Going Loco in Kokawa

Bringing things full circle, pretty much a year to the day I first started this ‘ere journal, I’m writing once again about the goings on at Kokawa Town’s annual summer festival. Yesterday evening the great and the good were out in full force to mingle, eat, drink, be merry and to watch the pushing and pulling of the traditional carnival floats known as danjiri.

Huge, bedecked with lanterns and often containing large numbers of children with a taiko drummer or two thrown in for good measure, these oversized wooden death traps are raced along the town’s narrow streets without much warning – several men will suddenly run towards you blowing whistles and gesticulating wildly, which is your cue to get the hell out the way and watch as the danjiri lumbers past, accompanied by shouts of what sounds like san-ri-yo – no relation to the manufacturers of Hello Kitty merchandise, I’m sure…

The Kinokawa/Wakayama Shi massive was out in full force of course, with numbers swelled even larger than usual with the addition of Gemma’s brother Robert, Hannah’s boyfriend Jan and two high school buddies of Jared’s. Not only were we numerous, we were nearly all dressed for the occasion, with yukattas for the girls and jimbes for the guys. Alas, I have no pictures at all of our sartorial hi-jinks, but Mercedes is likely to post plenty over on her blog some time in the next few days.

As one might imagine on a night involving a large group of people attending a crowded festival and drinking rather a lot in the process, it wasn’t long before the group fragmented and the night became increasingly random and chaotic.

Having taken a stroll up to Kokawa Temple (with all the assembled people there loudly praying and the myriad food and trinket stalls, it was by far the rowdiest temple I’d ever seen) myself, Noel and Sean took a leisurely stroll back along the main street where all the action was, stopping every now and then to say hello to students we recognised from our classes and marvel at the lithe young girls whose job it was to hang off the danjiris and give a hand pushing them. We then had the good fortune to run into a colleague of Sean’s, who invited us back to the shop owned by his family, where we were treated to lashings of sushi and draught lager and partook in animated conversation spanning arcane Japanese popular culture and obscure kanji characters.

Following this, we managed to reconvene with some of our lot from earlier, looking slightly the worse for wear. Thoroughly smashed by this point, several of us struck up conversation with some of the aforementioned lithe young girls loitering beside an idle danjiri, who’d taken the unusual step of accessorising their traditional uniforms with Jamaican scarves and face paint because they ‘liked reggae music very much’. Much stilted banter later, I was extremely excited by their suggestion that some of us drunken gaijin assist them with the pulling of their mighty danjiri. After a couple of beers beside the temple, the call came for Robert to join them, and not wanting to be left out (and drunk enough to care who knew) I ended up foisting myself into the crowd.

To the cries of san-ri-yo Rob and myself did a fairly cack-handed job of helping a dozen or so people push the thing down the street at steadily increasing speed until we slowly ground to a halt a hundred and fifty meters or so later. There then followed a lengthy san-ri-yo call-and-response session between the danjiri’s female passengers and their largely male mules, during which Robert and I were finally rumbled. A short, bespectacled and extremely agitated man pointed at us, demanding that we leave, ostensibly because we both had incorrect footwear (sandals and flip-flops, as opposed to the Japanese wooden sandals which are all but impossible to run in) but the racial subtext was impossible to ignore. (though of course, he could have just been pissed off that two drunk, British idiots were lowering the tone). As I remarked to Robert on our way back to the temple to rejoin the others, what we’d just experience had been the very best and very worst that Japanese hospitality had to offer.

Feeling somewhat ill after the danjiri dash, it was clear the night was finally starting to catch up with me. Accompanying the others to the 24 hour supermarket to pick up some late night munchies was about all I was good for by that point, and abandoning my original plan to walk back to Sarah’s, I instead opted to crash on the floor at Hannah’s.

So, here I am, feeling slightly tender but otherwise good and finding it a little difficult to believe that the sun is finally setting on my two-year-long Japanese adventure. This is the last time I shall be posting from the land of the foreign sun, my final postscript will be from England’s green (well, rather barren and parched if news about the weather is to be believed) and pleasant shores. Due to me having passed out by the time the others briefly returned to Hannah’s later that night, I’m slightly upset to have missed saying goodbye to Gemma, Sean and Noel for the final time, so I’ll do it here – take it easy guys, thanks for some pretty damn good times and stay in touch.

All that’s left for me now is perhaps one final okonomiyaki in a nice little restaurant here in Naga, and then a long flight home tomorrow morning. Here’s to hoping my excess baggage costs don’t bankrupt me and that I make it back in one piece.

Nihon…sayonara…

The horror…the horror…

It should be noted that as of now I am no longer in Ogura, nor alone for that matter. Since leaving my flat for the final time yesterday, I am temporarily based in Naga town, staying at the home of generously hospitable fellow ALT Sarah, ahead of my return to England’s green and pleasant lands next Monday.

