February 2004
Saturday-Sunday, Jan. 31-Feb. 1, 2004 — I fought the mountain and the mountain won
Our bus pulled into the Nagano area right on schedule around 7 a.m. The area was incredible; everything blanketed in a waist-deep blanket of snow, the roofs sagging beneath the weight of it. The roads had been cleared and the weather looked like it was going to be clear and sunny for the day.
The bus dropped us off at the Hakuba Royal Hotel and we got a taxi to the pension to which we’d been assigned Yamato. A few minutes later and $10 poorer, we piled into the tiny entrance area the innkeepers came out with this bewildered expression on their faces. Apparently there were two Yamato pensions in the area. They called two more taxis for us. A few more minutes later and another $10 poorer, we arrived at the Yamato in the Wadano no Mori area in the Olympic Village. The pensions in this area were obviously new, built specifically for the 1998 Winter Olympics.
At Yamato, the innkeeper told that that yes, we were supposed to stay there but last minute-changes had led to the guys having a room there but the girls were pushed to another pension down the road. Jody, a male Canadian JET, was also with the girls because the trip organizers had thought he was a girl.
We trudged down the road, this one covered in a slick layer of ice, and after a few wrong turns found the Three Horses pension. We saw lots of gaikokujin (the polite term for “foreigner” in Japanese; “gaijin” is considered derogatory) along the way, likely fellow JETs in the area for the same reason. At the Three Horses, our two rooms weren’t available yet because it was so early in the morning. So we simply threw our stuff into a storage area downstairs and changed into our ski gear.
I had signed onto this trip thinking that most everyone was a beginner at snowboarding. I found that encouraging because that meant I’d wouldn’t be the only one figuring out how to snowboard. But I soon discovered that I’d be the only girl trying my hand at the sport. When we arrived at the resort, Happo, I was soon left behind by the four guys who were first-time snowboarders.
Fine, I thought to myself. I resolved to figure it out on my own. The five skiers, too, left me behind since they all had at least a little experience skiing before. I didn’t even know how to strap on my snowboard. It was terrible. I spent the better part of the morning trying to figure out how to simply stand while strapped to my snowboard. It became a regular pattern: Try to stand, slide further down the mountain, try to stand, slide further down the mountain.
I soon gave up. I tried to watch the other snowboarders flying by, but I just couldn’t figure out the technique. And my body just couldn’t handle the constant falling. I was going to have to take a lesson. I went to the ski school asking in my barely coherent Japanese if the instructors spoke English. The older man at the front desk told me to come back later.
Reluctant to return to the slopes after the beating my body had gotten, I spent a good hour and a half simply people-watching. It gave me a good opportunity to check out the snowboarders and what they were wearing. It made me really want to get all new skiing/snowboarding gear. I don’t really need it because I have my ski jacket and pants already but I don’t mind occasionally indulging.
Back at ski school, I signed up for a half-day group lesson that began at 1:30 p.m. The English-speaking instructor at the front desk had originally asked if I wanted to take private lessons. I opted for the group lessons figuring it’d be less expensive. I’m glad I did. I paid about $35 for my lesson. A half-day of one-on-one private instruction cost $200.
I asked if the instructor spoke English and was told he or she would know a little. Good enough for me. My instructor turned out to be a lovely woman named Akiko who spoke a lot of English. I had no problem understand her at all. She was 30 years old and had been teaching for an astounding 11 years. She looked like she was 25. In my group of five students, four of us were foreigners.
The lesson was so good for me. As opposed to the guys, who were confident they could figure out how to snowboard on their own, I need a teacher who can explain the technique. By lesson’s end I could stop and turn from a front-facing position. I’d need to learn the opposite position to be able to alternate between the two but it was an encouraging start. I felt so much better.
Afterward, there was even some time to snowboard with the guys. I am proud to say I kept up with them. Craig had managed to learn the same technique I’d learned in lesson on his own. Elliot snowboarded on the opposite edge and had taken a few nasty falls as well as several concussion-worthy knocks to the head. For me, it’d been worth the $35 to simply learn how to properly strap on my snowboard and stand up from a sitting position while strapped in, so it was so cool to have come much further than that.
At about 4:30 p.m. we began to head back to our pensions, which were about a 5-10 minute walk around the bend. I took a shower and did an onsen back at my pension. The onsen was scalding hot and it took me quite some time to ease into it. Even then, it was uncomfortably warm and I couldn’t stay long. We ate dinner at our respective pensions before the girls’ headed the guys’ place to hang out. They did a beer and candy run.
Finally, at 10 p.m., I pleaded exhaustion from sleep-deprivation and the toll snowboarding had taken on me and left for my room. The others went on to the JET party that was taking place at a club nearby. My roommates floundered in several hours later.
The next morning we all woke stiff and sore. Craig complained he felt he’d been beaten up. Rather than return to Happo, we decided to go to a different ski resort, Iwatake, one that was known for its good snowboarding. We caught a shuttle there. One thing I noticed right away was how at Happo, there were foreigners, most of them JETs, everywhere. At Iwatake, we were the only gaijin. I think that was because of Happo’s proximity to the JETs’ pensions.
