Disappointment @ Sea

A few weeks ago, in the torment of a nasty cold, I drove up the coast in search of fresh sea air to blow the siege of snot from between my ears. It was a beautiful autumn day, colours spread across the mountains that Japan is famous for, lit up with delicate rays of sunshine to their best advantage.
However I diverge from the true point of my story, to get sharply to the point; on the way back I saw mastheads in the distance, a multitude of masts and stays rolling with the faint swell. You cannot imagine my excitement. Before coming here one of my primary goals was to learn to sail in Japanese, a goal that has so far proved elusive, with only the temptation of empty leads to raise my blood pressure.
I drove in the general direction and came across a swanky building with maybe 50 or so vessels stationed on the hardstand in her lee, with another 20 or 30 or so tethered to the floating docks. A real yacht club, though somewhat deserted.
I ventured inside in search of someone, anyone, who might know how to plant me on a boat. I followed a sign that said information, helpfully in English, up the stairs to an empty vestibule. Looking around I spotted a lone woman working in an office and I proceeded to loiter with intent, finding the courage to approach her vanish. Presently she came out, looked at me questioningly and may have said something for all I can remember.
I stammeringly introduced myself, said I was from Australia, sailed in Melbourne, and was currently living here. Though I may be giving myself too much credit for how much information I actually imparted successfully. However, having made it through the necessary formalities, the next bit was the most important. That week I had been studying the –tai verb conjugation. There being no verb for ‘to want to do’ that I have yet discovered, my understanding is that one conjugates the verb to the –tai form and it infers a want to do that verb.
“Watashi wa sayringu o shitai.” I want to do sailing, I ventured. It worked. She understood. Then came the tricky bit. I got a full-length reply about something or other that was met by a blank face on my part. “Racingu o arimasuka.” Do you have racing, I tried next, and congratulated myself heartily for understanding something about how it being wintertime they weren’t racing now but would be again in spring. I offered my stock standard response that I was very sorry but only spoke a little Japanese but am studying very hard, or something like that, unfairly leaving it to her to make the next conversational play. At which point she did something very Japanese: excused herself and ran off to find somebody else who might be able to help!
She came back and took my phone number. I thought that would be the last of it and vowed to come back in the spring when there might be some racing going on. However, a couple of days later, I received a phone call from a man introducing himself as Minami San. We had an interesting conversation until I made my usual apology for my bad Japanese, at which point he confessed he could speak a little English, which made things so much easier. I was being invited to go sailing with him and some friends, two weeks hence, to an island to spend the night and then return the next day. More details than this I was unable to attain, however I effusively accepted and spent the next couple of days in a funk as to how I was going to get out of work.
Chucking a sickie would be the most obvious option, however, currently sick and having taken a couple of mornings off work, it would be less than plausible. Knowing the nature of my boss, being caught in a lie would be inexcusable. There was nothing for it but to pick my timing and rely on her generosity, hoping she understood how badly I needed to go sailing. I gambled well. Nettie helped me ring Minami San back, ascertained the time we would be leaving and what I would need, and told him I would be there. I would have time to teach my Saturday morning classes and could go to the boat to meet Minami San from there. She would deal with my afternoon classes.
Yippee! I was finally going sailing.
There are yachties and there are people who own boats. Until last weekend I never realised how great that gulf can be. I’ve been extremely lucky to have known some exceptional and experienced sailors. I’ve also met some interesting characters whose acquaintance has provided some challenges.
Put two yachties together and they will talk about nothing but sailing, boats, tactics, efficiency, engine repairs, sail repairs, hull repairs, equipment, destinations, the weather, marina costs and conditions. It constantly amazes me the variety of conversations possible connected with sailing. The only exception to this rule I’ve ever witnessed was during the Rugby World Cup. We were in Malaysia, a couple hundred sailors and ninety percent of the fleet was English or Australian. Naturally some strong rivalries came to the fore and sailing was forgotten for a couple of hours. Even I got into some heated barracking!I never pretend to know more than the first thing about sailing. However I know how to get a boat from point A to point B, when to keep my mouth shut and when it’s okay to ask questions. I’m also often the lightest and nimblest person on a yacht. This makes me useful. Weight distribution is important, especially when racing. I get sent forward in rough seas to unhitch the snag, up the mast, preferably not in rough seas, and pushed off the boat to clamber or leap onto a shaky landing pier to secure lines. I like this. It means that I get sent forward before Dave, the experienced foredecky, because he’s 40kgs heavier than me. A boat is the only place where it’s not offensive to get asked your weight.
I arrived at the marina shortly before the appointed time and did some more loitering with intent. Standing in front of the docks I hoped someone would spot the obvious gaigin with blonde hair and come racing over to introduce themselves. All I did was attract a few suspicious glances. Just after twelve I headed back up to the “information”, hoping someone would know who Minami San was. It turned out they did; he worked there, though wasn’t in today, and didn’t seem to be expected, but I didn’t know how to ask if he was coming though not working. I started to panic. However someone appeared who knew something of the affair and I was taken to meet a friend of Minami San who was to take me sailing.
All along, from first being invited, I was never sure how many people were going on this excursion. It sounded like a few, but this was all supposition. I was led down the dock to one of the more expensive yachts in the harbour. A beautiful cruising vessel, just over 40” long, built for a retired couple to sail around the world in, with minimum hardship. I was introduced to Mura San and the owner, who asked me to call him Shin San, though all his friends I later met, called him Naka San. One of the many puzzles I never worked out.
To board someone else’s boat, without being asked, is the height of rudeness. So I stood on the dock waiting for an invitation, whilst they looked at me like I was an idiot for not climbing aboard.My bag was heaved on board, which they remarked was very heavy. I had my wet weather gear inside and two complete changes of clothes. I’m used to sailing on Port Phillip Bay which gets rough, and in the wrong mood the ocean dumps buckets of Antarctic seawater down your neck every minute or so. I was expecting to be quizzed later about sailing in Australia so I didn’t offer an explanation at this point. My dictionary was in my bag, which I’d just been separated from.
We filled up with fuel and motored out the harbour. I was shown over the boat, given my own cabin and offered a beer. I was introduced to peanuts and asked if I’d eaten them before! I pulled out the fruit and Pringles I’d brought along as a contribution, but left the bottle stashed in my bag for a time more appropriate. Going sailing with people for the first time is always awkward, however things were looking up. However it seemed odd that beer was a greater priority than getting the sails hoisted. I’d already donned my sorely neglected sailing gloves, checked over the rigging, found the main halyard and thought it odd that though the cabin and woodwork were immaculate, the sails and sheets at first glance seemed old and tatty.
