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.
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