’Twas my first night in Tokyo. I’d just flown in from Korea, and had only two things on my agenda:
- Eat delicious food (hard to get wrong), and
- Check out some Polynesian DJs in Shibuya.
Little did I know I’d be meeting my “cousin” in the clurbbb.
Earlier that day, I explored my new hood: 20k steps later, I earned a matcha and ate the viral famchiki-egg sando combo. Exhaustion should have put me on my default settings – more konbini food in the hotel room, doom scrolling on my phone. But I‘d been following some Kiwi DJs out here in Japan on Instagram, so I knew there was a place to hit with some brown faces and seki (good) vibes.
I’m no stranger to dressing up and taking myself out, but solo travelling Asia was a level up. Doing it in Tokyo made it that much more thrilling. The most populated city in the world, yet I felt super safe and the public transportation system was simple to follow – faafetai maps! It was also helpful being bigger than the majority of the population (go island genes!).
I finished my meal at an izakaya down the street from the DJ event wearing what is typically a “going to town” outfit where I live in Ōtautahi (Christchurch). But as I walked around, I noticed the girlies were in their warm winter coats and looked hella put together – lowkey like they just came straight from their corporate jobs to the club, still looking cute. I was in a bodycon black dress that showed my curves with platform converse, my long curly island hair out, rocking chunky gold hoops. Something wasn’t the same around here, but I didn’t let the fish-out-of-water feeling linger, as this was not my normal tank. So I rolled with it and strutted confidently through the Shibuya scramble.
One block from the bar, the crossing light took its time – permitting my first approacher to eye me up and down with a smile. An African uncle with thick, shoulder-length dreads attempted to start small talk.
“Hey Miss, where you off to?”
I noticed he had an entourage. I was outnumbered, so I gave him a welcoming Samoan smile but no response so as not to engage in further conversation. The light finally went green and that was my out: nobody was harmed, we could all go on to enjoy our nights.
I started crossing the road, but then uncle and his crew were crossing with me.
“Are you travelling alone?”
I respond with a quick smile. “No, I’m visiting family.” (I was not.)
“Oh, who’s your family?”
“My cousins live here.” (They do not.)
“You got cousins here?!”
“Yeah, they’re half Samoan and half Japanese.” (That would be cool, but a complete lie.)
He was not convinced, and asked for my Instagram.
“Ah, my (non-existent) boyfriend won’t let me.”
“I see (of course it took a man in the picture to get it). Well, I’m promoting an Afrobeats festival.” He handed me a flyer in a last effort to win me over. “You know Tyla? (DO I KNOW TYLA?!) she’s gonna be there.”
I took it with a smile, gripping it in my pocket and majorly regretting my outfit choice (the island bunda was out), then speed-walked to my destination.
So there I was, scrambling in Shibuya for the bar, and out of nowhere, sis was bombarded with social anxiety.
What a buzzkill. I wanna goooo hoooome.
But, if on the off-chance I was being followed, I desperately needed to meet with my pretend cousins waiting for me.
Descending into the bar, I was welcomed with island reggae 3/4 beats that played straight to the rhythm of my anxious heart, the swinging basslines easing my nerves. I noticed the windows were lined with the bright colours of Pacific Island flags: Niue, Cook Islands, Aotearoa, Tonga, Fiji. The Samoan flag was missing, but I knew they were repping. Uncle on the decks was wearing an ulafala (traditional necklace) around his neck.
I took a deep breath in and let the music comfort me for a little while longer.
Ok, sis is safe and I can people now.
A laidback brown guy in his rugby shorts, puffer vest and snapback approached me and, in his thick Kiwi accent, asked me, “Hey sis, where you from?”
I was reluctant to admit I was from Christchurch, because we’re not the brownest city in New Zealand, but told him anyway.
He responded with a hearty, “Ayeeeee!” and gave me a warm welcoming hug. “I’m Mikey.”
A breath of fresh air. It felt so natural to speak with an accent from home, a Maori fella all the way out here in Tokyo. I asked Mikey how long he’d been in Japan and to my surprise, he told me he’d been living here for 12 years! He talked about his mrs having a baby, and I congratulated him as if he were a cuz I’d known for years – excited that the village was expanding! I told him how I was here for a freelance writing course (shout out Astray!) for one month and got a – “That’s mean!”
We followed each other on Insta, then saw that we had mutual friends.
“Uh, how do you know this woman?”
“Aunty Pare! I grew up with her on the Gold Coast! My Māori church Aunty.”
“That’s my blood Aunty! I was just with them over the holidays”.
I was floored.
“Ayyye? No way! I babysat the kids growing up! Did you ever eat her famous potato salad?”
“Shoot, have I had it?”
“I still dream of it, I wish I learnt how to make it.”
“Shucks, it’s a small world.”
Mikey introduced me to everyone else, “Aye, come meet my cuzzz from NZ!” Such a buzzy moment for both of us.
I was having the best time getting to know more of our people. Met my Samoan sis Brittney studying Japanese all the way from Australia, who stunned me when she’d casually speak Japanese with the locals. It was euphoric, hearing all their stories of how they had built their lives out here. It gave me hope for my future, seeing how they had the ability to go beyond the shores of home but also stayed rooted in their culture and aiga.
Wild to think that from our small island nations, we all had found a place in Tokyo, Japan. Especially that night for me to have met my “cousin” at a bar after lying about having family here earlier.
We jammed to songs by Adeaze, Aaradhna, Josh Tatofi, Spawnbreezie that I would sing stupid loud with my siblings and cousins back home.
“I don’t want nobody else, I don’t need somebody else to tell me about loooooove. I AM STRONG ON MY OWN!”
I travelled here to experience another culture, but was surprised to find all the more bliss getting a slice of home. I went into the night not intending to be out too late, but there I was missing the last train back to my hotel.
“Hey, do you wanna come with us to the next club? We got you.”
At that point I probably should have Ubered home, but the $70 car ride vs $3 first train ticket at 5am easily convinced me to go with the fam to the next club.
We headed up the elevator to ‘C’est La Vie’. The vibe was different to the poly music, but we didn’t care. We had each other: a bunch of Samoans trying to siva to the palagi music blasting.
“Don’t stop me nowwwww, cos I’m having such a good time!” Queen always eats!
The dance floor had worn out my feet, and close human proximity doubled my hair frizz and melted half my makeup off my face. The crisp morning air relieved me as we left the club at 4:30am.
We stood outside a konbini waiting for the sun to retire us from the night.
“Sis we’re going to another spot, you wanna come?”
Some of these guys could have kept the party going til the next night, but my bed was calling for me in my elderly age of 26. I respectfully declined.
“All good, get home safe!”
I hugged them all goodbye and waited for the first train.
“Fa sis, manuia le pō (good night)!”
“Eh, manuia le aso (good day)!” – because the night was well over.
I slumped onto my train seat and giggled.