Scary Monsters and Super Creeps

by Dom Joly

  I looked over at Krist again wondering if I should just bring this up. We’d all laugh about it and he’d invite me along to the gig tonight? But Krist was now busy tongue-sandwiching Skylar so conversation was difficult. Whatever, I needed proof of this encounter. I waited until they came up for air and then brought out my iPhone. It was in a casing designed to look like an old cassette tape so it was quite subtle. I turned the camera on and manoeuvred the thing so that it was pointing to my left – right at Krist. I paused then pressed the button. To my horror the flash went off. I’d turned it on to get a photo of Arlene Gaal in her dark house. Krist and Skylar both looked up with a start and stared at me. I went into panic mode and started fiddling with the phone as though it was faulty. I made the flash go off a couple more times in my face to make it look like I was just an idiot trying to get the camera to work. There was no way I could talk to him now but at least I had proof. I surreptitiously checked the shot and the photo was clear. I wolfed down a New York striploin and then left about the same time as Krist, who towered over Skylar as they walked off arm in arm. I briefly considered following them to their gig but realized this might be a tad creepy. I’d once done this when I spotted Mick Jones from the Clash in my local Tesco in Portobello Road. I followed him all the way to Holland Park and watched him browse through the paperback section in a charity store. I thought I was being subtle but, years later, when Trigger Happy TV was at its height, I ended up at his house with a group of people that, weirdly, also included Kate Moss and Sadie Frost (I know – clang, clang – who dropped those names? But it was just a weird night). Anyway, I’d got talking to Mick Jones and he was bit pissed and he ended up saying, ‘You followed me once all the way home from Portobello – I thought you were doing some hidden-camera stunt on me.’ I was mortified and slipped out soon after.

  I drove back to my hotel and immediately googled a recent photo of Krist. It definitely wasn’t my guy. I couldn’t believe it. I was angry. What was this fraudulent bastard doing swanning around pretending to be Krist Novoselic? Then I remembered that he’d never claimed to be him. It had been me who’d made that supposition and, not for the first time in my life, I felt a bit of an arse.

  The next morning I awoke early and snuck up to the curtains, whipping them open with some force as though I was going to somehow surprise Ogopogo and catch him mid-feed with a red face staring up at me. But there was only a lone duck who proceeded to ‘duck’ down leaving only his feathered ass wiggling insultingly in my direction.

  It was my final day in the Okanagan and I’d agreed to go on a little road trip with Al, one of the two guys who’d taken me out on the boat. He was going to collect me in his enormo-pickup truck and we were going up to Myra Canyon to check out the old railway line. There was little chance of lake monsters in the mountains but Al said it was something that I had to see – and, besides, there was a chance to see cougars, bears and wolverines. I wasn’t quite sure what a wolverine was. I thought they were fictional creatures? (In the eighties Brat Pack flick Red Dawn, the Russians invade the USA and the kids from the high school run to the hills and become resistance fighters – calling themselves ‘Wolverines’.) Al didn’t know how to describe a wolverine but he settled on ROUS (Rodent of Unusual Size). He said it was like a huge chipmunk, the size of a goat with big teeth and long sharp claws. ‘They are mean sons of bitches,’ said Al.

  At the entrance to the trail was a large handwritten sign warning that a bear had been spotted with cubs. ‘Under no circumstance should you run away from a bear unless you have somewhere to go . . .’ was the very curious advice here.

  I’d seen other signs in the valley that suggested you take a bell with you on hikes and ring it frantically should a bear approach. I decided that, should we be faced with this predicament, I’d stand directly behind Al and cower.

  The old railway line spanned the entire canyon and used to be used to transport gold from mines in the hills. It was a spectacular feat of engineering that had burnt down in the huge forest fire of 2003. The bridges had been restored and now comprised part of a cycling and hiking trail. We walked and walked and walked. I had no idea how far Al intended to go but I didn’t want to look like a wimp. This was a big day for my left foot. In 2011 I broke three metatarsals on a TV show in Argentina and this would be the first big test of my recovery. At the sixth mile I couldn’t walk much more and had to sit down and take my boot off. I think Al was secretly quite chuffed that he’d ‘broken’ me and went a bit easier on me as I hobbled back towards his pickup.

