We Are Hated

Last month a bitter old Japanese woman stepped into a ramen shop, saw Ryan and Gabe, sneered, and said, "Gaijin kirai." A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch at the back of Roots with Steve and Gabe when a girl at the bar said, "Gaijin kirai," to her friends. On both occasions we were doing nothing offensive; we were keeping to ourselves and not bothering anyone.

Gaijin kirai means, "I hate foreigners/outsiders." I don't know what those Japanese people have experienced to make them hate us. I can imagine, though. Some gaijin routinely make a bad name for everyone else by doing stupid things. Then again, maybe those Japanese people simply hate foreigners because we’re different. Either way, it is strange to me, having been raised in a country where I'm part of the ethnic majority. My brush with racial prejudice pales in comparison to some of the things African-Americans, Latin-Americans, and Asian-Americans have been through, but I can somewhat empathizes with that torturous confusion, that desperate search for an answer to the question, "Why do they hate us." And then to realize that there may be no reason for this hatred, and no real solution either. If I lived through that everyday, I would be worn down and contemptuous.

Yoo-Hoo, Kyushu: Part III

Thursday 4/3

“Let’s get an early start,” Chad had said. We woke up around 8, ate breakfast around 9, and shoved off for Mt. Aso around 10. A pretty good start.

While still in the room, I repeatedly said “mate” this and “mate” that: a delightful habit I’ve picked up from Ryan, Gabe, and Will. Chad didn’t like it. He said I should speak like an American. A few days earlier, after viewing the taiko performance, I had said that I couldn’t imagine watching a white person do taiko because it’s deeply Japanese – Chad happens to do taiko, so he was deeply offended. I suppose our criticisms had a similar close-minded nature to them.

We had a Western breakfast. Chad was pleased. Bacon, eggs, pancakes. I went for seconds. Then thirds. On the walk back, I stopped to admire the hills spotted with Farmland Village cottages. They crowded the landscape, beige humps rolling into the distance. The air was chilled but enjoyable. Far away, beyond the plain, a lush mountain loomed down on it all.

After changing into our hiking boots, we went to the car and drove to Mt. Aso. The sides of the road were overflowing with shrubs and pine trees, a striking view of the valley flashing between the trunks as we zipped by. I felt at home. There was less vegetation when we rounded the mountain and caught a glimpse of Mt. Aso. Even then we could see the pillows of smoke puffing heavy above the volcanic crater, hanging motionless in the blue sky. We scaled the road to the visitor’s entrance and parked. Chad was taking his time in the car, so I said I’d meet him there and approached on foot. A foreboding red light was spinning over a sign, warning everyone that today the toxin levels were higher than usual and that people with asthma should not proceed. I practically skipped along the path. The cauldron boiled and spewed, but I couldn’t get closer to see because the walkways were closed. Instead, I climbed a steep detour to an observation tower. Old Korean tourists were everywhere. Hordes of them scuttling around me. The tower didn’t provide any new view of the cauldron. Soon Chad showed up and together we hiked toward the badlands surrounding the crater.

Walking down the path, I noticed that I was exhaling smoke. Then the sulfur rose in my throat. I spat and coughed. My eyes watered. The taste settled inside me, viscous and inescapable. I cleared the zone and breathed deep the fresh air.

Ash blanketed the badlands. A stretch of concrete lead to a pass between two mountains where a ceremonial pile of stones sat. Chad and I discussed an article written by an anonymous Awaji JET in which she describes her reasons for not re-contracting. I explained that in the article she wrote, “Japanese people have no passion in their lives or the jobs.” Chad was appalled, as I had been the first time I read the article. She had based this claim on her observation that Japanese people don’t hug in public.

On the way back the resort, we pulled over and hiked into a field. Steam was seeping from the ground. It had been visible from the road. It drifted off the muddy soil and crawled our legs before blowing away, a swarm of mist curling and twisting. This was my favorite part.