Over beer I was shown the chart, happily in English and Japanese. Where we had left, were going, our current position and where I lived were all pointed out to me with many accompanying “sooo desu ne”s on my part, agreeable interruption being a common facet of Japanese conversation. It would take 2.5 to 3 hours to reach our destination. That chart was to come out every five minutes or so for the rest of the voyage, GPS position taken and points precisely plotted. I looked longingly at the sails and the end of the peninsular we were sailing alongside that was sheltering us somewhat from the wind. We must be waiting to get out of the wind shadow before setting sail, I thought reflectively.
I was asked if I had had lunch. I hate trick questions like that. I had snacked beforehand, so I would be prepared to eat or not eat. Eventually it was ascertained that they had not eaten either and I was offered ramen, cup noodles. I happily accepted and my offers to help were rejected. So I sat on deck sipping the last of my beer and looking at the bare mast. I rejected the proffered fork and spoon, asked for o-hashi and was later complimented on my use of chopsticks. For some reason that always bugs me. Maybe because it happens every time I eat in public. I want to start complimenting Asians on their use of knives and forks. Its like being asked if I eat bread or rice. Japanese truly think Westerners live on sandwiches and hamburgers.
Small talk was had. Both men were over 60 and retired. Mura San spoke pretty good English and had little patience for letting me practice my Japanese. I found out that Shin San, the owner of this rather expensive boat, was previously, as Mura San phrased it, the head policeman in Kagawa Ken. A ken or prefecture in Japan is similar to a state in Australia or the US. A quiet demure man in his pristine Helly Hansen sailing clothes, he didn’t look capable of kicking in the necessary heads to get to a position like that.
I finally asked when we would hoist the sails. I was told the wind was blowing in the wrong direction; as we were sailing directly into the wind we would be motoring the whole way. My stomach contracted several sizes as the imaginary fist buried itself within. I felt like vomiting bitterness and didn’t know whether to laugh in derision or cry. That explained the ropes that were frayed where they had been continually flogging against the safety rails. That explained so much I didn’t want to know.
A few weeks earlier I had been overjoyed and puzzled at seeing two yachts out on the sea near my house. Neither yacht had its sails raised. I live at the mouth of Dokigawa, Doki River. It flows into the Seto Ohashi Inland Sea that separates Shikoku, Kyushu and Honshu, three of the four main islands of Japan. Guidebooks describe the Seto Ohashi as one of the most beautiful pieces of water in the world. Personally I’d rank it below the Andaman Sea and Halong Bay, but it leaves Sydney Harbour for dead. Right at the mouth of Dokigawa there is a small island. I go running out there along the water and dream of taking a small dhingy around the island. The Seto Ohashi is one big archipelago of such islands of differing sizes. Winds blow across her at about 5-10 knots with gusts up to 15. Once when it was really windy I saw white caps out there. Otherwise it’s as flat as my local swimming pool. The sort of conditions Savage would kick arse in. Savage was the boat I crewed on in Melbourne. Too light for heavy seas she was at her happiest with 7 knots of wind and a flat bay. We would cream the rest of the fleet on afternoons like those.
One cannot sail closer than 45 degrees into the wind. So one zig zags along turning 90 degrees across the wind slowly going in a round about way towards the wind. Yacht races are designed to make one sail into the wind to test skill. One doesn’t go sailing in order to arrive at a destination any more than long distance runners are concerned with the final locale. A destination is purely an excuse to do what you love.
Sailing conditions on the Seto Ohashi are close to perfect. So many days I have ridden over the bridge, looked out on this sea and yearned to be on a boat, feeling the play of the wind in the sails. Here I was, on that boat, but with no sails to play with. Because the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. I wanted to jump ship that very minute and swim to shore. We were still alongside the peninsular. It was less than a kilometre away. The sea was flat. I could make it!
We motored into a little fishing harbour on the isle of Shiraishi. A gorgeous place, Shin San and I took a walk around. There were few cars; tiny alleyways flanked by traditional houses and mountains on the west side stretching up to shelter the hamlet from the worst of the weather. Mandarins covered trees in front courtyards and we bought a bag for 100 yen. A tiny idyll. On the way back to the boat Shin San wondered if the other boat had arrived yet. Ahh another boat. This was the first of it. We were all to go out to dinner together at a minshuku on the beach at the next cove.
I had been dreading this moment. On the car all the way up to the boat I had been considering my vegetarian status. I have a policy when overseas of compromising my vegetarianism if it would be rude or culturally insensitive not to. This was one of those times. I still wanted to impress these men. They might have friends who liked sailing even if they were more into the image than the practice. We made our way to the restaurant and a lot of alcohol was brought out. They were sailors in that respect anyway! The meal was all fish. Weird bits of seafood and sashimi (raw fish) were brought out. I downed my first beer very quickly hoping to find some courage to eat in the bottom of the glass.
We ate and we drank and we laughed and they took photos of the gaigin to put in their club newsletter. The non-sailing almost didn’t matter. And then we went back to the boat and I crashed out in my private cabin. Unfortunately I woke some hours later to find my stomach fighting with the seafood I had forced inside it. I had forgotten how much effort it took to cleanse my body of the Mongolian mutton. I was very, very sick. The alcohol didn’t help much either.
The next morning I slept in, my body exhausted from throwing up quietly all night. I politely refused breakfast, wanting to rest my poor overworked stomach. We went for a walk that turned into a hike up the mountains and witnessed beautiful views. I was left pretty much to myself, which was fine by me. I was much happier soaking in the breeze and the sunshine than struggling with language.
On the return journey the wind was blowing in the ‘right’ direction and my paranoid self was wondering if I was being punished for not being able to hold my alcohol as they clearly saw it. Trying to explain otherwise would sound lame and in the light of day I had less need for these men’s approval. I retreated forward, pulled out my iPod and tried to enjoy the ride.
The other yacht raised a main sail and I excitedly glanced back to the cockpit to see if we would do likewise. Shin San merely pulled out his GPS and checked our position, though it was blatantly obvious in which direction we were going. As I wondered why the other yacht hadn’t raised a jib (the second front sail that funnels the wind into a high pressure system that pulls the main sail and the boat forward) they did so and I watched it flap about, badly trimmed, for ten minutes or so until they gave up and yanked it down.
Back in the pens at Neo Cho, the boys said “sayonara”, literally, didn’t help with my bags and I didn’t glance back as I walked to my car. The next day in the supermarket I had to walk through the extensive fish department and I nearly threw up all over again. I think my cravings for seafood have been well and truly cured. As for my cravings for sailing, they will have to wait until xmas when I’m coming home to see my mum and sister, my half share of a laser dhingy and a beautiful lake.

