TravelStream™ news feed for member ryota on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/ryota en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 26 Dec 2008 17:49:07 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1228968780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1228968780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1228968780/tpod.html Fri, 26 Dec 2008 17:49:07 -0500 Ryo in Kiwiland

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Christchurch, South Island, New Zealand

One of my roles involves preparation and running Orientation Week for new students. Four days of talk by myself, teachers, campus support staff and external guests. The week long event has a few tours of the library, campus, and Christchurch city.

Prior to preparing for the Orientation Week I was told that thirty new students were coming. On the first day five turned up. At the end of Day 2 the manager of the English language unit, for whom I was organising the Orientation, instructed me to "radically revise" the sessions. Two weeks of hard preparation vanished in a flash. Then the manager disappeared.

Should I care?

How do I reconcile my boredom and the need to justify the Orientation? The manager once said to me if we are taking a week's tuition fee for the Orientation Week we will have to do something - whatever it may be. The University of Canterbury's campus is ugly. Replete with angular, grey, concrete and Stasi-inspired buildings. I needed to get out before the surroundings got me down again.

Neighbourhood tour. This was my Thomas Edison moment.

How well do I know the area? Quite well. Back in 2000 I was training to become a secondary school teacher at a teachers' college adjacent to the University of Canterbury and lived in a sharehouse nearby. Eight years later the same landmarks still shape the scenery. Situated at an intersection of major Christchurch roads surrounding a church, the intersection is widely known as Church Corner. Several buses stop there and student accommodation make the location conducive for business. During these intervening years the Bush Inn Shopping Centre got expanded and cleaned up. Countdown supermarket still opens long enough for hungry students. Church Corner shopping centre is a weird time warp zone full of Chinese-run shops and Internet cafes, small independents ranging from a second-hand bookshop, chemist, and bakery. And of course, a fish-and-chips takeaway.

On day 3 only two students turned up. One from Saudi Arabia and the other from Mainland China. The Saudi guy is quite cheerful and eager to practise his English. The Chinese guy is quiet but responds well to me.

On the way out to Church Corner the Saudi guy, Khalid (not his real name) pointed at lawn. He asked me what it was. I said 'grass'. He looked as if he had never seen it before. I repeated and took out a small book and a pen. He wanted to know how to spell it. I said "G-R-A-S-S". He wrote down the letters carefully. For the first second I thought he was joking. But he just did not know it. By way of application, then, I pointed at something else and called out 'Flowers!' within a few minutes, his notebook had four new words "Grass, flower, tree, leaf". The Chinese guy, Hong, and me pointed at the objects and got him to call out what they were. He was not faking his ignorance.

The very first shop I took them was Salvation Army charity shop or op shop shortened from opportunity shop in the antipodean lingo. As soon as I opened the door the distinctive smell of op shop wafted out - that clean-but-old clothes smell. The shoppers looked nonchalant. Elderly ladies running the shop looked equally unassuming. I explained the concept of op shop and showed the prices. Khalid could hardly conceal his amazement that decent looking clothes went for $2 a piece.

Across the road we went into Countdown supermarket. This was my local grocer back then. I tried to show them discount bins where one can find past-date food and damaged packaged goods. However, recent refurbishment meant I could not locate where the bin was. Khalid then asked me where we could find an electric razor. I said I did not know because I don't use electronic razor. But I pointed that he could use manual razor and shaving foam. "No, no, I want electric". Khalid said firmly. Perhaps he has never shaved with a handheld razor.

Giving up on the electric razor, Khalid then asked for shampoo. He told me that he had not washed his hair for a while. I took the students to the appropriate aisle and looked around. Choosing shampoo for me was a simple and straightforward affair. Having short hair I don't really buy them often. When I do I just look at the cheapest option. However, for Khalid it was a matter of life and death.

He muttered a brand-name "Bri..." something. This was a brand that he used in Saudi. So far as I understood, the motel in which he was staying did not have this brand. He did not wash his hair because of that. He wanted me to ask shop assistants for it. I could not be a slave to Khalid, and told him that he should get some English.
"No, no, no - you ask" Khalid grovelled and begged.
"No - you ask. It's your hair, your shampoo" I responded.
After a few turns, I drilled a sentence in his head
"Where can I find shampoo? Bri..."

Hong and I escorted Khalid to a shop assistant. Khalid rose to the challenge of repeating the sentence. A few seconds of nervous gaze later the penny dropped. The shopkeeper took us to the shampoo aisle. Khalid then muttered his favourite brand name. I intervened and asked the assistant whether the supermarket stocked the product. It did not look like it. I showed and compared different shampoos and told him to get the cheapest. Hong's look approved of my suggestion. We also showed Khalid that the one I suggested was discounted heavily from the normal price so that it was not cheap.
"No, no, I want the best" - he declared his princely intention. I found it futile to carry on and persuading him to shop in a way to help him stretch his budget further.

At the check out he was about to get his wallet out of his cargo trouser pocket. He looked troubled - it was a zip pocket, and the zip got stuck.
"You'll have to come back again tomorrow," I suggested.
"No, I want it now!" Khalid looked desperate to have his hair washed.
"Open, open, open" he was pulling the zip. Hong and I looked on. Nothing happened. I repeated "Tomorrow". I felt like a mum promising to buy sweets to a nagging five-year-old kid. The difference was that Khalid was around 19 and he was not my kid. There was little incentive for me to modify his behaviour.

"Do you really want the shampoo now?" I placed emphases on 'really' and 'now'.
"Yes" Khalid responded. I stood for a second and said
"OK, we'll open the zip".
I grabbed the tag of the zip and Hong held onto Khalid's trouser to create tension between the zip and the fabric. The scene was set for three men standing near a checkout counter pulling a zip.
Snap! The tag came off. A moment of silence later came uproaring laughter from all three of us.
"Tomorrow" I said.
"No, now" Khalid said.
I decided that the next option was to borrow a pair of pliers from the service counter and somehow force it open. For Khalid, the $7 shampoo and having his hair washed was more urgent than ruining and mending the zip on his trousers.
I approached the service counter, explained the problem and asked for pliers. A big lady at the counter looked excited at the problem and said, "Yep, I have a few kids and can do this". She tried to open the zip using pliers. But this was not working.
"I will have to use scissors and may have to cut the pocket open. Do you really want to do this?" the lady asked Khalid.
Khalid nodded sheepishly.

The lady stuck the pointy end of scissors into a little hole between an end of the zip and the trousers, and jiggled the scissors around a little. The zip loosened. Then we were away. Khalid looked visibly enlivened with a big smile on his face. He took his wallet out and shelled out the dough for the shampoo. Boy, he was happy. On the way back to campus he eagerly showed off his botanical knowledge. He turned up next morning, looking revitalised and happy. I asked him if he had washed his hair and how he liked the Australian-made shampoo (NZ has to import a lot of things from Australia). His answer indicated he would e would start his business importing Australian shampoos when he finishes his studies.



]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1204627200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1204627200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/4/1204627200/tpod.html Fri, 09 May 2008 06:11:27 -0400 Ryo in Kiwiland

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Whangarei, North Island, New Zealand

A red-eye flight from Narita, Tokyo to Auckland was a torrid affair. Getting to Narita from home was a long-drawn nightmare. Transferred to another plane at Seoul. Then an overnighter to Auckland. Felt like it took me ages.

Rainy in Auckland. The locals appear to be joyful because NZ was going through a drought. From Auckland I caught a bus to Whangarei. At Whangarei I met up with Mike, with whom I taught Japanese in Pietermartizburg, South Africa, nearly ten years ago. Landed to a decent meal. he took me to a local buffet place. My eyes were fixated on the most precious and high priced items in Japan - vegetables. The sight of celery, beans and salads were just enough to get my heart rate racing and mouth watering.

Mike took me around to Bay of Islands. The scenery was fine, but the weather was not co-operating. We stopped at Kawakawa, a place noted for colourful tile works.

Whangarei is a town of about 50000 people. But its streets are full of churches. Some solid buildings, some prefab-ish churches. Locals despair "tagging" - marking and graffiti on walls and public buildings. Locals say that this was a grave concern and complain about the lack of discipline, employment and meaningful raison d'etre amongst the Maori. This is one area where the National Radio - the voice of the reason in NZ - receives weak reception.

