Tuesday, Nov 7, 2006
Picture it: A rainy Friday afternoon in Japan. This wasn't a light rain. This was a full force Japanese monsoon rain. When a monsoon rolls through it rains in every direction. Up, down, sideways, and from the ground even as the big drops splash on the already soaked street. During this monsoon I had to ride to work for my Friday night classes. While I don’t have a wet suit for the short ride on my bike for such occasions I did have a rain coat and umbrella. It was on to work that I had the occasion to be stopped by the Ashikaga bike patrol police. I had been warned that I would most likely face the inquisition of the local police force. Not for green card issues, not for drugs, not for crossing the street illegally, but simply stopped to check my bike registration (bike theft is common-remember that, it comes in to the story again). In the rain I was motioned by a young policeman in a rain suit to pull over. Luckily we were near a bridge underpass and he motioned for me to pull under the cover of the bridge. Speaking no English and me speaking little Japanese we worked out that he needed the sticker number on my bike to ensure that it was registered properly. I was not worried as my first week here I bought the used bike from a Japanese used bike shop and remember giving my name for the registration. Confidently I waited as the number was 'called in'. As we waited there were awkward stares and pauses. What does one talk about when there is such a large language barrier? Finally the call came back. However, there seemed to be an issue. What the issue was I was not sure as I could not understand. Panicked that I would spend the night in the local jail for alleged bike theft I called my English speaking manger at my school on my cell. After more awkward pauses and stares from the locals that were passing in their cars the manager finally arrived to my rescue. After 5 minutes of Japanese conversation between my manager and the traffic cop she finally turned to me and said that my bike was registered, but with no name. I was sure more was said but I did not push further. No one would be arrested, no nights in jail, but rather I would have to re-register my bike properly to avoid any future re-occurrence. Good enough. I was wet, cold, and had a potentially dangerous run in with the local police. Granted, their may be nukes in North Korea, only 500 miles due west, but at least the local bike registration was secure if world war III starts.
Oh, I wish the story would end there, but there is so much irony that I can't stop! Determined that I would not be a victim of the Japanese system (empty registration, hassled by police, etc) I ignored the advice to register my bike properly. Maybe you can see where this is going....Picture it, three weeks later. A bright sunny fall morning and leaving my apartment to ride my bike to work...oh wait...what bike? Yes folks, that's right. It was stolen during the night at my apartment complex! Could I report it stolen to the police that earlier stopped me to make sure I wasn't a thief? No, of course not! It was not registered in my name! Could I go to the police and explain my situation? Maybe, but I wasn't willing to go through the hassle of it all. $50 bucks later I'm the proud owner of yet another used bike. Is it registered in my name? Not yet. Will it be?….your guess is as good as mine.
