Lost Property

What happens when you lose something in Japan? Say you drop your wallet, or forget your laptop, or neglect to take the cash from the ATM. In most cases, you get it back.

What you do is call the place you misplaced or lost the item. Chances are someone found it and turned it over to the police. You go to the police station, fill out a report, prove the item is yours – and you get it back. If the item has not been found, you still file the report and wait. In most cases it will be found and handed to the police within a few days.

Yes, that includes lost cash. You don’t believe me? Read this recent article from the Japan Times. Granted, sometimes the bureaucracy of proving the item is yours can be a little irritating, but you do get your property back at the end of the day.

A few personal experiences. Many years ago, my son left his favorite baseball cap in a taxi in Tokyo. We called the taxi company, they located the driver, and he drove to our home and handed us the cap. Around the same time I forgot my coat on the subway. The station called the last station of the line and the coat was put on a train heading back to where I was waiting. A couple of years ago I forgot my mobile phone on the Shinkansen (bullet train). A colleague called Japan Railways, the phone was located at the end stop, hundreds of miles away, and was hand-delivered to my home a couple of days later for a fee of $5.

This works because most Japanese are honest. It also works because there is a reward for those who return property, and the owner must pay out that reward. In most cases the finder declines the reward.

(This is a post in the series “Why Japan is the Closest Place to Paradise“)

 

Silence, by Shusako Endo

Earlier this week I read the novel “Silence”, by Shusako Endo, and yesterday I watched the eponymous newly-released movie based on this novel.

Endo’s 1966 novel tells the story of a Portuguese Jesuit priest, Sebastiao Rodrigues, who travels to Japan together with a fellow priest, to find out what happened to their mentor, Father Ferreira, with whom the church had lost contact. This is 17th century Japan, when Christianity is outlawed and Christians are being persecuted by the ruling Shogunate.

Guided by a drunkard and unreliable Japanese Christian, Rodrigues and his partner land on an island off the coast of Kyushu and find refuge in a remote village of hidden Japanese Christians. They witness the hardships these peasants need to endure, suffering torture and death and yet refusing to renounce their faith and apostatize. The Jesuit priests flee from the authorities but are eventually captured and tortured by the local inquisitor. Rodrigues meets Ferreira and finds out what happened to him.

“Silence” here refers to the silence of God. Rodrigues’ faith is tested when he witnesses, again and again, the unbelievable sufferings of these humble Japanese peasants. He cries out for God to intervene but is answered with silence. This silence shakes him to the core and leads to internal struggles and to interesting theological exchanges with his Japanese inquisitors.

The novel is very engaging and the movie, directed by Martin Scorsese, is a faithful representation of the novel. At almost 3 hours long, and given its content, it is not an easy movie to watch. But reading the novel first helped, because knowing the story ahead of time allowed me to focus on the acting and the filmography. At times I felt as if I was watching a painting rather than a movie.

Earlier this month I visited Kyushu for the first time, and witnessed firsthand the Christian legacy in Japan. I was introduced to this painful time in history through the memorial for the 26 martyrs on Nishizaka hill in Nagasaki, and the artifacts from the Shimabara Rebellion at the local castle (an event which triggered the brutal repression of Japanese Christians depicted in the novel). Endo’s book and Scorsese’s movie both resonated strongly with me after this visit.

Restored Sumo Glory

The big news in Japan today is the promotion of sumo wrestler Kisenosato to Yokozuna, the highest rank in the sport.

kisenosato

Why is this big news? Because Kisenosato is the first Japanese to be awarded this rank in 19 years (the last one was Wakanohana, in 1998). This many sound strange to some, as sumo is a uniquely Japanese sport, but in the past couple of decades foreign wrestlers have dominated the sport. The first foreigner to attain the coveted Yokozuna rank was Akebono, back in 1993. But he was an American-born Japanese from Hawaii, so that was not considered a big disruption.

The real shock came in 1999, when another Hawaiian claimed the title: Musashimaru. He was born in American Samoa and had no Japanese background. Following him, it looked like sumo had become a Mongolian sport, as no less than four Mongolians took the top spot one after the other: Asashoryu, Hakuo, Harumafuji and Kakuryu. The last three are still active.

This is why many Japanese, especially the older generation, are elated by today’s news. For some it seemed like sumo was going down the route of many other Japanese traditions, losing its uniqueness. For many, Kisenosato is a symbol or restored Japanese sumo glory.

By the way, the sumo wrestlers’ names are not their real names. They adopt a “wresting name”, often given to them by their trainers. Kisenosato’s birth name is Yutaka Hagiwara.

Oversized Garbage

I took these photos on one of my morning walks in Kobe last week:

 

In Japan, garbage that doesn’t fit into the standard 45-liter garbage bags is defined as oversized garbage (sodai gomi).

In most places, to dispose of this garbage you need to call a special number and get a specific pick-up date. In busy times, such as after the new-year cleaning, there can be a 2-3 weeks wait… After the date is fixed, you need to go to a government office or an authorized shop (usually a convenience store) and buy a sticker in the amount appropriate for the garbage you are throwing away. In the photos above, the disposal cost for the piece of furniture is 900 Yen (about $7.5) and for the suitcase 300 Yen (about $2.5). The sticker goes on the garbage, which is taken out on the morning of the appointed date (and not earlier).

Now, while this may seem a little burdensome (and it is), the end result has two main benefits: the streets are free of garbage people just throw away, and most of this garbage gets recycled.

An interesting twist to this policy is that nowadays most prefectures do not allow people to simply take this garbage from the street if they like it, unless they get permission from the person who threw it away. Rest assured that the one of the ever-watchful old ladies of the neighborhood will catch you trying and reprimand you. In the bubble days of the 1980s this policy did not exist, and many people furnished their houses by picking up sodai gomi furniture and appliances from the street…

(This is a post in the series “Why Japan is the Closest Place to Paradise“)