  Sadly there were no signs of bears, cougars or wolverines. The Okanagan Valley is not one to easily give up her fierce creatures – real or fictional.

  We drove back down to Kelowna, where Al left me to a final spot of monster-hunting. Just along the shoreline from my hotel I’d bumped into a guy who had a boat he could rent me for the afternoon. It had a depth finder and a fish finder. This kind of sonar device could possibly help me spot an unusually large creature in the water beneath me.

  Having left a hefty deposit, I roared off over the lake. It was like a mirror: ‘perfect Ogopogo conditions’, the renter had said just before I set off. Once again mine was the only boat on the entire eighty-mile expanse. I wanted to head north this time and this meant going under the new bridge. I put-putted under the left-hand arch and looked down into the black water. The fish finder was not seeing anything. I headed out into the very centre of the lake. The depth finder told me that it was 356 feet deep. Not bad, but there are areas near Squally Point that supposedly go down to 800 feet.

  I turned the engine off and all was silent. I floated quietly on Lake Okanagan, all alone save for a solitary loon staring at this loony cockily. I peered earnestly at the fish finder but it could find no fish let alone a monster. I could see how an obsession with something in this lake could drive a man insane after a while. The more you told people about your obsession the more determined you’d become to prove it so they’d stop referring to you as ‘that monster guy’, the loony who believed in Ogopogo. Now I was a loony who thought he’d seen Ogopogo, endlessly propping up bars showing people the footage as they attempted to shuffle a couple of stools away. After an hour or so, I gave up. I switched on the engine and turned for home. As I docked the boat I wondered what had happened to Eddy Haymour’s statue after his death. Here was an inhabitant of the Okanagan who’d been driven crazy by a different obsession. There was no record of Eddy ever having seen Ogopogo; he’d simply used the story to help him with his brilliantly crazy project. It was funny, two people – Eddy and myself – both born in Lebanon, both fixated by something in this curious stretch of water so very far away from the distant cedars of our homeland. I turned towards the lake for the last time and gave a little nod to both Ogopogo and Eddy Haymour. Things and people like these are what make life so interesting.

  Hibagon

  ‘Godzilla is the son of the atomic bomb. He is a nightmare created out of the darkness of the human soul. He is the sacred beast of the apocalypse.’

  Tomoyuki Tanaka

  I remember asking my dad whether he’d ever killed a man. Obviously I was asking about the war, and not hoping that he’d suddenly buckle under my interrogation and admit to a string of grisly murders. He flew in the Fleet Air Arm against the Japanese in the Pacific in the last two years of the Second World War. Like many of his generation, he wouldn’t talk about that kind of stuff very much; but one night, after a couple of drinks, he let on that he’d shot down a Zero. He hadn’t seen a parachute.

  At Heathrow Airport, about to fly off to Japan, I felt slightly odd knowing this. My father had passed away just four months previously and to me this trip was something of a connector mission with him.

  The departure lounge was, unsurprisingly, stuffed with Japanese, all uber-trendy, some reading cartoon books and most wearing those curious surgical masks. Until recently I’d always thought this demonstrated some sort of national OCD, a Wacko Jacko fear of germs. But then I’d read that th
is is all a cultural misunderstanding. They’re actually worn in politeness: so as not to spread germs. I had a feeling that I would come across a lot of misunderstandings like this over the next ten days. I’d never been to Japan before and already had that heady feeling I get when I’m about to visit a new country.

