Roughing It

Despite what you might think, Japanese people enjoy the great outdoors just as much as the next guy. There are major differences in how they choose to experience the wilderness, however. For example, there's the Japanese version of "camping" which basically entails staying in a "cabin" (more akin to a nice hotel room in a faux log structure) located in a somewhat wooded area. What we normally call camping is referred to, ominously, as "survival camping".

This weekend was the AJET welcome party for new JETs which saw gaijin from all over the prefecture converging on Moya Hills, a ski resort that doubles as a "camping" area in the summer. The basic idea was that AJET set up some grills, designated a few people to grill some meat and played Michael Jackson and Fallout Boy songs on a boom box while a million white people stood around outside drinking beer and talking into the wee hours of the morning. Here's the exterior of one of the oddly-shaped cabins:

Having eaten our fill and having exhausted the option of talking to a number of people whose names I couldn't remember, Matt and I retired quite early to the cabin where we found Charlie comically sprawled out of the couch (the victim, apparently, of the bottle of Korean sochu that he foolishly purchased from a convenience store in Aomori City). We awoke the next morning and wandered around the battlefield at just before ten in the morning where we were greeted by the following sight:

For reasons unknown to sane men, Mark was making a serious effort to keep the party alive (and still drinking, for that matter). By this point, Mark's various drunken escapades have succeeded in making him a bit of a celebrity within the ken; one episode worthy of note ends with him being woken up by the angry manager of an onsen (public bath) after having fallen asleep in a massage chair after close. He was, of course, both drunk and naked. At any rate, either every stereotype about Irishmen is true or Mark is simply a walking caricature. Since I haven't seen him attempt to fight anyone yet, I'd be inclined to believe the latter.

After a rousing game of ultimate frisbee (during which I was a member of the team that had no hope of winning, fittingly enough) we hit up the rollercarts. I'm going to suggest that a more fitting translation would be "roller death carts" and you'll soon find out why. Apparently some ski resorts in Japan see fit to attract visitors during the summer months by allowing them to rocket down ski slopes in these flimsy little numbers. While an attraction this dangerous would surely be crushed under the weight of lawsuits in America, the inefficiency of the Japanese legal system allows the rollercart to thrive. Having been thoroughly regaled with tales of JETs with protruding bones and such, Matt and I promptly purchased six rides for about $26 USD. After taking quite a long chair-lift ride to the top, we were greeted by two carts, just barely large enough to accommodate our foreign frames. However, we were halted at the top of the run before beginning and when we stood up to see what all the commotion was about, we saw a female JET being carried into a waiting van. There are various warnings along the course that tell you when to brake and slow down and if you comply, the course is exhilarating without being too dangerous. However, if you can't read Japanese or if you're brazen to a fault, you might find yourself in a rather dangerous predicament. This particular young lady apparently catapulted head-first into a barrier where her chin was promptly split open. As Mark, who was there, compassionately noted, "It was just pissin' blood". They let us go down once but at the bottom we were told that the course was closed "because it is raining". It was not raining.

Originally, Matt and I had hoped to hitch a ride to Misawa, where the American Air Force base was holding its annual air show which also provides an opportunity for the general public to tour the base. Unfortunately, our ride bailed on us, so we ended up climbing into Alex's car, hoping to get to a train station. It turns out that they were headed into Aomori City for kaiten (revolving) sushi. In case you're not familiar with the concept, the entire restaurant is organized around a conveyor belt that's carries sushi around the room. Different plates (like the one pictured below) have different costs printed on them and you simply pull whatever sushi you want off of the conveyor belt and eat it. At the end, they tally up the cost of the plates that you've eaten.

You can also yell out to the chef in the middle of the conveyor belt, if you want something specific or soup or something. Since we went during lunch, all plates were an even ¥105.

Perhaps due having exerted myself physically during the sporting events, I was able to eat a heroic ten plates of sushi. This only cost me about $10.50 USD. Afterwards, there was only one clear course of action for Matt and myself:

Mister fucking Donut.