If practice was not in session one could easily walk by the dojo without ever taking notice. And there it was I could hear screaming and the crashing sound of bamboo. We wormed our way through and around the back of the Kodansha corporate head quarters, up some stairs and under a construction site, all the while up a steep hill (the only hill I think I’ve ever encountered in Tokyo). I would have been totally lost without his help (Cheers Paul!). Paul was gracious enough to show me the ropes the first day. From there I eventually made my way through Ikebukuro and to Gokokuji where I met up with Paul Martin at the nearby subway station. I stepped off the bus bugged-eyed in Shinjuku. So with less than a year to go and fire burning bright under my ass I made my pilgrimage to Noma. I was angry with myself for dragging my heels and never actually making the trip. Then I heard the unbelievable news Kodansha ltd., a publishing company whose books (on Japanese culture no less!) make up good quarter of my library, was planning to tear down this historic building. Living in Japan it seemed that it would always be accessible, I always said to myself “Someday I am going to take my bogu to Tokyo and train there”, so there was no rush. In fact during my first day there, there was also one fellow visiting from Turkey and another from the U.K. Flipping through the guestbook one could find signatures from people not only from all over Japan but worldwide. For many years it was a sort of Mecca for people coming to Japan to train.
I scratched the above into my journal in the black interior of the night(mare) bus somewhere around 3 AM on May 14th, 2007 on my way to Tokyo. Every serious kenshi knows (hopefully!) about Noma dojo. I’m a man with a mission I am going to catch wreck at Noma.”
If I am going to subject myself to this kind of abuse then there must be a damn good reason. Never-the-less here I am on my way from Osaka to Tokyo. In short I hate the night bus and while I am at it I might as well note that I’m also not particularly keen on Tokyo either. It feels like have you just stepped out of the bar to be greeted by the morning sun coming up over the horizon (in this case it will be streaming in between the buildings in Shinjuku) after a long night of drinking. After an evening of being folded up in a tiny bus seat, breathing in re-circulated air you emerge from the bus greasy and disorientated. This is the chariot of thrifty foreign travelers, poor university students, and gassy old men who snore throughout the night. “The night bus to Tokyo: a nine hour hell ride in a muggy sardine can, with an interior that is all too reminiscent of a cheap airport hotel, and a smell to match. (The following is a guest post by Leiv Harstad from 2009.)
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