Rush Hour

Being on a rush hour train is like fighting a private war against the world. For someone like me who spent the last 6 years of my life frolicking in the wide open spaces of New Zealand, getting on that 8:26 train is an attack to all my senses. I push myself into the train carriage, searching for some air space between all the businessmen with all their black suits and matching brief cases. The whole train is full of "suimasen", "suimasen" (meaning excuse me in Japanese) as everyone bumps and falls on eachother as the train accelerates. I hold onto the jacket sleeve of an older woman and then step on a black polished shoe of a salary-man. At this point, amazingly, no-one has lost their temper. Everone's blank public face is still in place, and everyone tries to retreat into their own world.

In Japan, people from all walks of life spend their time on the train. There are poor people sitting next to rich people. Farmers travel to Tokyo next to bankers and financial advisers. Women and men, young and old sit, stand, mush against eachother in this big whole mess of the crowded train. In front of me there are three giggling high school girls, clutching their Yokohama guide book comparing cell phones and gosiping about a certain girl in their school. Beside them is a young woman desperately fighting off sleep and leaning over to the farmer next to her. The farmer is staring blankly in space, not focused on anything, silent except to ask his wife what station they're headed for. A businessman in a very tailored suit gives them a bemused glance as he reads his comic book.

Getting off the train is chaotic. If you unlucky enough to be standing by the doors, you could easily get pushed out by the masses behind you at a station that is not actually your stop. Fight as you may against the tide of people, but you are fighting a losing battle.