When I arrived in Whangarei and whilst I was waiting for Mike to come and pick me up, I saw a couple who carried seasoned suitcases. Their faces looked weatherbeaten. The man's polo shirt said "Air Zimbabwe". Upon striking a small conversation the couple had fled Robert Mugabe. The man could not conceal his amazement when he commented on the breakfast he had eaten at his hotel in Auckland in the morning.
"I saw so many things that I could not see back in Zimbabwe", he said.
"Like what?" I asked,
"Eggs, cheese, bacon, bread...." he went on.
On my way out from Whangarei to Auckland I saw the couple again - this time in distance. Wandering around, windowshopping. We are both beginning to make NZ our new homes.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1198134360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1198134360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1198134360/tpod.html Fri, 21 Dec 2007 01:07:19 -0500 Ryo in re-education camp

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Nagaoka, Niigata, Japan

On Wednesday night I got back home. At the door was a mound of bags.
Upstairs I heard footsteps, soft clasping of thick socks and wooden floor, was definitely my mum's.
"What happened?" I asked.
She walked downstairs and announced that her father, my grandfather, Ushizo, had passed away earlier the same day, aged 82. She did not look distraught by the death. But she looked stressed. "I am oh so unbelievably busy. Got to sort out clothing, gifts, money gifts, leave to be taken from work, and so on, so on, so on!" She spoke in a rare staccato rhythm.
"Where is your tie and suits for funeral?" She nagged me into action. I could not quite sink in what had happened. I wanted to ask her the details about the death and the funeral.
"I am expecting a phone call from my sister and brother. They will let me know when the wake and the funeral are going to be held. I won't know anything until I hear from them". I was tired from my outing, and was not in any mood to do anything other than hitting the sack straightaway. So the news and the packing were the last things I wanted.
"Just look for that tie!" she nagged, again, sounding frustrated.
An hour later the phone rang. The wake would be held on Friday night, and funeral on Saturday. Dad decided we leave for Niigata early on Friday. On Thursday I went to work as usual, notified my colleagues of my grand dad's passing, and requested a few days' off. &a mp;a mp;a mp;a mp;n bsp;
At 5 am we left Yokohama for my mum's family house in Niigata where grandfather had lived with the family of mum's brother, Uncle Shigeharu. I was relieved that we survived five hours of dad's reckless driving. It could have been a funeral for extra four people.
The funeral was rare in one aspect because it was to be a home funeral, not held in a hired venue. Outside the house, wreaths had been unloaded from a lorry. Candles were set up. Undertakers were putting stickers with names of relatives on the wreaths and candles - basically these stickers acknowledged contributions from guests. Inside the house, at the back of the living room were tables, piles of zabuton (square sitting mats) and an altar covered in white cloths. On the altar were flowers, ornaments and a photograph of grandfather. To the right of the altar was grandfather. He was in futon. A duvet covered most of his body. Aunt Yumiko, my mum's sister, was sitting besides him and greeted us. After some chitchat about the journey and the weather, she asked me if this was the first time I saw a dead body. Nodding to her question, she suggested I touch him. Dad sat besides me, saying the body would really be cold. And it was. Now I really learnt what the expression `stone cold dead` really meant.
Time was ticking along. Things had to be done before shedding tears or feeling lyrical about death. In the living room I saw a timetable of the whole proceeding. It indicated that the funeral would last one night and one full day. Aunt Yumiko and Uncle Shigeharu asked us to get the house ready for the funeral. One does not need much nous to know Grandfather's passing was sudden. We were asked to clear cabinets out the living room to make space for the wake and the funeral. Inside the cabinet were cups, dishes and cutlery in varying degrees of wear and tear, and some had accumulated dust and some looked frequently used. Inside were packets of unopened tea leave packets. All those items spoke volumes that he had really used them.
By the time we moved the furniture, it was lunchtime. Aunts and my mum were busy preparing lunch. It was nice to see my mum getting quite animated. One sign was her speech slipping back into the central Niigata dialect. We ate and got back to our duties. All the while, granddad was left lying in his futon.

Intermission (now time to get your popcorn and drinks)
If you wish to get detailed descriptions and explanations of funerals in Japan, look up in Wikipedia or hire a fantastic DVD, "Ososhiki" (The Funeral) directed by Juzo ITAMI (surname in capitals). So I will not bore you with full-blown details or pretend to know deep religious significance of funeral proceedings. Rather I can only write wie es eigentlich gewesen (how it really was). Well for me, anyway.
The following sections contain descriptions of a funeral and a dead body. Some readers might find the descriptions disturbing. Discretion is advised.

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Among all the rules of funerals, I learnt two crucial rules immediately. One, the dead had to be accompanied at all times, day and night, by a member of the surviving family. Two, candles next to the dead had to remain alight throughout the funeral. Aunt Yumiko told me that the first scripture reading would begin at five. It was already 2 pm. Dad in the car, sleeping off. Yuusuke, my brother, disappeared somewhere, probably - cooped himself in a room, checking text messages and reading comics. Mum applying make-up incessantly. Aunt Yumiko asked me to look after grandfather. This sounded a fine duty. A steady flow of guests and more relatives arrived. Guests handed out an envelope to a man sitting at a table. He was busy taking register of guests and how much donation and gift he was receiving when there was no one he was busy making seating plans for lunch next day. I sat next to my cold bereft grandfather - thinking back of moments that I shared with him.
Aunt Yumiko gave me the rundown of the events. "At five, the wake starts. Monks come along and read scriptures. We are lucky. Because monks of this family's Buddhist sect don't spend much time on reading scriptures. Also it is a pretty frugal sect, really. Whereas ours, the one that I married into, is quite ornate. At one funeral we had four monks come with cymbals and small drums and all. What was more, we had to pay those monks per head. Ah, so much money! But we only have two coming. So we pay less." Aunt Yumiko explained, looking both pleased about this funeral, but her face expressed worry about her own and her husband's.
I spent close to three hours sitting next to grandfather whilst everyone else was doing their own things elsewhere in the house. Two of us were left alone in the room. Time stopped. Almost. Candles and incense sticks were the only reminders of the passing time.
Close to five o'clock, guests, relatives and my cousins were arriving in a steady flow. Before the first scripture reading session, we were to move granddad from the futon into a casket. Upon the instructions by the funeral director, uncle Shigeharu, his wife aunt Tomoko, dad, aunt Yumiko, mum, a few cousins gathered around grandfather. The funeral director issued each of us with cotton pads. He then circulated a jar of medical alcohol. He indicated to us that we dabbed the cotton pads in the alcohol and wiped off his face, neck, hands and feet. Each of us dipped the pads and wiped him clean. We began the cleaning in awkward silence. Soon we got the hang of it. Aunty Yumiko was smiling at grandfather saying "Hey, we are cleaning you now. Lucky you. You're going to the other world now". Her words broke the silence and broke the ice. The atmosphere became less austere. We put socks on and covers over his hands. This made him ready for his journey to the other world. We lifted him up and placed him into the casket. The undertaker encouraged us to put items that were precious for him. The idea was to keep him happy for his journey and stay in the other world. Inside we placed a few copies of haiku magazines, pens and paper went inside. He was fond of making haiku poetry. We also put certificates of his haiku awards. Five boxes of cigarettes went in. Before putting the lid on the undertaker put some dry ice to keep him cold throughout the evening.
Guests and family sat on zabuton mats and waited for monks to come. Two monks came. Upon seeing them, Dad looked more attentive and focused. He whispered to me and revealed his sneaking suspicion "The young one looks exactly like the old man. The old man might have been a teacher. He might have been my social studies teacher at junior high school". Before the reading began, the older monk gave a short speech, reporting on what he had learnt of grandfather. When someone dies, she or he gets a new name. The monk named gave him Kenmyo, clever and enlightened. Indeed, grandfather worked on his land diligently, never complaining. He was gentle in his manner. He was never greedy. He never badmouthed anyone. In the last ten years or so, he acquired the taste for haiku. He became rather good at it in his local community. Some of haiku poetry featured in a nation-wide magazine. I believe that the choice of the name was appropriate.
The reading began. The language and the meaning of the reading were unintelligible. It was a steady flow of chanting - the old monk had a deeper voice than the young one. The unison sounded well rehearsed. Whilst the reading was in progress, a tray circulated among us. On the tray was container. It was filled with ashes. On the top was a black cube of incense that looked like a piece of chocolate. We picked up a pinch of ashes and sprinkled the ashes over the incense. We then put our palms together and made the praying gesture. Before any of this happened, we placed obligatory Y100 coins each. I do not know its significance or why it was Y100, though. One could actually tell where the incense tray without really seeing it. Because there was bound to be someone opening their wallet looking for the Y100 coin or making the praying gestures. Just when the chanting became hypnotic and began to induce me to sleep, the reading came to an end. Then the MC, grandfather's cousin, moved the evening to dinner. Zabuton were collected and stashed away. Swiftly tables were set up inside the room to form a large rectangular. Food was brought out. Inside the square people went around pouring sake and beer, chatting with guests and relatives.
During the evening I was eager to speak with my relatives and to learn about my grandfather's life stories, because there was so little I knew of his life and so much I wanted to know. The story of the Katagiris has it that my grandfather married out of his own family into my grandmum's. The Katagiri family fell from grace. The family was a petty land-owner and leased out rice paddies to tenant farmers and peasants. They had gained a modest amount of fortune. Like many "good" nationalistic Japanese they were encouraged to invest in national bond to support the war efforts. This came to nothing in August 1945. Following the Allied Occupation and its land reform, they lost nearly all of their land. Emasculated and impoverished, the Katagiris could not yet get used to the new reality. My grandmother, according to my mother, was a bit of a princess and knew no housework or had no feminine grace. In other words, she was not to be a sought-after woman. Grandfather was a quiet man and doing his own work on rice fields. He knew his place in the family and did not meddle in the family affair that grandmum reigned supreme.
However, I soon found myself gasping for fresh air for the entire evening. My curiosity had to take a backseat. Six out of the eight cousins who attended the funeral smoke. My mind was focused on survival. For the rest of us, the atmosphere was informal, carefree and almost too jovial.
The MC stood up and stopped the throng. He told us that grandfather was fond of his grandchildren and he wanted each of us to make a short speech. Totally unprepared for this, we did our best and made short speeches. Each of us went up to the altar and made a spontaneous speech. Afterwards we hit the gong with a wooden stick and made the praying gesture. Caught unawares, none of us made an elaborate eulogy. Perhaps his death was too sudden for us to sink into our psyche. I only stated that I thanked him for being a fantastic grandfather and I wanted to cherish the moments that we had shared. I have no idea, but after my speech the atmosphere sank like a lump of led hurled into water. To rescue my "dinner stopper" speech, Uncle Yukiharu uttered "Terrific!" The MC thanked me for my speech, but then suggested that there was little to gain from mourning hours on end. He would never come back alive. As the speeches were over, the wake resumed and continued into wee hours.