We went to the top of the mountain — my first time to do so, since my runs had been pretty limited the day before — and I went with the guys to do some snowboarding. I resolved to figure out how to snowboard on alternating edges today.
But, while the guys seem to be making progress I had regressed. Or maybe the slope was steeper. Whatever the case, I spent the morning falling down. A LOT. The pattern that day: Snowboard. Fall down. Get up. Fall down. Get up. Snowboard. Fall down. Stay down. Etc. And let me tell you, falling on a snowboard is TOUGH on the body. You may risk twisting your legs in skiing but the falls aren’t nearly as jolting on the body as when you snowboard. Because your feet are strapped in, when you fall, your entire body follows through. There’s a lot of landing on your knees or on your bottom. Your wrists also take a beating from trying to ease your falls and from pushing yourself up.
I was getting really frustrated. And my calves were screaming from having to hold the same position constantly since I couldn’t alternate to the other edge yet. I tried, but inevitably always crashed when I switched to the other edge.
The guys planned on doing a run from the top of the mountain to the bottom after lunch. I knew I’d only hold them back. So I told them to go on ahead and I’d practice on my own. I did two or three runs on the same slope I’d been on since the morning. I even got some turns in. But the constant falling was taking its toll. I was starting to get a headache from the battering. I’d had some pretty spectacular falls: One of which I’d fallen back and banged my head, the other in which my snowboard had caught on a groove in the snow and I’d gone flying, face forward, onto my front. Yeah. That’ll knock the air out of you.
So finally I gave up. I was determined to get better but I was too tired and beaten to continue. I switched to skis at 3:10 p.m., half an hour before we were supposed to meet to head back to the pension, and got two runs in. I thought it’d cheer me up because I’d gone skiing several times in the past, but I still fell several times. I was rustier than I’d thought. The last time I’d skied was two years ago. I watched as the guys flew down a blue-run (intermediate-level) on their boards. I know we all learn at different paces but it was still depressing. Through the fog of pain and frustration, I vowed to get better at snowboarding.
Back at Yamato, we got a ride to Hakuba Station, near where our bus would pick us up. We went to the pick-up spot, the Hakuba Royal Hotel, and used the hotel’s onsen. I had bruises all over my legs as well as one on my arm from when it’d hit the van on Friday. The indoor bath was so blisteringly hot I couldn’t even manage to get in slowly. My tolerance for heat is not as high as my friends’, who were able to get in. Luckily, there was an outdoor onsen and the temperature in that one was juuuust right. It was a really relaxing atmosphere. No one else was in the outdoor onsen and the ground was covered in a thick layer of snow.
I had dinner at a traditional Japanese restaurant — a tempura set of fried fish and vegetables, rice, miso soup and a salad. Delicious. I love tempura. Then we boarded the bus and prepared for the long drive back to Tokushima. It was only 7 p.m. but already my eyelids felt heavy.
Monday, Feb. 2, 2004 — The worst pain ever
The bus pulled into the station at 4 a.m. I biked home. It was just me and garbage men who were up at that hour. At home, I dumped my stuff on the floor and went to sleep.
I’m so glad I had the foresight to take the day off. Even though some of my friends didn’t want to waste a vacation day, it was so worth it for me. I woke at 9 a.m. in utter agony. The hours of sitting stil on the bus and not moving in my bed had made my body sooooo stiff and sore. I couldn’t move. I spent the rest of the day moving around like I was an old person with a bad back and arthritis.
I’ve felt pain in my life from various things — karate, the March of Dimes, hiking — but the pain I got from snowboarding has to rank up there with worst pain ever.
Tuesday, Feb. 3, 2004 — Other people’s stories
Before I came to Tokushima, the kind JETs here sent me and all the other incoming newbies a package entitled “Pearls of Wisdom” with advice from current JETs. Two of the more interesting topics the JETs discussed were the most bizarre thing that’s happened to them in Japan and the most baffling aspect about the country. Here’s what they said and occasional explanations from me.
The most bizarre thing that’s happened to me in Japan:
• A middle-aged woman, unknown to me, once grabbed my arm and began stroking it like a cat whilst I was in an elevator. (Arm hair is quite the novelty here.)
• It still surprises me when I get the rock-star treatment.
• Being asked to be a bridesmaid at a wedding for people I’ve never met simply because the bride wanted a foreigner in her wedding party.
• Taking the wrong turn in an onsen and ending up in the hallway butt-naked.
• Hiking with my JET buddies in the mountains, exhausted, I reached the peak of Mt. Mimune, turned around and saw a 55-year-old man climbing up right behind me … and he wasn’t even winded … and his backpack was heavier than mine.
• Dressing up in sumo gear with 2,000 other men and jumping into a lake in February. (I’ll address this event in a future post.)
• Six hour “talk” with the police.
• A tie between the lunch lady stroking my arm hair and some old perv whom I had never met or seen leaving messages on my answering machine proclaiming his fervent desire to “be my friend.”
