Escape to the East: Oh Boy, Who Wants Some Photos?

So I have absolutely tons of photographs to present you this time. There are too many to write at length for each one, so let's dive in.

This is one of the island contingent, big Joe as he's known. 110kg's, but doesn't like to pass. He's generally who we look to for big line breaks to get the opposition on the back foot. As is traditional with the islanders; a bloody nice guy who doesn't stop smiling.

A tough match for the wingers, we had a lot of supporting to do, along with some back and forth defence.

I stayed around this womans house along with her husband this night - he monged his knee terribly so I helped him hobble home.

Another islander, who takes on a fatherly role for the team. Not so much administration as spiritual guidance.

The opposition after the match, a somewhat comprehensive drubbing.

Big Joe, with the smile that sends chills down opposition spines.

Big Joe the Fijian, with Mao the Samoan. Great things are expected of the guy on the right, once he gets his surgery done.

The islanders love their tattoos, which is unfortunate in Japan because they symbolise organised crime, and most places won't let you inside with them. These kinds of tattoos mimicking tribal designs from a bygone era are about the only ones I can stomach.

Our regular 9 was away for this match, his stand-in did a good job. (He kept stepping off to the side, or taking an extra step before passing though, which frustrated me a little I must say.)

Stern looking guy. Always has that face.

He chipped his eye socket - no surgery required. I suggested casting his whole head, but they were worried about cutting the eye holes.

Nick the number 8/flanker with his ladyfriend; a fierce combination.

The winger, contemplating a match of incident.

One of the club administrators on the left, it took me a while to warm up to him but now I have, I see that he's a really nice guy. The man of the match on the right.

One of the local contingent, not afraid to bring a small child into the fold. (I would be)

Apisai Bati; he asked me for a profile picture and this is the best I could come up with. I'll need to work on that one.

I don't know why this guy isn't called big mao; he's pretty big.

One of the kids.

Same kid.

Paulo who is most certainly not French, he's Basque. The distinction is difficult to make when he smokes like a frenchman and pops his collar like that.

The guy on the right is the one who stayed all day Saturday for the 7's. We were like two frozen cavemen, blue toes and all. The guy on the right is another one of the administrators.

He likes sausages.

Man of the match. his surname also means cute in Japanese, interestingly enough.

I never know whose face to focus on in situations like these - next time I'll bump the f stop up and get both of them. You live and learn.

I don't know who this guy is, beyond the fact he went to Manilla.

Rich (the husband of the woman whose beanbags I slept on (he he)) pretending to be a shopworker. I think he needs to shrink the best part of a foot before he really fits in, but when he gets old he'll have the practice necessary to open his own shop, as most of the old folk do here.

The shop keeper was pretty cool about the picture.

Joffa, a good old fashioned Australian name, talking to someone.

Going a bit deaf in his old age.

One of the helpers who came down - each team is required to bring an army of helpers to every game in this league. We needs waterboys, medics, touch judges, ball boys and administrators - usually several of each. Every item of clothing needs to be IRB approved (and it's rigorously checked), our footwear is checked, and so are our nails. The locals have real problems if they think this somehow legitimises the competition. Maybe they've given up trying to play good rugby, instead focussing upon the lofty goal of global domination within the ranks of bean counting and administration.

Maos' tatt's.

The name of his wife.

I've no idea what this says.

I'm not going to lie; I don't know who this is.

John 'viking' .... something. One of the powerhouse forwards who so often drag us to victory. It's extremely easy to look good as a backline when these guys are running rampant.

The first game for this guy - either an Englishman or Welshman, who knows. They're starting to breed the welsh without their accents in order to facilitate a smoother transition when they inevitably leave their homeland. They also teach their kids to smoke pipes, because that's what English gentlemen do.

I fear their intelligence might be a few hundred years out of date.

Erm?

Back of the net! Hitomi making like an adopted Welshman.

Also, of note, her last name is the same as the director whom I wrote my dissertation about. It's worth pointing out that Japan have billions of surnames just like England - the opposite of korea and china.

Someone desperately wanted to take my picture with my camera; so I handed it over. THEY DIDN'T EVEN GET ME IN FOCUS! Jesus.

The bar everyone went to after the party. I drank my fair share of orange juice, but did not pick up the ladies. I hear that orange juice is 'hip,' and 'cool,' these days. Like cigarettes were in the 70's.