I jogged up a considerable hill where I could enjoy the view. Chad saw me and sprinted as hard as he could. He overtook me; however, the hill was bigger than he had estimated and he stopped, winded. Sustaining a constant jog, I overtook him and finished at the top. When he met me, he simply said that he needed to start jogging around his town. I didn’t care that I won, but from what I know of Chad, this chip at his manhood may have caused a wave of distress, especially since he considers himself physically superior to me. I can understand this because I used to think the same way, believing that every physical challenge I lost was a failure of my manliness. Thankfully, I grew out of that and can just shrug it off now.

Driving back to Aso Farmland Village, Chad revealed that he had been an assistant trainer at a gym.

“Have I ever told you about my mom’s boyfriend?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Well, he’s a trainer too. And now that I think about it, you’re a lot like him.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked.

“Depends on how you look at it,” I said. After all, my mom clearly likes him.

Aso Farmland Village was a ghost town that night. Strange, since the previous night it had been quite lively. All the adjacent stores shut down at 6. These same stores had been open late the day before. We couldn’t understand what was happening.

Chad had lost his meal ticket, which was a problem. But he was able to get a new ticket from the front desk. Later, he went to a sauna, and I remained in the room to study Japanese. He returned late. We rushed to the restaurant, but it was closed already. The only place still open was a small shop that served decent yakiniku. A young Japanese girl tried to take our orders. Chad, who’d done a splendid job with the Nihongo during our trip, told her what we wanted, but she couldn’t understand. She excused herself and spoke to another waitress. She said, “Nihongo jouzu jaa nai.” That translates as, “His Japanese sucks.” Chad was disheartened, but the older waitress took our order after that, and Chad bunted it out in perfect Nihongo. The waitress said, “Hey, they can speak Japanese.” Way to go, champ.

We spent our last night in the Hobbit holes and looked ahead to Nagasaki.

Pizza in the Wind Under a Shrouded Moon

The rain's been falling, falling down on me. Today blue skies fill my window, finally. Rainy season doesn't start till June. Typhoon season's after that.

Had pizza with Will and company again. New girls this time. A torrent of Nihongo, and I'm trying to keep up, trying everyday. Friendly people, each one of them. They frequent Roots, like me. So we went to Roots. Pounded the electronic drums for a spell then chatted over a pineapple juice. Yums.

Invited me out the next night. Where? I wasn't sure. Of course I accepted. Back to the cars, a thin rain drifted around us, collected on our clothes, and we said goodbye.

Next night, met up at Lawson's and got the scoop: a pizza-making party in the inaka. The inaka borders everything, squatted along the fringes, beyond neon signs and traffic signals, like a silent, immense beast, watching and waiting. Scary how quickly we fell into that darkness. The headlights barely lit our way.

A house on a hill, standing above the black fields, an orange lamp illuminating the yard, and us, the first guests, greeted the owner. I was the only new face here. He has a six-year old daughter who knows reggae front and back and pranced the grounds to the various beats blasting from the vintage boom box, turntable set propped on recycle bins nearby. A disheveled place, really. Overgrown foliage and waste scattered about. Mud on my shoes. In the back, a table with ingredients. Sauce and pork and cheese and mushrooms. I sipped my Chu-Hi. And dough. Rows and rows of pizza dough like small, featureless heads.

The wind was fierce. Legions of clouds blotted out the sky but no rain. The oven was warm: a homemade stack of clay bricks and stones, fire roaring underneath, bare slab glowing and ready. The owner prepped the first batch and deftly placed it in the oven. He turned and rotated it. We stared, dazzled. It came out scorching and delicious. Will removed his jacket, stripped down to a t-shirt and danced, he danced all night, and I wrapped my arms around me against the cold, two jackets for comfort.

More guests arrived. A man named Hatto. Easy to remember because he always wears a hat. And the girls. Entranced by the music, they twirled in the muddy yard. Will among them. I moved along the edges like a ghost, repeating myself in Japanese to anyone who would listen. “I live in Sumoto. I’m from America.” Etc. I bored myself. One girl walked away while I was talking to her. Laugh or cry? Laugh or cry?