This temporary homestay is mainly intended to give me a chance to properly appreciate the fact that I’m leaving after two years, and allow me to see friends and do things out here for the last time without constantly thinking about the stress involved in sorting out my place, arranging final bills and all the other horrifically complicated and tedious things anyone has to do before they permanently move away from somewhere. All that’s done now and finally, I can afford to relax a little.

What stress it was though…with four generations of JET behind me and no one new coming to take over, it was up to me to dispose of everything in my small two bedroom flat and Wakayama High to pick up anything I couldn’t get rid of myself. A combination of lack of forward planning, two years of laziness and Japan’s restrictive waste disposal laws meant that yesterday caused me levels of stress and frustration the likes of which I never want to experience ever again. Don’t be fooled by the diminutive size of my former dwelling, it boasts an interior of TARDIS-esque proportions containing dizzying quantities of crap that filled bin liner after bin liner in the absence of anyone else wanting it. Anything usable went into cardboard boxes that I soon ran out of, everything small went into bags and several cupboards had to remain full. I fully anticipate an irate phonecall from Wakayama High’s head of administration any day now.

And all that was just the stuff I was leaving behind – there was still the issue of everything else that was coming back with me. Having packed a suitcase, a backpack, a small rucksack, a guitar case and laptop shoulder bag with all my worldly possessions it quickly became apparent just how optimistic it was to think that I could get it all on a plane. I was to find out just how optimistic when nihonjin buddy Daisuke came over in the morning, ostensibly just to pick up the oven I was giving away for his mother, bringing with him at my request a set of weighing scales. The horrible truth soon became clear – the combined weight of my baggage came to 46 kilos, exceeding my 20 kilos allowance by more than double.

(Brief note – if anyone can explain to me why it is that residents of Canada and the US are given 32 kilos baggage allowance on international flights while the rest of us mere mortals have to make do with 20, I’d love to know).

Bitterness aside, I was left with a rather large problem to say the least – if I wanted to avoid crippling excess baggage costs at the airport, a radical solution was called for. I decided to try and send my suitcase home through the post. An insane idea, admittedly, but I didn’t have much of an alternative.

So, to my profuse thanks, Daisuke agreed to come with me to the local post office and act as interpreter. Driving there on his father’s open-top pick up truck with me hanging on for dear life in the back we entered and endured an interminable ten minutes or so while we waited to be seen, another fifteen for the young guy behind the counter to say whether it was possible to do what I had in mind (it required two phonecalls and a lengthy perusal of his Post Office employees user manual – to be honest I’m not certain whether he actually worked there, such was his level of ignorance and nervousness) and another thirty for me to do the weighing and filling in of the relevant forms once we were given the go-ahead. Standard shipping costs applied, which meant fifty quid on surface delivery, expected time of arrival at destination roughly 4-6 weeks. Furthermore, I was unable to lock the case, nor insure the contents – something that could only be done at a larger branch in the next town over. Hopefully I won’t have clapped eyes on that case for last time – time will tell…

Daisuke and I then went for a pleasant lunch at the local Chinese (the owner of which had been the happy recipient of my oversized Sony television) before he had to dash off to work at a private tuition school. That left me to clean, pack and tidy for about six hours solid until the arrival of Gemma around 8pm, after which time I was all but spent.

So, here I am in Sarah’s scrupulously tidy and well cared for abode which has flowers on the balcony outside and everything. All mine had was an overflowing bucket for the water pumped out by my temperamental A/C unit. Later today I should be dropping in on the family of Morimoto Sensei for dinner, perhaps kicking back by the river tomorrow afternoon and with any luck hooking up once more if possible with a couple more erstwhile colleagues by the end of the week. Let the home straight begin…

For a limited time only - an audio blog!

Sorry to get all techno gee-whizzy on you folks, but have had a rather eventful evening tonight, and instead of writing it all down in my own inimitably convoluted way, I've poured out my thoughts into a diddy little dictophone thing. Why? The answer is contained within the somewhat lengthy (about 7 minutes long - sorry) mp3 file that you can download here courtesy of the fine people at YouSendIt.com. Hurry though, this offer is only available for a seven day period as of now...

“Thank You So Far”

As my time in Japan draws to an end at frightening speed, I’m naturally finding myself doing many things I’ve become used to over the past couple of years for the very last time. No longer will I drop in on the kids at Kii Cosmos special needs school, nor teach classes at Kinokawa High ever again.

There are also the classes themselves of course, though in the case of Wakayama High, I’ve only known the 16-18 year olds I teach for several of months, seeing as the academic year out here runs from April to the following March. In spite of this, the students from two of my classes have been very kind in handing me collections of small thank you notes (though the mean-spirited, cynical side of me suspects that this has more to do with my teaching colleagues needing some activity to fill up their end-of-semester lessons on the days I’m not around).