• One of my students looking at me, gasping in surprise and saying, “Carey-sensei, your eyes are sunflowers!”
• The sudden realization that I’m in Tokushima, Japan; I’m driving something called “Pocari Sweat;” I’m driving in my own Daihatsu, on the left side of the road; there’s a typhoon outside my window; I’m on the way to teach my own adult conversation class; and none of it seems bizarre anymore.
• Having to drive one hour to see a movie or play bowling.
• Having to eat live lobster at my headmaster’s mansion (and look like I was enjoying it).
• I got reprimanded for closing my desk drawer with my foot. (This has happened to me. Doing anything with your feet is considered rude.)
• Bizarre things happen daily but a representative example would be the day I turned up for an afternoon’s work in the [school district office] only to be taken to see a troupe of performing monkeys in the concert hall next door.
• The Naked Man Festival in Okayama. (Again, more on this later.)
• Getting yelled at for drinking a bottle of orange juice in public. (It’s considered rude to eat or drink in public, or so I’ve heard. I’ve seen Japanese people do it themselves.)
• Shopping for bonsai trees in a town resident’s garden (I swear it looked like a bonsai shop!). After the confusion settled — they gave me one.
• When I got here, some guy showed me his V.D/ at Lawson’s convenience store. It was bizarre on many levels.
• Sharing an open-air mountaintop bath with a large man and his children.
• Having a massive audience in the men’s bathroom at Tokushima Station. Never thought urinating could draw such a crowd.
• Rare encounters with racist Japanese people.
• The postman tracks me down anywhere within the village to deliver packages to me. He’s even pulled me out of a class I was teaching at an elementary school to sign for one!
• I ate whale and I didn’t even know it. It was darn goo\d, though.
• During the first few weeks at school, I was asked my opinion in what seemed a very formal first meeting with the principal and teacher just back from sick leave, for my ideas on how to help with the teacher’s “mentality problems.”
The most baffling aspect of Japan:
• Lack of direct answers to questions. Expect a lot of maybe’s at inappropriate times.
• Floor toilets and ATM hours. (ATMs close at like 7 p.m.)
• People who stay at work ‘till 8 p.m. when they have nothing to do.
• Dogs with nappies.
• Japanese traffic lights and why Japanese drivers have a total inability to stay within their own lane when turning onto a road.
• Psycho drivers and suicidal scooter owners.
• Nearly everything. The waste-disposal system, the education system, the traffic-light system.
• That the teachers spend so much time organizing their schedules for the year and then spend twice as much time changing them on a day-to-day basis.
• Why sandlots are preferred playing surfaces over grass fields.
• The unadulterated crappiness of Japanese television.
• Japanese women flush the toilet before they pee to save themselves the embarrassment of hearing their own urination. To the other extreme, the men openly pee wherever the hell they like.
• The sheer number of children itching to jam their fingers up my ass. And save your judgments for when you teach shogakko (elementary school), you dirty, dirty people. (I think I’ve addressed the penchant for elementary-age Japanese children to do this in the past.)
• Ramen trucks but no ice-cream trucks.
• No central heating OR insulation? I shouldn’t see my breath freeze inside, should I?
• The obsession for eating live things.
• The women run around like they are in a hurry all the time but they take such short steps that it would take less time to pick up their feet and walk. And why are they always in hurry? They should just relax and take a nap or smoke break like the men.
• The scurrying, the ugly Louis Vuitton handbags, the Beckham obsession, the lack of decent heating in winter, even the geekiest foreign guys are cool here.
• Japanese driving skills and speed.
• Pulling grass out of the school sports ground by hand.
• The high price of rice when I’m surrounded by rice fields.
• The people wear surgical masks when they have the slightest hint of a cold but old men piss on the side of the road openly.
• How the same country can be so technologically advanced in some ways and so behind the times in others.
• The language. The cell-phone craze. AJET.
• Natto. (Natto is fermented bean curd. I have not eaten it, but I have seen it. It’s slimy.)
• How can an entire country’s people seem like they’re living inside a protective bubble?
• The piles of paperwork you have to fill out to do anything.
• Why the heck does the ATM close at 6 p.m.?
• Men working on the roads whose sole job is to wave flags during the day and flashing sticks at night. Their waving techniques are fantastic and the sight never ceases to amuse me.
Wednesday, Feb. 4, 2004 — Re-attaching myself to good writing
After months of tepid self-flagellation for not subscribing to a newspaper, I finally DID IT. Japan has several English-language national newspapers available: The Japan Times, The Asahi Shimbun, The Daily Yomiuri. After some research on what had the best news coverage, I settled on The Daily Yomiuri, partly because it includes weekly sections from other papers, including the L.A. Times and the Washington Post.
Until now, I’ve just been getting my news online, so it’s been very selective. I scan stories on the Washington Post’s main page and head straight to its Style section and, on weekends, its Sunday Magazine section. I do the same for the New York Times but instead focus on its Technology and Movies sections. Occasionally I’d dip into the Houston Chronicle.