Some pebbles.

Most old school shops have flags that advertise their wares - this is theirs I guess?

A few of the crew, chillin' with a brew. OH JESUS I'M A POET OR RAP STAR OR SOMETHING. Yeah.

Also, it's really difficult to take pictures indoors without a flash - but I prefer the images.

The same guys. Pro-tip, take lots of pictures because most of them will be bunk. None of these are as sharp as I would like.

As long as it's canon...

Two of the stalwarts - the little guy weighs about as much as the flower below, but tackles well. Goes to show that size isn't everything.

A flower.

A building?

A staircase/doorwell.

Some traffic lights. I had to wait ages for them both to be green.

Pachinko is a form of gambling that circumvents their gambling laws. There are millions of places around Japan where you can play pachinko. They're noisy, smoky and cramped. STD paradise, I'd imagine. (By this point I doubt anyone is reading any more!)

A bicycle hidden in a bush. That's a beer can nestled in there.

It was an extremely rusty chain. Oil being at a premium since the anti-whaling commission put more restrictions on their research - presumably.

A train. All the lines are colour coded so if you know your stuff, you know which line this is. I don't, so I don't.

A dude with shoes and a bag.

So Rich really badly messed up his knee, we had to put him in a wheelchair (he's seven feet tall, so he couldn't lean on me and walking became too painful.)

The upside is that he got to ride on this badass stair/elevator contraption.

When we got him inside the train, I only stepped on his foot once (causing him to flinch and hurt his knee an awful lot) which is amazing, considering I'm the clumsiest person this side of a clumsy thing.

The Japanese backstreet boys, heading home.

He's looking a bit beaverish in this picture.

This thing is a popcorn holder, amazingly enough. I was really interested in it because it doesn't have ears. Weird right.

And the dad was holding it. Never grow up, dad.

The village people had to go back to their everyday lives after their song rights died down.

This is Tokyo by night. The car at the foreground held two secret agents talking about issues of international importance.

Despite the inherent expense of taxis in Japan, everyone still uses them.

That's how tall Rich is - other people can rest their heads where his arms begin. Amazing. (Good job he's not too sweaty)

When you're running, your knees take 5 times your bodyweight. I assume that's a full sprint.

Particularly relevant given my own issues at the moment.

4 western men =/= 300kg's.

Where I'm heading tomorrow - BBQ and picnic central for Tokyoites. So I'm told.

My favourite picture. The one I like the most since getting my new camera. I absolutely adore this. I don't know why - I can see a thousand imperfection from a technical standpoint. There's no accounting for taste I suppose.

This is what messed me up in Osaka. In Tokyo, the anti-molesting trains are run on a schedule. Rush hours only. In Osaka, they're permanent. You can draw your own conclusions as to what happened...

Proto-typical train track picture.

I can see foreeeeveeeeeeeeeerrrrrr....

Childrens day fish flags.

Apples, with bandages to help keep them together. Without those, they fall apart. Like Rich's knee.

I don't know.

Again, I don't know.

Tiny octopus on a stick.

Some unhealthy looking shrimp.

Not a master sushi chef, but he was pretty mean with that knife.

I can't imagine the spectacles instil confidence in those work work near him; considering the size of that knife.

We entered a new apartment complex for the BBQ, it was brand spanking and quite beautiful.

Modern art. It's not a new development without some pseudo artistry adorning the foyer.

The patio had a couple of square metres of vegetable patch, some welcome greenery considering the concrete nature of Tokyo.

Everyone started dancing when the condiments were presented. I don't know if this is a traditional Japanese ceremony, or whether they saw the camera and were playing up for it. I suspect the former.

Onions. Red ones. Yum.

We were subjected to the lowest flybys I have ever witnessed. You don't get that close to aircraft at airshows. Even the ones where people plow F-16's into the crowd.

Mid squirt. As it were.

Stripey.

The worlds most ridiculous hat, for the guy with the chipped eye bone.

One man and his BBQ.

Some more cute kids.

One broken eye, to go.

The Japanese half of the English/Japanese couple who own this apartment.

His good side, at least for the time being.

D'awwwwww.

This is with a 105mm lense. So low. To give an idea of how close that is, the pilot leaned out of the window and snatched a burger out of my hand as I was waving to him.