The other evening, while idly scrolling my news feed, I happened upon a headline which didn’t directly relate to the ongoing collapse of the world around me. I clicked eagerly, and was soon learning about the subject of Rojo-ne, a fun trend where Japanese men get smashed and fall asleep in the middle of the road. This outrageously dangerous practice seems to take place exclusively on the island of Okinawa, where the weather is lovely and the rice wine is strong. Believing, as I do, that having one sherry too many and taking a siesta in the out-of-doors is one of life’s great pleasures, I felt an immediate affinity.
In my late teens and early twenties, I didn’t quite live the sober, disciplined, almost monastic, lifestyle I do today. My first share house after leaving home was a filthy little cottage beside the railroad tracks in inner Sydney where I lived with two other aspiring jazz musicians. As young anarchists we all quite rightly refused to do any maintenance of the house or yard, and as a result the place was slowly being reclaimed by nature. Evenings were spent guzzling whatever bathtub booze we could afford, watching late-night informercials, and fighting over the one chair that wasn’t occupied by the tv; until at some point I’d hoist myself up, stagger through the kitchen into the yard, and collapse into the waist-high grass like a crumbling ice shelf. Before turning in, my house mates would look out at me motionless among the weeds, shake their heads and chuckle tolerantly before locking me out, with the assumption I was still alive.
Eight months in that fermenting flat was all we could stand, so a couple of us signed up for a stint on the MV Kareliya- my first of several awful cruise ship experiences. This was surely the most low-rent tub on the oceans, and we were certainly the worst band the cruise industry had ever seen. Unrehearsed, late, scruffy, insubordinate, we did our best to get kicked off. I even got so sidetracked on a port day I missed an entire two-week cruise (they say the band never sounded better.) But as bad as ship life got, there was always the crew bar. Deep in the guts of the boat, far away from the prying eyes of paying customers, the crew bar offered cheap and free-pouring drinks and an air of desperate bloodthirsty abandon- for a band of young lunatic musicians, it was like a beautiful dream. And at 6am, the early rising passengers taking their morning constitutional around the deck could often be seen stepping gingerly over the prone and snoring form of the band’s saxophonist. The sea air, the gently lapping water- what better place to snooze when you’ve had a skinful?
But as skewed as my perspective got, I always chose my campsites carefully. At sea I didn’t drop off wrapped around the anchor; back home I didn’t fall asleep dangling from the rotary clothesline; and I never once took a nap in the middle of the road. Of literally all the places… My brothers in rojo-ne should heed the words of karate master, sage, and native Okinawan, Mr Miyagi, from the movie Karate Kid: “Walk on road, hm? Walk right side: safe. Walk left side: safe. Walk middle: sooner or later get squished just like grape.” Sadly my days of al fresco siestas are behind me now, but for those of you who still rojo-ne, I salute you; but remember that sleeping in the middle of the road impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems. Please nap responsibly.
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