The good, the bad and the ugly

I have had a spate of incidents on Japan's public transport system recently that provide me with the perfect excuse to tie in a Clint Eastwood movie title into a blog.

The good

I was a good samaritan on the subway the other day. The Yurakucho line is always packed in the morning, so a slight bit of pushing as people alight at the major stations is pretty normal. But on this day I was forcifully hurled out of the train at Ikebukuro, and upon landing on the platform I turned to see what on earth the commotion was about.

Back in the carriage, a high school girl was pleading "Sumimasen, sumimasen" as she grappled with a fat salaryman who I can only describe as a Japanese version of Newman from Seinfeld. She kept reaching for something that Newman was holding, a handbag or... no, definitely a purse. The struggle spilled out onto the platform and attracted a few interested parties to resolve the dispute, including a middle-aged man who tried to act as a mediator to find out what was going on (and funnily enough looked like a Japanese Kramer). I was also curious to see the outcome and stuck around, just in time to see Newman make a break for it...

Kramer cut him off as he tried to dash for the west exit, stupidly still clutching the girl's purse (with the young girl also still holding on desperately). Kramer tried to lock his arm around Newman's, but he broke free again, making a final run for the east exit (in my direction). I was still processing what I was seeing and trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out who was at fault here when he was nearly upon me. I realised that in fact it was pretty obvious that despite his flash suit and gold watch this fat bastard was a pickpocket, and even more amusing was that he was now trying to outrun an entire group of people despite being in far from peak physical condition.

I stepped up to block his getaway, and in one solid thump shouldered his bulk enough for a couple of station police officers to grab him by the arm and drag the pathetic soul away. Observers muttered to each other and returned to their regular commuting routine, and I headed for the escalators. Standing next to Kramer, I struck up a conversation:

"Hmm, how about that, hey?"

Kramer nodded gravely and replied, "I am so ashamed".

Of course he was. He is Japanese too.

The bad

Now I don't want to give you the impression that I am some kind of commuting super-hero, although I could completely understand why some of you would get that idea. No, I am also guilty of making the odd cultural faux pas. In Kyoto, Kim and I boarded a bus and grabbed a seat - at the next stop the bus began to get crowded, so it was lucky we were seated as we had lots of luggage that would have got in the way of other passengers had we been standing.

Lucky, yes. Long-lived, no. A brusk tap on the shoulder came from a middle-aged woman with an angry look on her face. She pointed at a sign on the window next to us that we had missed.

"Shilber sheet! You know? We call Shilber Sheet. For old people! You understand?"

Fuck. We were sitting in a silver seat, reserved for the disabled, pregnant and elderly. After further scrutiny I noticed that there was in fact an old man standing at the front of the bus. Woops. Still, she didn't have to talk to us like we were five years old.

"Yes, we understand," I replied as we bashfully stood up and motioned for the old guy to take a seat. He didn't want it.

A young Japanese couple got on at the next stop and took our seats. We were flabbergasted. I was actually tempted to go and tap the evangelist on the shoulder and say "Oi, look at those two! Get on to it!" but that would have been very immature, albeit remarkably gratifying. I'm sure she would have said the same thing to them though, I'm sure it was absolutely nothing to do with us being foreigners...

The ugly

On the way home from an evening class in Saitama, sitting at the front of the train, I was almost asleep when I heard the train's horn blast loudly several times. I glanced sideways at the other passengers and they looked equally as confused before we all suddeny lurched forward. The brakes screeched for several seconds while the driver persisted with his horn, but whatever was on the track obviously didn't get out of the way, as soon there was an almighty "Bang!" followed by the sound of scattering shrapnel on both sides of the train.

Shit, a jumper, I thought to myself.

Thousands of people annually commit suicide in Tokyo by jumping in front of trains, but they are not reported in the news in case others read about it and get similar ideas. I had read that the family of the jumper has to pay a large sum of money to the rail company to cover costs of cleaning and counselling the cleaners. Apparently different tracks had a different amount. I began to wonder how much the Seibu-Ikebukuro line charged.

"We've hit a bike! We've hit a bike!" I heard the driver report over his radio.

Good god. I felt sick and sent a message to Kim that I would probably be home late. The train came to a stop and the driver and his crew ran back to check on the damage strewed over the tracks. Several minutes later he was back on the radio.

"Just a bike! Just a bike!"

I breathed a sigh of relief, but couldn't work out why on earth there had been a bike on the track with no-one on it. I asked the driver when we got to the end of the line.

"It was a prank" he replied. I glanced down at the front of the train - apart from a small scratch there was little or no sign that there had been any collision. They build these things like tanks. I shook my head and continued my journey home.