I had finally reached the point where I was craving the luxury of browsing, hands on, a newspaper from front to finish. You read, or at least I do, at lot more that way.
A craving for a steady dose of god writing also made me decide to sign up for a magazine subscription. I couldn’t decide between Esquire and Harper’s, so ultimately I got both. Thank goodness for online registration and international shipping.
Friday, Feb. 6, 2004 — Chicken flu
I biked downtown in the snow tonight to have dinner with some friends and Chanda, who was celebrating her birthday. She picked Indigo, a tony restaurant with a nice view of one of the larger canals that runs through the city. We’d actually just eaten there two weeks before for another friends’ birthday.
It felt weird pulling up to this nice restaurant on my bike but mine was not the only one parked on the wooden walkway that bordered the restaurant and water. At least I knew some items on the menu and thus didn’t have to worry about grasping for a dish to eat. That is always a concern when going to a Japanese restaurant — that the menu will be entirely in kanji, thus rendering is incomprehensible. Last time I’d gone to Indigo, I’d found it had enough katakana in its menu for me to have a few dishes from which to choose.
Last time I’d ordered the lobster pasta, which had been delicious. This time, for variety, I ordered the clam chowder and, for dessert, gelato. It may have been odd to order a cold dessert when snow was clearly falling outside but I just can’t resist a good gelato. The clam chowder was served in a bowl of crusty bread and also proved quite tasty.
Chanda told me she’d taken off work most of that week due to sickness. I asked if she’d gone ot the doctor yet — your supervisor will let one sick day pass without a visit to the doctor, but really, no more than that. Chanda had. Accompanied by her supervisor, she’d gone to a clinic. The first thing they’d asked her was if she’d gone anywhere outside the country in recent months.
When she told them, “Vietnam,” they paled.
They refused to see her. They gave her and her supervisor face masks and told them to go to the hospital. That hospital refused to take her, too, and directed her to the main hospital in the area. There, the head doctor himself checked her out (it turned out to be bronchitis) and gave her all these drugs. Chanda was amused how concerned all these medical professionals were, worried they might have the country’s first case of the chicken flu.
Saturday, Feb. 7, 2004 — I don’t understand Japanese
Wow. I went to all these places today and only had to pay $2 for transportation!
I got the bus schedule for Bunka no Mori, the prefectural library. First I caught a bus downtown. While waiting for the bus to the library, I bought some apple chips at an imported food store in the station. I munched on them at the bus stop while a little boy sitting next to me stared with his hand outstretched. I gave him a couple chips to appease him. The mom gave me a piece of candy, presumably meant for her son, in thanks when they left for their bus.
The second of two busses headed to Bunka no Mori arrived at 12:55 p.m. (I couldn’t bring myself to catch the one that left at 7:30 a.m.) AT the library, I had to get a new library card because I’d lost my old one. I checked on some books on travel as Susan Orlean’s, “The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup: My Encounters with Extraordinary People.”
The librarian who checked out my books tried to tell me something about my new card. I still have no idea what it was about. All I understood were the words for “new” and “card.”
I took the bus back to a downtown shopping arcade in search of futon sheets. I meant to go to Daiei, which is a sort of all-purpose household-goods store. Instead I veered into the first futon specialty store I saw. There were two women there who manned the shop. One of them greeted me with something beyond the usual, “Irrashaimasse!” (“Welcome, how can I help you?”), which threw me off. I had just wanted to browse but because of the possibility she had just asked me a question, I told them I was looking for futon covers.
She asked me what size my futon was. I was stumped. Futons come in different sizes? In hindsight, this made me foolish, as I mean, DUH, our mattresses come in different sizes, don’t they? The lady began discussing something, presumably sizes and the only word I caught was, “Single.”
Single — that’s what I had! Or at least, it would make sense since my futon was the same length and width as my single-size mattress. I latched onto the word like a lifesaver. The woman handed me a corresponding futon cover. It measured 150 by 250 centimeters. This meant nothing to me. There were smaller sizes available. I figured if the white sheet turned out to be too small, I could always just tuck it under. I bought it for the princely sum of $25.
Then I went around the corner to the Daiei and found Daiei was having a sale on futon covers for $10. D’oh. I bought a similarly sized sheet there, too.
I caught a train home (that was the $2; for the buses I used my coupons). I pulled out the tag attached to my futon to check its dimensions: 100 by 205 centimeters. I hadn’t even been close. I resolved to go back to both stores and exchange the sheets for the right size. I begun thinking of the right words to string together to express what I’d want to do.
Sunday, Feb. 8, 2004 — Finished
Laziness won out. I gave up on the idea of exchanging the sheets. I ripped open a package and slid my futon inside the cavernous cover before tucking the excess underneath.
Okay, all my Vietnam pictures are up. That’s it. That’s all you’re getting. No more!
Wednesday, Feb. 11, 2004 — So quiet
No work today in observance of “Foundation Day.” I have no idea what that is.
