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I had a nice motorbike when I lived as a teacher in Japan; I used to proudly roar around town, and I enjoyed being the envy of my teenage students.
One day, a white workman’s van took a quick left in front of me, knocking me off the bike and doing quite a bit of damage to the handlebars and front wheel. The driver hopped out; he was quite shocked to see the damage he had caused, and more than a little surprised to find a foreigner beneath the helmet. We exchanged details and I somehow got my bike to the garage.
In Japan, my school was fully involved in every aspect of my life outside of the classroom, and this accident was no exception. It was a colleague, Hirano, who contacted the driver’s insurance company, and I was left to badger him about progress in following up the claim.
My bike was back on the road after I’d paid to have it fixed, and I was informed that the driver of the van, Sato, was going to pay me a couple of hundred thousand Yen to cover the cost of the repairs. Several weeks went by and no money was forthcoming; I asked Hirano what was happening only to be told to be patient. However, I wasn’t feeling patient, and I told Hirano I intended to visit Sato and ask him for the money. Hirano strongly advised against doing this.
That evening I wandered to Sato’s apartment which, coincidentally, was just around the corner from where I lived. He came to the door and I politely showed him the insurance papers and pointed to the Yen amount at the bottom, asking him in my poor Japanese to pay me the money.
After several polite minutes of backwards and forwards, and a whole lot of Japanese that I didn’t understand, the man suddenly became very angry and started yelling at me. I kept calm and pointed to the insurance papers one more time; he responded by knocking the papers from my hand and shoving me violently across the landing. This very un-Japanese behaviour shocked me completely, and I was suddenly aware that this guy was not only very strong, he was also potentially dangerous. He shouted some more, threw my papers at me and slammed the door.
When living in Japan there often seems to be a whole lot going on around you that you have no idea about – not too dissimilar to being Truman in the movie The Truman Show; one often has the feeling that everyone knows a whole lot more about you than you ever thought possible! When I went to school the next day this manifested itself in the fact that Hirano and several other teachers knew exactly what had happened the previous evening, although all I had done was return home to drink a calming whisky or two.
Hirano took me aside and told me that Sato was a bad man and I should not go to his apartment again. I pressed Hirano for more information and he looked around before dropping his voice and telling me that Sato was a Yakuza – a member of the Japanese mafia.
Looking back, I think I was foolish rather than brave in visiting Sato’s apartment. I like to imagine what would happen if a Japanese person living in the west visited a gangster in order to collect a debt; I like to do this because it reminds me that I got off quite lightly.
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