Haikyo

Oct 19 2010 75 Comments

An old enka singer’s house haikyo

Urban exploration undoubtedly means different things to different people, but for me personally, visiting an abandoned building/haikyo is all about what’s been left behind rather than the actual building itself. Well, apart from a few very special cases that is; namely Kawatana Suicide Squad Training Centre, Mount Asama Volcano Museum, and the recently posted Joyo Pachinko Parlor. All of which were incredibly interesting simply as structures, and/or what they stood for.

But that said, they really aren’t the kinds of places I would initially seek out when searching for a new haikyo to visit; this small and sad-looking house on the other hand, is.

A chance find that, as soon as we walked through the unlocked door, felt like entering someone’s life. Or at least past life. Particularly as there on display was a picture of the one-time occupant himself.

Plus, due to a certificate of thanks on the wall, it was possible to find out his name, Shouji Masakatsu, and that in 1985 he was a singer on the inaugural journey of the Varuna ferry; its three day trip taking them from Oarai in Ibaraki, to Muroran in Hokkaido.

A vessel that, just like the man who once performed on it, has now moved on, but as it was sold to a Greek tour company, it could still be operating somewhere in the Aegean Sea, although it presumably sails to the sound of very different songs. And in regards to music, lyrics for some of the ballads that could well have been part of Masakatsu’s set on the Varuna all those years ago, are still in the house — all carefully copied out.

And a version of one of them, sung by somebody else, can be heard here:

But boats aside, music was obviously not only Masakatsu-san’s livelihood, but also his love, as the house is still packed with an assorted array of instruments,

gear,

and mementos.

Along with the suggestion that he may also have liked golf, but quite possibly didn’t really care for cooking.

It was a very similar story upstairs too, although several more personal items made the man’s presence almost palpable.

Especially with his jacket still waiting in the wardrobe.

And music was again a big theme, with an old school cassette player,

and a radio alarm clock still in the bedroom.

A room that was not only bleak, but also contained a newspaper dated 1997, suggesting that was the last time Shouji Masakatsu spent a night there.

But why he left, and more pressingly also left so many possessions, is a mystery. The selection of which made the deathly quiet of the house almost deafening.

Oct 07 2010 22 Comments

Pachinko parlor haikyo

The perception of pachinko, Japan’s biggest form of gambling, obviously varies depending on the individual, as what’s considered a complete waste of money for one person, is seen as a welcome (and possibly winning) break for another.

But that said, there is one constant that everyone can agree on, and that’s the noise. The frenetic flow of ball bearings and monstrously loud machines making for a din that is almost indescribable, or at the very least undesirable. And it’s this element in particular that gives the total and utter silence of an abandoned pachinko parlor a truly incredible sense of serenity.

Plus upstairs, in the office, things were just as quiet. With the desk deserted.

Kurihara-san nowhere to be seen.

And the bank of security screens busy doing nothing but staring blankly back.

However, rather than watching what was going on inside, the cameras would have been better utilised observing what (or indeed who) was on the outside, as, on April 28th 2004, two armed men stormed in, tied up the manager, and made off with Â¥800,000. An episode that not only put the poor fella involved in an absolutely awful position, but also sealed the fate of the parlor too, as receipts and calendars in the building don’t go any further than that eventful month a little over 6 years ago.

A situation that’s incredibly hard to imagine when walking down the silent corridors.

With only the slightest of hints at any kind of struggle.

And yet as fascinating as the office was, the real story, at least from a picture taking perspective, is back downstairs.

As the lines.

Chairs.

Bits and pieces left by possibly the last punter.

And the once proud sign.

Make it practically perfect.

Jul 13 2010 22 Comments

The sorry sight of the Queen Chateau soapland haikyo

When its doors opened in April 1984, in an area where it was, and indeed still is, surrounded by other soaplands and countless other establishments serving sex-related services, it must have seemed that success for the Queen Chateau was a certainty.

But it wasn’t.

And, according to different sources, it closed those same doors once suggestively thrown open that very same year, or, somewhat slightly less disastrously, several years later in 1987.

But either way, it’s still a mystery why it failed, although at the same time it is fairly safe to say that it wasn’t down to a lack of effort in regards the decor, due to its charmingly restrained chateau-like chic.

However, regardless of such fineries, it’s probable that phone rang more in relation to payment requests rather than reservations.

And the rooms, where the place’s ten working girls once plied their trade, are now arguably more sordid than any of the activities that were once performed in them.

The remaining furnishings hinting at the soapy shenanigans that briefly went on there.

Which, it seems, often involved these uncomfortable looking plastic chairs.

But definitely not their more comfortable and cushion-bearing cousins.

And yet as unquestionably pleasurable as soapland must be for the punter, for those paid to please, it must have been (and be) an especially different experience. One were a couple of drinks or some other concoction can’t have just been nice, but a necessity.

