New Bicycle

My bicycle was stolen last Tuesday from in front of JR Hirano Station. I had it for five years (almost exactly) and it was pretty beaten up, with a deformed basket, broken light and a bell which clicked more than rang. I was sick to death of the old thing, until I came back from an errand to find it gone. It was raining, of course.

I finally found the time today to go looking for a replacement to the old clunker. Bicycle shops are everywhere in Osaka, and prices start at about 9000 yen (currently about 90 bucks). Lance Armstrong probably doesn’t own one. I simply walked down to the nearest shop (well, not the nearest one – he’s a bit snotty, and charges 30 yen to put air in your tires), and checked the prices, then the kickstands (I hate the ones which are only on one side – they always tip over), then lights. Chose a black one with dark greenish blotches (trust me – it looks better than it sounds). The guy at the shop took it out, gave it some air, adjusted the seat, got me to register it, and then – after choosing a back lock and paying for everything, I cycled away. Time elapsed – possibly 10 minutes.

My Japanese friends are always appalled by my cavalier attitude toward bicycle shopping – aren’t you going to look around a bit, compare prices? Well, no. The features are pretty much standard within any price range, and the nicer the bike, the better chance someone will steal it. And since I’ve had my share of bikes stolen, I’m not going to buy anything too nice. I do regret having to buy it on the same day my three-month train pass comes up for renewal, but shouganai, as the locals say – it can’t be helped.

There is much talk about how the Japanese, who love heaters and air conditioners as much as anybody, and who not only drive cars, but produce millions of them, can keep their country’s carbon imprint so relatively low. One reason is that although many families own cars, a two-car family is a rarity (and many city-dwellers – I’m no oddity – don’t own and don’t need a car at all). Companies reimburse their employees the cost of their public transportation passes; Moms do the grocery shopping and errands on their mamachari. As do I. Even that short pedal to and from the subway station is more exercise than many people back home – who drive everywhere – get in the run of a day. And produces no exhaust (other than the feeling you get from pedaling up a hill).

So I can feel good that in my own way I’m contributing to to the saving of the environment. And that will distract me from the fact the only reason I bought the bike was that I’m too bloody lazy to walk to the station in the morning.

Wheels Under Wheels

It’s still a bit chilly in Osaka, but the sun was bright this morning and the cherry blossoms are in bloom. So I could ignore the unexpectedly crisp wind and enjoy a bit of colour and brightness on my walk from the station to my meeting in Namba. I took my usual shortcut through some back streets, walking past a school and a little park where the cherry trees were especially pretty – the petals falling like a light snow flurry. It was about then that I noticed the small crowd in front of the café (“Anemone”) at the corner of the park.

Now a crowd can mean three things in Osaka: a sale, a celebrity, or an accident. There are no stores at that corner and no famous person would bother going to that coffee shop (which, frankly, isn’t that great). That left an accident. Sure enough.

When I got to the corner, a young woman was standing there, looking stunned, obviously in shock at something that had happened. None of the people around her spoke to her – they just looked. A young fireman had come over from the nearby fire station and might have checked her for injuries. An ambulance was parked around the corner, and the drivers (many of them are still not paramedics here) were diffidently trying to persuade her to walk into the back of the ambulance. They didn’t seem in any hurry to take the stretcher out or help her. No one seemed to be concerned that she might have any injuries that would be made worse by her standing around (or even getting up). The fireman was jogging back to the station, having turned over authority, such as it was, to the drivers. It was then I noticed the front of the little car in the middle of the little road – beneath the front tires was a 10-speed bicycle, crushed almost to the seat. She was pretty lucky to be alive. As I walked on, a police car, siren blaring, drove up the road, and a female officer, on her bicycle, came up another sidestreet. Better late than never, I suppose.

Just last week, a colleague arrived to work to say that he’d seen a dead guy lying in the street with orange traffic cones placed around him. An ambulance sat to the side. Since he was dead, I guess they weren’t in any hurry (it’s hard enough to find hospitals which will take living people on short notice these days).

This happened at the notoriously dangerous intersection in front of Takashimaya Department Store – dangerous not because of any design fault, but because Osakan pedestrians are as aggressive as the drivers. The south side of the city – or Minami (南), where Namba is found – is Aggression Central. Long before the crossing light comes on, many waiting pedestrians have edged themselves a few metres onto the street. Problem is, drivers (and cyclists) are much the same way when they’re about to get the green (or blue) light. So I’ve seen a few close calls over the years as everyone plays this odd (and pointless) game of chicken. when a collision occurs, the drivers always park and calmly wait for the cops to arrive (hit and run would be pretty difficult anyway in Osaka City). But they rarely show any concern for the victim, as though they don’t want to get involved (a bit late for that). I stopped jaywalking downtown the day I saw a woman lying in front of a small truck at a crossing; the driver jumped out and … promptly inspected his headlights. She had ignored the light change, but that was beside the point.

