Simon Sellars: Sleepy Brain Archives

At the end of a long, hot day contemplating war and the New World Order, sometimes all you need is one of these sticking out the end of a Singapore Sling (Sunset Bar and Grill, Pacific Gardenia, Saipan) (photo: Simon Sellars).

Saipan and has been and gone (I’m now in Yap), and because I fell for every scam in the book (at least in Lonely Planet’s book), it’s hard for me to write objectively about it. As mentioned in the last entry, I landed at the classic Hotel from Hell and quickly checked out for a more sanguine location: the Pacific Gardenia in Chalan Kanoa, far away from Garapan’s strip-club wasteland. The Gardenia was just the ticket: clean, decent-sized rooms (about as big as my apartment in Melbourne), warm and hospitable staff, a classic beach out back and an agreeable palm-and-bamboo fringed waterfront bar.

All the same, I was still coming down from Rota and wondering how I was going to put a positive spin on Saipan. The island is continually lumped in with Guam as a no-culture, overdeveloped resort park for rich Japanese and Americans, but as with Guam, I was determined to uncover a history beyond that; it’s an insult to the country and to its people to not at least make the effort.

But in all honesty, the thing that struck me about Saipan was precisely that Japanese influence. It’s said that when the Japanese occupied the Pacific during WWII, they wiped out the villages and the local culture and replaced them with facsimile Japanese towns, bars, restaurants. Landing in Saipan today, you’d be forgiven for wondering if the Japanese were ever kicked out of here. Hotel signage and pamphlets are often solely written in Japanese; there’s an abundance of Japanese restaurants and sushi houses; and many of the locals speak at least a smattering of the language.

Statue of Heiwa Kannon, Japanese Goddess of Mercy, looking out to sea amid other ceremonial memorial (Banzai Cliff, Saipan) (photo: Simon Sellars).

In the north, possibly Saipan’s most beautiful region, filled with rolling hills and lush beaches, there are numerous monuments, statues and homages to the war-dead Japanese. Often, Japan’s government commissioned these, and although there’s ample tribute to the Japanese, American and Chamorro people who died, there’s no actual apology. I saw no ‘we were wrong’ signs, no real evidence of contrition. Of course, I couldn’t be everywhere in Saipan, so if these exist elsewhere and someone more informed can let me know, I’d be more than happy to correct this assessment.

There’s a happy-go-lucky atmosphere at these monuments. Busloads of Japanese tourists make the circuit from cannon to cliff, from the early morning to the late afternoon, laughing and joking, taking snaps and having picnics. I don’t (and can’t) judge any of this; although I’ve spent a bit of time in Japan, I’m far from qualified to understand Japanese culture, especially with regards to observance of history.

Banzai Cliff (northern Saipan) (photo: Simon Sellars).

At Banzai Cliff I witnessed something, the afterimage of which has remained with me. First, some background: it was at this cliff where, during the war, hundreds of Japanese families committed mass suicide rather than surrender to the Americans. The youngest child would be the first to go, pushed over the edge by the next youngest, and so on, until the mother pushed the last child over. Finally, the father pushed the mother over before he, too, made a running jump. I find this story overwhelmingly sad, especially considering the futility of the Japanese war effort. In some ways it really was all for nothing, considering the return of the Japanese these days, in greater numbers and as valued customers. Looking over the cliff, I was caught up in mad visions of the raging water swirling below, imagining I was one of those poor children, too young to understand why I was looking at my grave.

I heard some giggling and looked around: a young Japanese girl, dressed in fashionable camouflage pants and cap, was posing by one of the monuments, having her photograph taken. OK, that’s what Japanese tourists do; but then she began to pout sexily, twirl her hair seductively, and tilt her head at a come-hither angle. Whenshe slipped her top down to almost reveal a nipple, the penny dropped. She was either modelling the latest in camo gear and had picked a suitably war-drenched region to pose against, or it was some kind of soft-porn shoot…with a war theme.

