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The Other Side of the Other Side of the Mountain
Forget all that majestic crap--this is where the real story begins. I'd reached the summit of Fuji-san at around 4:30 a.m. and, like the rest of those of us who made it to the top, I spent about an hour-and-a-half trying to stay warm with soup, coffee, tea and whatever else was available.
Around 6:30 a.m., a group of about ten or twelve of us set out down the mountain. There had been some loosely formed and unspoken consensus that we were a group. However, before fifeen minutes had passed our group had broken into differently-challenged sub-groups. I pushed ahead with the more agressive or less patient members, but before too long I found that I was outclassed. The others had pulled ahead into the distance and disappeared around a last bend.
I slowed down a bit, taking it easy, figuring that the others would catch up with me soon. I'd been keeping this snail's pace for several minutes when the lean figure of one of our group flew passed me, leaping and bounding down the trail apparently effortlessly. Perhaps it was his antelope's grace, perhaps his mad strides which bespoke a mind not only unconcerned over the matter of falling, but unaware that it was even a possibility. Or maybe it was the way his purple-tinted mirrored sunglasses looked so kakouii--I don't know--anyway, though I was inspired to try running after him. It seemed that what he was doing must simply be a matter of faith that each step wouldn't send him flying through the air and onto one's face. Hanging back for me, out of courtesy or pity, he advised me, "Just lean forward and go. If you just lean into and move your legs gravity will do the rest." Then he'd shot forward winding his way achi-kochi down the mountainside, diminishing into a fleck and then vanishing like the others before.
Now I was alone, and though at this point I could have just stopped and waited for the others, but the sun was coming up--and the sun is not my friend, so I began rushing down the mountain at a releatively mad pace--not at such an amazing clip as Purple Shades, but fast enough that I could say to myself, "Hey, he was right!"
And this is where the real story begins:
I'd begun to regret not having taken a leak in that stinky hole at the 10th station, but there was nowhere around to relieve myself, so I increased my paced with increased vinegar, er, I mean vigor, until I reached that rest station with the pay toilet. I believe that this is the point at which I took the wrong turn.
About an hour later I was flying down the last stretch, descending through that last misty veil--sorry I forgot--forget all that majestic crap--my shoes filled with sand, a single painful blister beginning to impede my movement, a condition that I only worsened by emptying the sand from my shoes so that my throbbing pinky was stinging so badly that when I reachedthe bottom of the mountain, I immediately removed my shoes, and tenderfooted it through the wooded area on a path that led to the last rest station, where I washed my face, brushed my teeth--yes I brought toothbrush and toothpaste on the climb, because oral hygiene is so important.
The man at the rest station told me that the parking lot was nearby, and at that point I was still completely confident that there I would find others from our group, collapse and have midmorning cold nihonshu. About thirty minutes later, as I staggered barefooted into the completely unfamiliar plaza, I began to suspect differently.
My rational faculties were still too buzzed from fatigue, lack of sleep, and food, and my stinging toe to fully appreciate the facts. I just wanted a beer and then I would begin asking questions. Surely, I was only a short distance from where I needed to be. I didn't find a beer, but I did find a pay phone. I pulled the telephone number that I'd copied from another JET (Carey from Texas) on the bus and dialed, but an elderly woman answered and seemed very confused when I asked for Stephanie. "Maybe I misdialed," I thought, but a second call produced the same result. It was then, I think, that I realized that I had a bigger problem than I had formerly suspected. After asking a couple of shop owners, who wanted nothing to do with my miserable plight, I was approached by an attractive young tenin who politely informed me that I was way the fuck from where I needed to be. "Please follow me," she said. I thought she was probably taking me to transport room , where, for a nominal fee, I could be beamed to the meeting spot. Minutes later, I found myself in the police station explaining the whole matter in minute detail.
They understood no English at all, but produced a sheet of form questions. I'd been through Japanese police ordeal before, when a year before, like the conscientious idiot I am, I walked into a koban to turn in a student's wallet I'd found with ni-man in it. After over an hour of interrogation, I'd been allowed to leave, so here I knew enough to let them ask their stupid little irrelevant questions and then get on to the imporant matter of getting in touch with Stephanie. But the questions never seemed to end: "Now, your name is ... And you come from America, Missouri. Are you married? Do your parents live in Missouri? Do you have their telephone number? What is your job? Do you live in Japan?(and so on)." I told them I lived in a different city, just in case they were to call my city hall, which I definitely did not want them to do.
