Crime and Punishment

I went to the beach today. The waves were pretty nice sized, and I caught tons of 'em. But before I got there, I was taken by the police for interrogation and convicted.

Actually, I'm lying.

I didn't catch many waves.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am a criminal. Yet this title does bear weight of its own, so let not he with criminal conviction, poor marks for truancy, or he who has changed lanes without signaling cast the first stone.

The swells were supposed to be good, and the ocean was warming up slightly (15 degrees C. Woohoo! almost to 60 F - although my toes still go numb after 30 minutes...). I was getting excited. I was going to go out early to the beach and have some fun before the wind picked up. I picked my trash bike to take, so no sand would dare harm my precious mountain bike.

I filled my water bottles with hot water (to revive my feet at the end of the day), loaded my backpack, threw my fins in the front basket, and I was off.

About five minutes into my trip, I turned a corner and a police officer was waiting on the side of the path. He started waving his arms and saying something to me. Oh crap, were bikes not allowed on this road too?! I took the best course of action and pulled to a stop.

He continued repeating what he said. I didn't understand, so he said it about 10 more times. He began to look for a serial number on my bike. I understood. I just stumbled into a bike license check. I already saw the problem coming.

"I found this bike in the trash," I told him in my best Japanese. Bad answer, but better than the worst.

He started saying something about how in Japan, something never happens in the trash. He seemed quite concerned with this new involvement and kept repeating that something never happens in the trash. I could take a stab at what he was saying, but stabs and law officers never seem to turn out for the good. Not to sound too repetitive, I told him that I didn't understand, but only once for every four "In Japan, [something] never happens in the trash!!" that he said.

He asked for my passport. I had no ID, no money, no anything. I was heading to the beach. I like to only bring the keys to the house and my bike lock. Even if this is Japan, I don't want anything stolen. Although it is a crime for a foreigner to be without passport, he didn't seem too phased. He just mentioned "In Japan, [something] never happens in the trash!!" once more for good measure.

He called his partner on walkie talkie. The guy must have been checking bikes on the other path. He still didn't stop repeating "In Japan, [something] never happens in the trash!" His partner arrived. He asked him if he spoke any English. He didn't.

He gave him a few, "In Japan, [something] never happens in the trash!!" in hopes he could translate. The partner was powerless.

They resorted to speaking with me again in Japanese and started asking for my name, address, phone number, etc. The called up the station - with a walkie talkie? Nay! This is Japan. The thirty year old man pulled out his cell phone complete with dangling charms and called up base. Luckily, he got hold of a translator.

He handed me the phone. "Hello?" I began.

The voice told me what I figured the first cop had been so adamant about: pulling things from the trash was 'not allowed' in Japan. The voice said that a car was coming to take me and the bicycle to the station. They needed to ask a few questions about, "why [I] pulled this bicycle from the trash."

Crud. The wind was going to pick up before I got to the beach. My hot water bottles would be cold.

This was all a rather interesting development in my day. I was in Japan for 'interesting cultural experience' though. This definitely qualified. I guess my forty-minutes-before-my-toes-lost-all-feeling at the beach could wait. It's not like I had much of a choice.

We just kind of stood around waiting for the other car to arrive. The two spoke for a bit, then the younger pulled out a camera. The older officer told me something for once that didn't involve the word "trash". I was quite sure what he wanted, but he moved my hand to the bike and said "touch." Touch the bike? Is this how they get their incriminating evidence in court? Showing the perp touching the bike on film?

The other partner tried getting a good angle. No good. He came over to me and started telling me to do something with gestures rapidly increasing in size. His arms made large downward sweeps. Oh, I must not be in frame. I crouched down to better fit the photo.

Nope, that wasn't what he wanted.

He gestured me toward him, across the bike. I made gesture to get on the bike. Nope, not that either. Finally he made a more clear 'come stand here gesture'. I moved to the other side of the bike. It took a good deal of gesticulating to express that I wasn't to touch the bike, just point at.

Cheese!

This eventful intercultural exchange was followed by a long period of standing, waiting for reinforcements. Several bikes and motorcycles went by. No one else was stopped for a license check. None of them matched the criminal profile of a remorseless and habitual bike thief. None of them were foreign. People were waved passed, and loud, modified scooters with the muffler removed were glared at by the two officers but never stopped. The wait continued.

The second police car arrived a good ten minutes later.

I got in the new police car. I noticed these guys must be higher ranking, or at least from a different office. They had extra buttons on their vests. And red too.

We made two stops on the way. First we needed some proper identification. Both police cars and all five officers escorted me to my apartment. This was a great time to meet, lets see, how about the landlady who is visiting her mother who lives below us? Did I mention that Nana is under contract that only one person lives in her apartment? She seemed hardly nosy at all, so maybe she wasn't the landlady after all. She was in the process of leaving and seemed more occupied with quickly departing in her illegally parked car than wanting to stop and ask the officers questions.

I got my passport, and we headed off to pit stop number two: the trash collection spot where I found the bike. I had to pose in the photo pointing to the exact spot I found it. As a note, in Japan, trash is left not in bins but on the side of the road in designated areas, covered with netting. Now it was off to headquarters.

They left me waiting, but being a dangerous bicycle thief, they had me under attentive watch of another officer while they went off to do policey things. My new guard was probably walking to the copier or something, and they pulled him over to stand guard. They guy had to be low rank because he was bowing to just about everyone who walked by.

After a good fifteen minutes, only three of them returned. Luckily, the translator was among them. We headed up to the third floor, for interrogation.

(continued in Part two)