Then the Nurse. She comes in and out of my life, sometimes enchanting, sometimes infuriating. Always empty, like something from a dream. She ignored me. Later she stood next to me and brushed against my arm. For a moment the clouds broke apart and a full moon peeked through the open curtain and splashed the ground in a pale hue, and the wind skimmed the leaves somewhere out in the dark, and Rastafarian music echoed into that black valley below where gods and men alike have no recourse.

Yoo-Hoo, Kyushu: Part II

I’d like to thank everyone who’s sent me mail – postal mail, I mean. I swear I’ll mail you back, just as soon as I get over my fear of post offices.

Monday 3/30

In the morning, Chad crammed articles of clothing into his oversized backpack while I stared at the waterfall through his window. The sunlight revealed piles of trash strewn across the hillside and the gaping lead pipe where water passed before descending. Spring pools sparkled below. We’d meant to leave by 8:30, but Chad was running late. Around 9:30 we cleaned the car. Chad dropped a Corona bottle and it smashed on the concrete. Fumes rose and the entire garage smelt like Mexico’s finest. Then we were off.

The northern part of Tokushima, where Chad lives, is mountainous and open. Most of Japan is mountainous, a far cry from the crowded streets and stacked buildings of Tokyo and Osaka. We drove along the river road and merged onto the kosokudoro, Japan’s expensive highway system. When entering, an automated voice squawks something at you and you take a ticket. For most of the trip, Chad wanted to know what the voice said. Much later, another friend guessed the voice said, “Bend over and take it,” which would be appropriate considering the prices.

I suggested we pick up hitchhikers, to which Chad made a reference to There’s Something About Mary. Last year Ryan and Mike had hitchhiked around Kyushu, and Ryan described it as the best thing he’s done in his entire life. On one occasion, a convoy of J-Reggae vans gave them a lift. On another occasion, a woman went 50 miles out of her way to drop them off in the neighboring city.

During the planning stages of this epic journey, I’d proposed we hitchhike, but Chad was against it. His complaint was that it would be inconvenient, that we couldn’t get to where we wanted to go in time. He may have been scared as well, since in our native country only the craziest people participate in hitchhiking. Next time I go to Kyushu, though, it will be to hitchhike; it is much safer in Japan than in America, and very doable.

We traveled at an average speed of 120 km/hr; the suggested speed on the kosokudoro is 80 km/hr, but no one abides by that. Tree-covered mountains loomed around us and fat, gray clouds dangled overhead, portentous and uninviting. While traveling with a guy, you learn a lot about him. For instance, I learned that Chad knows 317 kanji characters. I learned this because he kept telling me, and because he read every kanji he saw. Sometimes when I told him I didn’t know a kanji, he would respond with, “You don’t know THAT?” He also did this with Japanese vocabulary. Near the end of our trip, I began saying, “No, Chad, I don’t fucking know that.” Apart from the kanji, I can’t remember what else I learned about him.

On the road, Chad admitted to being a little absent-minded. That’s all well and good, but when he thought he lost the highway ticket, he nearly gave me a heart attack. It wasn’t because he lost it; it was the way he reacted. He kept moaning loudly and frantically swiping his hand along the floorboard. His mannerisms reminded me of the nervous over-dramatics of my father. I tried to calm him by saying the ticket was around here somewhere. It didn’t work. Then he found the ticket.

From Shikoku, we took a series of bridges over a line of islands into Honshu; this was the highlight of the drive, island-hopping from one secluded spit of land to another. We passed Hiroshima on our way to Yamaguchi and then Kyushu. The large bridge that connects Honshu and Kyushu overlooks Shimonoseki, the city my friend Nao calls home. I’ve lost contact with him, but maybe he was down in that hodgepodge of factories and houses as we zoomed on our way. I saw the wharf where, over two years ago, I had gazed at this bridge. Two years, just like that.

Six hours after leaving Tokushima, we arrived in Fukuoka, the largest city in Kyushu. And believe it or not, I don’t have much to say about the place. It was a city, smaller than Osaka and ten-times more boring – albeit, we were there on Monday and Tuesday. Nothing stands out in my memory; I made no significant discoveries about Japan or myself.