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The second day was a full-day affair. Dad, my brother and I had slept the night at my dad's family house, about 2 km away from my mum's family house. During breakfast we heard an ambulance go past by. "Another one dying", Dad jested. Indeed, the town of Oguni is one of many Japanese villages with declining and ageing population. My grandma and I went along to a local supermarket across the road. She wanted to buy a special envelop to wrap up donation for funerals. There is special envelop for happy occasions such as wedding. I saw a shopper buying a packet of funeral envelops. My brief inspection of the shelf confirmed this shop stocked more funeral envelops than the wedding ones.
We went back my mum's family house. At 10 am the same two monks began another scripture reading. Yes, the incense on a tray went around. The reading was punctuated by the occasional clicking of the Y100 coins and the tray. After the reading the MC stood up and came to the front. He read out telegraphs that had been sent to the family. The telegraphs were mere formalities. Several telegraphs later one could not help noticing that there were set phrases spewing out of some computer programme. The messages basically wished grandfather well in his afterlife. What was worth noting about the telegraphs, though, was not really the message or the medium (Here goes my Marshall McLuhen moment!). I had an opportunity to look at the telegraphs. These did not come on pieces of paper. The messages were printed on a card, the type that you can unfold to open and to read the messages. Some cards were ornate - featuring embroidery. There was a telegraph from the CEO of a transport company for which Uncle Shigeharu worked. There was also another telegraph from a well-known female MP whose father was once the Prime Minister of Japan in the 1970s. (His name and the dynasty are still revered like gods in this rural Niigata constituency, perhaps because the man helped to develop his own constituency. This could have been readily described as porkbarrelling in the US). Her name was listed as 'the counsellor' of the CEO of uncle Shigeharu's bus company. Both telegraph messages were printed on cheap-looking thin grey cards. Was this the best they could send to Uncle Shigeharu after nearly 40 years of loyal service to the company?
The funeral director told us to bring out the casket. He told us that there needed to be six men. We put the casket into a vehicle bound for the local crematorium. Neighbours had come out to see off the casket. Uncle Shige made a short speech before leaving for the crematorium. "Thanks for taking time and trouble to see off our father. He would have been pleased to see you all. We owe your help and support for his happy life. From now on, he is about to depart to another world."
Uncle Shigeharu continued,
"We are still young and verdant, we are not as worldly as you are. So we would appreciate your future support". This was little more than saying hi and thank you to the neighbours. But looking at the crowd of about fifty people, no one looked under the age of 75. Uncle Shigeharu is nearly 60. That he had described him and his wife as "young and verdant" was a poignant reminder of Oguni's population decline.
We went into buses to the crematorium. Aunt Yumiko and mum seemed pleased with the timing of cremation. In cities or on busy days one would not have the liberty to select the timing of cremation. The timing can alter the schedule of events significantly. They were pleased that it would take place around mid-day. Arriving at the crematorium we unloaded the casket. Inside the crematorium two men in khaki attire and white hats came out. They explained that it would take a few hours for the entire cremation. The monks came too to bid him farewell. The casket was put on a wheeled cart. Then the door of the incinerator opened. The men in khaki outfit checked a few things and pressed a green button.
"It is all taken care of". One khaki jacket man said. His tone flat, face deadpan. We then turned round and got back into buses. We arrived at a local inn for lunch.
The lunch was the same affair as the wake. It was a lavish meal. Lots of food so much of it that we were issued with plastic containers to take leftovers. And yes, alcohol was flowing like the Niagara Falls. To crown it all, we received big manjyu as take-home gifts (buns with sweet azuki bean paste). Dad was impressed with nozawana pickles. When guests began to leave, he told me to pass on leftover pickles to him, saying "What a waste to discard such brilliant nozawana!" Whilst he was cramming a plastic container, a voice over his head said, "Ah, you love it so much, ha ha ha!", the MC beamed at him. Dad looked like an eleven-year old boy caught for peeping girls' change room or something. Both just laughed off, even more loudly.

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After the lunch we were back to the crematorium. Dad told me that only the closest members of the family would attend this part of the funeral, so that the in-laws were barred from it. Dad was waiting inside the bus. But besides me were aunty Yumiko and her husband. I was wondering whether he wanted to lie down after drinking so much or to nurse his scarred pride.
The two men in lab coats greeted us. They had wheeled out the bones for us to view. They explained that we were to move the pieces of bones into an urn. This is a special occasion in which one can flaunt the rules of chopstick use. When passing food from one person to another, one has to put the food into a dish or a bowl, and then the other person picks it up. One cannot hold the food with the chopsticks and then let the other take it with the chopsticks. This is the taboo, because this manner is only permitted for handling bones after cremation. I was quietly growing excited about this occasion.
One of the crematorium men volunteered some information about grandfather.
"Well, he might have been man of slight build. But his bones were pretty tough", he said poking the bones with chopsticks. These men must have seen so many corpses and bones in their lifetime. I discreetly asked one of the men'
"Can you tell if the body burnt well?"
"Oh, yes, this one burnt well indeed. Sometimes bodies don't well. This one was very good". I was not sure how to read his expression. It was matter-of-fact and deadpan. It was a very special occasion for us, but for him it was another job done. I picked up a piece of a bone to take out with me. Although I did so as discreetly as I could, it did not escape my mum's sharp eyes.
"What have you just done?"
"Dad wants it", I said.
"Whatever for?" mums was looking confused.
"Ask him!" was all I could say.
A cousin of mine carried the wooden urn out of the crematorium. His role, I think, was the most appropriate, remembering how much grandfather had adored him. I passed my loot to my dad. We returned to the house. We rested for a short while. Then the monks arrived. A little later another scripture reading began. This was supposed to occur seven days after the cremation. But these days, as the monks explained, many prefer to get this done following the cremation.
After this final reading, my dad's old social studies teacher, the older monk, began to talk.
"As you heard before in those telegraphs sent to you, there is the phrase 'we wish the deceased well in the outer world'. But in our sect, this is not really appropriate. When you decease you merely go into the world of Buddha. It is an honour to join Buddha. So that we are in no position to wish the deceased well. Instead, it is the deceased who should be wishing us well to live well in the world in which we live in. Mr Katagiri did his bit in this world. Now it is yours to live." This was quite a radical statement, to my mind, because it interpreted the conventional notion of 'wishing the dead well' from a different angle. Looking around, however, I seemed to be the only one actively listening to his speech. Everyone else seemed too tired, too drunk or both!
But this was not the end. There was going to be another dinner. The MC walked into the living room. He was instantly excited at a gift placed next to the altar, a bottle of sake.
"This is crème de la crème. My uncle loved his sake. We most definitely have to drink it in HIS honour tonight!" He snatched the bottle and walked away as fast as he could, without concealing mischievous delight on his face. I recall that granddad liked sake, but I am not so sure if he was an aficionado. But who is to attest his statement? It was a party, anything went.
According to the plan, grandchildren would stay at home to keep an eye on the candles and keep granddad's spirit in company. Then the others, his children, guests and cousins, would go back to the same inn where they had eaten lunch for dinner. Uncle Shigeharu had ordered sushi and noodles for us grandchildren; we had no choice but to obey. A question arose where my cousin, Miho, should be. She married a few years ago. Her marriage made her an "outsider" because she married into another family. But she still is a grandchild, but because of her marriage to another family, she accompanied the guests, that is, her husband and her father-in-law, to the inn. I would have thought that it would be nicer if she joined the grandchildren (as she was the only female one present) and her husband accompanied. The meal that we had at the house was all guys affair. Again, I was the non-drinker and non-smoker, gasping for fresh air. My limbs were freezing. Perhaps I needed a sip of sake to warm myself up.

