied my film canisters. They unscrewed the pirate cassettes I had bought in Bangkok. They pulled part my supply of malarials and Imodium. They even scraped the fluff from the turned out pockets of my jeans on to a damn Petri dish. They were convinced, and when I thought they had finished, they re-started the whole process over again.

You tend to get attached to your pack and watching the search being repeated was starting to piss me off. Perhaps I was beyond tired. Perhaps I had sat long enough to recover. These guys may have been within their rights, but as I peered at Harry, and the Fatman who was sitting back, greedily slobbering through a bag of nuts or some such, I felt the beginnings of a building contempt. I might have looked a bit shabby but I hadn't done anything wrong. They weren't going to find anything. I had a visa, and a right to enter the country. Harry motioned to me again, and barked out something as equally incomprehensible as before. He wanted me to stand. I deliberately stood as slowly as I possibly could.

Harry looked at me. Take off he ordered, tugging at his own shirt. I knew where this was going. I pretended to cough, covering my mouth with my hand, and at the same time, quite loudly muttering � dickhead. My heart was pounding from the problem of what was clearly going to come, and the fact that I had called a hard man of Japanese customs a dickhead. I stripped my shirt off. The search guys waved for me to hand it over for examination. Harry then pointed at my shoes. I took the sneakers off, then my socks and passed them over. I looked at Harry. Harry looked at my pants. Without being asked, I dropped my jeans. There I was, naked, except for underpants, dreading the thought of any further instructions and mentally floundering as I desperately searched for a way out of this. Fat man looked slightly amused.

One of the search guys came over, kicked my feet apart and raised both my arms. He patted me down, and ran gloved hands around my ears and through my hair. He obviously wasn't enjoying this either. He stepped back. This was it. There was only one other place for it to go from here. I certainly knew it. Harry knew it. He knew that I knew it. By the nervous looks of the search guys, they knew it. Fat man was probably looking forward it. There wasn't a living being in that room unaware that we were collectively on the verge of re-enacting the Last Tango in Paris and that love was definitely not in the air.

There hadnn't been any prior mental processes� Harry was about to make his move. It just came out.

No fucking way. NO� FUCKING WAY. I shouted at them. Call the embassy. Call the Australian embassy. Shit for brains, ring them. I want to speak to the Australian consulate.

It was grossly defiant, bitter, and seemingly suicidal. For some reason, the fact that the worse case scenario was a plane ride back to KL had been all but been lost numerous hours ago. I walked over to the desk, and started to get dressed - my spastically trembling hands betraying my temporary bravado. They were all shocked, gob-smacked actually, and more to the point, they didn't stop me. I was flummoxed. Was it the Richard Chamberlain Shogun approach? Was it sympathy based on the special relationship between men and their rectums which we all intuitively understand? Whatever, I really didn't care. Harry, Fatman, and the searchers hurriedly conversed, and then vacated, looking puzzled and cross. I simply slumped onto the chair. The effort had drained the blood from my face, and I was almost bodily paralysed with mental and physical fatigue.

After half an hour, Junior reappeared, bowed, and stuffed the remainder of my belongings back into my bag as if he was running late for something. He politely hurried me along, shoo-ing me as he muttered something in Japanese. It sounded sympathetic, and I was grateful. As soon as we had walked through a door to the public areas of the terminal, he bowed once more and disappeared. If was as if he had just finished scraping dog poo off the bottom of his shoe.

It had been almost a full six and a half hours since I had arrived in Nagoya, and at least seventy-two hours since I had slept, and probably much, much more. I locked onto the idea that if only I could make it to my hotel, the whole sorry incident would all be over. With that I collected my bags, and walked out of the terminal into the wind and freezing sleet of Nagoya. After a frozen eternity, the downtown bus arrived, I climbed aboard. This itself was obviously hilarious, since the moment I scrambled my sorry self aboard, the entire bus immediately erupted into spasms of laughter. Clearly, the sight of this cripple struggling to stow a pack and find a seat was enough for the fine citizens to pee their pants. I then knew that it was not over. Not in the least over. And how right I was. There was to be four hours lost in the labyrinth of the Nagoya underground, an incident with a vending machine, a dressing down by a gang of ruthless female jewellery shop assistants, and yet another argument, this time with the hotel manager. It was to be a long time till I lost myself in sleep. It was the single worst day of my life.