This Alternate Universe Called "Japan"

A personal essay by Caroline Raines

On the evening of the seventeenth of December, 2014, I receive a life-changing assignment. “Japan, Fukuoka,” my lips mutter and I am stunned. I am going to Japan.

For eighteen months I will be a volunteer for my church in that foreign land where I've heard the sun rises. I stare blankly, trying to take it all in, and instantly, gongs ring in my ears. The only thing I know about the country is what I’ve learned through pop culture and media. Japan is where they wear red dresses and pull their hair back in buns and let their tiny facial hairs grow on the sides of their lips until they are long enough to drip into their sushi sauce. It’s the place where they say, “konnichiwa” for hello, or maybe it’s “nihao,” I’m not quite sure. Over and over those gongs sound in my head reminding me of how much I do not know about Japan. The sun is setting now, leaving traces of pink and orange in the sky. 

On the sixth of April 2015, at the crack of dawn, the sun greets us. I’m traveling with a group of others, but somehow, I feel quite alone. The plane is extremely large—a Boeing 747. There are endless rows of seats, each with three on the left—aisle—three in the middle—aisle—and three on the right. I’m stuck in the middle. All of those nights I dreamt of sitting in the window seat to watch the clouds roll by are swept away in a gust.

Two hours later, after being seated and then informed of some minor aircraft issues, our plane begins its snail crawl to the runway, accelerates to an unearthly speed, and when it finally lifts off the ground, my stomach weighs itself inside of me and I’m filled with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Our flight begins and up, up, up into the air we soar, flying with the sun into the East toward the land where it will rise. I sit back and try to relax, knowing that this is about to be the longest experience of my life. I count nine hours on my brand-new wrist-watch and follow the second hand as it slowly—very slowly—tick, tick, ticks.

I place my head down on the tiny tray in front of me, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep. My mind wanders. Far in the distance, I hear gongs. Those really ancient gongs that taper at the end and leave

you mysterious. Ten minutes have passed. Greens and blues flash in my eyes and I recall the pictures I Googled before starting on this journey. Eyes shut tight, I remember the pictures of the lovely women, flowing, silky black hair pulled tightly into buns on their perfectly round heads, dressed in brightly flowered kimonos. Three hours have passed. They were all so fine, so perfect, so straight. I remember pictures of rolling hills of bamboo and pine and perfect coasts where the ocean waves lick the sand, wanting to join the gongs in their tapering, and they beat on the shore endlessly. It all seems so fake, so surreal, so imagined. Another thirty minutes. I remember pictures upon pictures of anime, large fish being sold in the streets, pictures of pagodas and shines scattered all over the map. I just want to get there already.

Despite the slow tick of the second hand, it tugs at the ninth hour of my journey, and before I know it, a two-hour connecting flight and a whirlwind later, I’m stepping with my traveling group into a brand-new world, a new planet, a new place—Fukuoka, Japan. Even the name sounds like it was carried to me by those ancient gongs, and I long to see it all. I am suddenly elated, filled with complete joy like I’ve never felt before. I look around at the faces of those whom I traveled with and they reflect the wonder that I feel. We have arrived.

We try our best to take in what we can, what with the jet lag teasing our eyes.

We observe: they drive on the left, they walk with purpose, they have perfectly trimmed hair, their coats match their shoes, they move politely to the side, they read scribble, they try not to look too amazed at our foreignness, our loudness, our blondeness and hairy arms. I do not see any kimonos or anime characters come to life, and no gongs. The airport is organized, clean and humid. Even in the dark of night, I can smell the residue of the sun in the air, it’s heat not yet exhausted from the

moisture around me. I feel compressed and comfortable.

Our adventure only beginning, we wait patiently for the big white vans to shuttle us away to our new home. Sounds of America fade slowly into the night air and I am filled with Japan. The sounds, the colors, the bustle, the precision is all beyond what I could have expected. My chest is filled with something I have not felt before. The mysteries of Japan begin to unfold. The colors are somehow more vibrant than those photos I scrutinized, the women more natural and individual, the air so humid. I could not have felt this by staring at a picture. I am completely thrilled to see what else there is for me to discover. The sounds of those foreign gongs in my head blend into the noises around me, and I know in this moment that I am being swallowed up by it all. With every sound, I'm learning, and it all becomes so much more familiar. In this moment, I wonder how I could ever have been so completely unaware of this alternate universe where the gongs ring, ring, ring, and the sun rises also, filling this land with heat and life.