Jail in Japan: Tales of Pocket Knives, Bathtub Antics, and Utter Cluelessness

May 4, 2008

I am being ordered to strip down to my birthday suit. Every experience is a good experience, I tell myself, trying to believe my traveling credence with the same passion it usually warrants. 

“But you just gave me these clothes,” I protest, pointing at the sweatpants and socks.  They let me keep my own long sleeve shirt. The guard screams at me in Japanese. I know how to say “hello” (konnichiwa) and “thank you” (arigato) in Japanese. Neither term is included in the guard’s growl. 

I am in a jail cell in downtown Tokyo. My flight leaves in exactly 36 hours. No one speaks English, I have no idea what’s going on, and now there’s this. I raise my shoulders to indicate my lack of understanding. The guard re-demonstrates the act of taking his clothes off in rough hand gestures, and then points at me, adding a little huff of frustration. Before I can express further confusion, he leads me past a set of lockers and points to a bath, already occupied by a scrawny inmate. “Oh, I get it. No, I’m fine, really, I don’t need a bath,” I insist. The guard launches a full blown tirade.While I don’t understand a single word he says, I understand the message loud and clear: to avoid permanent bodily injury, take off my clothes and take a bath. 

I reveal my pale bareness and head towards the bath. Without warning the guard erupts into another rant, louder than ever, and I have to squeeze to prevent my white legs from becoming brown. It takes a moment to recover, and then I turn around hesitantly – what now? He points towards the shower. Shower first, bath second, got it. The water comes splashing down cold. Really cold. I rinse, wash, and shiver violently. Mildly curious, I check out the shrinkage. It’s bad. Still shaking, I walk towards the bath. My impending bath mate moves over to one side and I dip my toes in the water. 

“Whoa!” I howl. Brief exposure has turned my toes bright red. The water is scalding. I shake my head and explain, “No no, it’s too hot. That’s way too hot.” As cold as I am from the shower, there’s no way I can get in the sweltering tub. The guard muffles an abrupt chuckle. Then decides it’s ok to laugh. As his amusement intensifies, the guy in the bath voices a giggle. Within seconds they’re both outright laughing at me. I take stock at my helplessness and smile. This is too ridiculous. What the hell am I doing here? 

……… 

Seven hours ago the New Year swept across the party district of Roppongi and Auld Lang Syne echoed off the walls of Geronimos Shot Bar. My traveling buddy and I celebrated the event with locals, expats, and fellow backpackers in the crammed, but rocking bar and all was right with the world.

Three hours ago I was wandering the streets in search of munchies with a newly acquired Japanese buddy. Suddenly, a fight erupts around me on the chaotic street. Fights are extremely rare in Japan and I am taken by utter surprise. Two, three, four guys are throwing fists and landing kicks. They’re not attacking me, but I’m certainly in their way. Surprise gives way to survival and I hit the deck in the fetal position. 

Roppongi is flooded with cops, I’d noticed earlier that evening, and it doesn’t take long for the police to assert control. They grab everyone they can and line us up against a wall. They scream at me in Japanese. A policeman pats me down and yanks my pocket knife out of my back pocket. This time he doesn’t scream, he roars at me. “Pocket knife,” I meekly try to explain. “Not a weapon. I didn’t try to use it and I wasn’t part of the fight. I was just walking there and…”  No use. If they know English, they’re not in the mood.

I look around for my Japanese buddy, but he’s no where in sight. Damnit, he could have translated. Paddy wagon. Confusion. Police station. More confusion. Nope, I still don’t understand Japanese, sorry. My jacket? Ok, take it. My shoes? Ok, here you go. My pants? Socks, too? Here, knock yourself out. Nice sweatpants. They’re for me? Ahh, thanks guy. This way, ok, what’s this way? Oh, a jail cell… sweet. 

I’m placed in a spacious, immaculate, and sparse cell with three other mid- to late-twenties Japanese guys.  After thirty minutes or so my not-so-friendly neighborhood guard removes me from the cell, directs me towards the locker room, and motions for me to strip down naked.  All caught up, are we? 

…… 

After getting a good hoot and holler in, and after my shrinkage has become an inny, the guy in the bath turns on the cold water tap. It’s still scalding, but I manage to slip into the bath tub under the cold water faucet. As all good things inevitably do, bath time ends and I’m escorted back to my cell. I lie on the thin brown carpet and ignore my cellmates reading various books and magazines and occasionally whispering to each other.

