The setting sun cast a brilliant golden hue on the cerulean sea as it passed over the rock outcrop that dotted the pristine shoreline. I was making good time, though thoughts of why and where I was stationed seemed inconsequential as I reveled in the exquisite sense of weightlessness that enveloped my body. Inexplicably and without warning, I was suddenly drawn into a vortex of sound dominated by the raucous singing of a woman armed with a microphone, standing ominously over me as I slept, repeating the same incomprehensible name over and over… I sat on bed, it took me a bleary-eyed moment to realize that the crazy woman who had somehow managed to get into my room was actually passing by my apartment in one of the numerous vans that I and the rest of the population we would be subject for the next several weeks. Campaigns for the general election in Tokyo were in full swing. From early morning to late afternoon, fleets of these wheeled horrors invade the city, blasting messages from high-powered speakers atop minibuses that consist entirely of an endless repetition of the names of their favorite candidates. .
Like most cities in Japan, Tokyo lacks noise pollution regulations, and those that do exist are rarely enforced. A leisurely stroll through the bustling streets of Shinjuku is guaranteed to assail the senses with the dozens of CD stores, game centers and electronic outlets insisting on sharing their latest hit song or promotional performance at full volume by installing speakers in their shop windows. . Entering one of the department stores that line the bustling avenues hoping to recover from the shock, you are faced with a series of dazzling advertisements promoting any number of deals for that day. As you step onto the escalator, a sonorous voice that seems to descend from the heavenly realm tells you in no uncertain terms to “stand in the center of the step” and to “watch your children carefully.” Merging once more with the cacophony outside, you wander aimlessly down a narrow alleyway when the seductive voice of a woman hidden from view calls out to you with the seductive phrase “I’m backing, I’m backing,” only to find as you turn the corner, expectantly, she resides inside the garbage truck’s automatic recording machine.
Noise has always been a problem in Tokyo, and in a city that is home to more than two million cars, the dilemma is reaching alarming proportions. Adding to the confusion is the infamous far-right group known as the Uyoku, whose modified trucks and buses, painted black and armed with huge loudspeakers, patrol the city center blasting blaring propaganda and martial music at glass-shattering levels, broadcasting a high-decibel form of intimidation that can be damaging not only to your political views, but also to your ears. Far less rabid in intent, but just as infuriating, are the street vendors, whose distinctive non-stop, unvarying pre-recorded songs can be heard for blocks as they slowly traverse the streets selling everything from grilled sweet potatoes to laundry. The nocturnal suburbs will not be spared from the onslaught either. Groups of marauding youths known as Bosozoku terrorize sleeping crowds with swarms of mufflerless motorcycles mercilessly buzzing through the sleeping streets in a collective revving of engines successfully striving to simulate the sound of aircraft approaching the runway. .
After spending a myriad of earplugs in an attempt to quell the perpetual clamor, I decided one afternoon to take the long vacation I had been promising myself. Over the course of the next few days I made the necessary arrangements and was soon waking up each morning to birdsong at my friend’s country house in Oregon. The time spent in my quiet haven passed well enough, but I found myself longing to get back to the excitement of the big city. Arriving at Narita airport a few days later, I collected my bags and proceeded to the train counter, where I bought a ticket and walked through the gate that suddenly erupted into a rattling of bangs and whistles, as in my haste I had activated the machine’s alarm system by entering through the wrong entrance. Moments later, as he stood on the platform, the blurry flash of a bullet train sped past in the darkness, the rush of air it expelled instantly followed by the deafening blast of its horn. As I wearily walked down the last remaining steps of the station leading home, I could hear the mournful refrain of sirens in the distance, their endless wail momentarily replacing the roar of traffic that serves as a permanent backdrop to the city. Fumbling for my keys, I paused at the door as the incessant barking of my neighbor’s dog quickly turned into a primal wail that marked the proclamation of my return. A wry smile of resignation crossed my lips as I entered the hallway that led to my apartment. There could be no doubt about it.
I was back in Tokyo…