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The most extraordinary thing I found in the funeral was that no body cried or even sobbed at any part of the funeral. Perhaps my relatives and the guests took a clinical approach to death. Perhaps his death was too sudden for us to feel. Anotehr striking aspect of the funeral was that the monks made frequent references to two major instances of earthquake in central Niigata, the first one in October 2004 and the second one recently in July 2007. Living in an ageing dying town, afflicted with damages and deaths caused by earthquake, death for the locals is a reality that they have to get on with.
After the funeral, the mess unfolds like scramble for inheritance. A few weeks after the funeral my mum reported on inheritance.
"Zero", she said. "He left nothing for us."
"How do you mean? He did not have any savings. We were expecting he would have something, but nothing at all. There was an insurance policy that he had had. Upon death Uncle Shige and his family would be receiving two million yen. But the insurance would not pay you out if you die past the age of eighty!" she looked exasperated.
"That is a rip-off. It must have been a small-print issue that no one really read carefully", I offered.
"You know something worse? You know, grandma is still alive. She keeps saying to us 'in my insurance policy, you will get some cash when I die. Not two million, it is three million. She is 83, and we will not get a single yen from the insurance policy. We are not too sure whether we should tell her."
One is born with nothing and dies with nothing, people say. I was wondering if one could draw a parallel between this insurance debacle and the Katagiri family's unrewarded wartime investment. Whether he left no asset was intentional, we do not know. One is born with nothing and dies with nothing, people say. I felt like toasting in his honour.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1197526500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1197526500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1197526500/tpod.html Thu, 20 Dec 2007 03:57:47 -0500 Ryo in re-education camp

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Yokohama, Japan

Overseas travel has been so `sexed up` these days. What is the point in spending your hard-earned income on airfare to sip coffee in the mod-con comfort of Starbucks in Tibet? A good trip into a different world is pretty feasible if you venture to meet up eccentrics in your neighbourhood.
I normally run between home and from the local train station when I commute. One Thursday evening I had arrived home as usual at 6.20 pm, and felt that I still had some steam left to go for an extra mile. Unloaded my bag. Back I went onto the riverbank. Just about two hundred metres on the paved and pitch-dark riverbank, I saw a man ahead of me. "Good evening", I greeted him.
"Good evening", he reciprocated. The moonlight revealed his face.
My heart jumped. For as long as I care to remember, back to my first year of primary school in 1983. On one afternoon I saw him riding a bike near a beer vending machine in my neighbourhood. Ever since my first sighting, he has been a part of the local social landscape. He looked quirky. I remember seeing him riding on a near decrepit bicycle with an empty basket in front. He would be wearing a red windbreaker, a denim shirt underneath, donning a red baseball cap with white lettering advertising a Japanese cigarette brand, a demunitive ponytail and a camera dangling from his neck. His face is slightly tanned and scraggy. In the middle of his face sit a pair of rectangular black-rimmed glasses, yes the kind that Henry Kissinger, John Major and Robert Mugabe wear. The glasses always looked too large for his face. His built is thin and looks fragile. But I had seen him pedalling fast or dashing off. The most prominent feature of his, for me, is his posture. He tends to bend forward as he walks and his spine is twisted like a boomerang. Throughout the years gone by, I kept seeing him. Not a single opportunity presented for me to greet him, or to initiate a conversation. Little wonder I was excited.
I had speculated his profession, his life and his backgrounds. For someone taking photos for a hobby he was on his bike at odd hours. My childish imagination ran wild until a sense of futility and banality outweigh the pleasure of guessing someone else's life, someone who has no direct impact in my life. But the question of his identity had been a nagging question.
Back in 2004, out of the blue, my brother showed me a book of photos. He, Mr Shirokawa (not his real name), was a professional photographer. The book was a retrospective book, showcasing his works from his earliest years in the late 1960s to the present. Recent works feature photographs from the riverbank in our neighbourhood, cats, farm plots and homeless people. From that "penny's dropped" moment I saw him in a different light. He was on his bike or walking around looking for subjects to shoot.
That he said "Good evening" to me was an astounding moment. We were soon chatting. I decided against revealing my knowledge of his profession. Out of sympathy I commented that it might be difficult to take photographs in public these days due to increased police presence and surveillance.
"Yeah, they must be nuts", Mr S murmured and continued,
"You know what!? I had some primary school kids come up to me. They said they had caught a snake, and wanted me to take photos. Yeah, it was a biiiiiiig snake." Even though it was really dark, I could see his animated facial expression as he drew a long vowel when he said `big`. He carried on, "The kids wanted me to take it away and leave it somewhere in the wild. They wanted me to come and take the photo immediately; because their mums had told the police and the police would take the snake away. You want to come and see the photos?"
For a moment I was thinking whether I should carry on running - for some strange reason I had a sustained period of runner's high and there was no reason why I wanted to stop running. You know what people said about meeting strangers in the dark? I also had a bad experience of accepting a stranger's hospitality back in September 2003 in Hahndorf, South Australia. Well. What's the heck? And the run? I could run tomorrow.
"That'll be great thanks", I said and followed him home. We talked about the snake as we headed towards his house a few block away.
"I took the photo to the Asahi [a newspaper and publishing house]. They reckon the snake was from Okinawa. I cannot figure out how it got to Yokohama, all the way to Yokohama"
"Maybe someone brought the snake over from Okinawa. Or maybe eggs were attached to some food or timber, and hatched here. These days with global warming and climate change Yokohama may be just as good as Okinawa for the snake", I offered my guess, off the top of my head. Mr Shirokawa's house was only a few blocks away from where we had met. I was greeted by a middle-aged woman.
"The snake photo, the snake photo", Mr S told the woman, removed his shoes and shot upstairs. The lady invited me in. After brief chitchat about my background, whereabouts and photographic experiences with this pleasant lady, Mr S came downstairs with animated footstep, full of child-like excitement.
"There", he opened a book, and showed me the photo.
"The Asahi guys say it is from Okinawa", he repeated.
I could not fathom what it was at first. The photograph was from a book. The book showed signs of wear and tear on the edges. The page was dog-eared. This means that he must have shown it to other people and the photograph was much older than I had been led to believe. i had anticipated he would show me a newly printed photo in a photo lab envelop or a black and white photo fresh from the darkroom and still smelling of chemicals. The photo was a close-up shot of snake skin. The skin was angled so that the pattern went from the bottom left to top right, and pointed towards a cat in the photograph in the opposing page. An air mixed with uncanny and eerie sentiment intersected in my mind.
He flipped through the pages and showed me other photos. Most of his shots were close-up shots of birds and cats found around the riverbank on the lefthand side of the book, juxtaposed with those of sleeping homeless and farm plots on the righthand side of the book. I leafed through the book, and spotted his name. He was visibly proud of the snake photo. He explained to me his intention to create convergence. The cat is looking upwards and in the next photo is a homeless man sleeping. A bird wing is pointing towards a farming lady. That kind of thing, if my memory is accurate. I would like to think that I appreciate many kinds of artistic expression. But this one did not make much sense to me. In the hope of finding different photos I leafed through the book. I found his name on the front cover.
"Ah, Mr Shirokawa", I said, "Wow! I am delighted to meet such a famous photographer. I have seen you umpteen times before, but I never realised that it was you!" This was a Shakespearean dramatic irony, Honest Ryo-Iago! But I had to say something to acknowledge his fame. Mr S looked nonchalant, but the woman showed a Mona Lisa smile, looking satisfied at last. Exhausting further subjects for discussion, the woman stood up and fetched a pen and a memo book.
"You live nearby, do you? You have some photos you want to show or to see? And we like to keep record of visitors we receive." She asked me to jot down my name and phone number. I sensed that this was a ritual that all visitors had no choice but to oblige. I complied with her request.
"I still want to go out", Mr S told us. "Are you keen to come?", he asked.
"Why not", I responded. Besides us was the woman, she told me "Please make sure he gets back here by 8 pm, latest". We went out.
"Please bring him back by 8, latest", she pressed on that point again, firmly stressing the word "latest".
Mr S. was bouncing around. We headed off towards hills - the opposite direction from the river. We went through a temple and then up a hill. Wind was picking up. Clad only in a tee shirt and a pair of thin nylon trackpants, I was beginning to freeze. His light footsteps were taking me to places I had never been even though this was the neighbourhood that I grew up. Throughout the walk, Mr S and I engaged in a conversation. This was a most uncanny conversation I had in years.
"The snake... It was big. The Asahi guys thought it was from Okinawa", he muttered. A moment later he revealed his life story,
"I was born in Harajuku [a town in central Tokyo]. My dad had been born in Kochi and he was a calligraphy teacher. He lived until 95." Not only was I trying to follow him walking, I was struggling to keep abreast with his quantum leap of his topics. Offering only polite "Oh, is that so" and "that is interesting", I was trying to read into his psyche and to fathom what actually triggered him to jump from the snake to his dad. We reached a bamboo bush. Pointing to the bush, he muttered,
"Yeah, it probably was around here. I must've had a few too many drinks and collapsed here. But I don't remember much else."
Past the bush, we were going up a crest. Beyond us was a moon shining on us.
"I was once asked to write an introduction for a book. This was a book by a young photographer. He was a lanky, tall man. Lanky tall man. Lanky tall man".
To distract myself from the chill, I tried to keep the flow of the conversation as straight as possible. I asked him a few questions about the man's identity. He gave me some answers. By then I had sensed that something was wrong with his mind. Not in the quirky artist sense, but something went completely wrong in neurological or psychosomatic senses. Pointing towards the moon above us, he began talking about a temple that direction. He told me the temple was in Kamoi, easily over 5 km away from where we were. He seemed extremely eager to get there. I was not in the mood to walk any longer. I was freezing. It dawned on me why her expression grew from cordial to almost stern when she insisted on the 8 pm time limit.
The rest of the evening he was wont to head towards the temple, whilst muttering to himself about the snake, his dad, his collapse, the lanky man, in a random order. These topics just rotated. I listened to his oral Mary-go-round. Never developing any more than he told me on these topics, just as soon as he mentioned, he dropped the topics. And at odd times he commented on flowers on the pavement underneath a lamp post. In a nutshell, he was not able to hold a coherent conversation. Eager to go home I was constantly reminding him of the curfew and I told him that I was getting cold.
I escorted him back to his house at about 7.45. The woman was pleased to see us again. She told me that I was welcome to see them again. She gave me their phone number.
Now that I remember his full story from my brother's book, his absurdity became clearer to me. He was one of four or five co-founders of a photography magazine in the early 1970s. The magazine was shortlived, but its influence outlived. The co-founders went their ways after the magazine had been abandoned. One of them is now a well respected photographer, not just in Japan but world over. Mr S then collapsed after drinking too much. His linguistic faculty was impaired (aphasia, I think). A sad story: a young photographer whose career never really took off. But it seems as though, from the number of names in the guestbook, he still managed to attract followers and visitors. Somehow, I concluded that the woman's welcome might have been her way of reclaiming his present by projecting a pale shadow of his old self. Walking around with his camera everywhere, looking gutsy. My shoulders sank even deeper when I remembered the tobacco brand that his red cap featured: Short Hope.
A week later on a Saturday morning I saw him again on the riverbank. He was clad in his usual outfit, and walking. He told me that he was going to town to meet someone from Okinawa. "Okinawa, Okinawa, Okinawa" he muttered. He then closed his lips tight, showing his determination by forming a straight horizontal line. He will keep on shooting. Maybe he will produce enough photos for another exhibition. Maybe he will receive further critical acclaim as a true late bloomer. I hope that cops will leave him alone in his artistic pursuits.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1193036340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1193036340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1193036340/tpod.html Fri, 26 Oct 2007 20:57:13 -0400 Ryo in re-education camp