Since there wasn’t school, Kurohashi-sensei pushed calligraphy lessons up to the morning from the evening. She had a session at 8:30 a.m. but that was a wee too early for me to sufficiently enjoy sleeping in on a holiday. I picked the 10:30 a.m. session. I wanted to watch the third Lord of the Rings movie so on the way to class, I stopped at the movie theater down the street to check out times. Sadly, I discovered the movie hadn’t opened up here! Aaarrrrrggghhhhhh! The theater was playing The Last Samurai and Love Actually. I half-heartedly thought about watching Love Actually after calligraphy but no, it would have to wait. My heart wouldn’t have been in it and you CAN’T watch a movie unless you’re EXCITED about it. And, as much as I like Hugh Grant, I was excited about Return of the King. My movie would have to wait.
At calligraphy, neither Dan nor Sally came. Given I was the only native English-speaker in the class, the session passed largely in silence except when Kurohashi-sensei was critiquing students’ work. So this is what the class is like when the three of us aren’t there yammering.
Not surprisingly, I got a lot more done since I wasn’t sidetracked with talking. I worked on the kanji for “Tokushima,” which turned out to be quite challenging. Usually Kurohashi-sensei posts our best work of the day on the wall but today my strokes didn’t pass muster. She said I’d have to work on the it some more next week. L
Since Kurohashi-sensei lives in the same neighborhood as Kamona Junior High School, several of my students take shodo lessons from her, too. Two girls shyly waved hello when they came in. One boy got this slightly stricken expression on his face — the kind my youngest sister gets, too, when she spots a teacher off-campus — and he proceeded to ignore me for the duration of the lesson.
Friday, Feb. 13, 2004 — Harry to the rescue
My second-grade teacher asked me to come up with some quiz questions for her classes to spice up a quiz she’d already written for them. So I came up with Harry Potter questions because Harry Potter always perks me up. Some examples:
1. How many points is the Golden Snitch worth?
2. How many players are on a Quidditch team?
3. How old is Harry in the first book?
4. What is the street name where Harry lives?
It was so entertaining listening to these kids, at least a third of whom have read the books or seen the movies, discuss the answers. On the question that asked how many players on a Quidditch team, these kids would list, the different positions: “Seeker …” etc. Quite impressive.
(Answers: 1. 150; 2. 7; 3. 11; 4. Privet.)
Saturday, Feb. 14, 2004 — Sugar diet
I realized that the next six weekends will be devoted to the musical. I’m tired already, just thinking about it.
I hopped the train to Komatsushima, a town seven stops south of Tokushima about half an hour away. The plan was for us to gather to work on props for the set. We did it at the private kindergarten where Colin, an Aussie married to a JET, works.
Since it was Valentine’s Day, I brought along a bag of candy to share with the others: Pixie sticks, chocolate, fruit candy, etc. I’m always getting candy, it seems. And it just collects because beside chocolate, I don’t like candy all that much. That’s why I like mochi, Japanese rice cakes, so much because they’re only slightly sweet.
So I doled out my candy to my friends. But I hadn’t counted on having to stay at the kindergarten for so long. I thought we’d be there only three hours. We were there from noon to 5 p.m. I hadn’t brought lunch so all I had was candy.
I consumed a lot of sugar that afternoon.
Sunday, Feb. 15, 2004 — So much sugar
Hoping to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s sustenance, I brought along a giant apple as a snack for today’s musical prepwork. The apple filled me up. But I still had a craving for something sweet. Since I had brought my remaining candy with me … well …
Monday, Feb. 16, 2004 — The sugar just won’t stop
And the sugar diet continues. My female students gave me a bunch of sweets throughout the day. Turns out they slaved over these candies, cakes and cookies for Valentine’s Day. In Japan, it’s the girls who give things on V-Day. The boys reciprocate (thought I doubt they do so with baked goodies) on a day in March known as “White Day.”
Tuesday, Feb. 17, 2004 — Better weather
I can actually tell we’re getting more daylight these days. And that on some days, it’s warm enough for me to wear THREE layers instead of FOUR layers. This is quite the development.
Saturday, Feb. 21-22, 2004 — Naked
There are only three things you need to know before you attend the Hadaka Matsuri in Okayama: Naked. Man. Festival.
If you wish to know more than those three words, I’ll give you three in Japanese: sake, fundoshi and shingi. The Naked Man Festival involves copious amounts of the first two and precious few of the third. They translate to: rice wine, loin cloths and lucky sticks.
That’s pretty much all I knew when I boarded the train for Okayama this afternoon.
Sally had fallen sick earlier in the week, so I bought both our train tickets at the station on Friday. I always get nervous when I have to speak Japanese on my own and it wasn’t any different this time. After confirming the rather bored-looking lady behind the desk didn’t speak English, I took a deep breath and hurled out my lamentable Japanese.
“I want to go to Okayama yesterday,” I ended up saying. Good job Vi, good job.
The lady gave me a look. “Tomorrow?”