“The Grand Tiara Osaka”

Those of us who live in Japanese cities spend a good slice of our day in the subway or on a train. This is fine by me, as long as I’ve got something to read and somewhere to sit. Whenever either of those criteria are impossible (i.e., usually), I’m perfectly content to strap-hang and listen to podcasts on the iPod. The iPod and its rivals are a godsend here. Some old romantics lament that nobody talks to strangers on the train anymore and that we’re all lost in our solitary wired worlds thanks to personal stereos. On the Osaka subway, at any rate, thank God for that – I’ve lived here on and off since the 90s and in all that time the only strangers who have ever spoken to me (other than to ask directions) have been lunatics or cultists (“Same t’in’,” as they say in Jamaica). If an episode of Bush Telegraph keeps them at bay, so much the better. Besides, the alternative to the iPod during rush hour has always been to stare quietly at the back of someone’s head while listening to insipid public service announcements (“Everyone – it’s Rainy Season. Let’s make sure not to leave our umbrellas on the train.”) and the occasional advert.

Lately, on the subway at least, there are no alternatives. Since about October, the recorded announcements on the Midosuji Line (the main artery of Osaka) have had their volume and pitch changed noticeably. During certain times of the day, it’s now impossible to drown out the announcements without cranking the iPod (which I refuse to do). Now, I have no problem with the clear announcing of upcoming stations (I’ve been to Montreal, where the drivers indistinctly mutter the station names under their breath over the PA, like a quiet French curse), but I do object to advertising which is louder than the name of the station. I take the same route to work five days a week. Lately, what makes me grate my back fillings into fine toxic powder twice a day is the announcement – delivered by a computerized female in a tone of enthusiastic hysteria – for Daikokucho Station: “Mai Sutairu Weddingu! Za Gurando Chiara Osaka!” (My style wedding! The Grand Tiara Osaka!). The Grand Tiara is a garish wedding hall near the station. I don’t know what bothers me more – the fact that the ad is louder than the announcement of the station or all that mispronounced faux-English. There are no articles in the Japanese language (and no ‘th’ sounds), but the random placing of Za – the –is trendy in Japanese advertising now. It sounds as wonderfully cosmopolitan to them as it sounds hopelessly provincial to me. It irritates me so much that I now take slower but quieter JR trains on my days off – anything to avoid that tiara.

The irony is that the average Japanese is inundated with announcements, commercials, bells, whistles, all day and most commuters don’t even hear what is being screeched at them any more. The Japanese I’ve read about who do complain are usually fanatics (or are portrayed as such), who don’t want any announcements at all, ever. The only people who seem to notice the difference are those, like me, who wear personal stereos. Perhaps there’s a fear that we’ve been escaping the announcements. It’s just Osaka city government’s little way of bringing us back into the group.

Bicycle Lane, Yotsubashisuji, Namba

Bicycle Thief (versione giapponese)

This happened five years ago in January. I got out of a class one evening and one of the staff quietly informed me that the police had called, looking for me. I had no idea why, and said so. She told me that they had found a bicycle registered in my name and would I go claim it as soon as possible. I was stunned; she was stunned; the other staff who were discreetly listening in (the word “police” causes understandable unease at conversation schools in Japan) were stunned; the students whom I told later that evening were stunned. And rightly so: we were witnessing a miracle.

None of us had ever heard of the Osaka police actually finding a bicycle before. Although I had returned from winter vacation that January to find mine missing, it had never even occurred to me that that was why they would be calling. Naturally, I hadn’t reported it missing – the previous two times I had a bike swiped, it took me nearly half an hour to fill out the forms (in triplicate, in Japanese, with carbon paper between the pages), after which the cop in charge told me, more or less, “well, let us know if you find it.” (if that sounds to some readers like a scene from the old Italian movie The Bicycle Thief, it is – I watched it yesterday for the first time, and that eerily similar scene jolted this memory).

The next morning, I went to the Taisho-ku Police Station, as requested, and stepped into a 1970’s police drama. There was no receptionist, so I just wandered into the office, which was laid out just like any other office in Japan: the desks of each section facing each other in small rows, the supervisor facing down the middle, like a headmaster in a Dickens novel. A plainclothesman, presumably hoping to infiltrate the day labourers of Shin-Imamiya to weed out any dangerous lefties, was disguising himself, quite convincingly, as a plainclothesman disguised as a day-labourer. I think they were planting a wire in his coat. He glowered at me – he knew the enemy.