The first night we stayed in a traditional Japanese inn, a posh little place that would’ve been romantic if I had been there with a beautiful woman and not Chad. The same can be said for our room in Kumamoto two nights later. The rooms were tatami and the wooden floors in the hallways creaked under every step. Outside the window there was a lush garden, overflowing greenery and dark, earthy apparitions in the rocky ground.

Chad was exhausted from a day of driving, but we went out anyway, to Tenjin, a spot Chad’s friend had told him about. The city was dead. We entered a pub called Bee Bar and were overcharged for one drink and three games of darts. It was just the two of us. Around midnight we caught the subway; Chad practiced his karate kicks on the walls, and I asked him to stop. We boarded the wrong subway and had to switch trains, but missed the last departure and ended up hailing a cab.

Back at the inn, Chad had me take a picture of his karate battle wounds to send to a girl in Tokushima. I guess she liked it.


Tuesday 4/1

Chad asked the inn clerk for directions to the hostel we would be staying in that night. The clerk, a friendly old man, did his best with simple Japanese and limited English. Each time the man said a word in English, Chad would repeat it in Japanese. This annoyed me. Perhaps Chad was simply confirming the man’s meaning. I saw it differently. I saw it as Chad trying to prove that he knew Japanese. Either way, it was unnecessary.

Fukuoka in daylight wasn’t much more interesting. Again, nothing stands out in my memory. Open a door onto any city and this is what you’ll see: ant citizens scuttling over crosswalks, and sidewalks, and walkways, spastic cars, tall buildings, and a constant, invisible buzz that vibrates under the streets like a giant, phantom power cord, filling the city with energy and madness. It was all very lackluster.

The hostel wouldn’t admit us until after 3, so we had time to kill. First things were first, breakfast. Chad wanted an American breakfast, bacon, eggs, toast, etc. Bit of a tall order. Every restaurant I pointed out was shot dead until we settled on a café that served bagels with ham and eggs.

Afterward, we returned to Tenjin. Also dull. There was plenty of shopping, but nothing entertaining. Chad was troubled by what he described as “His worst acne breakout in his life.” He had a few pimples adorning his forehead. He should’ve seen me in my pre-Accutane days. He sought a powerful remedy. I would’ve mentioned Accutane, but he probably wouldn’t like the side effects: back pain, hearing problems, depression, rectal bleeding, and more. The previous days, Chad had been concerned about the acne and constantly asked if it looked bad. Apparently my nonchalant responses didn’t satisfy because he kept asking. Finally, in the Bee Bar, I said it was pretty bad for no other reason than to see if that was the answer he wanted. He slumped into melancholy, and I considered it a job well done. In Tenjin, he bought a hat. It was a fine hat. I found a delightful t-shirt that read: “Save the Environment: We Need Something To Do.” I couldn’t have said it better.

Behind the department store was a spacious park with fountains and knolls. Several young people and attractive women occupied log benches. As we entered, Chad was discussing a friend of ours who owned a dojo in America and enjoys taking candid pictures in various parts of Japan. In these pictures he is firing a high roundhouse kick into the air. Chad had a desire to copy that. He said, speaking of our friend, “He’s a martial artist.” And after an awkward pause, he added, “Like me.” I turned around and laughed. Chad’s passion impresses me. He’s been doing karate for a few months now, and I hope he keeps it up. My passion is writing, and I don’t talk about it nearly as much as Chad talks about karate. I just figure people don’t want to hear the same thing over and over and over again, especially if they don’t give a shit about the topic.

While leaving, we heard the pounding of taiko drums somewhere within the mall. We doubled back to discover an exciting taiko performance underway, free and mesmerizing. The beat thundered through me. The choreography was flawless. The crowd bobbed their heads, eyes locked on the performers. I never get tired of taiko. In America malls they have beauty pageants and Santa Claus. Here they have taiko.

Upon our return to the hostel, Chad met an Irish girl who was traveling Japan. She invited us to karaoke later that night.

