Friday 30 September 2011

The mother of all holidays

Leaving my aero-phobic father to survive off sad bastard ready meals and nice crusty jam-topped bread for the best part of a fortnight, my mother stocked her suitcase with Monster Munch, baked beans and advent calendars before departing to see her dearly beloved daughter on the other side of the world.

Thinking myself hysterical, I borrow a pen from a security guard to create a sign to give my mother a heart-warming welcome to the east. However stood at customs, sniggering to myself as I hold up a sign reading “Fuck Face Banks” as the South Koreans and Japanese spill past, there is no sign of my mother. The amusement soon turns into boredom, followed by frustration and finally utmost conviction that she has come to an untimely end en route, meaning my snacks may also never arrive.

One and a half hours later, it emerges, escorted by a security guard. She tells me they needed the address where she was staying. She didn’t have it so kept saying “monkeys, there’s monkeys there.” As though expecting this would encourage them to waive their strict policy and allow this crazed white person across the border.

After 90 minutes of miscommunication, they ask if they can search her suitcase where, lo and behold, a huge piece of paper with my address lies alluringly on top of the stash of goodies.

Having promised my mother glorious sunshine and insisting there was no need to pack a cardigan, let alone a coat, I suppose she maybe a little irritated to be led from the airport lobby and out into a howling and very rainy Typhoon.

We eventually get to bed at 1.30am. I’ve overdone it and am pleased that her jetlag will mean my first lie in for months.

I feel a strange nudging at my shoulders at 7am. Sitting bolt upright I look around, dazed and confused, and get the shock of my life when I turn to see my mother’s face, inches from my own.

“I can’t sleep” she exclaims like a child on Christmas morning, “I’m too excited.”

“It’s 7 o’clock in the fucking morning, go back to sleep;” I hiss, not being the friendliest of people at this hour.

So she insists on talking incessantly for the next half hour until I am well and truly in the living world at which point she begins snoring mid-sentence.

Loudly.

Attempts to fall asleep again are futile so I drag myself off my futon to tidy up around my comatose mother.

Loudly.

Unfortunately her snoring would force chanting woman out of her trance, so there’d be more chance of waking Sadam Hussein.

Eventually I wake her at 1pm and we explore my village, where we are accosted by children before being encouraged by a fisherman to take a clothes-less dip in the public Onsen amid a gaggle of geriatrics giving full frontal views of their wrinkly bits. We politely decline.

Taking mum to my local for a drink in the evening, we are plied with hot free sake. The gentleman from the Hanzaki festival, (who joined in with our Who Am I? post it game mentioned in an earlier blog) is propped up at the other end of the bar. He repeatedly pulls this face………

Which he somehow remembers from his previous photo-shoot with the gaijin.

Highly inebriated and tired of pulling faces, he proceeds to click a pair of scissors, with the speed and precision of Sweeney Todd as he hacked his victims to death, to produce all manner of paper insects.

Meanwhile the father of Yuki, one of my students, keeps falling onto my shoulder like a felled tree, giggling, emanating breath like a syphilis ridden whore in my face. At last orders, we flee before one of them has chance to unload the contents of their stomach on us. My mother is fairly unsteady herself by this point and I decide the mountain air would be beneficial.

On Sunday, we go to see the monkeys, which still aren’t back from their jaunt. Then we meet my friend Tomoko who, on first sight, fickle mum seemingly prefers to me.

Monday, we take on the challenge of Mount Daisen. Despite the heavy rain, mother refuses to pack a waterproof. We arrive, and she’s cold so we spend the next hour searching for a cheap rain cover to keep her dry. This setback means we only make it half way up the mountain before many intrepid voyagers warn us to head back down before it gets dark. My mother has the balance of a spasicated deer so I decide this is highly advisable and vow to tackle the mountain again at my earliest convenience.

Tuesday morning, she comes to Kindergarten class to see my weekly ritual of being physically abused by a gaggle of over excited three to six year olds. In the afternoon I work while the mother stealing Tomoko moves in on her prey, offering to take MY mum out for the day. Seemingly I’m the only one who suspects ulterior motives.