At this remove, I don’t remember the names of the two cops I was finally referred to. They were both middle-aged, one decidedly closer to retirement than the other (he looked a bit like Abe Vigoda, and I decided that during an interrogation, he’d be the Good Cop). I went to a small, bare room with some chairs and some filing cabinets. After establishing that my Japanese was adequate, they offered me a cigarette and some coffee. I accepted the coffee but turned down the cigarette, which made them both, I soon realized, feel awkward because they were both (the older guy especially) just dying for a ciggy. I told them to please go ahead when potential Bad Cop brought me the (surprisingly good) cup of coffee.

They made small talk for a while, asked me where I was from, smoked for a while, let me drink my coffee. After what seemed like an interminably long and pointless time (I think they were waiting for me to throw myself at their feet and confess to something), Potential Bad Cop (black hair greased back, un-ironic wide tie slightly skewed) passed me a file and with studied nonchalance asked me if I recognized any of the men in a page of about twelve mug shots. They were all variations on all the scrawny punk kids – anywhere from 19 to 23 – with badly-peroxided hair who drove their loud scooters around the city on Saturday nights. I didn’t know any of them. This disappointed the two. Potential Bad Cop sighed and frowned, while Good Cop slouched his shoulders, crossed and uncrossed his legs and drew heavily on his cigarette (I think they were still waiting for me to throw myself at their feet and confess to something). PBC then did something odd – he pointed to one scowling kids photo and said, “He stole your bike. He confessed. His girlfriend lives in your building. You know her?” Well, um, no, I tried to explain – if I didn’t know him, how would I know which woman was his girlfriend?” Ah. Souka, Good Cop muttered. Oh that’s right. He took another drag, and sat there sadly.

They found him with my bike on January 3rd. His girlfriend had broken up with him and was at a friend’s place. He was banging on the friend’s door and threatening them, so they called the police. When the officer arrived, this guy was just about to get on the bike. They noticed that lock was broken and checked the registration number. “You’re not Colin Doyle (I’d love to know how they pronounced it),” the policeman said.

“He’s my friend. He gave me this bike!” said the guy. The guy was also wanted for some other petty thefts, so they took him in. With the info gleaned from my bicycle registration, they found out where I worked, and called there.

“So where were you on January 3rd?” PBC said, standing up. “We can’t understand why you didn’t report it missing (my Japanese friends told me not to waste my time, but I didn’t tell him that). Did you lend him the bike?”

It dawned on me that they still suspected me of being an accomplice to this guy. Luckily, I had the rare good sense to bring my passport along with me, and opened it up to show that I was out of the country from December 20th to January 7th. They both looked at it, flipped through the pages, handed it back. They looked at each other, as if to say, “well now what do we do?” Their gaijin theft ring case was all shot to hell. All they had was a common garden bicycle thief, and I wasn’t involved. PBC wandered off to another room. Good Cop sat sheepishly. He seemed like a nice enough old fellow. Finally he asked me which school I worked for. I told him. “Oh, my son went there,” he said, “when he was in junior high.”

“Arigatougozaimasu,” I said, the usual Japanese response to anyone who even remotely alludes to a time when they patronized your company (even if they just looked in the window). “How is his English?” I asked. “Terrible,” he answered, as custom demands when anyone asks about your kid’s academic standing. I was hoping they’d offer me another cup of coffee. Nobody did. Good Cop lit another cigarette; I knew he wished that I would too. Then we could bond.

PBC came back with some forms and carbon paper . We then proceeded to fill out a missing bicycle report. I had to describe the bike, when I noticed it missing, where I’d last seen it, and so on. They couldn’t do anything without the paperwork. They couldn’t charge anyone with stealing it if I didn’t report it missing, I guess. Were they both being Good Cops and providing me with an alibi? I’ll never know.

Finally, the paperwork done, PBC summoned me to the hallway, and we turned several grimy corners until we came to what looked like a broom closet. He opened the door, and there was my bicycle, bell and light knocked off, back lock jimmied open with a screwdriver, by the look of it. White dust all over it (for fingerprints!! It just occurs to me now!). “Is this your bicycle?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Can I have it back now?”

“Oh, no,” he said, closing the door again. “We have to take it to Court.” He explained that the hearing would be in anywhere from three weeks to two months. “We’ll call you when it’s all over (“yeah, four years from now, when they hang him,” I thought as I walked out in the rain to Taisho Station).