  Having wangled my way into Virgin Upper Class, I slept most of the way – and there is little that makes a traveller much happier than this. I did, however, make the mistake of watching the Steven Soderbergh film Contagion, about a pandemic spreading round the world. The moment the film was over I felt desperately keen to join the Japanese and purchase a job-lot of surgical facemasks. I listened to the latest Kermode/Mayo movie podcast. There was a great interview with the film director John Landis, of Thriller and An American Werewolf in London fame. He had just written a book about 100 years of movie monsters. He talked about how Godzilla was such an obvious metaphor for the atomic attacks on Japan when it was first written, in the early 1950s. The father of the guy who wrote it had actually survived one of the explosions. Monsters feature heavily in Japanese life. Their mythology is chock-a-block with them and a quick trawl through the Internet revealed a veritable cornucopia. Here are some of my favourites:

  Aka Manto: a malicious spirit who haunts bathrooms and asks the cubicle occupants if they want red or blue paper

  Akaname: a spirit that licks untidy bathrooms

  Mujina: a shape-shifting badger

  Hikiko: the ghost of a girl who was treated badly by her parents and bullied by her classmates

  Ittan-momem: a possessed roll of cotton that attempts to smother people by wrapping itself around their faces

  Kasa-obake: a paper-umbrella monster

  Sazae-oni: a turban snail that turns into a woman

  Zorigami: a possessed clock

  I could carry on with a list of more than 200 but you get my drift.

  There are a couple of internationally famous monsters that initially seemed perfect for my quest. The best-known of these is Issie, a lake monster who apparently resides in Lake Ikeda at the far southern end of Kyushu Island. However, I found a much more interesting prey. I’d read about the Hibagon, a creature that is supposed to roam the mountains around Hiroshima. A lot of people refer to it as the ‘Japanese Bigfoot’. Others, though, say it’s some sort of mutant man who survived the atomic bomb dropped there in 1945 by the Americans. This really intrigued me. The Hibagon seemed to be a very Japanese type of monster and the bonus was that I’d also have an excuse to visit Hiroshima itself. My father had flown over the city a day after the bomb was dropped and the experience had affected him deeply. So it was decided like that. I was off to Japan to find the Hibagon.

  As the plane started its descent into Tokyo I spotted in the inflight magazine the worrying suggestion that an International Driving Permit is required when renting a car in Japan. I hoped this was bollocks because I’d stupidly left mine at home.

  My landing card asked me to give my reason for visiting Japan. ‘Monster-hunting’, I wrote proudly.

  The very first thing I noticed after we’d landed was that the machines that registered your fingerprints and took your photo at the passport desk were framed in an almost childish, Hello Kitty-type cartoon design. This made a nice change from the usual stern-looking welcome.

  Once through I caught a train going to Shibuya, the area of Tokyo famed for its crazily populated intersection and where my hotel was. On the train I noticed built-in combination locks so that you could attach your suitcase to the luggage rack. This is a genius idea. Why don’t we have that, so I don’t have to spend the whole time on the Worst Great Western’s Kemble-to-Paddington ride hoping some chav hasn’t pinched my bag?

  Also, despite the Japanese famously being half our size, there was a lot of legroom, maybe double what you get on the Worst Great Western. All in all, this was a supremely civilized experience. The only slight problem was quite a pungent smell of BO, but this couldn’t be blamed on my hosts. Two nearby Spaniards had clearly just spent fifteen hours in economy and were not looking well on the experience.

  The train flashed past a mish-mash of bamboo and electricity pylons as we entered the outskirts of Tokyo. I arrived at Shibuya Station feeling very smug. Everyone had told me that getting round Tokyo was a nightmare. Obviously not one of them was an experienced traveller like me. I walked outside and hopped into a cab. I showed the driver my hotel name and he nodded enthusiastically. Strangely, however, my door suddenly opened automatically in a very Total Recall manner. The cabbie indicated that I should get out. I did as he asked and he pointed vaguely in a direction in which I started walking. I had zero idea of where I was going and there were no English street signs. I got to the Shibuya Crossing. I guess if Tokyo has a ‘sight’ then this is it: Piccadilly Circus times ten with supersized neon. I wandered lost as a lost person in Lostland. I tried to ask a couple of people but each one sent me in a different direction. This was not a good start.