Now, for the duration of the trip, Chad talked about his friend, Jake, and Jake’s uncanny ability to sleep with many, many Japanese girls even though he speaks no Japanese. At the hostel, Chad showed me a picture of Jake on the Internet, and I said, “I can see why.” He has a suave surfer look born of some idea that is America and probably sends most girls wild. In addition, from what I’ve heard, he has a carefree attitude. Chad asked what I meant by my response. I said Jake was a good-looking guy. And Chad quickly retorted by saying he was just as attractive. He nearly imploded when I disagreed. Even after I clarified by saying Jake was more handsome than either of us, Chad wouldn’t let it go. There’s a thin line between confidence and delusion.

Dinner was delicious Mexican. Jake raved about a place downtown, and it was pretty good. The staff was kind and talkative and the food sizzled in my mouth, flavor exploding on my tongue. I spoke with a waitress named Ebi-chan. Her name means shrimp. She’s been married for nine months and sings in a jazz band. Too cool. Chad wanted to stay longer so he could talk to the female bartender. I convinced him to be a gentleman and buy another pricey beer.

That night we went to karaoke with a dozen gaijin. One girl was Chinese, studying in Nagasaki. We told her we’d be in that city by Friday. Chad and I both drank enough Chu-hi to drown a baby elephant and started hitting on the Chinese girl. I’m glad I was drunk; it must have looked pathetic.

I staggered out of my bedroom in the middle of the night and stepped into the hallway, my head swimming. Before me was the Irish girl. She immediately accosted me: “Did you pay?” I had left early from karaoke with Chad and the Chinese girl, but we’d all paid. I told her so. She explained that there was still $200 of unaccounted charges. “Oh,” I said and slid into the bathroom. I never saw her again.


Wednesday 4/2

Yodabashi Camera is a giant electronic store found in most major cities. Chad gets a kick out of saying, “Yodabashi,” in a stereotypically deep, mechanical Japanese accent every time he sees the store. Unfortunately, there was a Yodabashi Camera on the road we often used. I was treated to Chad’s Yodabashi about ten million times. I said, “You know, that’s just as funny as the first time I heard it.” It’s probably my fault for being too sarcastic. But Chad’s a good sport. In fact, just for fun, he kept saying it. Each and every time we passed the store.

We had breakfast at the same café and promptly fled Fukuoka. I’d procured a Latter-Day Saints publication from the hostel and skimmed the pages in horror as Chad drove the car south, toward Kumamoto. I was once criticized for making fun of Mormons because in my jokes I had gotten the religion wrong. I admit that I was mistaken and wish I had known more of the truth at that time. The truth, frankly, is much more absurd than my erroneous jokes. This magazine was produced for new recruits, and it mapped all the ways to abandoned your life and give everything, particularly your money, to the church. I tossed the magazine in the backseat and ridiculed religion in general. Chad, a born-again Christian, didn’t like that so much. Whenever I brought up religion, he tried to change the subject – apologetics were out the window. If it works for him, I’m happy, but I’ve known too many individuals who claim to be Christian and act quite differently when not in church. That always disappoints me.

Kyushu stretched on all sides, a vast ocean of floral valleys and rolling mountains where sakura bloomed in random spots like beautiful, pink lesions on the towering green mounds. Spring is the best season, if only for the cherry blossoms. But more on them later.

Chad forgot the map and reservation confirmation sheet for our hotel back in Tokushima. Panicked, he emailed his JTE and pulled over at an electronic store to use the display computers. That didn’t work. No worries, though. I found it on the road map. Our destination was Aso Farm Village, a resort in Farm Land. I know, I know, sounds lame, but it was nice.

http://japanican.com/hotels/ShisetsuDetail.aspx?st=8337551&ty=adventure

Kumamoto was gorgeous. It reminded me of Big Bear in places, then the trees fell away and there was an immense plain, dry and bleak like something you’d see in Arizona or New Mexico. All this was shadowed by one of Japanese biggest active volcanoes, Mount Aso, smoke pluming in the distance. Soon, my brothers, I’ll regale your senses with reports from Aso.

Check-in was a bit of a trick without the confirmation sheet. We were the only westerners staying in the resort that day, yet they still couldn’t find our reservations. Chad kept saying he made reservations; he looked a little worried. After awhile, everything was cleared up.