Ritsurin Koen

I went to Ritsurin Koen (Park) with my friend Keiko and her sons, both of whom I teach. Toru never stops moving whilst his older brother Takumi is much more serious. During the course of the day, Toru asked what my job was. Keiko and I both found that hilarious.

SUPER DODGEBALL

At the beginning of kindergarten and grade one classes, we always ask the kids a bunch of questions: what animal do you like? What food do you like? What sportusu do you like? – hamtaaro, peeza, dodge ball. I’m never sure about the last one. Does it really qualify as a sport? Will we see it in the Beijing Olympics?
But then one cold rainy weekend I’m trying to stomach the daikon soup – a Japanese style turnip – I’ve just made, flicking channels on my old TV, itself constantly flicking between green and colour, and there it is! Okay, Japanese TV is famous for its craziness, though all I ever seem to find are bad soap operas (okay, an obvious oxymoron), baseball, news I don’t understand, baseball and more soap operas.
But SUPER DODGEBALL could save my starved intellect. I’m guessing it’s not big yet as they are still explaining the rules at the beginning of the programme. They never do that with baseball, though in true I’ve never lasted more than 28 secs into a game of baseball. They don’t even have seagulls on the pitch.
Okay, SUPER DODGEBALL; two opposing teams, two balls, 5 starting players on each team. The aim, as far as I could see, is to beat the crap out of an opponent with a ball a touch smaller than a volleyball, which can be held in a large palm. After flinging all your weight behind this ball in the direction of said opponent, if you succeed in a direct hit, they are eliminated. Sayonara. However, if they manage to catch this hurtling piece of leather, they get an extra player brought onto their team. Double however, if you target your unlucky opponent in the head, you get an extra player. When all players are eliminated from one team, the other team wins. Obvious really!
Funniest home videos would pay a fortune for the slo-mo instant replay of this woman getting smacked in the side of the cheek. George Bush should fight wars this way and trade all his weapons stock for shares in CNN. Ratings would skyrocket if you had a bunch of guys out in the desert hurling leather balls at each other. It could be the new chess. Even I’d sign up if I got a free education in exchange for an afternoon of getting my brains pulped out. Cheaper than karate classes and more exciting than uranium coated bullets. And there’s always the chance of a late comeback. Maybe George would even think twice about going to war if there was a chance of a fair fight.
So start up a local club and petition your friendly local Olympic official to include the sport at Beijing. Definitely more entertaining than synchronised swimming.

Marron Cake

Spongy stuff, fully packed with softness, in a delicate baking flavour. Best suitable for a sigh of relief at your tea break. Wrapped in the soft rays of the sun . . .

Camping with Dom

We headed out of Tokushima the next morning, heading southwest, towards the Pacific and some of Japan’s famed surf beaches. We had three nights and four days left before I had to be back at work. Plenty of time to make a circular trip of Eastern Shikoku, and chill out at the same time. Unfortunately, road trips in Japan can be alarmingly deceptive. What with narrow windy roads and a speed limit of 50km/h, which is rarely achieved, travelling a couple of hundred kilometres can take a whole day.
Then there was the problem of where to sleep. I’d gone shopping a couple of days earlier after being paid and bought a tent, eski, camping stove, the works. We had everything necessary for a car camping trip. However we spent much of that day driving, which is what Dom and I had both agreed we didn’t want to do. It was getting late and cooking in daylight was preferable. However I’d picked up some English maps in Tokushima and there were a handful of camping spots clearly marked. We found the first one only because several other campers were already set up. It was, in effect, a gravel carpark, right next to the road. Not quite what I had in mind. I was imagining a soft cushion of grass next to the beach, going to sleep with the waves roaring in the distance, sheltered from the wind by an accommodating bush. This wouldn’t do at all. So we left in search of a back road, somewhere we could hide and enjoy a restful sleep and a leisurely breakfast in the morning. However nothing seemed okay. And we were considering some pretty odd camping spots by this time. Eventually we found another carpark camping spot, but at least this one was next to the water and the rocks and we could wake up and see the ocean. I objected because I was sure my dream was just around the next corner, so we struck a deal that we would drive for another ten minutes, and if nothing eventuated we would come back here. Guess where we ended up setting up!
I’d offered to make dinner and began preparations. However, I had a wee tad accident. I lit my brand new camping stove after screwing the gas bottle on as tight as I was able. However, when I tested it and tried to turn it off, I couldn’t make the flame reduce, let alone go out. The next thing I knew the flames were getting bigger and I threw the whole thing as far as I could away from the campsite. Unfortunately, in my panic I didn’t take very careful aim and I managed to set alight a small shrub on the side of the mountain. By this time I was freaking out and yelling wildly to Dom for help. He said it took him a while to register that it was me making all the kafuffle and came back to find me rather excitedly trying to extricate the stove with a long stick. One of us kicked it away, I don’t quite remember whom, but by this time the thing was burning ferociously and starting to make a scary whistling noise. We did the sensible thing next – and ran like hell.
Not a moment to soon for just as we reached a safe distance away the stove broke the sound barrier; by speed or volume, I’m not too sure, but the mountain visibly shuddered, unless that was me collapsing in relief.
We adjourned for beer and considered what to do about dinner. There was a restaurant across the road, but on inspection it was shut. However, the flipside of nearly setting the mountain on fire was that there was an awful lot of dry wood and we were camping on gravel, so I’d have to be really stupid to make another mistake. At this stage though, my record wasn’t too good. Dinner proceeded without further mishaps, and as all camped dinners are, was pronounced oishi (delicious in Japanese).
The next day we headed up into the mountains. Around lunchtime we found my perfect camping spot. A disused road that headed down to a small bridge that ended abruptly on the other side. A creek tumbled and gurgled along the river pebbles, and I finally got my quiet time in the mountains, sitting Sidharta like for a long time having conversations with the shallow rapids.
Japan is riddled with long tunnels stretching up to almost two kilometres. The longest one I’ve found was 1852m. On the way back to Kagawa Prefecture we came out of one of these and ran into a viewing platform overlooking a waterfall tumbling into a pristine swimming hole. We clambered down and dipped our feet into the deliciously icy water. The middle of summer I had been too hot for weeks and neither of us needed much encouragement to overcome bashfulness, strip off and plunge into the clear stillness. That was the last highlight of our trip. That night we ended up staying at a big campsite and eating dinner at a Korean restaurant. I had my first authentic bibimbop in a long time.

