Toyama Driver
While bicycling in Japan you have to have not only foresight, but long-and-round-the-corner-sight.
Barely a day goes by when Robin and I don’t narrowly avoid death due to idiot Toyama Drivers who do not stop to look before pulling out of lanes into the main road. If Toyama Driver doesn’t zoom out, oblivious to the pedestrian traffic, he’ll slowly pull out but without actually turning his head to see if there are any pedestrians coming the other way. Why? Because pedestrians do not concern Toyama Driver. We mere bipedals are of no consequence. Toyama Driver only cares about getting onto the road so he can join his Toyama Driver chums at the traffic lights. By the time he has pulled out, oblivious, I am stood above his window yelling at him. But he still doesn’t turn around. I am waiting for the day when I can safely throw myself across the car bonnet with a concealed blood pack and vomit blood on his windscreen and scare the crap out of Toyama Driver.
Yesterday started as a great day. I had a day off school, which I had booked to recover from the hangover of my birthday the previous day. I also had a rugby game to watch (Wales vs. Italy), and a massive bottle of beer to get through courtesy of Flipped Lyd. Needless to say by 4 o’clock I had music on full blast and was dancing round the flat in my undies. It was in this mood that I left to meet Brad for dinner before two excruciating hours of rehearsal in the evening. I was in great spirits - until I got hit by a car at a pedestrian crossing. Was the light green? No. Was Toyama Driver looking? Of course not. My bike went horizontal, and I hit the tarmac in a way that soft fleshy bodies really shouldn’t.
As I lay on the floor, stunned by the stupidity of Toyama Driver, a form of some sort emerged near my head. “Wa gkjjskj ieieiweoowmmkd” said the form, which turned slowly into Toyama Driver. “Jafhwadnanoski dodjafan skalaslkd” he said again. “Chotto matte old boy...errr...quite some pain actually...oooh....leg” I gasped as I pulled myself up his bonnet. As I was orienting myself – there’s the floor, there’s the sky, there’s a strange blurring at the edge of my vision – he scarpered, like the rat Toyama Driver is. I stared, in a wincing half-stand, as he drove away, and then limped to the side of the road to inspect my bike and myself. As I looked over the wreckage a kindly Japanese girl came up to me to ask how I was and started to scribble something furiously on a pad, “Number. You report,” she said as she handed me the man’s license plate number.
Oh. Oh Toyama Driver!
With the written details of the event from a Japanese friend of Bryans (thank you Bryan) Brad and I went to the local cop shop. I thought it would be a simple form-filling exercise and off I toddle while they look into it. however, being Japanese they wanted to go to the Central Station to make a full report. Suddenly I saw the entire evening stretching ahead of me. After limping under escort with my bike I was sat down while a friendly young copper with excellent English skills grilled me. Soon enough they summoned the offender to the station. Phoned him – shouted, told him to get the hell down the nick. In the UK we would fill out a form and the police would go visit him the next day, after their tea and biscuits, maybe the next day, or next week; depending on what's on the telly. In Japan it is immediate. Get the hell down here now matey. And along he came.
Toyama Driver was a shrivelled looking old man who shuffled in with his strapping son and bowed profusely to me.
“Is this the man?” the fuzz asked.
“Well, maybe, you see I was on the floor at the time officer”
“Lets go see the car.”
Five rozzers escorted us to the offending vehicle, the bumper of which I remembered only too well. They matched up the scratches to my bike and started taking photos of Old Toyama Driver pointing at various offending items. Point at car, SNAP. Point at the bike, SNAP. Point at wincing foreign man, SNAP. Then we went back inside. The same five policemen crowded around and made the Old Toyama Driver fill out numerous forms, took his licence and papers away to draw big red marks all over them, and gave them back. The friendly copper explained to me that the old man had been given some points on his licence, and judging by the stern looks and yelling, quite a telling off.
“How much was your bike?” the policeman asked me. 10,000 yen I replied, maybe.
“He will give you 20,000 this is okay, you get a new bike and maybe have a meal?”
(Damn, should have said 20,000)
How could I refuse? After the scolding he got from the sergeant I just wanted doddery Old Toyama Driver sent on his way. Shake the foreigner’s hand they told him. And he did, more bowing. Do you want to go to the hospital they asked, do I have to? Do you want to? Not really. OK then. And that was that. All settled.