About four days later, though, I got the call, and went to get it. No one really wanted to talk to me, but I finally got someone to let me sign for it, and recover it from the closet, where, oddly, it looked untouched from the last time I saw it. I schlepped it down the hall, and out the door. “We still can’t understand why you never reported it missing, ” Good Cop said.

I fixed the bicycle up, got two new locks, and a light. In June of that year, somebody stole it. I never saw it again. Mind you, I didn’t fill out a report.

Bicycle Safety (part 2 of an indifferently maintained series)

I read in the paper the other day that in Osaka, it might soon be legal to ride your bike on the sidewalk (at 5km/hr). This genuinely surprised me, for the simple fact that I didn’t even know it was illegal in the first place. No Osaka cyclist in his right mind would consider riding anywhere else. The speed limit in the city for motor vehicles is 60km/hr, and if an unintoxicated driver hits a bike going at that speed (which can inflict quite a bit of damage, you will concede), he’s not charged with much more than negligence. In fact, the same article mentioned a driver who struck and killed a cyclist and was acquitted of any wrong-doing because he was driving within the speed limit.

When I say “cyclist”, I’m not referring to the guys who zip by (on the road) dressed like they’re in the Tour-de-France (and if you own a racing bike here, you will wear that uniform if you’re going down to Lawson’s to buy a litre of milk). The vast majority of city folk run their errands on a mamachari (“Mother’s Chariot,”), an unglamourous, utilitarian thing with a basket (and often child’s seat) in front, a rack (or often child’s seat) in the back. Any mother would get arrested for riding one in Toronto, but it’s the most convenient way here to do the shopping, pay the bills, go to the bank. The city government is under the delusion that all Osakans drive cars (because everyone in a city councillor’s acquaintanceship does – big ones), and so they make nearly no concessions for legally parking your bike near a station without paying. No one is directly fined, but on random days, at 9 o’clock a.m., when most people have left for work, the city workers drive up in flatbed trucks and haul bikes away (and it costs $35 to get them back from the inconveniently-located lock-ups throughout the city). Luckily, I clock in at 10 o’clock, so I get to park by Nagai Station after the trucks have gone. I’ve not always been so lucky over the years, though.

I saw a kid wearing a bicycle helmet the other day. Then I saw another. Possibly their school insists on it. Nobody else does.

(To read part one, click here)

Bicycle Safety – the Front Line Against Terrorism

My right brake cable snapped the other day while I was skidding to a stop at the Nagai intersection. I haven’t had the time to go get it fixed, and riding to and from the station with a loose cable flopping around my bicycle basket like a wounded appendage of some sort is both bothersome and a little worrying. The company where I work has already announced that we should always walk to the station, never take a bike. A student told me the same thing about his company, and we both concluded that it had more to do with the stinginess of the insurance policies our companies had taken out than anything related to highway safety (after all, the way people drive cars in this town, pedestrians aren’t much safer).

Besides my fear of sliding into traffic at a red light, or flying over the handlebars after reflexively hitting the remaining front brake (luckily the brake pad is loose, so I could probably catch myself), I also don’t need the song-and-dance of being stopped by the police. Osaka police have proven deaf over the years to the million-lawn-mower racket of motorbike gangs (who tend to express their individuality in groups of 20 or more) and the drag-racing sons of yakuza on the Nagai-koen Dori, and blind to all those drivers with their kids in their laps talking on their mobile phones (both against the law here, as far as I know). But try slinking home one night with a broken light on your bicycle (especially if you’re Driving While Foreign), and a couple of Boys in Blue will chase you down on their bicycles and demand to see some ID. Something equally suspicious, like my madly waving brake cable, might also give them reason to suspect the obvious : stolen! A lot of information is amassed and stored about foreign residents and is at the disposal of the police for a reason. The reason is usually, I assume, a stolen-bike check. Like a line from Casablanca : round up the usual bicycles. Yet why all the stolen-bike checks (there is always a spate of them every few months)? Dunno, because one thing is certain in Osaka – if your bicycle is stolen, you’ll probably never see it again.
About six years ago, it was found that a long-exiled member of the Maoist Japanese Red Army terrorist cell (in the days before “terrorist” automatically meant Muslim) had been living for some time in Shin-Imamiya, not a ten-minute walk from my old apartment in Daikokucho. If she’d been doubling a friend (Carlos the Jackal, say) on her back bicycle rack, a SWAT team would have taken her out in 5 minutes. Osama bin-Laden could live here for years as long as he only used public transit, or rode his horse.

But I digress.

Of the seven bikes I’ve had stolen over the years here, I’ve only ever gotten one back. And that was by a mistake on the part of the Osaka Police. I must tell that story sometime.