In the evening we attend Ekaiwa, my adult English conversational class, where we’re presented with grapes the size of a baby’s fist which taste completely of red wine, and two wooden toys. The majority of the lesson is spent trying to send the toys airborne while mum chats to the unfortunately named confectioner Mr Fukushima about the art of rice pudding, which ironically is unheard of in Japan.

On Wednesday my mother does what she should be doing and cleans my apartment. Sadly many items have now gone awol, including my National Health Insurance card. She is worse than my old flat-mate Guillaume, who threw my clothes in the communal Biffa bin and concealed rotting bags of household waste in my wardrobe. He is French. This explains why French people smell.

Thursday and off to Kyoto! The highlight of mum’s day? A charity shop in Tsuyama, which sees us almost miss the coach. Like a fly to a cowpat, extracting my mother from a charity shop once she’s in full throws is like taking a baby from Michael Jackson.

Upon arriving in Kyoto, we find a grotty little joint where the food is fried on hotplates in front of you. All is cosy and homely until a convoluted Mauritian comes, settles in next to us and begins commenting on the ‘artwork’ of the glorified omelette being currently being cooked up. Unsurprisingly he is single, childless and safe to say friendless as he travels alone.

Friday, we see a golden palace, which is gold and shiny and many people take photographs of. Then we walk up to a rock garden, which turns out to be five rocks in a sporadic formation which looks more like a giant has accidentally dropped them from his pocket when pulling out a tissue to catch an untimely sneeze rather than having any artistic involvement. But many people are sat on the edge of the overshadowing temple, admiring their exquisite beauty.

Next we go to a Ninja Restaurant, located amid a labyrinth of underground mazes. We’re led by a bona fide Ninja to our own private booth where card tricks and coin magic is performed before our eyes. I have a habit of ruining magician’s tricks, mainly because it is so glaringly obvious how they are done. It takes all my strength to keep quiet when I see the “disappearing coin” clenched between the fingers of his upturned palm.

Saturday and off to Nara, the next city along from Kyoto, where we battle our way through a herd of man eating deer to see an oversized Buddah whose nostrils alone are the size of an obese teenager.

We spend the best part of the day here before heading off to Gion in the evening to eat dinner on Tatami mats by the river. Choosing Japanese style tapaz from a basic menu, we were confused as to why the locals seem to have a far more appetizing selection on their plates. Until we were informed that there is a different menu than chewy beef and deep fried crap for the Japanese. Cheated, we feel like the poor relations.

Sunday, we head off to Fushimi Inari Shrine, which consists of rows upon rows of orange arches each donated by someone important. Another mountain. Again we only get half way up.

Mother has been telling everyone how great my Japanese is. Trouble is, she can only say eight words, and one of those is forbidden. So she has no idea what I’m actually saying. I could be saying “your dead dog smells of cabbages and semen” and she would applaud my efforts.

I confirmed how far I’d come when I asked if we could have our takeout sandwiches toasted. When we boarded the coach home, I retrieved an ice pack from the paper bag, which was sandwiched between the sandwiches to keep them cool. I don’t know how I get it so wrong.

On arriving back in Tsuyama, we go to a traditional floor seating restaurant, which mum now seems to favour over the table and chairs she has long since grown accustomed to. On the way out, the child in her insists on sliding the doors open and shut. Something she’s always wanted to do, apparently, although I doubt very much that it has been her lifelong goal.

On Monday we go to Tomoko’s for tea, despite my better judgment that this lady is spending far too much time with my mother.

The whole family is there. Husband, grandmother, great grandmother and the three children. Luckily Tomoko spends most of the evening in the kitchen, but still my mum is seemingly more in love with her than her own flesh and cranky blood.

The set up is the Japanese equivalent of the stereotypical British northern family. Great grandmother in the corner, smiling at the children and chipping in the odd quip, while the rest of the family wreaks havoc on the house.