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Yokosuka, Japan

Keen readers of my travelogue will recall that I was rather enamoured by the little delights of Miura Peninsula. Further to the north of the Peninsula is the town of Uraga. Uraga is famous not only in Japan but, dare I say, worldwide. This is the site where the US naval commander Matthew Perry (not the one from "Friends") came in 1853 with his four ships demanding the feudal dynasty, the Tokugawas, to give the Americans port and trade access. It is not at all far from my base in Yokohama. But I never actually made effort to go there because it is so close and I simply visited other places. So, I was to transport myself to the 1850s.
Stepping out of Uraga Station, my fellow walker, Cris, and I began finding our way to follow a suggested walking route. The local council issues a map containing four walking trails around Uraga. Managed to find our bearings we decided to walking along the Uraga Bay and check out temples and shrines dotted along the way.
The bay is a narrow tract of water flanked by hills on both sides and looks like an inlet. At the bottom of the wedge-like Bay is a shipyard. We walked along looking for temples and shrines as indicated on the map. Without clear signs in town, we had to ask locals for directions. After seeking help from a local resident, we walked towards the first temple. He followed us on a bicycle and gave us a more detailed description. On a day with blue sky, meeting someone with a generous heart makes walk such a pleasure. We went past three blocks of flats. Cris exclaimed "Communist style!". Born in Romania in the Communist days and growing up in Australia, the flats excited him. Tucked behind the major road, the flats were derelict and looked vacant.
It is poignant to read an information board in front of these flats. The board tells us that that these flats were built on a historical site. Back in the Edo period there used to be a local administration office whose functions stretched from court, police and customs excise. What we wanted to know was how the site was flattened to allow the flats to be built, and how the flats are so neglected. The temples and shrines are small, quiet and not at all touristy. They were "average" temples and shrines and did not have much architectural interests to leave us gasping in awe. After three temples and shrines we decided that there was not much to the temples and shrines. We then had lunch at the top of a hill whilst taking the sweeping view of the Bay. We decided to head back to Uraga station, and to walk towards Kannonzaki Park, which lies on the other side of the station.
The sun was rising higher now at noon, and the traffic was building up. More walkers were walking around, looking at maps attentively in search of the temples and shrines. We walked along quiet roads running parallel to the main road. The coastal road is popular among tourists on weekend drives and petrol heads on motorbikes. What struck me was how deserted the back roads appeared. There are small factories, shops and houses. The tone of the streets was a rich mixture. We saw corner shops run by grannies selling anything from pickled veggies and lollies, workshops with rusted corrugated metal walls, beaten-up vending machines, classy brand-new houses adorned with German and Italian cars narrowly parked in tiny parking spaces, derelict crocked houses. The scenery was nice enough, but felt sterile. We saw few people outside. It felt like we were walking through a deserted film location site.
It did not take much time for us to figure out why. We joined the main road briefly to get back to Uraga Station. Along the main road were supermarkets and chain stores - this was where the bulk of the locals shopped. We also struck one party of motorcyclists riding Yamaha. They paraded to show off their beloved vehicles with the mufflers OFF. This made such a racket. One passer-by wore an anguished expression whilst plugging her ears with her fingers. A few minutes after the party was gone, there came another party. This time all the motorbikes were Suzuki. So there would be one for Honda, one for Kawasaki, one for Harley Davidson, one for Ducatti...
What caught our attention were not historical sites, temples, shrines or beautiful women. We came across imposing concrete wall which stood almost perpendicular and rose to about easily fifteen to twenty metres above the ground. At the bottom were an old house and a warehouse storing timbre. A sign at the bottom of the wall said that it was for the "reinforcement of steep slope against landslide". The wall had two parts - one was bare grey cemented pasted and plastered the face of the slope. To the left was a square-box pattern with metal knobs sticking out at each corner of the square. It easily could have been a rock-climbing site! We wondered if the concrete would really prevent landslide, if temperature fluctuations would cause cracks and degradations and what would happen to the old derelict house and a timber warehouse underneath.
Then we made our way to Kannonzaki Park. The road was getting busy with families and groups on weekend drives. Along the road we saw a playing ground with numerous signs saying "We oppose the construction of a lifestyle complex". Across the road a vacant lot facing the ocean was earmarked for another high-rising complex. If the project goes ahead, it is plain to see the monolith will not only clutter the view, but also block sunlight for the residents nearby. Behind the complexes which are already built were the concrete-pasted hillsides. It looked like portions of hills were scooped out to enable the construction of such blocks of flats. Looking at the photographs of the Uraga town from the late 1800s and the early 1900s the area was looking congested already: small houses perched on the hills and hugging the coastlines desperately. But the concrete additions destroyed the green and made the hills look like grey-suited office workers. With power lines and poles criss-crossing the streets and houses, the destruction of scenic Uraga town was complete. "This is Rio! Urban slum!" Cris exclaimed. "Only gentrified", I added.
On the way we saw a few beaches whose sand was white and water clear. Cris was impressed by the beaches, and the lack of foreign tourists here. Following the footpath along the coast, we went past the carefully guarded grounds of the Defence Academy. We also climbed up a hill to see the Kannonzaki Lighthouse, the oldest western-styled lighthouse erected in 1869 - the year after Meiji Restoration began (I am more inclined to call it "Compromise"). Along the coast, the park was replete with joggers, families having picnics and barbecues. The lovely botanical garden was forelone. By the time we got there the crowd had gone home. The sun was going down and the amber rays were beaming onto full-bloom cosmos - intensifying the colours of the petals. The park offered us a welcome respite from the concrete overdose.
Out of the park we went through a residential area and descended towards Uraga station. Here we saw the box-patterned concrete reinforcement in the horizon. "We'll never get lost", I told Cris, "Just walk towards the concrete slope; we will get back to the station no problems. We saw lots of great stuff, but nothing tops that concrete slope", I said. "Yeah, I agree", he responded.
I am reminded of what the historian and a long-time critique of Japanese politics, Gavan McCormack, remarked noted as "three Cs of Japan: "Control, Consume and Construct". The Uraga landscape, a common landscape across Japan, confirmed McCormack's sharp eye. I wonder what Matthew Perry would have thought if he had seen the solid evidence of modernisation that Japan has so eagerly executed. Kannonzaki Park? Yes. Uraga town? No. History should be appreciated in real life and not merely in armchair. But on this occasion, armchair prevails.
(See www://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/fl20070722x1.html)
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1192605240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1192605240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1192605240/tpod.html Thu, 18 Oct 2007 21:24:39 -0400 Ryo in re-education camp