After about fifteen to twenty minutes of this maddening business, I just had to say something. From the way they were sucking air and scratching their heads, I could see they weren't going to get around to asking the right questions, and though I hated to embarrass them, it was clear that they needed my help. They weren't a bad couple of guys, for cops. They just had no idea what they were doing.
"Listen, I think that if you call the bus company's headquarters and tell them which tour I was on that they will have the phone number at which our leader can be reached."
This made a little too much sense, I guess. It was a little too direct, and they sadly informed me that they didn't have the bus company's phone number.
"Well, do you have a phone book?" I asked them.
"No, we don't."
"Well, then do any of the businesses along this plaza have a phone book?"
"No, they don't."
This didn't seem too reasonable, so after listening to them suck air and watching them scratch their heads for another ten minutes or so, I excused myself for a moment and went to the ice cream shop where I'd met the young woman before. I explained to her that I needed the phone number of the tour company. She produced a phone book and wrote the number for me. I walked back to the koban, showed them the number and, explained to them again that that if they would only use it that we could probably reach Stephanie within ten to fifteen minutes. They were very reluctant to do so, doubtful that my plan would work, but, after considerable arm-twisting, I convinced them to at least try.
Less than fifteen minutes later, after continued questioning, Stephanie called. I'd spent the last thirty minutes thinking how I would explain to her that I'd come to cause her this big headache, when I wasn't even sure how it had happened. Now, I didn't know what to say.
"Stephanie."
"David, what happened?"
"I don't know. I must have taken a wrong turn."
"How did you get separated from the group?" I've been asking myself the same question since my sophmore year of high school. Here I am thirty and I still don't know, and, though I'm glad I did in most instances, this time I was wishing I hadn't, and there was no decent explanation. I could have said, "Help me! I'm a wretched fucker, I know, but help me."
Instead, I just apologized like a madman.
"David, I can't understand you. I'm standing outside and the reception on this phone is pretty bad. You'll have to speak up."
"I said 'I'm sorry.'"
"Okay, alright. You're okay, that's the important thing. Listen, I've got to make a few phone calls and see how we're going to do this. Just wait there, until we call."
"Alright. I'm not going anywhere."
"What?"
"Okay."
Fifteen minutes later she called back.
"Alright, David, here's what's going to happen. Andrew and I are going to meet you at the transfer exchange station. They're going to send you there by bus, and we'll pick you up in about thirty minutes."
"That's great, great. I'm just sorry to have put you through this trouble. I'm a total idiot."
"We'll see you soon," she said and hung up, leaving me to my self-deprecation and the patronizing smiles of the cops who'd had the misfortune to have me fall out of the sky into their normally idyllic community. They were more than helpful, and rather than attempt to coordinate my bus schedule with the Stephanie and Andrew's arrival at the station, they found a taxi company who was willing to get me out of their hair for a nominal fee of yon-sen, which I was only barely able to afford.
Meanwhile, Stephanie's question, "How did you get separated from the group," kept circling round the delay-box in my head. Certainly, I deserved to hear that question. There I was, the only miserable wretch out of fifty to screw up, and a miserable wretched fucker I remained, dear readers, until the welcome voices of gaijin stirred me from my self-flagellation, and I turned to see Joslyn from Pennsylvania, Carey and Steven from the Isle of Man, standing in the doorway, with perplexed expressions on their faces.
"Where are we?" asked Joslyn.
"You're in hell," I answered, "and am I ever glad to see you." It was nice not to be the only one to have screwed up. I explained them what had happened, where we were and told them that there was nothing to worry about. "We're going to make it back by 11:00, at the latest. It's inconvenient for Stephanie and Andrew, but we'll be out of this mess in no time."
I had finished explaining all this, when four other A.E.T.s from Tochigi prefecture came walking up the plaza, and I had to explain the situation all over again, also explaining that the ride meeting us at the transfer exchange would would be loaded with six people, and that there wasn't much I could do except to help explain their problem to the police and try to get them a cab, too.
"But we don't have enough money for cab fare," a girl named Rebecca said.
