Thursday 10 November 2011

Slurping my way to success - almost

Following our dice with death at October’s Danjiri, it was uncertain as to how this month’s traditional oddities of the orient could exceed expectations.

Yubara’s annual noodle eating contest certainly did its best.

Invited to enlist by one of my teachers, presumably to provide some “white person” comedy value, I gladly obliged.

A proudly patriotic country, Japanese people are stereotypically under the belief that no one else can do as they do. Non-Japanese infiltrating local life are instantly assumed idiotic and taken pity on.

Congratulated by genuinely surprised locals on a daily basis for my chopstick using prowess, as well as tasks as menial as wiping a tray or flushing a toilet, in rural Japan closing a sliding door warrants a standing ovation.

On occasion this can work to your advantage. Sunday’s competition was just one of these occasions.

Arriving early, the tension in the air was high, nerves were shaking and contestants sombre faced at the prospect of the challenge which lay ahead.

Last on the list, we had to wait for realms of children and men to compete in the soba slurp off.

A natural born winner, this time was not wasted.

Instead I assessed tactics.

First up were two of my larger, to be more precise morbidly obese, students who return for a minimum of third helpings during a typical school lunch time, and one featherweight child.

As the unlikely trio assumed their positions, chopsticks poised, I predicted the pecking order; fattest kid first, less fat but still of gastronomical proportions second, and whippet legs third.

Sadly the future heart attack victims, who didn’t use the dipping sauce provided, began regurgitating noodles into their palms, retching and on the verge of developing lack of oxygen induced brain damage. Meanwhile the wimpy kid took the lead, becoming the clear winner.

This scenario was repeated time and time again as tensions grew fast.

Another fat child learnt by the error of his peers’ ways, adopting the dip-slurp method, leading him to unprecedented victory.

The judges called our names and I took my place behind 500 grams of stone cold soba noodles, cracking the chopsticks and ready for action.

Quietly confident, no one was aware of my secret weapon, a mouth large enough to accommodate 20 grapes or a clenched fist.

The whistle sounded.

Despite getting off to a sloppy start due to an incident with the chopsticks, I gathered speed. Using tactics gleamed from earlier competitors, I crammed to the sound of a kindergarten child, who had earlier attempted to flog me an enormous jar of her Grandfather’s overpriced honey under the guise that she loved me, squawking her good luck wishes, which induced a fit of hysterics.

Determination took a hold and I powered through regardless.

Hearing the commentator repeating my name, I knew I must be nearing success so began stuffing handfuls of noodles which had slopped onto the table into my mouth, throwing my hands into the air to signal I’d finished to the sound of the cheering crowd, chanting my name.

Waiting for my opponents to catch up, I eyed dip-slurp fat kid tucking into a family sized polyester tray of Yakisoba, visibly eager to maintain his portly physique.

Finishing first with a time of 2minutes 53seconds, the next group in our heat was called to the table.

Sending out negative brainwaves throughout their round, I willed no one to beat my time.

One wizened, five-stone grandmother, immune to my magical powers, finished with a time of 2minutes 15seconds, putting her in first place and demoting me to a sloppy second.

Unaware what her secret weapon was, she clearly needed the food to insulate her frail bones against the Siberian winter currently travelling to the valleys of Yubara. But I still felt a sense of defeat. A feeling I can only assume is experienced by those straight A* students when they disgrace their overly ambitious parents as well as the entire extended family when they fail and get an A in General Studies, suicide being the only admirable action to be taken in such an eventuality.

Luckily I had good friends around to pull me through one of the darkest hours of my life so far.

More positively, we have gained local celebrity status. White people entering a noodle contest has been the talk of the town. At the hairdresser’s on Monday the owner disappeared, re-emerging seconds later with the newspaper, overtly excited that he was in the presence of such a local hero.

Next time, I will win.

Wednesday 2 November 2011

Death becomes them

Late October, the season of the village Danjiri festival, which takes place in rural locations throughout Japan.

Grown men don headbands, cloaks, skinny jeans and frog boots and, in 20-strong teams, ram into each other with enormous wooden floats, simultaneously growing paralytic as the sun sets.

My initial reaction, this sounds incredibly dangerous, especially after a fellow teacher mentioned in passing, and remaining completely blasé:

“Ellie sensei, a man died at the festival two years ago.”

Such a tragedy hitting England would have seen a blanket ban on Danjiris from that day forward. However in Japan the childhood oblivion to recognize danger seemingly stems into adulthood.

The front of the floats, decorated with willow sprigs and flags representing the nations of the world, are carved to a sharp point to intensify impact. But the drunker the contestants get, the lesser their judgement, leading to a heightened number of hair-raising moments.

Our closest comparison is the village gala in which visiting queens wave at each other, engaging in a vicious smile off as they parade each other’s habitat. While the biggest risk being the threat of multiple face spasms, the Japanese Danjiri competitors may well die.

They also take their sport very seriously, with a number of full blown fisticuffs resulting from instances of failure to adhere to the rules.

Each float contains young boys beating bells and drums as well as a few fighting veterans, and future whiplash victims, who sit on the front, waving fire lit lanterns around, and banging each other on the head as the sake tightens its grasp.

Most of these older teammates are either drunk or hint that they’ve been released from geriatric care homes for one-night only to attend the sporting event, at which they sit with vacant glints in their eyes similar to that of a confused toddler.

As the tonne-weight floats collide they swing sideways, straight into the path of roadside spectators, who are saved only by a one-man deep wall of strapping festival scouts.

In a closing ceremony, the floats unite and contestants climb onto the roofs. In England we would scrabble for sweets or chocolate at this point.

In Japan, a tasteless rock hard substance called Mochi which, the first time I came across I mistook for novelty soap, is distributed to the masses. Upon discovering it was edible, I popped it in the cupboard with a view to working out what to do with it on my return from a fortnight away. By this time it was covered in green fur, the solution was obvious, and I flung it into the bin in disgust.

It transpires it should have been put it in the microwave, transforming into a red hot gloop, which can only be compared to munching on a soft boiled Pritt-Stick. And so it transpires that the original plan of allowing it to grow mold before disposing of it is a far more palatable option.

Yet the Japanese scrabble to their knees to collect as much of the multi-coloured crap as possible.

Again, the oblivion to danger is highlighted as the mochi is not just thrown but propelled from mini rocket launchers along with streamers, lulling me into a false sense of security as I stare at the pretty colours before being smacked on the head with force one not just one but three lumps, which have been sent airborne with the power of a cannon.

No law suits, no event bans, the Japanese mentality is that if you attend, you are liable for the fate that becomes you. It would be great to see this ethos infiltrating the degenerative streets of outback America, where they think it legitimate to claim against McDonalds for scalding their legs when attempting to drink hot coffee while driving, and worryingly winning the case.

We only have ourselves to blame if the next our parents hear is that their offspring has been steamrolled to death by a giant wooden cart containing 20 inebriated men.

With the language barrier, this would probably be lost in translation and they would never actually find out how we met our end, rather draw the conclusion that the company had sold us into Kyoto’s Geisha industry for a tidy sum of 100 Yen a piece.