“Uh, yeah … tomorrow!” I fumbled. The word for Sunday (“Nichiyobi,” Vi! “Nichiyobi!”) deserted me, so I simply said I wanted a return ticket, which is how they say roundtrip here. I got a ticket that allowed me to come back from Okayama anytime before Feb. 24. My first time to buy a long-distance train ticket on my own!
Our train was scheduled to leave at 4:30 p.m. I arranged to meet Sally at the station to make purikura — print club stickers — ahead of time. My kids have entire photo albums covered in these postage-stamp sized pictures and they’d been asking for some of my own. I’d had some I’d taken with Kiyomi, one of my English teachers, but they’d run out. I needed more but didn’t want to take them by myself since purikura are ALWAYS done in groups of two or more.
Sally and I went to City, the department store next to the station, to make the purikura. It was then I remembered making purikura is a harrowing process. You pop in 400 yen and then pick a background, get a couple shots taken and then you get to decorate your pictures with all manner of cute graphics — all the while a timer counts down.
Whereas pre-teen (and not-so-young) girls take to this like they were born to it (it probably helps they can read the instructions), for the unfortunate leftovers such as myself it’s: “Auuuughhhh! What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?!” There’s just too many choices! Nor did we get particularly good shots taken; the photo booth would count down and THEN take the picture a few heartbeats AFTER it reached “1.” That meant the first few pictures were of me laughing. The booth would reach “1,” we’d start to move thinking the photo had been taken, the light would flash, I’d start to laugh realizing our mistake and then the booth would take our picture.
While at the purikura place, I ran into a group of my first-grade students from Kokufu. In ever class, there’s a smart-class. Apparently they all hang-out together. They were particularly impressed by Sally and called her “beautiful.” From me, they just panhandled for money. “Coins please, money please!” and “Chodai, chodai!” which I think means something to the effect of “Gimme, gimme!”
Sally and I ran into Dan at the station. He was taking the same express train as us. We went outside the station to bask in the days’ unseasonably warm weather (which Sally liked to “an English summer”). My kids came biking by. They stopped and gaped at Dan. I was happy to hear them use their English. They asked him what his name was and how tall he was. One boy even said, “Nice to meet you.” In Japanese, they invited Dan to come to their school. Dan and Sally both expressed wonder at how at-ease my students seemed. Sally said her high school students would have ignored her and Dan said his junior high school students would have been shy.
Still, my kids still weirded me out by parking themselves and their bikes in front of us and staring at Dan. I tried to give the kids a subtle hint by asking if they were going home, which they were, but apparently it was too subtle. Finally our train was due anyway, so we rose to leave. The kids put up a ruckus when they saw Dan had left behind some empty drink cans. I’m not even sure the cans belonged to him in the first place.
It was my first extended trip on an express train, which bypasses all the local stops and only goes to major stations. It goes a lot faster, too, such that my heart gave a lurch when the train tilted slightly on a turn. I wondered what a shinkansen — the bullet train — would be like.
Part-way through the two-hour ride to Okayama, which is on the main island, the conductor came through to check our tickets. He started saying to us — of course directed to me, since I was Asian — something about our tickets. Eventually we deduced we were in the wrong car. We were in the one with reserved seats and even though it was barely a third occupied, we had to go to one of the two cas with unreserved seating.
Exactly on schedule (I love Japan), our train pulled into Okayama at 6:27 p.m. Okayama Station is considerably larger than Tokushima Station. Tokushima Station only has four platforms whereas Okayama’s has four times as many.
Our hotel, which had been arranged ahead of time, was barely two blocks away. We left our things in our room and an hour later, convened with the other Tokushima JETs in the lobby. There was a group of about 25 of us. We headed to the Okayama International Center, where several chartered buses were waiting to bring us, and other JETs, to the festival. The Okayama JETs had organized our ride. By then, most of my friends had been drinking for some time and were rather soused. Festivals in Japan are synonymous with drinking — there was certainly plenty of that at Awa Odori — but I’d heard that the Hadaka Matsuri (which translates to “Naked Festival”) is the drunkest of all the festivals. I was glad Sally, who was still recovering from being ill, would not be drinking.
I have heard the festival compared to the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, although here there are no bulls to gore you, there are only naked running men. Only men can participate (for that I am immensely grateful). It is quite the ritual for male bonding. They strip out of their clothes and don a fundoshi, a loin cloth, reminiscent of what sumo wrestlers wear with an apron-like flap that hangs from their waist in front. They also wear tabi, two-toed white socks. For three hours, they wear nothing but this while running around the temple grounds chanting, praying and getting doused with water in the winter weather.
At the end of the night — midnight — they converge on the temple itself. A priest blesses some lucky sticks, shingi, and flings them (as well as some decoy sticks) into the roiling mass of men. Whoever gets the shingi to city hall, several blocks away, without getting trampled or pummeled to a purple mess is blessed with good luck for the year. One lucky bearer also gets the added bonus of winning 1,000,000 yen (or about $10,000). I hear companies are avid to buy the shingi off the bearers in hopes of purchasing good luck for themselves.