"That could certainly be a hang-up."
About five minutes later, another group of six persons arrived, also from another prefecture, and shortly thereafter two Americans who were in the navy. I was getting tired of explaining things to every new group that arrived, but soon the taxi arrived, we thanked the fine officers for their help, and got in the taxi. When we left at around 10:30 a.m., there were no less than 18 lost fools. We just happened to be the lucky four with a way out.
The taxi driver, a kind soul, cheerfully sped us to the transfer exchange station and even engaged us in some pleasant conversation. Our spirits had raised, significantly, and though we were sure to be embarrassed over our mistake, it was nice to know that soon we'd be drinking beer, or in my case, nihonshu, and sucking down a bowl of ramen.
It was about 11:00 when the taxi dropped us off at the transfer exchange station, and if everything had gone smoothly, from that point the four of us would have made it back well before 12:30. We would have been waiting for a few of you, who showed up later. But that ain't the way it worked out, folks. Just when it seemed everything was fine, actually the situation had become much worse.
The four of us escaped the now blazing sun lying beneath a roof of a small bicycle garage, but keeping a close eye out for Stephanie and Andrew who would probably arrive within the next twenty minutes. But they didn't arrive. We waited, and waited. I dealt myself several dozen hands of blackjack and took the opportunity to ask Steven as many questions as I could about the Isle of Man, of which, sadly,I knew very little. No one wanted to say it first, but we finally broke the silence and agreed that something was wrong.
"They should have been here by now."
"Something's wrong."
"Maybe we should call them again," Carey. "I have the number she gave us right here."
"Except, I already tried that number, remember. You're the person I copied it from on the bus," I said.
"What can we do then?" Josylyn asked.
"That's a good question. Keep waiting, I guess."
"Maybe they just lost their way," Steven said.
We sat for awhile. It must have been just after lunchtime that ten men in suits exited the building, walked past us, through the high grass behind the building, to face a wooden fence at the edge of a wooded area. Each standing about seven meters apart, then each ceremoniously unzipped and relieved their bladders, then met again to walk single file back inside.
After another twenty minutes, however, it became apparent that something had gone terribly amiss. The third chapter of the book, "Alive," came to mind. About that time, Steven said he was going on an expedition to get some food from a 7-11 he'd seen from the taxi, earlier. We placed an order and he returned twenty minutes later with sandwiches, soft drinks, and the onigidi (rice cakes) and bottled water I'd asked for.
Finally, I said what we'd all been thinking. "Look, there's been some breakdown in communication, where I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that even if they had lost their way, they would have figured it out and would have made it here by now. And they've got no way to get in touch with us, so that means that somehow, we're going to have to contact them again. But I'm not sure how we're going to do that, or if it's even possible, but we're running out of time."
The water I'd needed so badly returned some of my brain power, and I decided that the only was to get back in touch with home base was to go into the building next to which we were sitting, ask the people inside to call information and get us the number of the koban, call and ask for the number at which they'ed earlier reached Stephanie, call that number and leave a message explaining where we were and the telephone number from which we were calling. That way, if Stephanie and Andrew called back to the home base, they'd get our message and could even contact us. And then all we could do is wait.
So, while Carey and Steven waited outside in case the rescue showed up, Joslyn and I went inside. I explained our trouble, as best I could, to an elderly man at the counter. After a couple of calls, he handed us a slip with the phone number. We thanked him, and went outside, gathered our change, and I called the koban from a pay phone.
"Hello," an officer answered. It was the younger and lesser English proficient of the two.
"Hello," I said. "This is David Gann, one of the Gunma A.E.T.s who was at your koban a while ago."
"Yes."
I'm very sorry to bother you, but our ride is very late, and I'm afraid that there must be a problem. Could you please give me the phone number of Stephanie Gorman, the group leader?"
"I don't understand."
"Stephanie Gorman is the group leader. You telephoned her an hour-and-a-half ago. We are at the exchange. She has not come yet. There is a problem. Please tell me the telephone number."
"I don't understand."
