'Visa run' to Osaka, Japan
*Photos in the next post
Preparing to leave Britain and work in South Korea was a rushed affair to say the least. Between receiving the work contract and boarding the airplane, I had only seventeen hectic days to get the contract back in Korea, finish laboratory work, arrange an air ticket, pack, sort my banking and insurance, order and wait on tenterhooks for a new passport, and a hundred small chores. My last forty eight hours in Britain were crammed with a half-day working as an au pair, my PhD graduation day, packing and moving most of my material life from Cardiff to Manchester, saying goodbye to family and friends, and a bit of sleep. All necessary tasks were completed. That is, all except acquiring a work visa.
It felt a little unnerving arriving in South Korea as an illegal immigrant and being welcomed with open arms, especially after departing a land with such venomous attitudes towards foreign workers (although aliens arriving from North Korea aren’t treated as hospitably as I was). I sneaked through customs claiming tourist status, only to find I was now unable to acquire a work visa from within Korea. A dash to the Korean embassy in Japan was required, and that eye-opening day is the subject of this piece.
On a gloomy February Wednesday I excitedly boarded an Asiana Airlines plane to Kansai airport, Japan, and travelled in some style. Nice touches included the sushi, ciabatta and fruit salad breakfast, and ‘Charmzone’ aftershave by the sink in the toilet cubicle. Air hostesses placed notes on the dining trays of passengers who slept through breakfast distribution that said, “Sleep well? You missed your meal so please call for its delivery when you wake.” So thoughtful!
I met up with the only four non-oriental passengers I’d spotted on the plane in the queue through customs; all Canadian and all doing a ‘visa run’ too. We marveled at the quick, smooth, ultra-quiet and midnight blue train with oval windows that cruised us into Osaka city. Inside was carpeted and elegant wooden doors separated the carriages. A silky female voice announced the approaching stations in Japanese and English and once apologised for the two minute late running of the train, promising the time would be made up, which, of course, it was. After a quick stroll to the South Korean embassy to receive our visa paperwork we had two hours to explore central Osaka. But first, lunch.
We lunched in an all-you-can-eat sushi bar, the directions provided by a kind embassy soldier guard who even put his rifle down to gesture with both hands. Sitting on high stools at a long bar that snaked around the place and had a moving conveyor belt atop (a mini version of those that carry suitcases in airports, complete with black rubber tiles that slid under their neighbour on the bends) we drooled at the endless procession of small food plates gliding past. The petite sushi rolls of rice in seaweed sheets were capped with salmon, white fish, sweetcorn, beef, or prawn and were randomly located between plates of profiteroles or creme caramel (Photo 1). Green tea was on tap at each diner’s place next to pots of pasty, green ‘wasabi’ sauce (a name I could relate back to the Cavells in Cardiff and to horseradish, but whose taste I couldn’t recall). “Why not eat a spoonful?”, suggested Mackie, which I duly did. Three minutes, four cups of green tea, and much cursing later I wiped away the last of the tears of sympathy for my scorched mouth and sinuses and wondered how could I have forgotten such a fiery sauce. Although each sushi portion did little to satisfy our appetites they were, nevertheless, delicious, and Mackie and I exited giggling at the sight of the twin towers, each fifteen plates high, that we left on the bar.
It felt a little unnerving arriving in South Korea as an illegal immigrant and being welcomed with open arms, especially after departing a land with such venomous attitudes towards foreign workers (although aliens arriving from North Korea aren’t treated as hospitably as I was). I sneaked through customs claiming tourist status, only to find I was now unable to acquire a work visa from within Korea. A dash to the Korean embassy in Japan was required, and that eye-opening day is the subject of this piece.
On a gloomy February Wednesday I excitedly boarded an Asiana Airlines plane to Kansai airport, Japan, and travelled in some style. Nice touches included the sushi, ciabatta and fruit salad breakfast, and ‘Charmzone’ aftershave by the sink in the toilet cubicle. Air hostesses placed notes on the dining trays of passengers who slept through breakfast distribution that said, “Sleep well? You missed your meal so please call for its delivery when you wake.” So thoughtful!
I met up with the only four non-oriental passengers I’d spotted on the plane in the queue through customs; all Canadian and all doing a ‘visa run’ too. We marveled at the quick, smooth, ultra-quiet and midnight blue train with oval windows that cruised us into Osaka city. Inside was carpeted and elegant wooden doors separated the carriages. A silky female voice announced the approaching stations in Japanese and English and once apologised for the two minute late running of the train, promising the time would be made up, which, of course, it was. After a quick stroll to the South Korean embassy to receive our visa paperwork we had two hours to explore central Osaka. But first, lunch.