J-Police: Could You? They can.
Barely a day goes by when Robin and I don’t narrowly avoid death due to idiot Toyama Drivers who do not stop to look before pulling out of lanes into the main road. If Toyama Driver doesn’t zoom out, oblivious to the pedestrian traffic, he’ll slowly pull out but without actually turning his head to see if there are any pedestrians coming the other way. Why? Because pedestrians do not concern Toyama Driver. We mere bipedals are of no consequence. Toyama Driver only cares about getting onto the road so he can join his Toyama Driver chums at the traffic lights. By the time he has pulled out, oblivious, I am stood above his window yelling at him. But he still doesn’t turn around. I am waiting for the day when I can safely throw myself across the car bonnet with a concealed blood pack and vomit blood on his windscreen and scare the crap out of Toyama Driver.
Yesterday started as a great day. I had a day off school, which I had booked to recover from the hangover of my birthday the previous day. I also had a rugby game to watch (Wales vs. Italy), and a massive bottle of beer to get through courtesy of Flipped Lyd. Needless to say by 4 o’clock I had music on full blast and was dancing round the flat in my undies. It was in this mood that I left to meet Brad for dinner before two excruciating hours of rehearsal in the evening. I was in great spirits - until I got hit by a car at a pedestrian crossing. Was the light green? No. Was Toyama Driver looking? Of course not. My bike went horizontal, and I hit the tarmac in a way that soft fleshy bodies really shouldn’t.
As I lay on the floor, stunned by the stupidity of Toyama Driver, a form of some sort emerged near my head. “Wa gkjjskj ieieiweoowmmkd” said the form, which turned slowly into Toyama Driver. “Jafhwadnanoski dodjafan skalaslkd” he said again. “Chotto matte old boy...errr...quite some pain actually...oooh....leg” I gasped as I pulled myself up his bonnet. As I was orienting myself – there’s the floor, there’s the sky, there’s a strange blurring at the edge of my vision – he scarpered, like the rat Toyama Driver is. I stared, in a wincing half-stand, as he drove away, and then limped to the side of the road to inspect my bike and myself. As I looked over the wreckage a kindly Japanese girl came up to me to ask how I was and started to scribble something furiously on a pad, “Number. You report,” she said as she handed me the man’s license plate number.
Oh. Oh Toyama Driver!
With the written details of the event from a Japanese friend of Bryans (thank you Bryan) Brad and I went to the local cop shop. I thought it would be a simple form-filling exercise and off I toddle while they look into it. however, being Japanese they wanted to go to the Central Station to make a full report. Suddenly I saw the entire evening stretching ahead of me. After limping under escort with my bike I was sat down while a friendly young copper with excellent English skills grilled me. Soon enough they summoned the offender to the station. Phoned him – shouted, told him to get the hell down the nick. In the UK we would fill out a form and the police would go visit him the next day, after their tea and biscuits, maybe the next day, or next week; depending on what's on the telly. In Japan it is immediate. Get the hell down here now matey. And along he came.
Toyama Driver was a shrivelled looking old man who shuffled in with his strapping son and bowed profusely to me.
“Is this the man?” the fuzz asked.
“Well, maybe, you see I was on the floor at the time officer”
“Lets go see the car.”
Five rozzers escorted us to the offending vehicle, the bumper of which I remembered only too well. They matched up the scratches to my bike and started taking photos of Old Toyama Driver pointing at various offending items. Point at car, SNAP. Point at the bike, SNAP. Point at wincing foreign man, SNAP. Then we went back inside. The same five policemen crowded around and made the Old Toyama Driver fill out numerous forms, took his licence and papers away to draw big red marks all over them, and gave them back. The friendly copper explained to me that the old man had been given some points on his licence, and judging by the stern looks and yelling, quite a telling off.
“How much was your bike?” the policeman asked me. 10,000 yen I replied, maybe.
“He will give you 20,000 this is okay, you get a new bike and maybe have a meal?”
(Damn, should have said 20,000)
How could I refuse? After the scolding he got from the sergeant I just wanted doddery Old Toyama Driver sent on his way. Shake the foreigner’s hand they told him. And he did, more bowing. Do you want to go to the hospital they asked, do I have to? Do you want to? Not really. OK then. And that was that. All settled.
J-Police: Could You? They can.
posted by Geoff at 1:15 PM
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