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Yokohama, Japan

The vast majority of entries in Travelpod is about traveling from one place to another. In a typical Ryota tongue-in-cheek fashion, I wanted to make a different entry - time travel. How did this happen? "When" did I travel to?
In July a postcard arrived home from my old primary school. It announced a gathering scheduled for 6 October. In 1987 our primary school celebrated its tenth anniversary. To mark the occasion, l-wide every homeroom and every student contributed something to a time capsule. The capsule was buried on the school premises and would be unearthed twenty years later.
Huh?
Was my initial response. I did not remember that we took part in such an event. I telephoned an old classmate and friend of mine, Yuusuke. I asked him about the time capsule and if he would be willing to come.
"Don't you remember when our teacher, Mr Yoshihara, made us write a composition "what I will be like in twenty years"?" Yuusuke asked.
"Not a clue", I said.
"I am afraid I don't have good memory of my days at primary school, or my entire schooling. I don't feel like coming. Besides, I have put on so much weight, lost hair and teeth, and that".
"My experience of schooling wasn't all that positive, either". I sort of joined in his support.
The tale of Yuusuke reads like a tragic story. He had a constant habit of twitching his face and squeezing his hands. Together with his intellect, he was made a favourite target of bullies. His parents put him thorough a competitive cram school in Year 5. He proceeded to a prestigious middle school (Year 7 to 9). I went to the government-run middle-school in the neighbourhood. That was where we parted. He grew tired of being the good son in the family. He repeated Year 10 - upon his own volition. Why? His teachers decided that he should be placed in the accelerate class. But he could not cope with the rigorous and fierce competitive atmosphere in his classroom. Finishing high school he went onto a college that trains hospital secretaries. He was not interested but went there to mask his unemployment - which many people do - and to please his parents. He dropped out of the college, choosing to work in a pachinko (pinball) parlour to realise his dream of becoming a professional pachinko player. Like many in our generation he lives with parents at home.
What united us was our outcast status. Neither of us excelled in sport. Both of us were interested in world geography, trivia quiz shows, and the state of the world. We were the nerds. I did not think much more and tore up the postcard. Besides on the weekend of 6 and 7 October there was an event in Tokyo, Global Festa, which my work required me to attend.
During a lazy afternoon at work, a topic of conversation with my colleague suddenly turned to this time capsule event. I was regretting the moment I mentioned the event and immediately tried to sound as nonchalant as possible so that we would drop the subject or turn to a different topic. My colleague was excited.
"You should definitely attend! It sounds like a fantastic!" Yes she could afford to sound excited, safe in the ignorance of my classmates that I had to endure.
"But the school event clashes with Global Festa that we have to attend", I said, sounding like a kid feigning illness to skip school.
"Never mind, I will cover you".
"OK, then", I muttered. A moment later I said "Thanks, I will attend the time-capsule opening, then."
Choosing between the two events was done by the process of elimination and choosing lesser of the two evils. Eight hours of Global Festa, plus commuting plus unforeseen plus, plus, plus... The capsule opening was expected to last two hours. The school was only ten minutes away from home on foot. Besides, contrary to my sympathy with Yuusuke, I decided that I would rather regret facing my embarrassing past than not going. After all, it is twenty years ago. We ought to laugh off our own youthful foibles.
My primary school is named Shinyoshida dai-ni primary school. Shinyoshida is the name of town. Dai-ni denotes "No. 2". Even as a kid I did not like the name. It sounded so bureaucratic and tasteless. At least they could have named it after the adjacent river, Hayabuchi River, or the old appellation of the neighbourhood, Nakazato. But I recall the story behind the name. The original Shinyoshida primary school was busting to its seams with students. Another school was needed to cater to a growing school going population in the Shinyoshida town and its expanding residential zones. The local education board hoped that the name No. 2 would bode well for further expansion as it would make it easier for newer schools to be named, yes; you guessed it right, No. 3, No. 4... The programme of the ceremony, which was handed out to me on arrival, told a different story. It featured a bar graph representing the number of pupils over the thirty years of our primary school. It started off at somewhere around 500 pupils in 1977. Then the number peaked to 800 in 1980. From then the number steadily declined. In 2007 the number stood at mere 300. The hope of Shinyoshida No. 3 is just as optimistic as the promise of gold and diamond in the land of Ophir that Cecil Rhodes tried to have investors to believe.
The venue of the ceremony, the school gym, was both foreign and nostalgic. As soon as I stepped inside, I smelt the dry sweat gym smell. In front was the stage, to the right of the stage was a board featuring the lyrics of the school song. To the left was a board showing the lyrics of the Yokohama city song. Each letter and space was carved out of wood. I remember working on the city song in my primary school days. A few minutes later I needed to go to the toilet. I knew where it was. The wooden slippers to be worn inside the toilet were too small for my feet. The entire gym looked a little smaller and the height seemed lower than I remembered.
There were easily around one hundred guests. A modest turnout. The first sight that struck me was the bands of women showing off babies. Clusters of guys were chatting, showing off their wives and babies, too. I thought, "Isn't Japan facing declining population? Is the government counting babies accurately?" Those kids were running around in the gym. Inside chairs had been placed in neat rows. Six rows were reserved for pupils graduating in specific years. Most of the crowd did not care to sit. We were happy to hand around on the fringes of the gym and lean against the wall.
Amid the cacophony of the wild infants, the ceremony began. The current principal began speaking. No one really cared to listen. This was a great moment of revenge. At assemblies which were typically held on Monday mornings, we were always told to form a line for each homeroom and stand in order of height (from the shortest to the tallest). We had to stand still and remain silent for the entire proceedings. The teachers tried to beat us into servitude. They imposed their authority on us by threatening to write negative reports in report cards. Now we are adults and don't care. Nor are we worried about the school reports. More to the point, I think we were simply excited about seeing old friends and the time-capsule.
Three short speeches followed. Then along the piano played by the current music teacher we sang the school song. I managed the first verse without aid. The second and third verses were a challenge. It sounded that the whole crowd found the same as our singing became softer and softer. After the song, Mr Omagari, the chair person of the PTA in 1987, led us outside to the site where the capsule was buried.
"Do you remember where we buried the capsule?" Mr Omagari asked the crowd. A weak but wry giggle indicating no such knowledge cracked out of a few people.
"Apparently", he continued, "it is somewhere around here. But the capsule shifted over the years of seismic activities. And we have a feeling that it shifted to the left of where I am standing now". Quickly, he summoned three sturdy men and issued them with gloves and shovels to unearth the capsule. The three men seemed to be close friends. With their kit on they seemed clueless. Mr Omagari pointed where to dig. The men were clumsy and did not exhibit teamwork or ability at physical labour. We simply looked on. After a while the shovels hit a white metallic box. After much more digging, the men gave up. Now Mr Omagari and a few parent volunteers took charge to lift the capsule out and bring it inside the gym.
Inside several dignitaries were waiting with wrenches in their white-gloved hands. Mr Omagari and the volunteers put the capsule on a blue tarpaulin placed in the middle of the gym. The capsule was as big as a medium sized suitcase, about 50 cm in length, 70 cm in width and 20 cm in height. The upper and the bottom cases were bolted. The dignitaries undid the screws. The capsule was ready for the opening after twenty years underground. Whilst we watched the undoing of the screws, volunteers were issuing the crowd with fire crackers. Around the capsule the crowd took out cell phones to photographs the historical moment. The men simply lifted the lid. The crackers fired a moment later amid the flash going off from cell phones.
It is often assumed that Japan is a heavily conformist society and that everything in Japan is pre-arranged and works like a high-precision clock. This occasion betrayed such an assumption. The ceremony showed evidence of advanced planning, but much was left to impromptu efforts. I felt the ceremony could have benefited from further detailed planning to make it look more co-ordinated and to give a sense of collective spirit - in a nutshell, it failed to build up to the climax of the opening of the capsule. There was no MC to forge camaraderie. There was no countdown for the opening to orchestrate the firing of the crackers and the opening of the lid. Nor were there any sound effects, drum beat or music coming out of the PA system. Nor was there any press invited for this occasion. The school did not even hire a photographer or a video-recorder. My possession of a point-and-shoot digital camera made me look like a stranger. The moment that we were waiting for simply came and went like Zen enlightenment.
The contents were tightly packed to utilise every square millimetre of the capsule. Carefully wrapped in clear plastic bags all the contents looked immaculate and hardly showed signs of years gone by. The crowd stood for a while. Then one of the dignitaries indicated that we should perhaps collect the items. Left to our own initiative, we collected and put the contents onto tables assigned to each Year. Then we sorted them out according to our homerooms.
Mine was 5-2, No. 2 in Year 5. None seemed willing to hand out the items. I stepped forward and called out the names. Whilst I was calling these names, I was wondering what had happened to them and what became of them. A few came forward to pick up the items. But none asked who I was. Nor I did initiate any conversation. When I found mine and Yuusuke's, I quickly took them and put them aside. Later I gave his to his mother and sister who came to the ceremony. There was not much difference in the height of the pile before and after the collection.
There is huge variation in the quantity and the quality of the contents of our time capsule items. For example, I collected my brother's. He was in Year 2. His teacher, Mrs Hirata, put in much effort. She had her pupils draw two pictures. In between each pupil's picture was a blank sheet of paper, presumably to prevent the crayon from sticking on to the sheet above it and from possible damage. This is a remarkable sign of dedication. In addition, she had them create personalised and sealed envelopes which contained three items: handprints, a composition titled "What I will be like in the future", and a picture titled "What I look like in the future".
What about Homeroom 5-2? What I found a batch of compositions packed in a clear plastic bag. Compared to what other homerooms did, ours were obviously anti-climax. Our teacher, Mr Yoshihara, only made the minimum effort. No drawings, no photographs, nothing else. Just two sheets of paper of individual writing. Each composition had two sheets, stapled at the top-right corner. The paper looked fresh and intact, but the staple slightly rusted. Some of the sheets bore scratch marks and traces of pencil marks erased off. This seems to indicate that we only had one chance to write the composition - no draft or proofreading whatsoever.
So what did I write as an eleven-year old? It showed traces of an average working-class kid with no future vision. I began my composition, "In 20 years time I would be 32 years old. I would be working as an office worker or would be running my own business". I continued, "I would be married with children". There was no elaborate descriptions of 'my wife' and my children, no description of work or business. Maybe I was copying what the kid sitting next to me was writing. What I do recall, though, is that I did not have any strong burning desire to 'become someone'. It seems that I just wrote it because being an office worker and running my own business would pass as acceptable and plausible prediction with a wide range of possibilities. As for marriage, I was also charting a socially respected and safe trajectory.
Next I wrote, "I would have a motorbike", and in parentheses "(not a 50 cc moped)". "I would have a licence and a 250 cc motorbike. At weekends I would be touring with my dad at engine fully firing along the newly opened Tokyo-Niigata motorway". The influence of my dad was evident. He has several mistresses in the form of motorbikes. Along the Tokyo-Niigata highway is my parents' hometown. So I was trying to be a good son wont to cherish those 'father-and-son' moments. I was also trying to be good to my future family. I proclaimed "I would also have a car and take my family on weekend drives". Who would have thought that I have not yet fulfilled these predictions? I am still single. I have no child. Nor do I have a motorbike of any sort or a motorcar. Life was simple then.
In the composition I made several other predictions:
1) Linear motorcars whizzing around and replacing motorcars.
This contradicts my dream of weekend drives with my family and my dad. But I was young!
2) The world would be united into a single nation and Japan would merely become a province.
It is kind of true, given that globalisation is on everyone's lips and thoughts, and that Japan is a vassal state of the USA.
3) Developing nations would catch up with developed and industrialised nations.
Maybe I should now help the UN write another optimistic declaration!
4) The Yokohama Stadium, home to my favourite baseball team, the Yokohama Whales, would be a dome stadium.
This reflected the time. It was just after the first dome stadium was built in Tokyo. Today when it rains over the Yokohama Stadium the players get wet.
Finishing off my predictions I heed a note of caution. I noted the possibility of Nostradameus' prediction that the world would come to Armageddon in July 1999. I do not recall losing sleep or getting panic attack over his predictions. Maybe I ran out of subjects and I was just padding up the blank space of the paper. My composition ended with a hurried note. "In any case, the 21st century would be a `sugoi` century [sugoi means anything impressive, great and positive]". Right at the end I even the exact date and time that I wrote the composition complete with my address. This was a vain effort to fill up the blank on the sheet. Simply put, I did not give a damn about the project, caring about the project as much as Mr Yoshihara did.
Inside the capsule were several memorabilia. I was intrigued by these. Newspapers, restaurant menus and textbooks. Before leaving the gym I scanned through the newspaper. It had a feature article on our school - a story about the tenth anniversary time-capsule. No one paid attention to the newspaper. Even I alerted the feature article to a parent volunteer and noted that there were five copies of it available, the crowd simply busied themselves talking with their old friends. I was more fascinated by the news items in this January 1987 issue. A menu from a nearby Chinese noodle restaurant was a surprising discovery. Prices have hardly changed. In fact, the prices on the menu seem rather too dear. A bowl of noodles cost Y700 to Y800. this was the days before Seven-Eleven and other convenience stores undercut prices by mass-produced Y300 lunchboxes. In one Japanese language/literature textbook I found one short SF story. It was about a few characters on a certain planet who decided to make a time-capsule. They hoped that someone in future would find out what kind of lives they led. They painstakingly collected items and devised an egg-shaped capsule which would withstand the hardest shock imaginable. After much search, they found one ideal location to bury the time capsule. Years later a new species began to inhabit the planet. These creatures were greedy and bloodthirsty, and invented a ghastly thing called atom bomb. They carried an experiment in a desert. The experiment was successful. So successful that they found not only the traces of the bomb, but also the traces of the capsule and its contents. I found the story extremely comical. I found it even more comical that I picked this story from a textbook that I just picked out from a pile. I was standing, hunching over the book, chuckling.
My hopes for chatting with old classmates evaporated as soon as I saw dull faces in the gym. I was ready to leave as soon as I picked up the items for myself and my brother. Because I knew that my best friend, Masataka, was absent. Little wonder, he moved to Nagoya, in Year 7. We lost contact. But if I wanted to meet one classmate from my primary school, it would be none other than him. But somewhere I was yearning for contact and for filling the twenty-year gap. But I was too shy to initiate contact, and too tired to recount what I had done in the intervening years.
Too facile to dish out L. P. Hartley's "the past is a foreign country"? It indeed was, but the present and the future are also foreign for me and for my former classmates. Out of desperation and frustration at my own narcissism and shyness, I approached Daisuke, who was one of the brightest kids in my class. His parents sent him to an expensive cram school, and got admitted to an expensive and prestigious middle school, and kissed good-bye to our neighbourhood. So I lost contact with him. I was surprised to learn that he found out about this event through a blog site - something unthinkable twenty, even ten years ago. The past always follows one like a shadow, and it is here and now that we ought to focus. What would I be like tomorrow, next month, next year, twenty years' later, is anyone's guess. Perhaps it is this attitude that has not changed since the day I wrote that half-hearted composition.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1194589140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1194589140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1194589140/tpod.html Thu, 09 Aug 2007 01:20:53 -0400 Ryo on bike (until mid-Jan)