We lunched in an all-you-can-eat sushi bar, the directions provided by a kind embassy soldier guard who even put his rifle down to gesture with both hands. Sitting on high stools at a long bar that snaked around the place and had a moving conveyor belt atop (a mini version of those that carry suitcases in airports, complete with black rubber tiles that slid under their neighbour on the bends) we drooled at the endless procession of small food plates gliding past. The petite sushi rolls of rice in seaweed sheets were capped with salmon, white fish, sweetcorn, beef, or prawn and were randomly located between plates of profiteroles or creme caramel (Photo 1). Green tea was on tap at each diner’s place next to pots of pasty, green ‘wasabi’ sauce (a name I could relate back to the Cavells in Cardiff and to horseradish, but whose taste I couldn’t recall). “Why not eat a spoonful?”, suggested Mackie, which I duly did. Three minutes, four cups of green tea, and much cursing later I wiped away the last of the tears of sympathy for my scorched mouth and sinuses and wondered how could I have forgotten such a fiery sauce. Although each sushi portion did little to satisfy our appetites they were, nevertheless, delicious, and Mackie and I exited giggling at the sight of the twin towers, each fifteen plates high, that we left on the bar.
We filled the remaining hour strolling around the main streets and a modern shopping mall, and peering into the dusty windows of back-street junk shops. The crowds that thronged past were of a people I’ve never before encountered. Everyone was in a purposeful hurry and made little chatter. The young ladies modelled the height of fashion and held superb postures whilst giving the impression that they weren’t ostentatious or seeking attention, but just naturally immaculate. However, they wore little emotion and silently and blankly glided past like breathing mannequins. I was amused by one smartly-suited businessman as he sped along the crowded and rain-slippery pavement somehow managing to steer his bicycle, talk on his mobile phone, hold an umbrella aloft, and create a bow wave of pedestrians scattering left and right before him.
The little I saw of Osaka city boasted nothing beautiful, traditional, or architecturally distinctive. Almost all buildings were fronted with dulled metal, concrete and glass, the sky just as grey, and the atmosphere cold and empty. It was like being an extra in the Bladerunner or Total Recall films. As the buildings leaned to further block the already dim daylight (Photo 2), I empathized with Luke and Leia in the shrinking garbage compactor with an unseen monster lurking somewhere just below the surface (Star Wars IV, ‘A New Hope’). The narrow shopping mall was crammed with people whose scurrying was made more frantic by the tannoy music: deafening, high tempo, and children’s keyboard-like. My senses were dulled and I felt lost and adrift. The elderly gentleman who welcomed us into the safety of his dingy junk shop appeared just as apprehensive about the outside as I.
Back on the train, I desperately scanned the half-hour long horizon for some beauty to counter the gloom of my unwanted first impressions of Japan. I saw only power stations with red and white checked chimneys, factories, and flyovers amongst monotonously dreary suburbs (Photo 3). Manicured shrubs and trees in gardens didn’t liven the vista, but looked fake and plastic within it. Distant mountains sulked beneath grey cloud. No doubt the February weather unfairly swung my opinion of Osaka towards grim and depressing, nevertheless I was dismayed that what I saw of Japan gave me no inspiration to go back. The only vibrant colour in the day was back in Kansai Airport, on the silky kimonos of young two girls dressed like geishas and under their mother’s orders to pose for businessmen with camera phones (Photo 4).
The little I saw of Osaka city boasted nothing beautiful, traditional, or architecturally distinctive. Almost all buildings were fronted with dulled metal, concrete and glass, the sky just as grey, and the atmosphere cold and empty. It was like being an extra in the Bladerunner or Total Recall films. As the buildings leaned to further block the already dim daylight (Photo 2), I empathized with Luke and Leia in the shrinking garbage compactor with an unseen monster lurking somewhere just below the surface (Star Wars IV, ‘A New Hope’). The narrow shopping mall was crammed with people whose scurrying was made more frantic by the tannoy music: deafening, high tempo, and children’s keyboard-like. My senses were dulled and I felt lost and adrift. The elderly gentleman who welcomed us into the safety of his dingy junk shop appeared just as apprehensive about the outside as I.
Back on the train, I desperately scanned the half-hour long horizon for some beauty to counter the gloom of my unwanted first impressions of Japan. I saw only power stations with red and white checked chimneys, factories, and flyovers amongst monotonously dreary suburbs (Photo 3). Manicured shrubs and trees in gardens didn’t liven the vista, but looked fake and plastic within it. Distant mountains sulked beneath grey cloud. No doubt the February weather unfairly swung my opinion of Osaka towards grim and depressing, nevertheless I was dismayed that what I saw of Japan gave me no inspiration to go back. The only vibrant colour in the day was back in Kansai Airport, on the silky kimonos of young two girls dressed like geishas and under their mother’s orders to pose for businessmen with camera phones (Photo 4).
After this thousand-mile round trip for ten minutes of bureaucracy, I only needed to visit Incheon immigration office to collect my alien registration card. The visa processing department wasn’t what I expected either. I wanted to see queues of aggressive Russians barking frustrations about the never-shortening waiting times and the infrequency of, “NEXT!” I anticipated an interior tarred beige from magnolia by the exhalations of a thousand chain-smokers, and tatty ceiling fans struggling to rotate and useless at cooling tempers. Immigration officers should have been surly. Guards were supposed to be restraining a snarling dog or two. Alas! it was calm, bright and efficient. The handful of Russians sat patiently before being taken care of by pleasant employees, and there wasn’t a dog to be seen. Within five minutes I was a legal alien and exiting through polite bows and smiles from the staff, pondering why the West can’t be as appreciative of, or at least courteous to, migrant workers.
posted by Graham, Manchester at 2:50 pm
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