There was a strawberry store across the street that sold everything strawberry. Next to that was a mushroom store. This was all part of the farm. A young girl was working in the strawberry store. I tried to get her to come out with me, but she said no. At least, I think she said no. She didn’t speak English. Regardless, it was clear she didn’t want me talking to her, so I said farewell.

A high volume of Korean tourists stayed in the resort that night, and we had the pleasure of eating dinner in their presence. We were the only white people in the buffet restaurant, and we turned heads. Months and months of being a walking spectacle in Japan has hardened me against the constant bombardment of stares I get, but the Koreans were different. I can’t explain, but it bothered me. It might have been that they’re just as much gaijin here as Chad and me. The food was good, though.

The rooms were large pods. Chad described them as hobbit holes. The ceilings curved. The textures of the walls resembled adobe. They were very luxurious, the best place we stayed at the entire trip. I’ll discuss them more in the next post.

We called it a night and watched a bit of TV. The last thing we saw was an English education skit with geeky Americans trying to pick up a girl. It was corny and awful. It gave us both a good laugh.

A Pretty Damn Good Week

I went out every night this week. That's a bit unusual for me.

Monday I joined Will and Ryan on a trip to Junkudo (the second-hand electronics store) and Moss Burger, famous in Japan but a little disappointing. Later, Will and I went to Roots, where we chatted with all the fine people there, including Ryan's fling, who wouldn't stop grabbing me despite my pleas of "Yamette!"

Tuesday I hitched a ride down to Yura, the city south of Sumoto, and surveyed the shore a bit. The weather was turning, so we headed back early. At night, I shot pool with the guys and exchanged manly remarks. Oh, Ali was there, too.

Wednesday I had dinner with Will at the local pizza shop. Will's very attractive friends came along: Two local girls who don't speak much English. As always, Will, a.k.a. Mr. Charisma, stole the show. I practiced my Japanese and was even complimented by Will on my progress. Will, like most of my friends, is a very supportive teacher when he helps me with Japanese. During dinner, Will and I taught the girls the importance of the words "sucks" (as in, "that sucks"), "mate", and "dude" with demonstrations and all. Job well done. After pizza, we went to Roots. The bar was deserted. The four of us drank together and played bongo drums before parting ways.

Thursday I had a lesson with Kris. Then I rode over to the sports center near Seiun to play a little basketball with some community members. Many people were late, and the game lasted only 30 minutes, but it was good fun. The competition is solid; some of the players could almost keep up with Koji, Marcus, and Craig back home.

Friday is yet unwritten. Gabe just sent me an invite to Roots. I won't pass that up. Pretty soon I'll be a regular. There are no special benefits attached to this, but it sounds cool to say. Saturday, BBQ. Sunday, flower gazing. The possibilities are endless.

I had been feeling a bit down last Sunday. Thank God for my friends.

Chatting with the Teachers

For the past three days I've done almost nothing at work. Aside from attending three ceremonies, the only task I was charged with was carrying six boxes of books into the staff room. On top of that, I really don't feel like studying Japanese. When I open my books, I get a shock of vertigo, and then I realize that all this stuff I learned weeks ago is a mystery to me now. Tomorrow I begin teaching again, but in these doldrums times, it's been the teachers who pulled me through.

Nakayama Sensei chats with me regularly; that hasn't changed since the first day. And of course the English teachers are always there for me. But now teachers that I don’t know very well are speaking to me more. It's great. Clearly, we are beginning to warm up to each other. A very kind art teacher spoke with me for about thirty minutes. He knew some English vocabulary, but our talk was mainly in Japanese. I understood less than fifty percent and contributed almost nothing more sophisticated than "I like..." and "Is that so?" Before that, another teacher initiated a conversation with me. I had been sitting on the couch and staring out the window--probably looking a tad bored. She asked me if I’d seen sakura. Moreover, my new desk neighbor is always willing to speak. She wants to practice her English because she is preparing to be an English teacher. Today we taught each other tongue twisters from our respective languages. I can’t remember how the Japanese tongue twister went. I’ll ask again tomorrow.