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Singapore, Singapore

Flew into Singapore from Perth. Carrying my bike in a bulky box onto the train and off was excruiciating to say the least. Took a cab to a hostel in Chinatown. Caught up with my friends who were visiting Singapore at the same time. A few days in Singapore to acclimatise myself to the climate and to get my fitness up for cycling. I also had my bike serviced and had parts replaced.

My mind was filled with the recurring thoughts of cycle trip. My friends said I was nuts. I was worried if I would make it without mishaps, getting ripped off, accidents, etc. More than this, I was eager and determined to prove them wrong. Nervous energy keeps me up and awake. This is my first real exposure to SE Asia. Many disparage Singapore as sterile and boring, I beg to differ. There is a lot happening in Singapore other than shopping and eating. You just need to walk, observe and speak with the locals.

Encouraged by the ultra helpful hostel owner, Mr Boi, I made a small pre-trip trip into Malaysia from 5 to 7 November. Rode to Changi Port early in the morning and took a rickety ferry to Pangarang, rode another two or three hours. The Malaysian border office was very relaxed. Terrain pancake flat, but wind was pretty strong. The first site that came into my view in Malaysia was a navy camp. Apparently they need to guard against Indonesians. Moped repair shops are dotted along the road. Those moped shops act as local meeting halls, it seemed. There are almost always noodle shops next to the workshops. I wonder if the soup tastes of diesel and if the mechanics grease cogs with lard.

Got to the forlorn village of Punggai, where I saw a motel. I was exhausted. The tarrif was ridiculously high at 90 Ringgit for a single room with an en suite shower. The propertier threw breakfast in in the deal (although it was a sad, cold and small portion of . But knowing that it would cost more in Desaru, which was another 20 km and I was quite tired, I thought what the hell? I was in need of a change from the crummy dorm in Singapore that I had spent a few nights before.

It is amazing how quiet it was in Malaysia although it is just a ferry ride away from fast-paced Singapore. At weekends I saw a busloads of Singaporeans and fancy cars with Singaporean number plates visiting this part of Malaysia, presumably to see Singapore of bygone years. Village life is laid back, and is punctuated by rains. When it rains it pours and everything stops.

At the motel a group was having a party. It was a team of teachers in Kota Tinggi and celebrating the end of a long in-house training programme of sorts. Mr and Mrs Hussain and I began chatting. Mr Hussain works in an auto-motive parts company, and was visibly delighted to share his experiences of trips to Japan. After long cycle rides from Singapore, their offerings of fish, cakes, rice, etc. was most welcome. Next day I headed back, but spent a night at another town on the way to Pengarang.

For both Singapore and southern tip of Malaysia travel was easy, and the people really kind. The climate is manageable because of downpour of rain in the afternoon, which cools down the heat substantially.

Singapore is not a police state that it is often said to be. Away from the CBD I have seen people spitting and urinating in the streets, and even ignoring traffic lights. On one occasion I found myself cycling westwards and up on an elevated road. It was an express way. Only later did I find it illegal for cyclists to ride on it.

My favourite spot in Singapore is Little India. Carefree and quite easy-going. Decidedly Indian. Here there are lots of colours and pungent smell of spices. There appears to be self-imposed ethnic segregation. It is amazing to see how people's lives are managed - from the flats they live (allocated by the Lee Family). I do not see "mixed" couples or families. By the same token, the Chinese and the Muslims tend to live separate lives in Malaysia on the grounds of `different cultulres and religions`. Both societies are fierecely proud of their ethnic diversities and `harmony`, but are they cosmopolitan? In Little India I struck a conversation with a man who claimed to be a water engineer. I asked him about the water systems in Singapore. Singapore buys water from the neighbouring Malaysian state of Johor. And Singapore uses treated sweage water into the piped water. I asked him the percentage of the treated water and Johor water. "If I tell you, I lose my job!", he said firmly.

The preparation trip was useful in getting a feel for the trip. I soon learnt that I had too much luggage and shed some excess possessions before leaving Singapore again.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1163151120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1163151120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1163151120/tpod.html Thu, 09 Aug 2007 01:16:47 -0400 Ryo on bike (until mid-Jan)

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Pontian Kentil, Malaysia

G'day from the land of cheap bananas, lah! It took me a while to get myself sorted out in Singapore since flying in on 1 Nov. I am alive, well and pedalling indeed!