Awa Odori

The dancing fools
And the watching fools
Are foolish the same
So why not dance?

We headed to the train station and the local gaigin help centre in search of accommodation leads and information about what was actually going on. Accommodation was scarce and festival inflation had taken hold that weekend. However we found a place to stash stuff and take a nap before the evening’s revelling began.
Before heading out to the hotel, Dom and I loitered around the train station and central market place, the epicentre of the buzz in the air. Troupes of dancers were holding half hourly performances in front of a big department store, the sales assistants roping off the audience viewing space in hopes that people might still come and shop in the midst of this hullabaloo. Staking out a spot I noticed a lone artist, set up on the pavement below drawing caricatures of passers by with an army of permanent textas at his side, standing to attention, waiting to be called into action. A few funky Japanese were gathered around, waiting to be drawn, watching his drawing. I grabbed Dom and we headed down to get a closer look and eventually got drawn ourselves. Me with rosy pink cheeks and Dom with a little yellow bird in his nest of hair.
The dancing was of a precise nature, a slow exaggerated walk, knees pulled up high, feet splayed out at 90 degrees to each other. It must have been hell on the thigh muscles doing this for hours at a time. The hands and arms were moving in an almost Balinese style, thumb and forefinger pinched together with all the other fingers elegantly stretched outwards.
It was the clothing that caught my attention. There were a number of outfits on display but one of the most striking, and popular, was a woman’s costume that consisted of a yukatta, a summer style kimono, with Japanese style sandals, geta, that have a rectangular heel at both the front and back, so they resemble little bridges. I’ve been told that these were originally designed for climbing up mountains, enabling one to get a proper foothold. Tabi, white socks imitating mittens, with a separate toe for the big toe are worn inside. The headgear, for it cannot be truly called a hat, looked like a circular rattan mat that had been folded in half and tied under the chin with a ribbon. We watched for a while and then went off in search of the hotel for some kip before returning later, though we almost missed the festivities because my Japanese mistook the ending time for the starting time!
We headed out about 8:30 and wandered into a transformed city. The lanterns lining certain streets heralded the spots most populated with dancers, but all over the city troupes of dances weaved their way through the narrow streets. The dancing was accompanied by shamisen (three stringed guitars), taiko (drums) and fue (flutes). It seemed the musicians had a harder time of it than the dancers but everyone sported their most excitedly demure smiles and the air held an abundance of static energy. The done thing seemed to be to watch a procession of dancers for a while and then wander off in search of the next group, which wasn’t hard as the mingled chants could be heard blocks away.
The energy was infectious, all traces of sleepiness disappeared and I couldn’t keep still, at times jumping up and down on the spot as if I’d had jumping beans for dinner! Everyone wore smiles, everyone was super friendly, as if the Japanese are friendly anyway, and I half ran half jumped around with an idiotic grin spread around my head, attracting more smiles in return which just made the grin wider! Along the streets vendors sold drinks, snacks and tacky souvenirs by the armload. After I couldn’t stand still and watch any longer, we grabbed beers and headed off in search of the next procession. A festival spread over a city is a tricky thing. There’s that feeling of being in the middle of everything, but never quite centred. Narrower alleyways held more intimate displays of music and dance, wider streets threw energy around but provided little space to utilise it among the thronging crowds. Around 10 o’clock the formalites became less so and spectators joined in the dancing revelries. Gaigin were especially popular and we soon had offers left right and upside down to join various groups, eventually weaving from one to another. There was a feeling that it was going to end soon though, a desperate effort to cram in as much fun as possible in the time left pervaded the atmosphere. Vendors started packing up their wares and dancers sat down for the first time in three days and nursed sore feet.
At 11 o’ clock, police vans circled and politely asked everyone to go home. And everyone did. This is the most famous Awa Odori festival in the country, situated in the middle of one of Japans most important holiday weeks, and they shut it down just when it was starting to get interesting. This habit of the Japanese to have a precise starting and ending time for any social event will never stop blowing me away!
Dom and I headed in the direction of the nearest combini and grabbed some more beer to take to a park. We ended up wistfully gazing out onto the docks of the local marina, telling sea stories and planning to buy a boat in which to sail around the world. I believe plans were made in the meantime to rent a yacht out of Phuket next summer and go cruising around the Andamans for a week. If anyone’s interested, we’re looking for a couple of crew, no experienced required, just a strong interest in chilling out!