Either way, receiving these testimonials is a very lovely thing, though I can’t help thinking that the phrasing and choice of words in some of them speaks volumes about the general standard of my teaching. I don’t know, take a look below and see what you think…

Cheese, Curry and Pot Noodle – Together at last!

Dear God, there’s so much wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to begin. My first sighting of one of these monstrosities was early last Sunday morning, when Sean picked one up from a convenience store on our way back from a rowdy gaijin all-nighter by way of ‘breakfast’. I was intrigued that such an unholy creation could actually exist, so when I saw one in my local Lawson when out getting lunch earlier today, I knew I had to try one.

And I can report that it tastes pretty much as vile as you might expect – what ‘cheese’ there is contained within exists in powdered form, mixed in with curry granules, turning into a revolting chemical slurry once water is added. The disturbing thing is that I ate the bloody thing about two hours ago and can still taste it slightly. Am considering washing my mouth out with bleach once I’m back at the apartment and swallowing some while I’m at it. It’s not as if my insides can suffer any more damage than they have already...

Harmony, tranquility…and two lumbering brutes playing frightening rock music…

The koto is a fine instrument – an oriental harp, originally brought over from China around the 8^th century, it resembles a zither and makes a lovely, soothing noise when played well. Hearing five or six of them being played simultaneously is even better. The skill, poise and talent clearly required to get it sounding good engenders deep respect for its players (at least from me). It’s also bloody big, played in a similar way to a pedal steel but about three times the size, made of a hoofing great slab of wood – and the deep, resonant bass koto weighs in at an even larger size than that.

Conversely, the standard acoustic guitar is an instrument much beloved throughout history by huge numbers of people for the way its portability, ease of use and relative cheapness has made the act of making music accessible to the masses, from world-weary blues players to disenfranchised protest singers to bourgeois middle-class white boys with angst issues…hey, it can even be played with a modicum of success by violently hungover ex-pats who have been drafted in to entertain the great and the good at a culture centre in a small Japanese town on a blisteringly hot Sunday afternoon.

Yes, yours truly and partner in busking-related crime Sean Casey found ourselves at the weekend playing to a roomful of completely bemused spectators who’d come to see some hardcore koto action, only to find themselves, halfway through the concert, staring in horror at these two herberts who’d popped up between koto renditions screaming “f*ck you, I won’t do what you tell me…MOTHERF*CKER!” at them.

In our defence, we kind of fell into it. Sean hadn’t been able to say no when someone he knew approached him to do something in the name of ‘local international cultural exchange’ and the idea of bringing our reckless musicianship, well-honed from boozy evenings playing to the mean streets in front of JR Wakayama Station, to a well-to-do cultural event seemed perversely entertaining. Okay, so our choices might have been a little better, but they were the only ones we were any good playing.

So it was that we treated the citizens of Kokawa town and several giggling foreign English teachers (cheers again Gemma, Mercedes, Rich, Noel) to ‘Bright Lights and Music’ (one of mine, about a guy who accidentally kills himself) ‘Paranoid Android’ (well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…sort of…), ‘You Know How I Do’ (by Sean-approved American rockers Taking Back Sunday, with added harmonies probably the best one we did) and, um, ‘Killing In The Name Of’ by agit-metallers Rage Against The Machine. Okay, the last one was just us being mischievous.

Each number was surprisingly greeted by polite applause rather than violent lynching, and people didn’t seem to mind too much about the swearing…though the reaction of the startled 8-year-old girl sitting near the front when Sean hit the aforementioned “MOTHERF*CKER!” at the climax of ‘Killing…’ did make me feel a little bit bad afterwards.

Still, having gone for the shambolic comedy angle, knowing full well how bad we both looked when compared to the elegant ladies and their koto-playing loveliness, we just about survived and were treated very well indeed by the café next door, happily supplying two full lunches to us and our assembled friends for gratis, bless them.

Hannah, it should be noted, acquitted herself brilliantly, playing as part of a koto ensemble and on flute as part of a duet. Having seen the mind-bending sheets of paper consisting of kanji, hieroglyphics and difficult to follow tables that make up Japanese koto notation, my admiration for what she managed to achieve is all the higher.

See above for some video of how it should be done, and a picture of how it really, really shouldn’t…

You know it’s hot in Japan when…

1) The walls of your apartment seem to be sweating almost as much as you are.

2) Opening your front door causes a backdraft.

3) Airborne insects begin to get woozy, losing all sense of direction to the extent that a 10 minute bike ride is liable to leave your face plastered with bug-based roadkill.

4) The sounds of the nocturnal randy frog chorus emanating from the rice paddies becomes deafening, usually around 3.30AM.