Point being, the staff I’m surrounded by is really a superb group of people. More and more they are offering to meet me outside of school for dinner, drinking, karaoke, etc. I couldn’t be happier with the way things are going.

Yoo-Hoo, Kyushu: Part I

I'm young, drunk, and in love. And I went to Kyushu last week. Maybe after reading the next few blogs we can decide if those sentences belong together.

Kyushu, what a place. A wonderful land filled with adventure, nice weather, and friendly people. My trip was fantastic. But, in a lot of way, it also sucked. Let me tell you the story.

I will break this up into a few installments. How many? I haven't decided; it depends on what I feel are the best stopping points. And I have no pictures, so use that underdeveloped imagination of yours.

Sunday 3/30

The sky opened up and sheets of rain fell on Sumoto. If I believed in omens, I would've retreated to my apartment and hid under the kotatsu. Instead, I popped my umbrella and made for the bus stop. The Tokushima bus pulled around the corner: a shoddy city bus, not the luxury charter type I'm used to taking to Osaka and Kobe. My luggage was bulky, but I managed to cram it between the seats. I listened to Akeboshi on my iPod while staring out the window. It was 4 o'clock and dark already. And this was supposed to be spring.

An hour and a half later I emerged from the bus and found myself in Tokushima. I’d never been to the city before, but I’d heard good things. This day, though, would be a brief and unsatisfactory introduction as I blazed straight for the train station, rain tapping the thin fabric of my umbrella.

The debacle that is my attempt at travel in lesser-metropolitan areas is humorous and shameful. Rows of difficult kanji adorned the train schedule that glowed white above, shining down on us weary pilgrims like a disapproving deity. I studied the symbols. I might as well have been studying hieroglyphics. The blue line stretched left then divided. The red line sank and rose. Each hitting a dozen kanji stops. I knew the name of the city, so I told the train attendant. She handed me a sheet in English that helped to a degree, but left a lot to interpretation. Apparently there were two trains, the normal and the express. Chad, my soon-to-be travel partner, had advised me to take the express, and I paid the extra ten bucks before finding the platform, buying a bento, and boarding the train.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the financial resources to go wild on this trip, and I’d have to cut many corners, so when I realized that the express train was totally unnecessary because Chad, coming home from a karate tournament, would be two hours late in picking me up, I was a bit agitated. I’d followed his instructions to the letter and arrived exactly when planned. I soon sent an email to inform him that I’d made it to his town. And this was the email I received: “ooooh boy.” Already spent from a day of travel, this cryptic message didn’t sit well with me. My response: “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Chad promptly called and explained that he was leaving the tournament and would return within the hour. He said that he and his teammates would eat dinner on the way home, which, as I discovered later, they do after every tournament. Basically, Chad knew that he would be much later than the express train, but failed to mention that to me.

Wandering around the city at night, a light sprinkle hanging misty in the air, a chilled mountain breeze tumbling down the streets. There were the usual school uniform sightings, even though it was 8 o’clock on a Sunday night at the beginning of spring break. Sometimes it seems the kids never take those things off. Life-sized dolls were scattered throughout the city, propped against buildings and leaning on fountains. I couldn’t figure out why. At first I took them as human. Maybe locals enjoying a beer together and watching the traffic go by. It was easy to make that mistake. The dolls were full-dressed, faces hidden under large hats. When I neared I could see their pale-linen skin and awkward expression—crude face paintings, mouths contorted in strange O’s. They seemed welcoming in the dark.

I reached the town arcade. Its neon blaze pierced the night. Inside, a forty-something man was playing Dance Dance Revolution. He stomped and pirouetted, swooned and sidestepped. And he didn’t miss a beat. I emailed my friend to tell him how entertained I was by this show, and he responded as thus:

“That’s beautiful.

“On a bus heading to Sanno and thence to Tokyo.

“I have done nothing with my daylight hours. Nothing save read webcomics and masturbate furiously.

“It’s good to have the Internet again.”

Yes, sir. Much like Jesus’ Son’s Georgie, the Internet saves lives.

Around this time Chad sent an email saying he was stuck in traffic because a car had caught fire on the road. An hour later he met me in front of the arcade. His car, a white Toyota Corolla, looked like it had survived a destruction derby. In all fairness, it got the job done.