Suddenly a very angry sounding guard shouts something. “Hai!” comes a reply from a cell down the hall. The guard shouts something else. “Hai!” comes another reply from another cell. The process is repeated over and over again until there is no “Hai!” reply. The guard paces, repeats his call, and somehow manages to get angrier. Hell, he’s furious. One of my cellmates reluctantly points at me while the fuming guard walks past. “Hai?” I squawk. The guard repeats his call, although he’s certainly not saying my name, and stares me down, smoke damn near pouring out of his nose. “Hai,” I say again, a bit more clearly than the first time. Better? Nope. The guard repeats the call louder than ever and dares me to defy him again. This time I shout “Hai!”  Almost reluctantly the guard turns, continues his pacing, and completes the roll call. 

“You must say ‘hai’ loudly,” says a fellow cellmate. English! This guy speaks English!  I’m more relieved than surprised. Many locals I met over the past few weeks spoke English, I just hadn’t heard a word of it since being detained. Perhaps it’s a policeman thing—no English when it comes to the law? “Yeah,” I respond, “I think I got that part now. Only he didn’t say my name. Is my name pronounced differently in Japanese?” “Yes,” says my new best friend. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll point at you discreetly next time he calls your name. Then you’ll know that you’re up. Roll call is every hour.” “Thanks, that’ll be great,” I say. Whew, this guy is a live saver. “What are you in for?” he asks. Oh, shit. That’s right, I’m in jail. Between the bath time antics and the attendance fiasco I’d almost forgotten that I was in a Japanese jail cell and had no idea when I’d be released. “I’m not really sure,” I start, “but I think because I had a pocket knife. What about you?” “Ah, possession of a knife,” he says, “that’s 20 days.” “What?” I blurt out. 

“Shh,” he warns, “if we speak too loud we won’t be able to talk at all.” I try to compose myself. He continues, “Twenty days in jail is the standard sentence for ‘possession of a knife.’ You will go to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow to present your case. I’m here for smoking.” He squeezes the tips of his thumb and forefinger together and purses his lips as if to smoke a joint. “Standard 60 days because it is my second offense.” That seems a bit excessive for smoking a joint, even if it’s his second time getting caught, but I’ve got more pressing matters to ponder. 20 days in jail is no good.  My flight leaves Tokyo for Australia tomorrow. I also have additional flights booked to Fiji and back home to the US. I cannot spend the next 20 days belting out “Hai!” and easing into the bath tub under the cold water faucet. 

I make small talk with my new English speaking convict, contemplate my life, and wonder what my traveling companion is doing. Does he know I’m here? Can he help? Can the US embassy help? Would they care about something like this? Hum… Yep, I’m screwed. 

The next morning I’m led out of the cell and over to a small holding room. They feed me rice and then I smoke a cigarette with the guard. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but this seems like an excellent time to start. Several guards appear, slip handcuffs over my wrists, and direct me into a police bus. The bus weaves viciously between Tokyo’s morning traffic and stops by a dozen stations to load more prisoners. We arrive at what I presume is the prosecutor’s office and we’re filed into small holding cells with wooden benches. 

One by one we’re called forth, still cuffed, and transferred from one rope gang to another.  The guards here seem even more agitated than the brutes at my station and they seem keen on venting their rage often. One of these friendly faces leads me into a stately office and reads what I presume to be the charges against me. He shouts and snarls accusations in Japanese. He might as well be charging me of murdering Mother Teresa. Finally I receive a turn of luck: they’ve provided a translator so I can finally explain my side of the story. I describe the fight and how I got caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time, how I always carry a pocket knife and didn’t know that it was illegal in Japan. I apologize and disclose my flight info for that particular evening (leaving in T minus 5 hours… tick, tick, tick). 

They send me back to the holding cell so I can enjoy some more dry tasteless rice with my prisoner buddies, then they call me back to the office. I’m free to go! They hope I make my flight! I’m elated and can’t help but smile at my furious guards. This seems to upset them greatly.

It takes the rest of the afternoon to process the remaining accused, load the bus, and return us to our respective stations. It takes another hour for my guards and policemen to return my pants and allow me to leave. I subway to my hostel where my traveling mate has already left for the airport, grab my backpack, and train to Tokyo’s Narita International. I arrive at check-in as my plane lifts off the runway. Ehh. 

Cathay Pacific is great and they hook me up with a flight the next day at no additional charge. Missing my flight is certainly inconvenient, but at this particular moment I’m just happy to not be sitting on a spotless hard carpet, with my legs crossed in front of me, belting out a loud and clear “Hai!” I wander around the streets of Narita looking for a hotel and muse, with deep conviction, that every experience is a good experience. 

About the Author: Justin Landrum is an engineer who recently decided it would be way more fun to not be an engineer. He is traveling around SE Asia and dabbling in travel writing until his money runs dry, at which point he’ll grudgingly re-enter the world of the working stiffs to fund future endeavors abroad.