Japan Is In Need Of A Land-Bridge To Reality

There is gold inside this $25 watermelon.

Living in an island nation for any extended period of time can have disastrous effects on your sense of reality. The Cubans were convinced that communism would work; Madagascarites think that lemurs make wonderful house-pets; and, Greenlanders think that 80% of all territories are covered in uninhabitable ice. While the Japanese may have elements of communism in their national philosophy, they are rather ambivalent toward lemurs. And, there is very little square footage of ‘perma-ice’.

However, the powerful paws of seclusion have indeed managed to stroke this land of rising sun with the brush of unreality. A long history of isolation has had numerous effects on this country’s sense of normalcy. And there is one result of this extended shelter from the rest of the world’s consumerist nations that stands head and shoulders above the others. It is a shocking consequence of isolation; the frightful result of being surrounded by a vast ocean that, for centuries, has swallowed the ripples created by distant lands, long before they reached the guarded shores of Japan. I speak not of abuse, violence, incest, or ‘anime’, but something far more disturbing. I am referring to fruit; specifically, the average Japanese person’s inability to make a rational judgment as to how much one should pay for a piece of it.

Sure, a long period of Japanese autonomy from the world’s suffocating grip managed to create a conducive atmosphere for the birth of some of the world’s most recognizable culture. But men in colourful robes, fighting with long-wooden sticks (think Donatello from the Ninja Turtles), and women with wooden sandals and white-painted faces, pale in comparison to the most shocking result of seclusion. It is the exorbitant prices paid for fruit that most strongly convinces this watermelon slurping, lychee devouring lover of the ripened ovaries of flowering plants that Japan has to stop taking the crazy pills in the morning.

Only in Japan would someone pay the equivalent of $25 American dollars for a blanched, misshapen watermelon the size of Gary Coleman’s noggin. Melons, found in Japanese supermarkets, come adorned with golden ribbons and are often sitting snuggly in a fabric-cushioned wooden crate; a clever marketing ploy used by your friendly neighborhood produce manager in an attempt to ensure you that not one of your $25 dollars will be wasted. But don’t be fooled. You can dress the girl up real pretty-like, but you can’t make her taste any sweeter. I’ve fathered finer watermelons as a kid after spitting the bothersome black seeds of the fruit off of my back deck at home during the short-lived Winnipeg summers.

While traveling in Turkey, my friend Mark and I were paying 50 cents a kilogram for some of the juiciest, freshest little bastards to come off a vine South-West of Istanbul. The insides were a deeper crimson than blood and even the rind was flavorful. Sadly, the gold-ribbon was not included, despite our persistent bargaining with the grizzled Turkish melon-farmer who, with an Ottoman Empire-era scale at his side, spent days leaning lazily on his rusted truck, which was burdened by the weight of a small mountain of large, egg-shaped green fruit. He offered us his only daughter, but wouldn’t budge on the gold-laced ribbon.

We were on a 2 kg-a-day watermelon diet for much of our time spent in Turkey, frittering away afternoons, languishing in our temperature-controlled room, away from the scorching heat of the Eurasian sun. We would slice the massive melons open with a Swiss Army knife and burrow into the fruit with a spoon, gorging on the succulent, sugary sauce and fleshy innards. Eventually, when our spoons could no longer scrape the watery flesh from the light-green rind, and our bellies were beginning to ache from expansion, we would lift the remaining shell of the fruit over our open mouths and drain the last of the sweet sap down our throats.

It may sound like a glamorous life, but it was in fact far from it. Surely, it could have been, if we had had scantily-clad Cleopatra look-a-likes wafting us with fig leaf fans and feeding us cold grapes and sliced cubes of watermelon-meat. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case (not even the farmer’s daughter was in attendance). Rather, try to imagine two unkempt young men, lying slothfully in a dark hotel room, sweat pooling in every crevice of our half-naked bodies; our heads hanging limply over the natural bowl-shape of a sliced open watermelon, and our brown, sun-tanned hands rhythmically, yet without gusto, moving our spoons back and forth from our lips to the flavourful fruit. Oh, and did I mention that after eating kebabs from Turkish street-vendors, who, it would seem are allergic to soap, and hence don’t use it, we were too sick to eat anything but watermelon. Yes, but the fruit never tasted so good. Nectar of the gods, I tell you. I’d take a healthy piece of fruit over candy any day of the week. Even Tuesday.

You would never find a Japanese person overindulging in this manner on a $25 watermelon. Here, the melons must be savored. In Japan, a person will spend a small fortune on a bundle of less-than-fresh, imported fruit. In a single grocery store excursion, a shopper will often drop the yearly wage of a Bangladesh shoe factory slave-girl on just enough fruit for a couple of days’ worth of one’s recommended vitamin intake. And it’s not just the watermelons that are worth their weight in gold (or at least a bottom-rung mineral such as quartz). I’ve seen $25 cantaloupes, $5 oranges, bundles of grapes for $20, and strawberries for a buck a piece.

Message to Japan: the rest of the developed world does not spend this kind of cash on small doses of fruit. This is more reminiscent of our daily budget for designer drugs, addictions to prescription medication, or cute outfits for our rat-sized dogs. You know, life's bare necessities. Fruit, like most food, is such a luxury item in this day and age.

Having said this, there are always great deals to be found in the fruit discount bins of Japan. Mhmmmm…. discount fruit. Always a gamble; often delicious. Now that’s a glamorous life.