I could have kicked myself for not having taken that number with me, but when I'd tried to take it, the officer had said, "No, this is mine." I wanted to write it down, but the taxi had arrived, the four of us had been quickly escorted away, and it had seemed like our worries were over. Now all the work I'd done getting the phone number was completely wasted. I couldn't understand, what this bonehead's problem was. He understood the name Stephanie Gorman and the words group leader. He understood who I was. But when I asked him in simple Nihongo, "Gorman-san no denwa-bango o oshiete, kudasai," he didn't understand at all, and only answered, "Wakaranai."
To make matters worse, because of the dual meaning of "wakarania," I couldn't be sure whether he meant that he didn't know the number or didn't have the number. I knew he had the number, but did he know he had the number. He hadn't struck me as being incredibly bright and that impression was confirmed during our conversation.
"Where are you now?" he asked.
I told him again our coordinates.
"Okay, there is a koban near the exchange, please go there. It's on the NSEW? side of the toll gate."
"I'm sorry, but we can't leave this place. Our ride might come here. Besides, all we need is the phone number which the other officer wrote down. PLEASE, give us that number."
"Wakarimasen. Go to the koban. Goodbye." He hung up.
I turned to the others.
"What did they say?"
"Well, the officer their couldn't understand anything I was saying, and I don't understand why, because, I was speaking in perfectly simple Japanese. Nothing I said was so complicated that a child couldn't have understood it. But anyway, he couldn't give me the number, and he wants us to walk to some koban that he said was right by the toll gate. Anybody see a koban?"
Nobody did. We walked to the other side of the building. No koban.
I didn't particularly care for the way that cop had hung up on me. I wasn't through, so I called him again.
"I'm sorry," I said for the fiftieth time that day, "but we can't see a koban from the exchange. Are you sure it's near here?"
"Yes," he said firmly. It's very close to where you are."
"Okay. Thank-you," I said, neither okay nor wishing to thank him.
"Maybe, it's on the other side of the toll-gate," someone suggested, but a long look up the highway showed no koban.
"I don't understand," I said. "Well, I'm going to ask this old guy in the toll booth. He's not doing anything anyway." I stepped onto the highway, which was quiet for the moment. I was just asking where the nearest koban was, when a couple in a sports car came down the highway. Out of the two available lanes, of course, the driver chose the one in which I was standing. "How far is it to the nearest koban," I asked him. I couldn't hear his answer because at that moment the man in the car blasted me with his horn.
"Fuck OFF," I shouted.
He honked again.
"FUCK OFF," I shouted again, taking a couple of step towards him and shaking my fist. I haven't punched anybody since third grade when Cal Pike was about to push me into that open septic tank pit across the street from Rountree on Lombard street. Sweat, running down my face, I realized then that I was beginning to lose my mind. I turned calmly to the old geezer in the booth, and said calmly, with a smile, "One more time, please."
He answered my question, but I had to ask him to repeat it a third time because it was too awful to believe. The others must have sensed that something was wrong, when I walked back shouting, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!
"What did he say?"
"He said," I told them, "that the nearest koban in two to three kilometers from here.
"That's can't be," someone said.
Someone else said, "So we're exactly where we were forty-five minutes ago."
"I guess so, and I'm completely out of ideas."
"Well, we've done everything we can."
"And we can't leave here. They might still show up."
"That's right. In fact, if we wait here long enough, they're sure to show up."
"I agree. And if we leave and then they do come, then we'll never find each other."
"I don't know what walking to that koban is supposed to accomplish anyway. But if one or two of you want to try it, then I'll wait here. I couldn't walk on this foot anyway."
"This is just terrible."
"Unfucking believable."
"That does it. I'm calling the koban again. That asshole has the phone number we need, and I'm going to get it from him" I said, getting up and limping to the phone booth.
"Hello," the young cop answered again.
"Hello," I said, beginning again with the preliminary apologies. "This is David Gann again and we are still at the exchange. You told us that the koban is nearby, but it isn't. It's two kilometers from here. We just came down from the top of Fuji-san. We can not walk another two kilometers. Therefore, please tell me the number of Stephanie Gorman."
"Are you navy members?"
"What?"
"Are you navy members?"
I carefully explained once again who we were, that we were the same people who had called only fifteen minutes before, where we were and that all we needed was the phone number which his partner had written down.
"Stay there. Do not go. I'm coming now."
"No, no, no," I said, but he had already hung up.
"He's coming here, and I guess he means to take us to the koban himself," I said. "And get ready. He sounded really angry."