A point that became immediately apparent upon stepping inside the Queen Chateau, as, due to the main doors being boarded up, a rear entry was the only option, instead of a once less difficultly negotiated front one; leading us through a depressingly dark and horribly confined area with packed-in bunk beds and basic cooking and toilet facilities — a part of the building where the staff obviously once slept and spent their free (or possibly not so free) time.

The unlit and warren-like nature of the place meant that taking pictures was impossible, but at the same time, it made the sight of business cards suggesting euphemistic visits to ‘tearooms’ (ãƒ†ã‚£ãƒ¼ãƒ«ãƒ¼ãƒ ) with the likes of Jean (ã‚¸ãƒ¼ãƒ³) and Claudia (ã‚¯ãƒ©ã‚¦ãƒ‡ã‚£ã‚¢) all the more unsettling.

May 25 2010 22 Comments

Scandinavian hotel haikyo

When it comes to hunting down haikyo/abandoned buildings, books and the web offer a wealth of information and photos, but the trouble is, the latter means that the surprise isn’t quite the same, as you’ve already seen at least some of the structure before even setting foot inside it. So, with this in mind, coming across a place that hasn’t been pictured before is a real treat, and definitely a real rush, as what lies behind every door is a new discovery.

A situation that fortunately arose recently when a friend and I were in search of a no longer in use love hotel, and instead stumbled upon an abandoned and luckily unlocked ‘Scandinavian’ lodge. A relatively small place that didn’t contain a great deal content wise, but it did boast that firm favourite of all haikyo, a phone.

Along with statues of what are presumably Scandinavian beauties.

With silent stares that were really quite unsettling.

Especially so when coupled with a less fetching figure.

A photo of which turned out to be my final one, as, totally unannounced, and utterly unheard, an irate local came barging through the doors behind me, and in no uncertain terms said I should leave — a man who sadly couldn’t be appeased no matter how much I apologised.

Meaning no more time to take pictures, and definitely no time for a cheeky cup of tea and a couple of buns.

Apr 28 2010 16 Comments

Huge haikyo hotel #2: The upper floors

Considering the state of the first floor, and the random bits and bobs pictured in part 1, it wasn’t at all surprising to find that the hotel had its last guests and then locked up for good in the early 1990s.

Plus, when one heads to the higher floors, it’s similarly unsurprising to discover that it started doing business in the summer of 1973, as the decor is still undoubtedly of that decade.

And seeing that it obviously wasn’t changed once in the twenty years or so it was operational, it’s no surprise either that the hotel eventually surrendered to insolvency. As walks down the numerous corridors.

Along with a rummage around in the large number of rooms.

Resulted in nothing but the same colour schemes.

And wallpaper that wouldn’t be exactly what most people would want to wake up to.

In fact the only real difference was the state of disrepair.

Which no amount of dandyism can now hope to disguise.

And yet for those people who did stay here, the hotel at least offered some really quite lovely views.

Which could well have been nice to have a coffee by.

But now, after nearly twenty years of being left abandoned to nothing but birds, everything sits silent and soiled.

Meaning no room service.

No room calls.

And definitely no sitting in one’s room and relaxing in front of The Rockford Files.

For more haikyo, the whole archive can be seen here. Or, for more selective viewing, my particular favourites are, Nichitsu mining town, Japan Snake Center, Kawatana Special Attack Unit Training Centre, the Higashi Izu-cho Isolation Ward and Mount Asama Volcano Museum.

Apr 20 2010 27 Comments

Huge haikyo hotel #1: The first floor

Situated in the popular tourist area of Izu, and surrounded by expensive holiday homes, this bleak and now abandoned building is an eyesore that must regularly irritate those on a rest break, let alone local residents.

A hotel that must once have hummed with the sound of holidaymakers on short trips away from Tokyo, but now it’s pretty much silent apart from the steady drips from damaged drain pipes and the wind from broken windows.

Meaning that there’s definitely no point in calling reception.

Regardless of whether it be for a kiddie chair.

Some condiments.

A cartridge for a bit of karaoke.

Or even a complaint about the cleanliness.

Although in the office, where the staff experienced both the highs of the hotel’s opening day, and the lows of its last one, there are still plenty of signs of past activity — some of which, despite the hotel closing in the early 1990s, still feels as though it was fairly recent.

Such as still full filing cabinets.

Unused business cards.

And bills to prove that, back in the day at least, they did manage to do some business.

But that was then and this is now, and regardless of whether it was hurt by changing times, or hampered by bad management, the enterprise was a gamble that well and truly didn’t pay off.

In part 2, which can be seen here, I’ll take a look at the distinctly 70s style rooms, and their decidedly dismal deterioration.

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