The guys running in the festival were taken in one bus and the rest of us, in two other buses. On the runners’ bus, they got tips from the Okayama JETs like: Steer clear of the stairs at the temple. Keep your hands up. If they’re at your sides, they can’t help you if you fall. If someone else falls, be careful when helping him back up.
We were dropped off at a parking lot where lots of Japanese men were milling around in loin clothes. The nakedness had begun.
Some of the girls in my group tried to sneak up to the changing room entrance to take pictures. Rather than stop them, the Japanese men cheerfully escorted them inside the tent. Not wanting to be left out, a few more girls darted after them. Outside, the men who had finished changing were posing for rowdy foreigners with cameras.
We walked about 10 minutes to the shrine grounds. There was a changing area there, too, and that’s where the Tokushima guys had gone. I learned afterwards that you don’t “put on” a fundoshi, you have it wrapped around you. Just when you think it couldn’t get any higher up your backside, they give it a firm tug and you realize, indeed, it can.
I ran into a disrobed Craig, who had wrapped up his wrists and knuckles. I asked him why and he gave a few punches in the air as an answer. I had heard the Tokushima guys jokingly strategizing how they’d acquire the shingi sticks. It had involved teamwork and decoys and diversions. But you don’t really go to the festival for the shingi. You go for the experience, the “battle scars” and the inevitable cold you will catch from running around naked, soaked in water, in the chill night air.
Although I have to say the weather was not as tortuously cold as I’d expected. One of the Tokushima JETs last year had said he’d gotten the worst flu he’d ever had after doing Naked Man. I was a bit disappointed at this year’s slightly warmer weather, although I was still wearing three layers, gloves and a hat. A bit sadistic, I know, but we spectators had to get our kicks where we could.
Inside the temple grounds, Sally and I ran into a group of Tokushima JETs. Tom, a Brit, wanted to change right there and then and was tugging his pants off in front of everyone. He was so drunk, he had to be held up by two people.
Sally and I wandered the temple grounds. An army of traffic-control people marched in; crowd control became increasingly necessary as the night progressed. There was a vaguely defined path that cut through the crowd to allow the packs of naked men to run through. On a temporary stage on one side of the temple was an all-female drumming group performing solemnly. I climbed the stairs, which were few but steep, to the front of the shrine where people were lighting incense and the men were running up to pray briefly before continuing on their circuit. There was a perch overhead from where the priests would later throw the shingi as well as pour water on the men to keep the crush of bodies from becoming unbearable.
From the temple, we moved to an archway nearby that led to a small pool of water. Runners shuffled into this place and plunged into the water, going around a statue in the middle, as part of their route. I saw Greg come all by himself. One of the traffic-control people pointed out Greg’s bleeding left knee. Greg shrugged and ran a ragged lap inside the pool, posing for the delighted Japanese and their cell-phone cameras. He departed in flamboyant fashion by hugging every other person.
He later told me what was running through his mind: “Hug people … but don’t get blood on them.”
Another stop for all runners was a smaller shrine in the back. We breezed by it and moved on to the food stalls. Japanese festival food is a fascinating sub-category of sustenance. We have our hot dogs, popcorn and cotton candy. They have their candy-coated strawberries, barbequed octopus, and cabbage omelets. We have our apple cider. They have their hot sake. We have our ice cream. They have their fruit-and-cream-filled crepes.
Eventually we returned to the shrine grounds and found a place to watch the runners near the smaller shrine in the back. The herds of men, ranging in number from a handful to several busloads’ worth, doggedly trotted on the festival route. When I’d arrived there had been factions of people and the foreigners had been clustered in their own groups, some cheering themselves on like the JETs from Totori. But by now, group cohesion had been demolished and the guys had scattered amongst the Japanese. It was hard to spot them in the dim light. All you could see was barely clad bodies, the steam rising off them in great clouds.
The leaders of the groups almost always had a whistle, which they blew rhythmically in time with the chanting. The traffic control guys had whistles, too, and they’d blow them on the upbeats. They held paper lanterns and glowing red sticks to direct the way. In between, spectators would quickly slink across the running path to change positions or move elsewhere.
Dan, who ran around with Japanese men, later told me that part of the running route took him clear back to our bus stop into a tent reserved solely for the imbibing of sake. Once they’d fueled you with enough alcohol, there was a roaring fire going on outside where you warmed your backside before continuing. People stood along the route sometimes threw cold water on them or sprayed them with hoses. I don’t know whether this was out of sympathy — to cool those who were hot from running down — or cruel amusement — to make them colder than some already were.
Finally it was time for the throwing of the shingi. The crowd rushed forward, disregarding the ropes that had been erected to keep the pathway clear. The naked men descended upon the front of the shrine. There were so many of them, they spilled to the edges of the platform onto the stairways.
The next morning, I asked the guys about what it had been like up there. They were wedged in so tightly, one man even managed to body surf. You kept on your tip-toes to avoid getting your feet stepped on. Your ankles were also in danger. You kept your arms up because if they ended up down at your sides, it took a wealth of effort to free them from the trap of bodies surrounding you. If someone fell, people immediately helped him up. No one wanted to be the first to trample another person. The heat of their bodies generated a steam so thick it was hard to see.