Some three years ago a friend of the family recommended that, if the opportunity ever arises, my parents must see Kodo, a famous Japanese Taeko drum group, who previously played at the Grand Theatre in Blackpool.

So imagine her surprise when the very same company turns up at Yatsuka Elementary School, in the backside of nowhere to perform for the children, Ellie Teacher and a very special guest, Ellie Teacher’s mum.

During the performance some students show grave concern for my mother who, overcome by emotion, begins crying because she doesn’t want to go home. Presumably because she’ll miss Tomoko.

Expecting a local amateur drum group, we were blown away by their power, precision and I by the lead drummer’s Godlike physique. Speaking to the troupe afterwards, it transpires they will also perform for The Queen at next year’s royal command.

Saying sayonara to the drummers, we go outside to watch as the children assist with this year’s rice harvest. A child gives mum two aubergines, exclaiming “presento”.

In the evening we settle to watch Memoirs of a Geisha to relive the Kyoto experience and, next morning awake at an unearthly 5am. I drop mother off at the airport where we shed a tear or ten. This is all rather odd as we don’t even like each other all that much. Perhaps she’s closing her eyes and thinking of Tomoko.

On the way home, the toll gatemen come bounding out of their booth shouting “saishin kudasai” (photo please) or words to that effect. I agree and they poke their heads through the window to pose for pictures with the only white in the village.

As reward I’m presented with tissues and a bookmark capturing the geriatrics in the aforementioned onsen.

Sometimes timing in life is so utterly perfect. My cooker broke when I was making a nice hot cup of tea for Mummy Banks. Obviously no mother would leave their child hobless, or indeed foodless. With mum gone, my fridge and cupboards are stocked to capacities capable of feeding James Corden for an entire morning, and a shiny new hob now graces my minimalistic kitchen. These items play a constant reminder to her greatness.

I think mum’s had fun. And I think my poor dad is going to suffer as a result.

Monday 12 September 2011

The Hangover

There seems to be a running theme at Japanese Matsuris (festivals), which take place throughout the country almost daily during the month of August.

Each town celebrates with its own special kind of quirkiness and, following the Hanzaki festival recounted in an earlier blog, we were unsure as to how Kochi City's could possibly compete.

As always we were on a strict budget, so made the frugal decision to drink Extra Strong Chu Hi, the poorman's White Lightning, priced at 202 Yen for a king-sized can.

We cannot be held accountable for the debauchery that ensued.

Unbearably hot, our sweat was sweating, dripping from the ends of our hair and down our shoulders, where a mosquito met an untimely death by drowning in a tragic attempt to feed on my blood. While we melted, the Japanese glowed radiantly despite the skinny jeans, boots and cardigan combinations they elegantly sported. It remains a mystery how they manage to get these items on in such humid conditions, when a pair of trousers would get stuck on the sweat seeping from my big toes alone. I truly believe this level of discomfort was a contributor in our failure to recollect the occurrences of the evening.

The morning after the night before, I opened my rucksack to discover all manner of inexplicable items, including an outfit, clackers and fans.

In a scene similar to the closing credits of box office hit "The Hangover," I retrieved my camera, certain I hadn't taken any photos.

And how wrong I was as I scrolled through, vague memories flooding back.

The photos have been taken in an enormous underground restaurant/shopping centre, where grown men are snapped asleep on the floor outside the toilets, being accosted by an extrovert transvestite, who puts Gok Wan on a par with Nick Griffin.

A man dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow, who had apparently been milling around the city for many days in this garb, also features, accompanied by a lesbian and a raging queen with more make up than the entire population of Liverpool. I later recalled asking numerous people for directions to Jack Sparrow; "Jacku Sparrow wa doko desu ka?" with each eagerly directing us with a smile and knowing glint of recognition in their eyes.

