jayavant's posterous

the posterous site of greg williamson

I had an amusing and slightly disturbing encounter last time I entered Japan.

 

It was at Fukuoka, getting off the ferry from Busan, South Korea. I was the only non-Asian on the boat except for an  overweight American woman who seemed to be traveling with a mountain sized sumo.

The Customs official, after going through my suitcase meticulously, even opening my tube of toothpaste and looking incredulously at the rolls of film I was carrying, (Why you use film?". "To take photos."), asked me to take off my jacket. He then turned out the pockets and found a small seed of something. It had been there for ages and was nothing in particular.

He then proceeded to dismantle my suitcase, taking out the liner, checking everything again. Checking all my pockets. Turning out my wallet and examining the lining with a magnifying glass.

Then he asked me - "You are from Australia. Do you know Nimbin?"

Me - "Yes"

Him - "Have you been to Nimbin?"

Me - "Yes"

Him - "When did you go to Nimbin?"

Me - "On the 24th of October 1986."

Him "How long did you stay?"

Me - "47 minutes."

Him (still not batting an eyelid) - "Did you buy marijuana?"

Me - "No"

Him - "Do you like marijuana?"

Me - "No"

Him (leaning over and prodding me in the stomach) - "Do you like beer?"

Me - "I think you are getting a bit too friendly now. But, yes, I like beer."

He then became very friendly and spoke about Japanese beer. He recommended I try Yebisu beer and lamented that I was traveling on from Fukuoka almost immediately and would be unable to have a drink with him. As if I would...

He kept me more than 30 minutes. The area which had been packed with people arriving, was now empty. I went out and found my friend Bill waiting for me. He had been wondering here I was.

No-one else had been delayed or searched.

 

From "Trout Fishing in America" by Richard Brautigan.

KNOCK ON WOOD (PART TWO)

One spring afternoon as a child in the strange town of Portland, I walked down to a different street corner, and saw a row of old houses, huddled together like seals on a rock. Then there was a long field that came sloping down off a hill. The field was covered with green grass and bushes. On top of the hill there was a grove of tall, dark trees. At a distance I saw a waterfall come pouring down off the hill. It was long and white and I could almost feel its cold spray.  

There must be a creek there, I thought, and it probably has trout in it.

Trout.

At last an opportunity to go trout fishing, to catch my first Trout, to behold Pittsburgh.

It was growing dark. I didn't have time to go and look at the creek. I walked home past the glass whiskers of the houses, reflecting the downward rushing waterfalls of night.

The next day I would go trout fishing for the first time. I would get up early and eat my breakfast and go.

I had heard that it was better to go trout fishing early in the morning. The trout were better for it. They had something extra in the morning. I went home to prepare for trout fishing in America.

I didn't have any fishing tackle, so I had to fall back on corny fishing tackle. Like a joke.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

I bent a pin and tied it onto a piece of white string.

And slept. The next morning I got up early and ate my breakfast. I took a slice of white bread to use for bait. I planned on making dough balls from the soft center of the bread and putting them on my vaudevillian hook. I left the place and walked down to the different street corner.

How beautiful the field looked and the creek that came pouring down in a waterfall off the hill.

But as I got closer to the creek I could see that something was wrong. The creek did not act right. There was a strangeness to it. There was a thing about its motion that was wrong. Finally I got close enough to see what the trouble was.

The waterfall was just a flight of white wooden stairs leading up to a house in the trees.

I stood there for a long time, looking up and looking down, following the stairs with my eyes, having trouble believing.

Then I knocked on my creek and heard the sound of wood.

I ended up by being my own trout and eating the slice of bread myself.

 

The Reply of Trout Fishing in America:

There was nothing I could do. I couldn't change a flight of stairs into a creek. The boy walked back to where he came from.

The same thing once happened to me. I remember mistaking an old woman for a trout stream in Vermont, and I had to beg her pardon.

"Excuse me, " I said. "I thought you were a trout stream. "

"I'm not, " she said.