For a while, I watched as the men simply waited, their movements like gentle waves. As midnight approached, the volume and energy in the men grew as more and more raised their hands in the air — whether to catch the sticks or because they simply had no other choice, I’m not sure.
When the shingi were thrown, a ripple whipped through the men and suddenly it became this churning mass of movement. Some slid down the stairs. I couldn’t tell whether they were coming down of their own volition, just very quickly, or if they were falling down. Jody told me afterward that he had come down the steps to get away from the throng and, at the base of the stairs, found a small army of men standing in black fundoshi, their arms grimly crossed, ready to get the stick when it came down their way. It was rumored that the yakuza were the ones wearing black fundoshi. Jody meekly excused himself and tiptoed away from them.
One of the sticks must have gotten out of the shrine on to the ground because a large group of men flowed toward where I was. The crowd quickly got out of their way. I had a mild spout of panic, worried I’d get crushed by the crowd. I kept a close eye on the cluster of men grappling over the shingi. It was almost amusing to see them fighting over the stick. Given how badly they wanted it, their struggle was quite civilized, mainly pushing and shoving. I didn’t see any punches thrown, although some of the guys said they had seen fighting in the temple.
In the end, we only stayed about 15 minutes after midnight before heading back to the buses. It was all denoument from the time the sticks were thrown. The bus took off at 1 a.m. and I was in bed by 2.
The next morning, I learned more of what had happened to the Tokushima guys, since I’d seen so little of them after they’d begun running. Elliot had not only lost his clothes somehow, he got lost finding the hotel which means he wandered the city in his fundoshi for some time. When I saw him, he had no pants and was wearing a borrowed shirt. Tashi hadn’t even known about the throwing of the shingi and had gone back to the hotel at 11:30 p.m. He lost his shoes and was wearing only socks on his feet the next morning. Colin and Jody had hidden themselves in the crowd in an attempt to stay warm and avoid all the running. One of the girls had found Tom lying face-down in the middle of the street in his fundoshi with a black eye, bruised face and a gash across his forehead. He had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. He remembers none of this.
After a breakfast at Mister Donut, Sally, Dan and I boarded our express train and went home with fond images of naked men in our minds.
Wednesday, Feb. 25, 2004 — Diligent studiers
For their final interaction with me, the third-graders in Kashiba-sensei’s class get to get in groups and “chat” with me. I sat in the library and they sat down in front of me in groups of two to four people and had to talk for four minutes.
The interviews were quite fun. Kashiba-sensei had given me some back-up questions to ask for when the conversation ran dry — which happened quite quickly, given the only things the kids came prepared with was a topic and one question, typically something like, “We want to talk about animals. Do you like animals?” I discarded the questions for ones of my own making, such as, “What did you do last weekend?” and “What did you eat for dinner?” and the like.
One girl told me about a really popular anime here called Doraemon. Doraemon is a cat with no ears because apparently the rats chewed them away.
Most often when I asked a “What did you do…” or “What will do you…” question, they answered with “I studied/will study.” I don’t know if this was because it was an easy answer or they seriously do study 24-7, but I do know that the high-school application process here is nearly as strenuous as our college-application process. Good grades really do affect where you will go.
Kashiba-sensei told me the kids started trying to see how quickly they could make me laugh. One pair of boys said they enjoyed boxing with each other when I asked what sport they liked. Another pair of boys cracked me up because one, who’d said he was sleepy and then struggled to explain why, was then interrupted by his friend, who said simply, “He’s always sleepy.” It was just funny to see their buddy dynamic; when I was talking to one of the girls in the group and the sleepy boy interrupted, his friend scolded him in Japanese, obviously pointing out that I was talking to someone else.
I was always excited when I got to talk with a student with better-than-average English skills. That usually meant I could ask “why” questions, which is the toughest question to answer in any language. You could tell that this exercise was a chore for some of the students and an exciting challenge for others. I wished I could talk more with those who spoke good English; it’s not often I get to have a protracted conversation with my students.
At the same time, I’m boggled at how little English some of them speak. By my third year of Spanish, I was reading Spanish literature, short stories and poems by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Ana Maria Matute and the like. It’s so helpful to be exposed to mass quantities of writing because it taught me the cadence and the patterns of the language. Here, they’re reading grade-school level stuff.
Also, regarding the chats: When Kashiba-sensei monitored the chats, she left everything to me. Even when the kids stumbled and looked to her for help, she wouldn’t say anything. I didn’t realize how much I appreciated that — being in control of the flow of conversation — until things were switched up. A teacher Kashiba-sensei had asked for help came in to monitor the chats. When the kids paused too long to think of an answer to a question of mine, she’d give them hints in Japanese or translate it outright. I didn’t appreciate that. The kids started using the teacher as a crutch. Before, when there was no one to help them, they’d almost always figure it out with a little group-work. And, if they still had no idea, then I’d just move on to another question.