Sanya

"One more beer, please!". I absently pushed my empty beer jockey around on the bar. The bar was built from two-by-fours worn on the edges and corners from use, and had a greyish, half-glossy sheen that, as far as I could tell, was less the result of varnish or laquer, and more from years of accumluated spilt beer and ramen broth. "No problem, man", Sou replied. Sou has an excellent command of English on account of having lived in an English speaking country for some time. Hes also the only Japanese person Ive met who says "man" at the ends of his sentences.

My hangout is a one room ramen shop, about the size of my apartment. That is to say, it's small. It could accommodate about twenty-two customers, and standing room is not a possibility. The walls are unfinished concrete, the black markings from the construction workers still clearly visible, and completely legible, provided you can read Japanese. At the heart of the stereo system of the place is a set of two turntables which spin a continuous backdrop of hiphop and reggae. The crowning glory is pints of Asahi beer for 450 yen, or roughly equivalent to the price of good beer in the states, half of the going rate in Tokyo for a pint of beer.

A fresh pint arrived in front of me, in typical Japanese style: 70% beer, 30% head, and Sou slapped me on the shoulder. "Here you go, man", he said as he walked past me. "Cheers", I replied.

"Sou, man, I need somewhere to go. I wanna see something different. Something gaijin dont see", I said. He looked at me, and thought for a moment. "How about the Meiji Jingu shrine in Harajuku?", he asked as he arranged half a dozen potstickers in a huge cast-iron pan. "Nah, Ive been there a lot already. Besides, Im templed and shrined out". "What about The Shinjuku national garden. You know, Shinjuku gyoen?". I tried to sip my beer, stymied by the inch and a half of foam that the Japanese consider indicative of a well-poured brew "Nah, same thing with gardens. I saw Rikugien last month, Shinjuku Gyoen for the second time, Ritsurin Kouen in shikoku, and Kairakuen in Mito. No more gardens". He turned around to stir some noodles boiling in a giant pot. "You should go to Sanya. Foreigners never go there. Its a Japanese ghetto. It might be interesting for you". I raised my eyebrows. "Yeah? Where is it? Ive never heard of it, its in Tokyo?" I asked. "Its near Kamagaya, I think. Or maybe Nippori. Actually, maybe its near Ayase. Anyway, it doesnt matter, man, you shouldnt go there, almost everyone there is yakuza, you know, Japanese mafia. Its a dangerous part of town". I looked around the room, silently counting all the tattooed, nine-fingered patrons. "Hows that different from here?" I said.

"Dangerous part of town", for the average the Japanese person roughly corresponds with 'Seattle on a tuesday night' in English. Still, I was intrigued. In an age when it seems like everything under the sun has not only been done, but has been documented, fully explored and blogged about by at least a dozen people, the idea of going somewhere in Tokyo that gaijin never see was too much to resist. "Have you ever been there?" I asked. "Yeah, one time. But I was in a car. Its too dangerous. There are no vending machines there, they always get smashed up and robbed by homeless people and poor gangsters". "Can you draw me a map?". I offered a pen and paper. "Dont go, man, youre taking your life in your hands. It is dangerous".

I found it, eventually. Its situated in the Shitamachi (literally "downtown") area of northeast Tokyo, between Taito and Arakawa wards. It has been removed from maps of the city, but its easy enough to find if you know what to look for. On a rainy tuesday afternoon, I took off walking from Minami-Senju station, over the old freight yard to Namidabashi, or the "bridge of tears", where convicts were once gathered before they were executed. Beyond Namidabashi lies Sanya, a place that never felt the effects of the windfall economic successes of the 1980s, at least not until the bubble burst and the homeless population of the city jumped dramatically.

They lay sprawled on the sidewalk under rotting store awnings on the main drag, or huddled against buildings, smoking broken, scavenged cigarettes and drinking cheap sake. The homeless in Japan are markedly different from those of other countries; never once have I seen any of them panhandling or even interacting with anyone outside of their circle. To my knowledge, there arent many homeless shelters in Tokyo; the Japanese homeless either live on the streets or take up residence in shacks on the banks of rivers, or underneath bridges, building one room huts made of found plywood and blue tarps. Most of them have old shopping bicycles parked outside, and fish for carp and turtles in the murky waters on their doorstep.

In Osaka, where the offical count of homeless people numbers around seven thousand, a homeless association has been formed, made up of destitute residents in the citiys parks. They grow much of their own food on a plot of land that was given to them, eating it in communal dinners and selling part of the harvests. In Tokyo, the story is different, with the shacks being relegated to the outskirts of the city. Those who live in the city don't have the luxury of space to build much of anything. Vacant lots typically don't stay that was for long here, and you wont find any dwellings at all in Ueno park, which is known for its homeless population.

Down a side street, underneath a large convered area, a circle of half a dozen men sat cross-legged on the concrete, gambling, drinking, and singing. Down another, old men relieved themselves over storm drains. The smashed remains of vending machines that once sold alcohol stood on the sidewalk, sat sunbleached and forgotten. On street corners, empty single-serving cups of sake and cans of beer and chu-hai (Japan's answer to Zima and hard lemonade style drinks) were carefully arranged in seperate piles, sorted and ready to be picked up for recycling. Even Japans homeless, apparently, get in on garbage sorting.

One of the most salient features of Tokyo is its tendency to cannibalize its own real estate. Buildings here are not usually built to last. Most buildings here have a lifespan of only about twenty to twenty five years. Sanya, in contrast, consists largely of slowly decaying pre-war wooden houses that survived firebombing and earthquakes only to succumb to the slow death of neglect. In spite of this (or perhaps because of it), I saw more greenery and space devoted to flowering vines, miniature vegetable gardens and potted trees in the one square mile of Sanya than I have in any other suburb of the city. Most Tokyoites live in massive concrete hive-like edifices in the outlying suburbs of the city that leave no room for such things by virtue of their design. These are the future of Tokyo, and most of its present, as well. Places like Sanya are the only reminders of what the city must have been like before the war, with its strange, parabola curved streets, street corners at odd angles and ramshackle wood houses. In the 1970's the government went on a national campaign to modernize its towns and cities, and many older buildings were replaced by western-style concrete shoeboxes, and previously irregular street patterns are gridded, like the suburb I live in in Chiba prefecture.

A week later, at Gohongi, Sou flagged me down as I was leaving. "Hows it going man?", and I parked myself on a barstool. "Not a lot. Walked Shitamachi the other day. Hit up Sanya". He raised an eyebrow "Lots of homeless, huh? Its dangerous". "I dont know, man, its not any worse than a lot of parts of Seattle". He turned to cook up some noodles and glanced over his shoulder "The Sanya is already over, you know? Theyre going to tear it down soon, replace it with something new. They already drew up the plans". And so, the cycle of demolition and rebuilding which characterizes so many other parts of Tokyo has finally caught up with Sanya. What began with its removal from maps of the city ends with its expungement from the city itself. But the younger generation, who dont even know it exists, wont miss it. Nor will the older people, who are noticeably perturbed by the smallest mention of its name. Sanya will go quietly, and the bridge of tears will become just one more place name with an obtuse etymology.