I did not know what I'd do once I get there, but at least I knew how to get there. It'd take an hour and 2 train transfers to Shinjuku, and after that, I didn't have much else to go with aside from some flyers--mostly in Japanese. From what little I managed to translate, it had something to do with volunteer work, condoms, and men in green overalls; and I'll be doing that, giving those, and wearing those, too (in that order), a foreigner gone solo in a foreign land.It started with a misinterpreted invitation while I was looking for an art exhibit, and I consented. I did say I would do brave things once I got to Japan, and diving head-first into civic work in a distant land sounded like perfect auto-bio fodder.
But I was nervous, despite my resolve.
My hands shook a little, while filling up the registration form. Odoriko-kun was briefing me on what it meant to be a "Delivery Boy", at a small table off to the side of a well-lit room filled with colorful books, pamphlets, posters. People would walk in and be warmly greeted by everyone, and they'd sit down together and browse and chat, like old friends meeting in that tree house they built when they were kids.
Despite his best explanations of the prevalence of HIV, the weekly commitment, the large and equally diverse community in Shinjuku Ni-chome, most of the details were gibberish I could only nod my head and utter a vague "aaaah, sou desu ne" to. A moment of silence went by as I faltered with the form, and Odoriku-kun volunteered to write my address down for me. I've got some guts volunteering when I can't seem to help myself, I thought, but pushed on.
It was still about 8pm then, so we waited a bit for everyone else to arrive after suiting up in overalls of varying shades. I looked like the guys from Ghost-busters, but with a bag full of flyers instead of slime, and condoms for fancy equipment. When I looked up "delivery" in my Japanese dictionary, it apparently had connotations of prostitution. I started to wonder what we'd be doing here.
It was simple, really. And for being the Japanese that they are, wholly made in Japan with all that that entails, meant I had nothing to worry about.
It was systematic: 4 teams of 3 people with 2 carry bags--one for condoms, the other for distributive material--and a clipboard. The clipboard mapped the route (and to each team a different one) of bars to visit and drop off the supplies of contraceptives and materials. At each drop, we were to be all smiles and excessively courteous with our "konbanwa (good evening)", "arigatou gozaimashita (thank you very much)", "yoroshiku onegaishimasu (we appreciate your cooperation)", "shitsurei shimashita (excuse us for intruding)." One of us talked and handed the materials to the owner (or master/mama-san in some bars), one checked and replenished condoms, and the last prepared the flyers for the next stop.
My team had 44 stops, and though that's plenty, we didn't have to walk very far. Shinjuku-ni-chome is known for being the densest LGBT district in the world, so each bar is either a short hop, a trip down the stairwell, or the next turn in the dark alley here. We took about 3 hours to cover everything (the flyers included some explaining), but I hardly noticed the time.
There was so much to see, and there was a feeling of privilege for being allowed to see most of it. Bars here have a concept of exclusivity. Usually accommodating just 4-8 people, these cozy bars bear a theme that caters to a specific clientele, and the owner's relationship with his patrons is almost kinship. Such a system is not quite foreigner friendly, but the beauty of it is that there's a bar for them, too.
And I got to see some, about a quarter of it. They asked me afterwards what I thought of the volunteer work, and, in broken Japanese, I said that I enjoyed the experience, though unexpected, and mean to come back next week. I still know how to get here, afterall.
