EPTI made my way to a ryokan, a Japanese-style inn, near the train station. I was tired of staying in business hotels, and Lonely Planet had given the establishment its highest recommendation. It was easy to see why. The rooms were spacious, spotless, and quaint. The staff was almost too courteous and spoke excellent English. There were even two computers in the lobby set up for complementary internet access. Happy to finally be able to ditch my backpack, I took a quick shower and went looking for food.
My hotel room in Okayama.
It was really too cute.
Too. Cute.
Much of my fun, and exercise, in Japan came while I was looking for food. I would often wander for an hour or more before finding a suitable establishment, namely one that smelled good and was crowded with Japanese patrons. I was looking for just such a restaurant when I heard a voice call out, “Hey, man, you looking for food? You hungry?”
I turned around and saw a tall African man with short, neat dreadlocks. His Hawaiian shirt was mostly unbuttoned, and his smile was blinding. “Speak English?” he asked. “I am meeting a friend here soon if you want to join us for dinner.”
“Is the food good? Don't lie to me!” I joked, pointing at him.
“Yes, it is good food,” he laughed. “My name is Mamadu.”
“Andy,” I said, shaking his hand.
Mamadu, it turned out, was a musician from Guinea who had lived in Japan for 19 years. “Just Africa and Japan,” he said, when I asked if he had traveled anywhere else in his life. “I would like to visit California very much.”
“So how did you learn English?” I asked.
“From the music, man. Reggae, R&B, rap, rock – I love it all. I think every genre has something special about it.”
I nodded. It was a common response. Even if they don't like a particular piece of art, most artists are able to find something about it to admire. I was pondering Mamadu's answer when his friend arrived.
Attired in what I can only describe as a little black dress, Mamadu's friend was a tallish Japanese woman of maybe 35 years. (Because it is impossible to tell the age of Japanese women, my standard method of estimating age was to estimate the age of the guy a particular woman was with, and Mamadu had told me he was 36 years old.) After we had dispensed with the usual pleasantries, I inquired as to the woman's profession.
“She does – I think it is the same name in English – S&M performance,” Mamadu said.
“What's that?” I asked. “Like acrobatics?”
“No, not really. You know, S&M, where you can walk woman like dog.”
I boggled. I was sure I had heard him correctly, but I had no idea what he was talking about. I later found out that S&M stands for sadomasochism and typically involves leather-clad women inflicting and accepting punishment in some bizarre sort of sexual role-playing.
Still, the woman was exceedingly polite. When she heard that I enjoyed food and cooking, she insisted that I try at least a bite of everything on the table. She refilled my water continuously and refused to accept my money at the end of the meal.
“She took care of it, man,” Mamadu said when I pulled out my wallet.
“Can I please pay her?” I asked. “I feel bad. She just met me.”
“No, she will not take your money. She likes you! Do you want to meet us for drinks later? We are going out tonight.”
I considered the offer. Even in my ignorance, I was pretty sure this woman was some type of stripper. Mamadu was nice, but there was something about him that set off my mental alarm.
“Yeah,” I said, “give me your phone number and I'll call you from my hotel. I need to shower and change clothes.”
I really did need to change clothes, but I had no intention of calling Mamadu. Instead, I went for a stroll around Okayama. I don't know what I was looking for. If I'd seen a friendly bar, I know I'd have stopped for a drink, but I think I just wanted to take the city's pulse. I walked for a couple hours before realizing that I was in the Dead Zone.
I call it the Dead Zone because it was a large portion of my map without a single marked point of interest – no sights, no hotels, no restaurants, no bars, no street names. It was a blank grid. I veered back towards the train station and saw a handful of large, well-lit signs along the road. I was looking for a reason to stop by this point. The signs represented the hope of a comfortable chair and a drink.
A scantily-clad woman approached me and spoke in a voice that was probably intended to be sexy, but instead was creepy. Think the Wicked Witch of the West soliciting you for prostitution in Japanese. “I'll get you, my pretty!” she seemed to cackle. “But your dog will cost extra!”
I said nothing to the woman and quickened my pace. Another three women appeared around me. Two of them took up positions on either side of me, while the third walked backwards directly in front of me. They cooed and extended their hands. In response, I jaywalked to the other side of the busy street. The other side was an improvement; only one woman harassed me. “Japan best massage,” she said, making a vulgar gesture with her hands.
By the time I had arrived back at my hotel, I had resolved to get a good night's sleep and an early start the next morning; Okayama only had a few notable sights, and there was no way I was going to spend a second night there.