Roadtrip[pin‘

One of my best friends came over to visit from Korea, where he’s been living for several years. Dom fed and housed me for six weeks whilst I looked for work in Seoul, so I figured it was time to pay back some big favours.
Still living with my boss at that stage, it was a good excuse to leave Kagawa and make true the title for this blog. A trip to the local sports store provided camping equipment, the local information bureaus provided a vague assortment of maps, and after practicing my Japanese on everyone I knew, by asking them their favourite place in Shikoku, we headed east, first stop Tokushima City and the famous Awa Odori Festival.
Of course, the first stop is never as intended and a whole host of ‘combini’s provided sumptuous snacking, whilst back roads tempted limitless distraction. Stopping to admire the mountains and bamboo forests, one of the first things noticed was the near decadence of the scarecrows working diligently in the paddies. Lifelike figures push wheelbarrows, bend over crops and sometimes ride bicycles; an admirable feat in a rice paddy! Many wear scary Japanese masks and all are outfitted with attention to detail, yet another example of the Japanese preoccupation with perfection. No Worzel Gummidges here.
A windy road up a mountainside ended up at a Spirited Away style tunnel, which went nowhere. An incredibly creepy energy grew in the tunnel and Dom swears he saw something. We both got kinda spooked at about the same time and bailed rather quickly. It’s easy to see where Miyayashi gets his inspiration.
Another winding road led us to an abandoned house, perched on the edge of the mountain, commanding sumptuous views that would probably be snow-capped in winter. It was securely locked with all the belonging still inside, patiently waiting for the owners to return. Any other country and it would have been broken into and trashed long ago. Apparently there are many of these houses in Tokushima Prefecture, their owners long gone to the cities in search of profitable work. I’ve heard said houses may be bought for about 2 million yen if said owners can be tracked down. An interesting option for a mountain retreat. I’d only considered South East Asia before.
Hiking up the hillside, the territorial smell of macaques filled the nostrils. My cautionary fear of monkeys, engendered by vicious brutal Thai varieties, was quickly abandoned as we glimpsed arse after arse disappear into the bushes ahead of our arrival. I’m not sure about camping with packs of reasonably large monkeys around though. Maybe leave a pile of spiky chestnuts, of which they are especially fond, away from the campsite.
On arriving to Tokushima we encountered the maddest car park. A space where they load your car onto an elevator and stack it above a bunch of other cars. No driving involved. Just some crazy hydraulics. See picture below. Its like storage compartment for cars. Drive yours onto a lift and they take it away into the hemispheres above, and then file it in its own space. I was completely amazed. One spends so long in a country that you think nothing can truly surprise you any more and then you find a car park. Dom had to drag me away to the festival.

True Urban Myths

A gift of fruit really does cost the equivalent of $50 aussie.

Beach Karate

So much has happened since I last updated these pages. I was waiting for photos to develop before I wrote this one up. We went the beach one hot Sunday. Several kay’s up the coast. My karate dojo and connected dojos. I thought it was a general excuse for a social outing Japanese style, and it was, but it was also an exhibition.

I got a lift with Hiro, who was helping to set up and had to be there at eight. We left shortly after seven; far too early for a Sunday morning, especially when one has been out drinking until 4am the night previous. Being excused from the general set up I promptly found a soon to evaporate patch of shade next to the sea wall, threw myself onto the sand and tried to pass out.

My calm was chased away shortly by a chattering, excited family who set up their picnic table and sunshade right next to where I was trying to block out the piercing light of the sun. I groggily lifted my head and could see nothing but foldout picnic table legs arranged uniformly in rows under similarly congregated shade tents. A huge stretch of beach and apparently thousands of little karate kids and their parents squished into one small area.
A keg of beer was set up, help yourself style, and garbage bins full of ice, alcoholic and soft drinks stood adjacent. A machine making shaved ice was being operated by shifts of keen dads who liberally poured cordial and condensed milk over the cups of ice. Gross as it sounds it tasted really good. A curry was being constructed and rice washed at one end of the camp and the fire built upon which a Japanese style noodle stir fry would dish out hundred of plates of food later. So much for just grabbing a towel, swimmers, sunscreen and bottle of water to take to the beach.

Some of the kids were in their dogis and were playing in the water. This I found somewhat odd. Why would one come to the beach in your karate gear? And go in the water? This conundrum was soon answered when Irikura Sensei, now outfitted in his own dogi, came to get me to inform me it was time to train. I looked at him and laughed. Yeah right. At this stage the celsius was well over the 30 degree mark and steadily climbing. Normal training goes for three hours with regular rehydration breaks. Inside. At night. There is no way any half brained person would train in full summer sun in the middle of the day.

I was asked if I had a dogi, an odd question I thought, as they knew I as yet didn’t. But it seemed like a good excuse to blend into the crowds of parents similarly dressed in shorts and t-shirts. Only recently returned to the dojo after my stint on crutches, a weak ankle seemed like another good excuse to get out of training on sand.

Everyone lined up facing away from the water and proceeded to practice the range of punches, kicks and blocks whose Japanese names still elude me. It looked cool, the row of white clad black belts and wannabes seriously putting on this bizarre display. My nephew’s words of warning about the Japanese being truly weird came back to me, and for the first time I thought maybe he was right. Then everyone moved back several paces, and the older combatants were standing in water, showering everyone with their kicks. Again everyone moved back, completely seriously, up to knees in water it looked really difficult to kick properly. By the time everyone was up to their thighs, hand-to-hand combat was instigated by the Senseis safely instigated on dry land, megaphones in hand.

At this point I appreciated the Japanese talent for silliness. Sternness had been steadily washed away, and now anything went. As combatants switched partners it escalated into a full on water fight with teams being made and war being waged with younger lighter participants hoisted on the backs of their older comrades. I wanted to drop my camera and join the fray, but it was too late now. I hadn’t earnt the right, not today at least.

The rest of the day was spent eating, drinking, playing in the water and socialising. At a preset time everyone was thanked for coming and politely told it was now time to go home. So everyone did.

I learnt later that this is a traditional event that happens twice a year. Stay posted for the winter episode.

Whoa Hoah, Im an Alien

Im a legal alien im an Australian in Japan.

No shit, on the top of my alien card it actually says:

GOVERNMENT OF JAPAN CERTIFICATE OF ALIEN REGISTRATION

and I thought it was a cute nickname invented by some crazy gaigin.

So now Im entitled to open a bank account, move into a house and stir up trouble. Hee hee. Last weekend I was taken house shopping. Well I was shown two. Its difficult for me to get a house because most real estate agents demand key money. A tidy sum which amounts to about 3 months rent, never to be seen again. All the big schools pay it once and then move teachers in and out and write the cash off on tax. My boss isnt that big though, which meant finding a place that is happy with a security deposit. Now I have to come up with four months rent, but its rent in advance. I get it all back except for maybe a months worth, which I can live without. Finding such a place meant calling in favours from Japanese friends, so I didnt want to be a pain in the arse and too picky.

The place ive got is pretty cool. Its relatively cheap and really large for one person. Affectionately known as a 2DK it has a big kitchen/ dining room and two adjoining tatami rooms of good size. Tatami are the mats that older houses have and are the traditional way of measuring room size. The rooms also have traditional sliding paper screens. Pretty cool.