There is photographic evidence of a teenaged girl dressing Lucy in the mystery outfit, followed by snaps of her fleeing the scene. We also met Father Christmas, I may have even told him in all sincerity that I no longer have a chimney so I'll leave the door unlocked. Luckily I don't think he spoke English. This is followed by another shot of the extrovert transvestite, cooling me with the garish yellow fan.

Which had also found its way into my bag.

Video clips of wobbly dancing, youth terrorisation and ear piercingly bad singing is next, and the moment I’m handed the clackers is also captured.

Which also found their way into my rucksack.

One of the most lovable things about the Japanese is their sense of fun, they know how to have a fucking good time with no violence, no trouble and no hostility. You can fall asleep by a toilet and no one judges or tries to rob you, the most they'd do is throw a blanket over you and pop a pillow under your head.

I would write more about this festival, but I can't.

For this, Extra Strong Chi Hi is to blame.

If you are ever to visit Japan, and should take just one piece of advice, let it be this.

Never underestimate the power of the Chu.

Friday 9 September 2011

On your marks, ready, die

The biggest and most dangerous event in the school year, Japanese Junior High sports day, is terrifying and, if introduced to England, a law-suit waiting to happen.

On Wednesday, the school I teach at was all set for a day of carefree fun and games in the baking hot sun.

However during the course of the day two children were carried off in stretchers, one before the opening ceremony had even got going.

Japanese culture places emphasis on the team rather than individual, meaning there are no events singling contestants out.

First was a game where dozens of cardboard boxes are piled in the middle of the arena. On the whistle the children, in teams of five, compete to make the tallest tower, seeing students balancing precariously on each other’s shoulders as they jump up and down in attempt to throw more and more items on top of their growing stack.

Inevitably a handful of children end up at the accident and emergency tent, queuing to be attended to by the school nurse, after plummeting to the gravel all weather pitch from great heights, and with great force.

Next comes to human pyramid. A mismatch of young boys, of all shapes and sizes, clamour on top of each other to form three structures, each five-storeys high. At this point I am reassured by the safety mats that have been hauled onto the pitch, until I realize that this is to help give the pyramid topper that extra bit of bounce to launch himself half way up his stack of wobbling peers, making the ascent to the summit far less arduous.

In a grand finale, the entire male population of the school, summing up to a grand total of more than 70, creates one enormous pyramid, which is quite a spectacle to behold.

Incredibly, there are no falls and no visible injuries, but one child struggling to walk, is subsequently bound with ice-packs, most likely having suffered irreparable damage to his back.

Next is the adult’s tug of war, which I’m encouraged to join in. I love tug of wars so gladly take on the challenge. Sadly I don’t understand Japanese at the best of times, especially not an excited referee, rambling away so fast that his mouth is a blur.

So in the “get set” position, when the whistle goes I don’t stand up when everyone else does, resulting in the force of forty incredibly competitive grown men and women seeing the rope smack into my face, sending me airborne for a second or two before crashing to the floor. For fear of being bullied for the rest of the year, I stand up, pretending it doesn’t hurt, and grab hold of the rope. My incredible strength sees us win.

I spend the next 30 minutes with an ice pack firmly attached to my chin, where a delightfully black bruise has now formed, with the school nurse shouting “chin egg” and pointing and laughing.

Next is a diabolical four song dance act, dreamt up by a group of third year girls. Out of sync, unimaginative and distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. Even the 68-strong dance troupe look visibly pissed off at their peers' lack of choreographic skills, as they perform what looks very much like a geriatric aerobics class routine.

The final round, grab the hat off your opponent’s head, is a vicious tournament involving a child wearing a cap, sat on another’s shoulders, supported by a person on either side, sprinting around as quickly as possible and beating the crap out of each other in an attempt to get the caps of each other’s heads. While The Eye of the Tiger plays in the background.

As the final whistle blows, another girl is stretchered off and the remainder leave the battle field in a scene similar to the homecoming of surviving World War One soldiers

It was at this point that I had to vacate the nurse’s tent, surrendering my bag of ice.

