Part I: The Tourist

Chap.2: The Bleeding of Yen

The decision to go to Japan had been made in the heart, but reality screamed a single word in my face: "Impossible." I was drowning in a sea of complex procedures, and the more I searched, the higher the mountain of despair grew. Every path led to a dead end: either an acceptance from a language school that required a fortune I did not possess, or proofs and documents that raised more suspicion than they opened doors. I could see the dream receding, dimming into a faint star in an impossible sky.

One evening, as I sat with my father, the silence heavy with looming defeat, he saw the story my face was telling. He looked at me for a long moment, a gaze that held the wisdom of years, and then said quietly, "There is... perhaps... a way. I will speak to my friend tomorrow."

My father's friend, the owner of a humble auto-repair shop, knew a local man who worked at the Japanese embassy. This man was no diplomat; he was a slender thread of hope in a universe of darkness. My father went to meet his friend, carrying the heavy weight of his request. After some pleading, moved by the story of a young man dreaming of the impossible, the friend agreed to mediate. The reply from the embassy man was swift and decisive: "To travel, he needs a Japanese guarantor." It felt like we were back at square one. But the Local man, perhaps seeing something of his own past in my story, did not close the door. "However," he said, "we can try for a short-term, three-month tourist visa. I will see what I can do. I will speak to a Japanese acquaintance of mine to act as his guarantor."

And so, the miracle happened. As part of the arrangement, this Japanese guarantor, whom I had never met, booked a hotel for me and sent me the address. All I was told was that it was "cheap."

Now, the real race began. I had no car to sell; the sacrifice had to be deeper. I watched my father sell his car, his trusted companion, without flinching. I watched my mother take out a piece of gold she had been saving "for a rainy day," deciding that my time had come. It wasn't enough. I borrowed from friends and relatives, gathering dollars until I had scraped together $800. Even the plane ticket was a debt, engraved on my soul before my feet ever touched the airport tarmac.

The day of farewell arrived. My mother's hug was long and silent, laden with prayers she could not speak. My father's gaze said everything: "Go, and don't look back. Become the man I could not be." I smiled and reassured them, but inside, a child was trembling at the vast unknown.

I boarded the plane. It was a long flight across continents, each hour widening the distance between me and everything I had ever known. Then, the plane landed at Narita.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, Tokyo slapped me with its brilliant reality. It was a colossal living organism, pulsating with speed, noise, and an order so perfect it felt alien. I walked into a convenience store to buy a carton of juice. When I saw the price, I felt the first shock of what "The Bleeding Yen" would mean; it cost more than a full meal back home. Every price tag was a tiny scream, telling me I did not belong.

I made my way to the address I was given. The "cheap" hotel. I found myself standing before a wooden box, a capsule barely large enough for my body. I placed my small bag, which held everything I owned, and felt as if I were being locked in a temporary tomb. I slept fitfully, and the next day, I went out to face the world.

It was here I collided with the real wall—not of concrete, but of silence. I was looking for a job, any job. Whenever I tried to ask someone on the street, they would bow respectfully, mutter a few rapid Japanese words, then turn and almost flee. At first, I felt the sting of rejection. But then I began to notice something in their eyes: it wasn't malice, but a deep-seated panic. They were ashamed of their inability to understand me.

But there was something deeper. A word whispered as I passed. "Gaijin."

I didn't know its dictionary meaning then, but I felt its true meaning in my bones. It drew an invisible circle around me. The Stranger. The Foreigner. The Other. It wasn't just a language barrier; it was a cultural wall, transparent yet unyielding, that separated me from them.

In that moment, I understood the scale of the challenge. I wasn't just fighting "The Bleeding Yen" that was draining my savings with every heartbeat. I was fighting to break through the "Wall of Silence," and to survive being a "Gaijin" in a world that wasn't built for me.

This was the true beginning.

End of Chapter

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About the Author

A traveller of borders and identities. Asado san, the founder of Gaijin Story, is a dreamer who left a land with no space for his dreams and built a new future from nothing. His journey from poverty and limitation to Tokyo’s neon-lit maze became the blueprint for the Six Hats Methodology — a system born not from theory, but from scars, survival, and victory.

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