I have an antique bathroom and a small garden out the back. Its practically a mansion. It doesnt get much light, and is in the industrial part of town, which accounts for the age and ralative cheapness, but Im pretty stoked. The other place I was shown was 1500 yen cheaper and was all windows, light: good, hot in summer, cold in winter: bad. It was one tiny room attached to an equally tiny kitchen and made the grotty communist block apartments in Mongolia feel like the Ghobi.

So the upshot is I get to move in about 2 weeks when all the bureacracy has finished and I can afford a fridge. I have lots of room and expect lots of visitors.

P.S. My other exciting news is I bought a real bike. I had to order it in especially. A red goes faster Specialized mountain bike that all my Japanese friends are amazed by and my gaigin friends jealous of. Except my boss who cant understand why anyone would spend so much money on a bike. I tried to explain it cost much less than half of my bike back home and then she thought I was really crazy. I can only hope all the cyclists will understand.

Adventures in Tokushima

As the title would suggest, I made it out of Kagawa, into the next prefecture. Yesterday I was taken rafting, destination unknown, my favourite sort of adventure.

Before arriving, I did a lot of research on the net and in bookstores, on Japan and Shikoku especially. The number one place I wanted to explore was Oboke Gorge, which slices through the mountains in the centre of the island. Pictures I saw were beautiful and it was held up as the last unpolluted river in Japan. Sooo lush.

So guess where our rafting destination was. Not hard really. I was sooo excited, prepared to be happy with scenary and a tame boat ride down the river.

The weather here has been unrelentingly hot, sans breeze of any rustle. Ive become used to Australian (non) summers again, when you know that the heat will be followed by a few days of cooller weather or rain. Though we complain about the lack of hot days, I must say I rather like the variety, for appreciates everything more.

Where to start? I had the most fun Ive had in I cant remember how long. Like we are talking years here. After waiting around for an inordinately un-Japanese amount of time we were fitted out with helmets and life jackets, wetsuits for those who wanted them. However the guides said the river was pretty warm and I was quite happy to be refreshingly cold for a day. It hasnt rained in weeks, drought seems to be following me, so the river was low. Tae, Netties 5yr old son was thus allowed to come, making him the youngest person to raft the river. Go Tae, the man!

We headed down to the river and ran through basic safety procedures, shown how to float and roll, how to hold the paddle so you dont knock your neighbour for six, and then got to board the boats. If the rapid is not too fast the guide yells "hold on", a big one and we are instructed "get down" doing just that, crouching in the bottom of the boat, holding on. When the river is faster you might have to "go to the right" or "go to the left" to keep the balance in the raft and avoid flipping.

It was so cool. Descriptions defy me. After negotiating a rapid we all clashed our paddles together and yelled in unison. Water fights with other rafts were encouraged and we jumped off the boat and went swimming between rapids. Admired the view. Floated down the river. Chilled out. Probably annoyed everyone with my constant and unimaginative gushings about how beautiful it all was!!

Teru san, our guide, spends summers in Tokushima and summers in NZ. Rafting constantly. This explained his perfect english and radiantly spunky smile. What a life. We tied up to a big rock and climbed up to the top, a feat in mountaineering itself, especially with a recovering ankle. Thank God for frequent swimming and freshly acquired upper body strength. The rock was 5 metres high and we were encouraged to jump off. Teru san demonstrated with a perfectly formed back flip. I stood at the edge and looked down. Five metres seemed an awfully long way down from up there. How deep is it? I asked. He said no one had ever touched the bottom. My next worry was belly flopping or landing wrong. Itae! (ouch). Scary thoughts were careering through my head and I realised I could be the last one up there. Frozen. Dont think, I told my self, 1, 2, 3: I let out a yell and leapt. A split second of "oh shit" looping through my head and then I hit water.

The most refreshing water to swim in ever. Pools are nice, the sea is great, but I dont really like the sticky after. Rivers and dams have to be the nicest swimming. Last time I swam it was New Year and freezing cold. I think Ill be going back up to Oboke a lot while it stays hot.

I couldnt find a waterproof camera before I went, so just got a disposable. The photo guy this morning wasnt positive about how well they would turn out when I explained in scratchy japanese why it was all wet. But its just film and plastic, so Im hopeful. Stay tuned for wicked pix.

Some time later, here they are. Check out pix link to ur left for more.

Free advertising: http://happyraft.com/ja/

MADE WITH 100% VIRGIN PULP

The Japanese revere nature as being beautiful. However, since humans are a part of nature, anything produced by humans is also beautiful. This includes the rusty car I drive and the lego land house I live in. A twisted upside down romanticism.

I nearly got irate with the checkout chick this morning. I wander into the local supermarket to purchase some juice and a slab of watermelon for my breakfast. As always I refuse the proffered carrier bag. She then tries to put my glad wrapped watermelon into one of those bags you get in the fruit and veggie section. No, I kindly but firmly thank her. Then she starts getting all insistent about how I need a plastic bag to keep my watermelon separate from my juice. Or something along those lines. My Japanese is still based largely on gestures, smiles, and when absolutely necessary, frowns. I finally escape sans bags into the scorching 10am sun.
Back home I’m enjoying my cold and juicy breakfast, laughing at Japanese foibles; I reach for a tissue and notice the side of the pack.

180 2PLY TISSUES ELLLEAIR “WHITE” MADE WITH 100% VIRGIN PULP

Huh! My brain is confused. That’s an odd way to refer to recycling. I’m trying to figure out how that relates to post-consumer recycling and whether the Japanese have such a concept. Virgin – hang on, that’s original forest. Original Pulp! They surely can’t be advertising that they’ve chopped down beautiful virgin forest for you to wipe your snotty nose on.
Bastards.

Boxes to go

They have a car here called The Cube. No kidding. In fact most of the cars look like the angular boxes with wheels most of us drew in kindergarten. Personally I’m still there! Maybe they’ve finally conceded that streamlined cars designed for speed is a redundant concept here. The speed limit is often 30km. Even on the big roads it’s only 50km. But strangely it feels fast. Maybe because the car I’m driving is so small. The streets are so narrow you have to drive slowly as there’s often not enough room for two cars to pass. It’s a messy drop into the concrete lined rice paddy next to the road should you swerve too far. It amazes me I’m yet to see a car deroaded.