Earlier in the week, in one of my primary schools, I had been enlisted to take part in gymnastics practice in the hall. Not having the greatest sense of balance, I fall over in a strong gust of wind.

So having a small fat child on my head, two obese kids yanking my arms on one side, and two skinny ones on the other to form a strange fan shape, it took every ounce of strength to remain upright. Before I knew it, another child was lunging towards me in a handstand position. The fat kid on my shoulders was supposed to catch her ankles, but it missed, instead two feet crashed into my face.

My entire future flashed before me, mainly comprising images of Japanese prison cells and daily molestations from sexually depraved murderers. Thankfully I didn’t kill anyone, the child got down from my shoulders unscathed and I remain a free woman.

Back to Junior High.

The teachers invited me to joint their post-sports day Enkai (party), and of course I gladly obliged.

Now it is scientifically proven that Japanese people cannot handle their alcohol anywhere near as well as us Brits. So after two pints of beer, pretty much everyone is legless and thinks it a great idea to re-enact sports day. We’re split into teams. Unluckily, and being the lightest, I am pressurised into climbing on top of a table, with a chair on top, to the top of the stack of inebriated teachers.

Fortunately I cannot stand as my head is already grazing the ceiling, much to the amusement of those sat safely on the carpet below.

Next a pile of noodle pots are put in the middle of the room to recreate the box stacking game. My team is the clear winner, partially due to the fact that the vice principle is sat cross-legged, like a toddler surrounded by building blocks, stacking the noodles randomly while rolling as many as possible under the tablecloth so that he can later hide them in his bag and take them home.

With breakages, cuts and bruises, sports day is dangerous, and a strain on the Japanese health care service.

Saying all that, it’s fucking good fun.

Thursday 8 September 2011

Early to bed, early to rise, buggers a man, and then he dies

Japanese people survive off little sleep.

The apartment block opposite me has an outdoor light, which shines directly through my wafer thin curtains and onto my face as I make futile attempts to drift off into the land of nod. If my eye mask slips during the night I awake immediately, convinced through delirium, that the mother ship has come to transport me home.

Even my internet modem speaks to me at six every morning, to deliver the day's news and throughout the year an array of creatures and insects take shifts to deliver their own version of dawn chorus, generally before dawn. Frogs have recently been replaced by Cicadas which cackle a jovial cackle, as though laughing at my misadventure.

In hostels over the summer, it is seemingly acceptable to hoover the dormitory as the sun rises and in Muroto, where Lucy lives, a five o'clock siren sounds every day, simply to let people know that it's five o'clock.

Despite all this, nothing could prepare me for the utter frustration following heavy rain on Saturday, which saw me rudely awakened by a fellow teacher's text, urging me, at 6am, to be careful. What harm can come to me in my bed, when I'm ASLEEP, I do not know.

At 6.30am, and just drifting back into a much-needed coma, sirens shrieked into action, wailing away for more than half an hour, causing me to wrap my pillow around my head in utter disdain. Despite the possibility that they may well have been evacuating the area; losing the will to live, I freely welcomed death.

Eventually the sirens ceased and I relaxed back onto the pillow, sinking into the blissful silence. But it was short lived as a man with a microphone proceeded to bellow in foreign tongues outside the apartment block.

Then chanting woman started up, like clockwork, followed by the shuffling and sliding as my next door neighbour began her daily furniture moving regime.

It was safe to say we were not being evacuated. But also highly unlikely I was getting back to sleep. So, reluctantly, and at 7.30am, I rose from my stack of futons.

On a Saturday.

Leaving me buggered.

It's times like these that I miss the tranquillity of London.

Monday 5 September 2011

Alcohol-fuelled nudism

On August 8th each year, the quirky nudist colony in which I live, littered with pyromaniacs and seasoned alcoholics, becomes even stranger still.