I found this odd couple ahead of me at two other monuments – this young, desirable girl and her photographer, an older guy in his forties, dressed like the hip movie director in Lost In Translation, with his baggy pants, blow-waved hair, John-Lennon sunglasses and red baseball cap. At an old WWII Japanese cannon near Banzai Cliff, I watched her mount the weapon, then dismount, pouting and pretending to lick the barrel. She was incredibly un-self-conscious, and at one point looked me directly in the eye with a dazzling smile. I was beginning to understand where these pictures would end up; maybe I’ll do a Google search in a few months time (something like ‘saipan banzai nipple gun barrel’) and all will be revealed.

Hotel Nikko (northern Saipan) (photo: Simon Sellars).

On the way to Banzai Cliff is the Hotel Nikko Saipan, especially notable for its futuristic design. I swear the architects have modelled the Nikko on the domed city from 70s utopian sci-fi film Logan’s Run, and clearly this luxury hotel was meant to herald in a tourist-driven utopia that would transform Saipan. As mentioned, Saipan is very popular with the Japanese, but not nearly as much since the bottom fell out of the Asian economy a few years back. The Saipanese seem to have traded in their cultural heritage for a stake in this consumer-driven utopia, only for the gamble to backfire. Even more so than Guam, there’s now no Chamorro culture to speak of, just the rusted hulks of abandoned shopping centres.

Across the road from the Nikko is one of these burnt-out shells, the La Fiesta shopping centre. The guidebooks touted this as a major shopping hub, so for my job I had to check it out…only to find that things have obviously changed dramatically in the five years since the book was written. Initially, the La Fiesta reminded me of San Francisco at the start of another 70s sci-fi flick, The Omega Man: there were cars and other technological signs of civilisation, but no indication of human life. I wandered around for a good ten minutes – staring at abandoned Japanese restaurants and computer-less Internet cafes filled with wires and cables and wondering if I was in the right place – before I saw another person. He smiled and winked at me, then walked into an office; I thought he was an apparition until I saw other people inside and at their desks. Walking further, I discovered a couple of other inhabited offices, but the whole centre was infused with a dank melancholy. I couldn’t help but think that these office workers – like the last survivors of a nuclear war, holed up underground and trying to restart civilisation on a scorched Earth – were clinging to Saipan’s dreams of a tourist utopia, desperately trying to kick-start the economy all by themselves.

La Fiesta Shopping Centre (northern Saipan) (photo: Simon Sellars).

Back at my hotel I got drunk, sad and homesick and broke the First Commandment of Travel: ‘Thou Shalt Not Use the Hotel Phone’; I phoned home, spoke for 20 minutes and got landed with a $US120 bill. The next day, I thought I’d better use email instead. I found a self-serve net café, stuck a US$20 bill into the machine to buy a US$3 card and waited for my change. Then I saw the tiny sign: ‘No Change Given’. Later, I caught a taxi into Garapan to do some restaurant reviewing and immediately broke the Second Commandment of Travel: ‘Thou Shalt Never Use the Local Taxis’. The 20-minutes trip cost me US$25. There’s more: I misread my itinerary and missed my plane to Yap, a beautiful, friendly isle which I’ll blog about next time. This stuff up (for which I have only myself to blame) meant I had to spend an extra day in Saipan, a further day in Guam’s exceedingly boring international departures terminal, and two less days in wonderful Yap (Micronesian shcedules are inflexible and flights to Yap are irregular). The final nail? A bumpy landing in Yap, which sent my passport flying out of my hands and skidding down the plane’s aisle, from wing to cockpit. I had to wait until everyone departed, squatting on all fours to look for it.

So that was my Saipan odyssey. The locals, by the way, were friendly, witty and accommodating. The beaches were lovely and photogenic. The food was good and plentiful. And, just so you know, I really don’t mind going through the bad times – as a travel writer, Lonely Planet pay me to suffer so that you don’t have to.

Mermaid monument (La Fiesta, northern Saipan); this lady supposedly left Saipan long ago to live with the dolphins at sea, becoming a mermaid in the process (photo: Simon Sellars).