Adventures in Capitalism - A Walk in Dark Woods

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Yellow pages in hand and headlamps set to "enlighten" we plunge on, tracking down a Kung Fu school with an odd looking yellow pages add. We arrive to discover a quiet, cultish place, probably very similar to scientology centres. The walls are brightly painted with a giant mural of the sun. Students strike exotic, impractical looking animal poses while the shave-headed instructor looks on, occasionally critiquing their crane stance; a pair of blank-eyed, twenty-something youths with the dangerous look of religious zealots work out in the small, accompanying gym. Reece and I mutter quietly about how one could effectively fight anyone while balanced on one leg and trying to form a snake with one's arms. The instructor momentarily leaves his class to arrange the sale of illegal nunchuks to someone who wanders in off the street. Attempts are made, in front of a wall of speakers that surrounds a giant screen TV, to sign us up for a private appointment, to discuss the school and possibly sell us some of the "Choose the Way of the Brave Warrior" t-shirts that everyone is wearing. Sensing pressure sales tactics we flee into the early winter night.

...Reece and I are anxious to meet people who have found sword fighting to be a practical and necessary skill in their day to day lives...

A little discombobulated and possessed by that eerie feeling of surrealism that is commonly associated with powerful hangovers, we elect to venture next to a karate school for something a little more down to earth. We wash up on suburbia's benighted shore and drift into a deeply eastern sounding school where we meet the instructor, a well-mannered white guy in his early twenties. He's a black belt. A first-degree black belt. As a point of reference, learning martial arts from a first-degree black belt is like learning surgery from a nurse - they've got a sense of what's going on, can point you in the right direction, but can never make you into anything more than a back alley abortionist. We exchange friendly banter then flee to a nearby bar, defeated for the evening, to mull over the state of the union.

Ok, welcome to checkpoint three. You're making excellent time but I'm afraid we've lost the daylight now so we'd better keep moving. I'm not sure how long the moon will last and these dense, coastal forests are hell after dark. Personally, I won't feel good until we're back at the car - stay close, ok?

We do a little web surfing before the second sortie and happen upon a Ninjitsu school. It's a surprising discovery and positively reeks of entertainment. The site emphasises how the school focuses strictly on teaching practical fighting techniques for use in real life situations, and accompanies this with photos of hooded men emerging from clouds of smoke, carrying nets and spears. According to the website, the school "offers a realistic approach to self-defense that utilises the techniques that are effective in real life situations," which it points out, includes sword training. Needless to say, Reece and I are anxious to meet people who have found sword fighting to be a practical and necessary skill in their day to day lives, so we jet over.

The ninja school does not disappoint. We drop in and discover a small studio in an office complex behind a strip mall, jammed full of guys in ninja suits. Well, to be honest, they weren't wearing the masks, but I'll bet they were close by. The walls are covered in racks of wooden practice swords. While the class launches into a warm-up routine that seems to involve a lot of falling and landing poorly, the head instructor gives Reece and I a spirited and well-rehearsed sales presentation on why our current martial arts school, along with those of almost everyone else on earth, is crap. He explains how we are all being taught "demonstration techniques" while his school teaches practical, real techniques for today's modern fighting man, with a heavy emphasis on sword fighting. I mention that I don't know anyone who as ever been attacked with a sword, but get no response.

We move on to view a couple of other Kung Fu schools and quickly come to the conclusion that, for reasons we cannot identify, Kung Fu instructors never speak above a whisper. In an incense-laden training facility in the southern reaches of the city, Reece and I strain to hear one Kung Fu master whispering in a loud and busy training area. While he talks, his heavily ornamented head repeatedly strikes a small gong hanging from the wall. He pretends not to notice and we return the favour. Around the time that this particular tattooed master begins to take credit for the name "Fight Club," we politely take our leave. It takes two days to get the smell of incense out of my coat.