Throughout the year I have witnessed workmen fashioning an enormous Hanzaki (salamander) to take centre stage at Yubara's annual Hanzaki Festival.
The usually quiet streets of Yubara undergo a stampede of parents and children, who have joined forces to celebrate the creatures, usually residing in the rural rivers running through the valleys of outback Japan.

What starts as a pleasant family occasion will quickly escalates into full-scale hedonism and debauchery. Setting out from my apartment at 4pm, we go to the local Salamander museum where the metre-long beasts, disguised as large grey rocks and invisible to the untrained eye, are cramped into fish tanks which would instil chronic levels of Claustraphobia in Nemo.

We are beckoned to a table, already overcrowded with pensioners, sat cross-legged and cross eyed, in the museum courtyard by an incredibly inebriated local, imploring us to help them drink their sake. Most cannot sit up straight, instead rolling around like Weebles, crashing their craniums on all manner of objects, from drinks coolers to paving stones.

We decline their offer and move on.

Sitting with our feet dipped in the river, the evening's mist settling on the water's surface, cranes wading mystically in the distance, all is calm and serene as we watch the dance troupes marching past, music blaring, followed by three giant papier mache Salamanders, being wheeled along by a host of strapping young gents.

I'm discovered by some first year students and led by the hand away from my friends and into the abyss of the crowds to meet their parents.

But it is once we have finished ooohing and aahing at closing hanabi (fireworks) ceremony, when the kids start leaving and I finally find my friends, that things take a downturn, into a drunken version of the Wicker Man.

We go to the local bar, where I kidnapped Edwina, the clown, from the squat toilet during my first month following a binge of 22 bottles of Sake.



It transpires that the bar is owned by the parents of two students, a girl and boy of elementary school age, who are, as a special treat, allowed to serve us pint after pint of beer, which feels wrong on so many levels.

Soon the father comes to sit down, encouraging his son to come too, and learn English from the Gaijin.


And so the eight-year-old sits amid the haze of smoke and lager spillages, chatting away with a level of maturity far superior to the drunken westerners who have overtaken the bar.

Not long after the father instigates a photo shoot with the kids, beers in hand, which would have seemed entirely inappropriate if it wasn't for the vast quantities of alcohol consumed by this point.


Following the photos, the well known, "who am I" post it game ensues. Seemingly amused by the gaijin with yellow stickers attached to their foreheads, decorated with foreign scrawlings, the aged friends on the next table decide to join in, covering their faces in sticky labels, before carrying on drinking, seemingly oblivious to their adornments.



Soon it is closing time. We say our sayonaras and, deciding that midnight is too early to retire home, venture on to the outdoor, mixed onsen situated along the riverside overlooking the dam at the top end of the town.

We strip off and soon find out that the rocky path leading to the steaming outdoor bath is slippy, seeing all attempts to cover our modesty disbanded in favour of attempts to remain upright.

The water is scorching and despite our best efforts to endure the heat, bubbling gently like live-lobsters simmering away on the stove, the temperatures soon become unbearable.

Aborting mission, Scott's friend Matt discovers that his flip flops have disappeared and a group of naked Japanese men offer their assistance, running up and down the rocky path, searching in the moonlight before proudly presenting a pair of shoes to the drunken token white people. But they're not Matt's, which are later found exactly where he left them.

Eager to practise their English, the boys get dressed when we do and follow us along the river, where we are waylaid by the sfestival tage and giant salamander, which has been abandoned at the water's edge. Stopping for another photo-shoot one of the men, Hiro, expresses an interest in Lucy. His friends encourage from a close distance "kiss her, kiss her." This embarrasses Hiro to such an extent that he lays down on the floor and ROFLs (for those of you unfamiliar with the iliterate new wave of so called "text speech", reserved only for chavish youths and cunts, "Rolled around on the floor laughing"), before pulling himself to his feet and kissing her, like a washing machine on a fast spin, traumatising unfazable Lucy.

Hiro texts Lucy a few days later - "Hello Lucy, do you think me a boy? Japan people look young to the Western eye. I am 30. Maybe we could email sometimes."

I think she may be in love.