5) The temperature differential between air-conditioned department stores and the impossibly humid streets outside can potentially cause an afternoon’s shopping to result in a severe bout of pneumonia.

6) Everybody seems to feel the need to utter the words Atsui desu ne? (trans. “Hot, isn’t it?”) approximately every 5 seconds, despite the overwhelming obviousness of this statement making its very use, be it frequently or otherwise, completely redundant.

7) The carrying of small towels to regularly mop sweat from one’s brow, face, arms, neck, etc. becomes essential.

8) Showering becomes utterly pointless, the effort needed to towel oneself off afterwards itself generating more sweat than you had on you to start with.

9) Stepping off a train feels as though you’re walking into a blast furnace.

10) You find yourself doing 3 times the normal amount of laundry per week to combat the drastic increase in sweat stains and persistent odors suffered by your clothes, the only compensation being that after hanging your garments on the washing line they’ll usually be bone-dry within minutes.

11) Newspapers held in your sweaty hands begin to dissolve before your very eyes.

12) It feels like it's time to go home...

Bento Rockin' Beats

So, last weekend found me journeying a fair way up north to Toyama to catch up with good mate and fellow JETpat Mark and to witness the party celebrating the conclusion of the Bento Boys project he's spent the last half year cooking up with British ALT Rob. For the uninitiated, the Bento Boys is these two lads' attempt to channel the JET experience into a spoof hip hop act, crammed with in-jokes, wit, beats, samples and a great deal of gratuitous swearing.

So, having got up at 5AM, I made my way to Osaka, boarded a JR Highway Bus and tried doing my level best to get some sleep within the awkard confines of my seat. Considerably cheaper and more comfortable than the train it may be, but I personally find this route between A and B to be somewhat disorientating - it's a cliche that all Japanese cities look the same, but it's a fact that all Japanese service stations look IDENTICAL. Nodding off after pulling away from one, heavy waves of deja vu assault the groggy traveller upon pulling into the next one two hours later with the same buildings, the same shops and many of the same cars and buses visible in the parking lot.

Still, I got there in the end and hung around for a bit while the Bento Boys busied themselves with the preparations for the night's events. This was to be the playback of the album they'd recorded, pressed themselves and were going to be selling to the party's attendees with all the proceeds going to cha-ri-dee. In any event, after no small amount of wiring, hoiking speakers around, sweet-talking the venue's owner and a quick curry/lager combo to fortify their constitutions it was on with the show.

The playback went nicely, thundering through the small bar's speakers like no tomorrow while I chatted a while with one or two JETs I'd met before and a great many I hadn't, until the time came for the main event. As it was, despite the cramped confines and improvised amplification, Mark accquitted himself admirably, Bono-tastic shades and all, as can be seen above. For a representative sound sample of what went down, I direct the curious to their MySpace site, which unlike most of the things you can expect to find on there, really is worth your time - especially if you're currently, or have ever been, a participant on the JET Programme. All hail.

(Was that okay Mark? When can I get my 20 quid PR fee?)

Following the festivities, the assembled throng rapidly made their way to a nearby sports bar in order to catch the England game, the second time during this World Cup where I appear to have found myself in a communal match-viewing crowd completely by accident.

Okay, a quick word or two regarding my attitude towards football. I find it impossible to care about this game that touches the lives of so many in any meaningful sense whatsoever. When I find myself taking notice of anything to do with it, it's usually accompanied by the distinct sense of unease I feel when witnessing how otherwise perfectly normal, rational people become possessed of a wierd primal fury when watching 'their' team of eleven men kick an inflatable bag of wind around a large field against another team of eleven men with equally deranged 'fans'.

Given how unutterably tedious I find watching this futile display of athleticism, sponsorship and nationalist fervour spread out over the course of 90+ minutes, I hastily sought refuge at the bar, as far away from the big screen as possible where, happily for me, I got to enjoy several highly engrossing conversations with several other football (sorry, saaaa-ker) refuseniks. At the very moment that all that penalty business against Portugal was going on I was engaged in a highly illuminating tete a tete with a chap called Geoff about the current state of play within British politics. We only realised that England had lost when the entire bar suddenly went so eerily quiet that you could hear a pin drop. We then resumed our debate regarding the socialist credentials or otherwise of Gordon Brown several seconds later and were probably the only ones in the room talking for at least the next five minutes.

Being out here has denied me one small pleasure though - the sight of seeing legions of emotionally retarded men in Essex tearfully taking cross of St. George flags off of their cars and houses, their world shattered into a thousand fragments of bitterness and resentment over what Mooney, Wooney, whatever the hell his name is, did and how it's good that Deckham or Heckham or whoever he is has finally left. Schadenfreude isn't good, kids, but sometimes it can be fabulous...