I calmed down and thought out all the possibilities and options. I finally narrowed it down to this:
A: Whatever the reason for the hold-up before, Stephanie and Andrew are on their way here now, in which case, leaving would be a terrible mistake.
B: Some unforseeable problem is preventing Stephanie and Andrew from coming here, for example, they're more lost than we are, they've had car trouble etc. In that case, we could try to get a ride from this already pissed-off cop. But then our rescue team would still be trying to find us. However, if they did arrive and we weren't there, more than likely they'd call back to home base to see if we'd come back. More than likely.
C: They (or the bus driver) had decided to just go home without us. I later learned that the bus driver had in fact tried to leave without us, but that Andrew and Stephanie had dissuaded him. Asshole.
We all discussed the possiblities and whether to stay or go, but couldn't come to any conclusion. It didn't really matter what we though, anyway, because at that moment one very P.O.ed police officer ripped into the parking lot, jumped out, and ordered us, at gunpoint, to get into the car. Okay, so he didn't pull his gun on us, but man, if looks could kill . . . . Well, we got in the car without a word. And the way he drove, you'd have thought he was on his way to a bank robbery. The way he was taking the curves and going full throttle, then hitting the breaks just meters before the stop signs, I was seriously fearing for our safety.
"Is he really mad at us?" Joslyn asked.
"People get arrested for driving like this," someone remarked.
"People die everyday driving like this," someone else said.
On the way to the koban, I noted that the way to the koban was such a maze of turns and road changes that if we had tried to walk there, that we would have never have made it. The harrowing ride ended with him, cutting into a gravel drive and slamming on the brakes. We pried our fingers from the door handles and followed him inside.
"Sit down," he said, trying to regain his wa (composure). There was only room for three on the sofa, and a swivel chair that looked like it belonged to someone important, so I squatted and leaned back against a wall. He made a phone call back to the koban to let his partner know that we'd arrived, then turned to see me not sitting. "There," he said, pointing at an office chair.
He took out a sheet of typing paper and drew a picture of Fuji-san. It wasn't a very good picture, and I thought it fell quite short of capturing the mountain's beauty. Then he drew one x, said, "This is the village," then another x, "and this is the exchange."
His explanation was cut short by a phone call from his partner at the koban. "Yes. . . yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .yes . . ." The conversation seemed very positive, and the four of us brightened up, thinking we were perhaps almost out of the mess. He hung up, turned to me and resumed his explanation. He drew a picture of a car at , and said, "This is your friend's car." Then he drew and line very slowly from point a to point b. "The roads are maybe very busy, and your friends are going very slowly. So maybe they'll come soon."
"I'm very sorry to disagree with your explanation, but I think the situation is a little different," I said, at the same time wondering why, then, we were at the koban, and not back at the exchnage station, waiting. Then, using the picture, I explained that we believed that the rescue team must be back at the mountain, waiting for some word from us, since there had evidentally been some problem or bad communication. While I was explaining our theory, the rang again, and after a few words, the phone was handed to me. It was the older officer, who told me that the rescue team was probably on their way.
I said that we really didn't expect that this was the case, and that--
"Please be quiet," he told me.
I shut up.
"Your friends," he continued are coming by bus. They will arrive soon at the exchange. The officer will take you back there, now."
This was good news. I thanked him several times. If he'd been there I would have polished his nightstick. I explained to the others that there had apparently been a change in the plan and that for some reason, Stephanie and Andrew had decided not to come by car, but by bus. Only later did we discover that the reason for this was the delayed return of a couple of other A.E.T.s.
Officer transported us, like so much unwantede cargo back to the exchange, came to an almost screeching halt, gave us just enough time to jump out, remove our bags, and get clear of the car, before he rocketed out of the lot, caring nothing for our closing aisatsu (goodbyes). We were really feeling for ourselves, awaiting the bus with both a sense of relief that our ordeal was over and dread of the scorn surely awaiting us. I can't say that we really felt sorry for him, nor for that bastard bus driver who wanted to leave us behind. Surely, the experience gave them both something to talk about at the yakitori-ya for weeks. I couldn't say that we really felt sorry for him though. Surely, the experience gave him something to talk about at the yakitori-ya for weeks.
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