The new trend seems to be retro cars. They’re pretty cool. Someone took the redesign of the bug and the cooper a step further and came up with a pseudo historic feel. Cars with a flavour of the forties or fifties designed in. Maybe it’s the front grill or a sweep of a line on the body. Neo-retro, post-old-fashioned, call it what you will, they’re a lot more interesting to look at than the boxes here, or the bubbles back home.

Strike a pose - theres nothing to it - vogue

It’s the little things that I find weird. The way time is organised. Vending machines, symbols of modern Japan; those dispensing cash (ATMS) close at 5pm, as do those dispensing cigarettes. But you can buy beer (or soft drinks) 24-7. There’s one a couple minutes from my house. It’s great on stupidly hot nights. Unfortunately, they tend to foam a lot if you open them immediately preceding drop. But who wants to wait when it’s this hot!

Supermarkets don’t open until 10am. That one really spooked me the other day in need of breakfast before school. Neither does the gym. It doesn’t close until midnight though. People go to classes on Friday, Saturday night. Late. That’s their night out.

I’ve been swimming most days. I think I’m the youngest person that swims regularly. All the twenty – thirty somethings seem more into the aerobic and weight machines. Lots of my students tell me that their favourite sport is swimming but I think they have pools at their schools.

The Japanese that do swim are really good at it. I wonder what they must think of my persistant sploshing up and down the pool. The preoccupation here appears to be with style, not speed or stamina, as it is back home. Women glide up and down the pool, hands meeting at the end of perfectly straight arms in front of them. They pay acute attention to the precise curvature of an arm, the tilt of a head - but all so slowly. It’s a wonder they don’t sink.
Most people go to the pool to walk though. It’s bizarre. It’s like John Cleese has John Malkoviched himself into the bodies of little old ladies, and some not so old or so little. Great long strides with arms at the side doing impressions of demented power walkers. I saw this women the other day, she had forgotten to take off her makeup, hat and sunglasses (we’re talking indoor pool here) and was recreating a 60s fashion show as she transformed the pool into her own personal catwalk ::: I’m too sexy for my swimsuit. Post swimming chilling out I was gob smacked. Then I had to hide underwater trying to contain the eruption of laughter that was smoking in my brain. Lips pursed, posture perfect, sense of humour choked to death, she didn’t look like she would have appreciated my not so kind-hearted observation!

Cicadas forming the soundtrack to my life.

Its like being on some tropical movie show.

There is no daylight saving here, so it gets light about 4:30 in the morning. At which point the birds wake, closely followed by the cicadas, and then me. It finally being cool enoughto sleep, I relish not sweating profusely for a couple of hours, curl over and snuggle into my sheet.

Yesterday was a public holiday. The Day of the Sea. I didnt know this but was told by some sailors who I was trying to suck up to in broken tongues of many varieties. I wanted to go to the beach,which meant catching a train and a ferry. Caught the wrong train which was exciting because I ended upon the big bridge to the mainland, considering being freaked out about being busted by an uptight ticket inspector,but being too stoked about the view to really care.

I got toTakamatsu and stood overlooking the Inland Sea on one of the clearest days Ive expereienced. It was soo beautiful. And then, low and behold, I spot dhingies heading into a har\bour a km away. Wahoo! Have been looking, unsucessfully, for a boat since I got here. I weave my way around the back streets and finally find a few guys sitting around in a carpark come foreshore.

"Hello. Excuse me very much. My name is Kirstie" i bravely state as they look curiously at me.
"Im an Osutoralian person".
"I like sayringu."
"I like sayringu very very much."

Ive run out of things to say and start looking around for an embarrassed escape exit. Someone decides to brave their high school English, smiles and says hello back. I breath a sigh of relief. After another few minutes of awkwardness another guy ventures " You want to join sayringu club."

"Ahh, so, so, soo desu ne"

Then the English teacher comes out to help and they tell me this is day of the sea, the race is a special occassion, and its difficult for me to join a club. But we swap sailing stories and one guy tells me his friend owns a yacht and a dhingy. Oops. Ive forgotten my phone number, so I give him my email address and pray to the gods of the sea he willcontact me.

I never made it to the beach, but the beach will wait. I think many more hot days lie ahead. Hopefully I will get my wish to learn to sail inJapanese. Sugoi desu ne.

Boing boing boing ... oops!

That promise to come back in a couple of days . . . unfortunately life has slowed down somewhat.

Going up and down is especially difficult. Im not sure if my anke let me down, or if I let my ankle down, but I got to see the inside of a Japanese hospital last week. Nothing serious, just boinging around on crutches again after spraining my ankle after karate. Not even during karate, how lame is that? Ive been telling all my kids this really scary big guy was chasing me and I fell over, which is somewhere near the truth but we were joking around so it doesnt really count. Ive been boinging around the classroom and they all think its hilarious, which i guess it is!

I am scoring lots of sympathy though, and my neighbour brought around a six pack of Haagen Daaz aisu kuriimo, which is almost worth having a football instead of an ankle! I wanted to get some crutches, but had to see a doctor first, which was kinda expensive not having med insurance organised yet. The doctor who livesa couple of doors down came over and had a look and said if i went to the hospital the next day hed sort me out. We did x-rays and apparently ive broken the cartilage, which i didnt know was possible, but hey! Then he put a five minute cast on my leg, and so it would be cooler, sawed half the cast off.

Truly! Attacked my leg with this scary circular saw and cut away the front part of the cast, meanwhile asking me in very broken English if I trusted him. I went white and sweated a coupleof litres as he was doing it. It got really hot, and i could feel the heat near my skin, freaking out about what would happen to my leg if he went too deep. Then, when he had scared the pants off me he said it was vibration only and touched it with his hand. B#$%&@d!

So with the front bit cut away, I can take it on and off, which is pretty cool. The down side is that it stays on by wrapping a bandage all around it. I was sooo excited about having my first cast ever, and getting heaps of people to sign it in Japanese, but it doesnt really work.

Other than that, its been raining lots. Raining wolves and tigers in fact. We had the most amazing storm last friday. Ive seen monsoon rain before but I figure we must have caught the edge of a tyfoo. So much water. All the rice that was planted a couple of weeks ago has shot up over the past couple of days and everything is pretty beautiful and lush now. The temperature thankfully dropped a few degrees too which is nice.

