![]() ![]() The barman wears a large belt buckle embossed with a Jamaican flag, rude bwoy style. There is the red, gold, and green Garam sign at the entrance, bottles of Wray and Nephew’s overproof rum adorning the bar, and revellers who move and dress like they are out of a Sean Paul video. The club and its patrons represent cultural appropriation at its finest. She had heard from another friend that the dancehall scene was big here.Īnd so, we find ourselves in the smoky bowels of Garam, winding our waists with reckless abandon to the booming music - as we try to pretend we don’t notice the local contingent discretely surveying our every move. For our first night, my friend suggests we do something completely random and check out a reggae club. Our loosely planned itinerary incorporates both high culture and low, the traditional with the cutting edge and quirky: amongst other things, we are slated to attend a heady Japanese tea ceremony, as well as make a visit to the Akihibara district, epic epicentre of anime and manga fandom. We spend our first afternoon trolling the corners of Shibuya, busy shopping area, and our home base of Shinjuku-ku, it too a large commercial centre (and de facto red light district). Barely 24 hours into our sojourn, we are getting what we asked for, and eagerly anticipating what comes next. We came to Tokyo seeking a full-bodied city experience, one rife with excitement, craziness, and possibility. It’s late January and we’re in Garam, a reggae club in Tokyo, the backdrop of our four day Japanese adventure. I turn back to my interlocutor and cock my head. Half Way Tree, a neighbourhood in Kingston, is a stone’s throw from where my mom grew up. I exchange a look with my friend, Miss C, also of Caribbean stock. In Half Way Tree.” Now it’s my turn to be impressed. The words come out of his mouth faster now, the uneven gallop of a horse with a bum leg. His eyes glow in recognition and he begins to almost pant with excitement. I may not technically be from yaad, but it courses through my veins. I grew up eating jerk chicken and stewed peas, I can bust out an authentic Jamaican accent when convenient, and naturally swing my hips when the faintest strain of dancehall music hits the open air. ![]() To be fair, it’s half true: my parents were born on the tropical island and didn’t immigrate to Canada until their late teens. I smile broadly, conscious of the lie I’m about to tell. The words that escape from his lips are halting but easily discernible, even as old school reggae shakes the room. We are the only two black girls in a room full of Japanese, all men except for the petite DJ - and obviously curiosity has gotten the better of him. Not five minutes after we enter the handkerchief-sized nightclub, one of the Japanese dudes who has been surreptitiously looking us up and down since our arrival sidles up to us nervously. My friend and I get a surprising taste of Tokyo’s nightlife. ![]()
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