  I walked down what looked like Carnaby Street on acid. Alien noise was coming from everywhere. A giant video screen showed a band called the Funky Monkey Babys, while the warblings of what sounded a little like George Michael emanated from behind a window displaying rubber clothing.

  I felt big, dwarfing the pedestrians around me, as I trudged through the streets, already Lost in Translation. I spent a good hour and half wandering aimlessly about, hopelessly lost. Every time I returned to Shibuya I could see where I was on my map but I’d then head off in the wrong direction again. Finally, in complete despair, I tried another cab. I hopped in and attempted to pronounce the street address in my best Japanese. Amazingly the electric door stayed shut and we set off. He seemed to know where I was going. Ten minutes later we got back to Shibuya Station, where the first cabbie had refused me entry. We continued on in the exact opposite direction to the one the first guy had pointed me in. The hotel was about three minutes’ walk from the station up a narrow lane. I stumbled into reception, deliriously happy. To my great relief the receptionist spoke a little English.

  ‘Mr Jory Your woom is weady It is larger than one you weserve – no extwa charge . . .’

  I thanked him profusely and got the key.

  I got into a lift that was pitch-black but I managed to find the button for the third floor. The corridors were also barely lit and it took me some time to find my room. When I opened the door I assumed there had been some mix-up in the reservations for a hamster and me, as the room was so small I could barely get in it. I rather longed to see the smaller one from which I’d been upgraded. There was about half a foot between the tiny bed and the wall and I edged myself down to the window and dumped my bag. I then edged back and squeezed into the bathroom, which resembled something I’d seen in a doll’s house. I needed the loo but this was not simple. I had to keep the glass door open so that I could sit on it and push my legs into the room. There was a frankly terrifying control panel to my side that appeared to show the various methods in which this contraption could give you an enema. I left the panel alone, did my business and then pressed a button from the safety of the bedroom. A jet-like spray fired up from inside the bowl and I thanked the Lord I hadn’t been sitting on it at the time: it looked like this process could remove skin. I closed the glass door and decided to deal with all this later.

  Downstairs in the restaurant the menu comprised a simple list of sentences in Japanese. It was giving very little away. I took pot luck and pointed at one for the waitress. Three minutes later a basket of goodies was placed before me. Among the various little bowls of stuff I immediately recognized tofu and possibly some cabbage, but the rest – besides an extremely fishy fish in the middle – amounted to total wild cards. I tucked in anyway. It was all quite edible and I felt pleased with myself for being so ‘local’. I sat back and looked around the restaurant. The Japanese family next to me were chowing down on bowls of spaghetti Bolognese onto which they were shaking Kraft 100% Parmesan. Opposite me a spotty fat woman was also devouring some
spaghetti Bolognese. It looked rather good.

  I headed out of the hotel and back towards Shibuya Station. Now I had my bearings I was very happy: I have a pretty good internal compass, which was now set to magnetic north. Outside the station hundreds of people were crammed in to the outdoor smoking area, puffing away like it was going out of fashion. Here also stands a statue of Hachiko: the dog who sat and waited every day for his master to return, not understanding that he had died. I think Richard Gere made a film about it . . . (Or was that a gerbil? I forget.).

  I crossed the Shibuya Crossing again and spotted a Starbucks with a perfect view over the pedestrian maelstrom. Upstairs the window seats were all jam-packed apart from one section that was curiously empty save for one woman. I sat down and started snapping away at the crowd below. It really was a ringside seat for people-watching. Then I realized why the section was empty. The lone woman next to me was scribbling furiously in a book in red ink (always a giveaway). She looked up, spotted me looking at her, and let loose a stream of furious invective. Froth and spittle appeared around her lips. I had no idea what she was saying but it was clearly not ‘Welcome to Japan, stranger!’

  She started to get quite violent and mock-punched me a couple of times while screaming at a new level. I held my ground and pretended to ignore her, which was exceedingly tricky as the whole place was now ignoring the people river on Shibuya Crossing and watching the loon and me.