I havent been doing much else really. I went to karaoke on Sunday with all the karate guys and drank my first warm sake in Japan. Thats the third time ive been to karaoke since i got here, and im getting into it, which is bizarre, since i was way too embarrassed in Korea. Everyone here is soo friendly it blows me away. Im more content than i have been in a while. Ive been studying a fair bit too and my Japanese is coming along. Word for the week is suberashi which means excellent, or some such.

Yup, life is cruisy, Marugame so far . . .

Definitely landed on my feet.

I'm living in the City of Marugame, Shikoku, which is more like a big town. It's got everything you could want but is surrounded by rice paddies, some dotted around the houses too. At the moment its planting season and legions of old women can be seen bent over in the nasty looking run off water which comprises the paddies, surrounded by slimy algae with lots of CO2 mixed in for good effect. They wash the rice here thoroughly! I'm so looking forward to the luminecent lushness of a couple of months to come. Young rice, so pretty.

Marugame means Circle Turtle. An odd name to be sure. I can guess that it refers to the circle of tu\rtles that surrounds the castle, but it would only be a guess. Yes, you read right. I'm living one minute away from a castle. One of twelve remaining Edo style castles in Japan, or something like that. The castle itself is a replica, and only the size of a small house, but the walls climb a hill that imposes itself over the whole town. Last week I climbed to the top and took some photos of the surrounding area. To be posted soon, just getting them put on CD. The Castle is also surrounded by a real live moat, teeming with real live turtles, swans, carp, cranes, ducks and these funny little bobbing diving birds that I've never seen before, maybe because of their timidity. The grounds around the castle boast a couple of amazing gates, a dodgy zoo and some beautiful park land and trees. Perfect for running around in the mornings before it gets too hot and mushiatsui.

Mushiatsui is my word of the week. Sensei taught it to me and it means humid. The perfect example of onomatopaia. Atsui means hot in Japanese, so you have mushy hotness: humidity. I love it! I've finally embarked on my dream of learning a martial art. I wanted to learn Shorinji Kempo, which has its international headquarters in the next town, Tadotsu, and is all zen and spiritual and idealistic. But Tyler, the teacher I'm replacing, took me along to his Karate class to check out and I'm loving it. Three hours, twice a week of full contact sweat and pain. Its hardcore, very focused and the guys there are really nice. More so than sailing, when in class I'm totally focussed and nothing else matters.

Tyler took me for a drive up the coast last week and its absolutely beautiful. Old style villages, dramatic mountains, its so . . . Japanese. That sounds kinda dumb I realise, but after my time in Korea I'm suprised at how "authentic" things look. There are rice paddies, vending machines and the houses l;ook old style, have proper Japanese style gardens with trees poodle polished into strange shapes that look like a caligraphy painting!

When Tyler goes in a couple of weeks I get his car, so I can get to class on Saturdays. That will be awesome though I'll miss him a lot. Camping stuff is really cheap here, as are some clothes. $50 for a pair of Carhartt shorts, but over $200 for a pair of Levis. Go figure, not that most people reading this would care anyway! But, I'm gonna get me some camping gear and go check out this island in my copious free time.

Right now I'm off for a swim. Nettie, my boss, paid for the first couple of months of a gym membership for me. They have nice equipment, but most importantly, a really nice pool that almost always empty. I've been doing laps almost everyday and then soaking in the attached Onsen, japanese style bath.

Some days it's better to stay in bed . . .

Unfortunately, when those days coincide with an international flight, trouble is bound to strike. But maybe it was for the best after all!!

So I've spent a couple of days hanging out in Bangkok, picked up some stuff I wanted for my computer, eaten yummy spring rolls and black sticky rice at May Kaidees vego restaurant, freaked out a little bit about how schmick Koh San Road has become; everything paved, new, even a new Starbucks aggrhhh. I wandered down to the flower market, one of my favourite places, and then over to Wat Po, my very favourite place, to chill out and get the best massage ever. When the guy tells me to turn over I realise to my embarrassment that I'm drooling over the pillow. Oops!

So all this is good until it comes time to leave on Sunday. I run out of the hotel quickly before leaving to pick up a copy of Kid A (I've lost mine) and some special Thai toothpaste. VCan't get either. No biggie.

I get a taxi to the airport and everything is fine until he doesn't have any change and sends me off to wander around with my Four Bags to find some. No one is helpful and I'm not in the mood for this. For the first time I find myself getting short with people. Time for a reality check and decent swig of Emergency Essence. This is Thailand. At check in I can't get a window seat. I'm two and a half hours early and despite all pleas and protest the woman won't be moved. Damn Japanese package tourists must have checked in at first daylight or something. An interesting lesson methinks for Japan, me who always wings it at the last minute but is rarely late.

At the other end, I have 50 minutes to get out of the airport and onto a train to stay at a friend of my bosses that night. So I'm kinda stressed, not really wanting to be stuck in Osaka with too much stuff! At quarantine I get drilled about where I'm staying. At immigration, when I finally get there: 2 people for 200 foreigners, it gets worse. I accidentally wrote 3 months on my card, but only have a 35 day ticket. I also wrote teacher as occupation but am coming in on a tourist visa. Alarm bells start ringing (metaphorically) and I wonder if it would be worse if I had written my usual "international espionage" on my arrival card.

I get taken off to the immigration holding cell, the little white room where they leave you to sweat whilst working out what to do with you. By now I'm in panicky tears realising that missing the last train isn't the worst option. What if I get deported?

Finally, I get released after a big lecture and promises not to work illegally. Phew!

The courier place to send my bags has closed. I can't get change for the equivalent of a $100 note I have in yen and need to ring my boss. Eventually someone helps me spend a lot of money getting an expensive hotel next to the airport.

I ring Nettie, my boss, and discover she's been trying to get hold of me for the last week; apparently if I'd caught that train I would have been really screwed. Kathy, her friend, has gone back to Australia because her grandmother passed away.

It can only get better, I think, as I drink my first Asahi in Japan and settle into a hot bath.

ETA 10th June 2005

Right now I'm running round maniacally, trying to get my stuff stored, figuring out what I can't get over there, yada yada.

Come back later and I promise it'll be more interesting.