Chad buzzed about karate, as he would for most of the trip. His knuckles were swollen and he had bruises along his ribs. He displayed them like trophies. I said I’d leave the fighting up to him. He said he’d been impressed by the Japanese fighters’ ability to endure his hits, but was sure one of the guys would think twice before messing with a foreigner in the future, such was Chad’s impact. I was ready for bed.

Chad lives in a pleasant part of Shikoku. In fact, it’s where I had my rafting trip in August (see: Rafting Happy). It’s a little secluded, but amazingly peaceful. Outside his window is a sizeable waterfall that hums with a steady, calming rumble. Chad was a generous host, asking if there was anything I needed while describing his karate match again. Soon I hit the tatami, futon spread wide, and drifted off.

Bringing in the New

Another assembly. The new first-year students were introduced to the second- and third-year students. I forgot to mention that the beginning of the school term coincides with the brief, but beautiful, sakura season. The symbolism is clear, and those concepts of blossoming, renewed life, etc., are played up.

The introduction ceremony was very ritualistic, much like most ceremonies here. At first it was eerily quiet. Not a whisper in the entire gym, which was filled with students. Then the first-year students entered and marched between the returning students as we clapped and music played. They lined up near the front and bowed. We bowed. A group of third-year students rushed to the front and, in turn, spoke into the microphone words I couldn't understand. I did pick up that they were saying their names; therefore this was some introduction to the first-years. Each class of first-years stood and bowed. After that, they marched out, and one of the teachers gave a lengthy explanation on the appropriate socks to wear, taking some unacceptable pairs from students to show everyone what not to buy.

And where was I the whole time? Scrunched in a corner trying to figure out if I should do something. I ended up doing nothing, the safe bet. Whenever I help out, it seems I just get in the way.

Something I’ve just become aware of is that many teachers change grades with the students. Every English teacher, in fact, stayed with the same class of students as they graduated into a higher level. The third-year English teacher dropped down to first year. When classes begin, I’ll be teaching the same students with the same teachers. I totally disagree with this process. Sure it seems comfortable and maybe makes the transition into a new grade easier, but part of development is learning material in different ways. This is especially bad if the teacher is ineffective (I’m not saying that any of my teachers are – hehe). The students get stuck with a poor teacher who teaches a difficult subject in a bland way. It doesn’t make sense to me. In America every new school year brought new teachers: some improvements, some disasters, but everything new. At one point I hated history. Then I had a wonderful history teacher who sparked my interest in the subject. Had I been stuck with a bad history teacher, I’d probably still hate history. And had I been stuck with that bad teacher for two years in a row, well, I don’t think a great teacher could’ve changed my mind about history after that.

I’m not sure if this is common practice in Japan or even in my school; it’s just the way it turned out this year.

And This is How April Begins

I walked to school today. A young mother drove passed me on the opposite side of the street. She was smoking a cigarette while her toddler crawled around the dashboard. I thought, "Ha," and kept walking. This isn't unusual.

I was happy to be back at school. The kids greeted me and Nakayama Sensei filled me in on the wonderful things he did during spring vacation. There are eleven new faces in the staff room and a different seating arrangement. My desk is now across the aisle. I no longer sit side-by-side with Nakayama Sensei. Rather, I'm next to a young teacher named Mai who is outgoing and friendly and studied English at the university. She also knows Keisuke, the owner of Bar One.

First thing in the morning, we had an introduction assembly. The new staff gave a little spiel about themselves. Then it was homeroom teacher assigning. I didn't really know what was going on, but I guess there was some joke about who was being assigned where because the students kept laughing and clapping. Anyway, you need different shoes to walk into the gym and I don't have them, so I was standing there barefoot with my suit on. Hey, maybe they were laughing at me.

The past week I spent in Kyushu, and I have much to say about that, but it'll take time to write, so be patient and enjoy my little updates until I finally get around to finishing the blog post on Kyushu. With Chad I visited Fukuoka, Kumamoto, Nagasaki, and Sasebo. You'll hear all about that soon.