Back in Singapore and a few more days of enjoying the local cusines, I set off to Malaysia this morning. Crossed the border at Causeway into Johor Bahru. The contrast between Singapore and Johor Bahru is quite remarkable. Singapore 'tries' to make it look like an ordered society. No, I did not see cops checking if anyone is spitting or jay-walking. In fact I saw lots of people walking even in red light, and in backstreets the locals prove the urban myth wrong. In Johor Bahru I tried to change my US$ travellers cheques into the local currency, Ringitt. It was such a mission. Many $ changers accept cash, but not travellers cheques. Even at banks they are choosy about which brand to take. They were obviously not used to travellers' cheques.

As soon as I got going, it began to rain. I put my raincoat on. But the force of the monsoon rain was so great that it was all but useless. The consolation was that I got tail wind. So I was going ultra fast while getting completely drenched. The Malaysian road so far is v good - the tar is in really good neck. The terrain - pancake flat with occasional gentle up-climb.

Almost every 2 -3 kms there are people selling fruits and drinks along the way. The main fruit of this area is bananas. Sorry to those in Australia (where bananas cost a fortune thanks to cyclone and tariffs), I am having a feast of bananas. On average, one kilo of bananas cost anywhere between 50 cents to 1 Ringitt (A$1=2.3 Ringitt).

The people? Very laid back, friendly and generous. They show immediate interest in my mad adventure. For many the idea of travelling is travelling in luxury and enjoying the comfort of mod cons. I guess most people here do physical labour so that the idea of cycling for a holiday is almost alien. They laugh a lot and show some of the most beautiful smiles I have seen.

The food? Fantastic. Get a wide choice of Indian (Muslim and Hindu), Southern Chinese and Malay. Some Malay food is similar to Indonesian and even some Cape dishes. Will try pisang goering (fried bananas) when I am desperate for energy. So whilst I am on the road I am thinking what to eat. I am sure I will grow tired of the food, maybe? 'Coffee shops' here serve coffee, tea, milo, cool drinks and schnellimbiss type of one-dish food. They are quick snack stops for many locals going up and down on scooters. Many coffee shops are next to 'kedai motosikals' (motorbike service shops). I wonder if the food and drink would taste like dark liquid coming out of engines.

Tonight I am staying in a seaside town of Pontian and at a spanking brandnew hotel that opened 3 wks ago. Haggled the rates from 80 to 60 ringitt. From the youth hostel in Singapore and to Pontain I was pedalling close to 5 hrs, did 100 km right on the dot. The town is going through much 'development' and a few beach resorts are under construction. It's a bare spartan kind of place, but in a few years' time it will be full of Singaporean weekenders and backpackers? Lonely Planet has not mentioned thsi town - thank goodness. I am heading north towards Melaka and will be stopping at a few towns in between.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1179647400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1179647400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/japan/1179647400/tpod.html Tue, 07 Aug 2007 02:04:08 -0400 Ryo in re-education camp

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Yokohama and Niigata, Japan

It has been extremely busy here. Almost all my waking hours I leaf through classified magazines, apply for positions, write up my letters and CVs, and go to interviews whilst learning to behave like a Japanese.
Although I still have my eye on returning to New Zealand I think it won't harm me to gain work experience in Japan . It is a daunting procedure which entails learning everything Japanese and leaving my self underneath a suit and tie. Yes, appearance is everything here.
I caught up with a few old school friends of mine. Overall a depressing experience. Especially Yuusuke and Taro who were pressured to excel from very early age still live at home and do menial work. Yuusuke lost a few of his front teeth and so much hair, and is now convalescing from pneumonia that he had contracted last month. Taro, a talented guitarist, persevered and got a degree in agricultural science, worked as a postman for four years. Disgusted by "arrogant and lazy civil servants at post offices" he resigned last year and is living off his savings, entering his compositions to record companies. He developed a keen interest in cycling and owns three top-range bicycles! The only high-flying friend I have is Shin-ichiro, he is now a taxman for the Japanese government. Now married and saddled with mortgage he has mellowed a bit, but still has rebel spirit.
Within three days of touching down Narita airport I joined my parents and brother to attend the 1st anniversary memorial of my paternal grand-father. We went to Niigata , 300km north of Tokyo . It was a convivial occasion, contrary to my initial suspicion. The monk was quite relaxed and informal. The reading of the scripture, which we had to sit on floor and listen patiently, was surprisingly short - only 45 minutes. The reading sounded like sleep-inducing classical music or jazz. When I nearly fell asleep, the monk stopped and resumed with a different rhythm. Meeting my relatives was quite fun, too. I had not most of them for over ten eyars. We could not recognise each other, but had entertaining conversations. Walking and cycling around the village, Oguni-machi, was thoroughly wonderful. Rice farmers were tending their rice paddies to plant rice. Oguni-machi is known for paper production, and has a small gallery tucked in a hill - which even hosted an American-Indian photographer and another American-Indian painter/woodcarver. I saw their works and even met the painter-carver at a temple where he was chipping a log away. On my last day I was walking around the village and saw some usable rubbish next to a shed. Among the rubbish were skiing poles and a bicycle. I asked the man inside if I could have the poles. He said "Don't you need skis and boots to go with the poles?". He offered me a pair of skis and boots for nothing and even gave me the bike - which had a bust-up rear tyre. So for a modest price of replacing the tyre and its tube I was a proud owner of a bicycle in addition to the whole ski set.
Back in Yokohama I began job-hunting. I am aiming high now. These days temp agents act as the de facto job centre - adding another layer to application. I went to a few to register my availability as a serf, sat a few tests and discussed my background and skills with the consultants. I don't mind teaching English, but it seems reserved for women, and the openings are limited. And I would like to acquire skills in computers and paper-shuffling. Many classified papers list vacant positions in a semi-gender specific ways. Paato is always housewives needing to earn extra pennies. Arubaito is students and single workers. There is Equal Opportunity of Employment for Both Genders Act in Japan. But it all but academic. It precludes instances where there is specific demands for gendered workforce, and there is no legal consequences when employers infringe the Act.

Working in foreign firms is probably the best I can aim for, for the time being. But they all stipulate that I should have a TOEIC exam score, an English language exam. I will sit the exam and see what offers I get after I find out my results. I am also trying a few translation firms if I could work on an ad-hoc basis, and applying for a few embassy jobs (Thailand and Singapore) and a volunteer interpreter on Peaceboat - a three-month voyage 'teaching messages of democracy and peace'. Early this week I had one interview at a cram school. The manager did not like me from the start and told me that I needed to learn the Japanese common customs. He did not like the way I sat, placed my legs. He pointed out that I should not have smiled too much and the whole list went on. I apologised for offending him and explained that it was not at all my intention to cause deliberate affront. Was the damage done? He said that the cram school was an industry, and could not afford to lose customer base by upsetting students' parents and giving poor influence to their children. Despite this, he told me that he wanted to hire an eccentric. He took pains to explain how poorly the job paid, and how long it would take to build up sufficient hours of work. The system of this school is that students could select tutors; if they like you you get lots of students, if not, then tough! In a nice way he guided me to withdraw application on my accord. By this stage I had thought that I could not be bothered, whilst I appreciated his useful tips. I spoke of this exchange to my mother, and she sympathised that I had a crush course on Japanese mannerism, and even bought me a book coaching how to crack interviews! I will try a few plum jobs. If nothing comes my way by mid-June, I will train my muscles while earning a few pennies. I did not take his comments as indictment of being a traitor, but more as sincere advice. After all, there are MacDonalds, Starbucks and supermarkets.
My guitarist friend Taro and I got together in Tokyo , and went shopping. I was looking for a high quality guitar that will last me ages. Within half-a-mile radius we tried no less than four second-hand guitar shops. At the last shop we tried three guitars, and settled for a Martin D-16GT. The dreadnaught had a price-tag of Y100,000 (US$830). It has a wide range of sonority, handling high/sharp-low pitches. The guitar was last year's model, and feels and smells like a brandnew guitar. Taro and I immediately agreed that out of the three we tested, this was the one. The retail brand-new price for this guitar, by the way, is Y210000 - just over double. I love Japan for its great second-hand shops, although it strongly reflects deeply ingrained psyche of throw-away culture. At a second-hand bike shop I saw a perfectly usable and immaculate fold-up bike for Y5000 (US$40).
What's it like to be in Japan ? I have not had time to read up on the current political, economic and social issues. My observation is confined to my neighbourhood. My instinct tells me, nevertheless, that it has become a distrusting society. The drive for 'protection of privacy and individual information' seems to gone a little too far. Although not as prominent as in London, closed circuit TV cameras are becoming features of our town. The media and corporations are talking of information protection so much so that it is almost encouraged that we internalise the ethics of being wary of our behaviour at all times. My neighbour, Mrs Asakawa, thinks that I am odd because I am having a chat with her. She thinks that people of my age group only talk with their small circles of friends and on the mobile phone, and cajoled me to chat up with beautiful young girls instead so that I can stop the population of Japan from declining. And those cops on mopeds and bikes! They are everywhere. I can't stand their sight. They arouse paranoia in me!
My parents are reasonably pleased with my getting a PhD. On the night I arrived in Japan they asked me what a sheet of brown paper stated. They had worked out that 'Doctor' was not necessarily a medical doctor. But they were confused by the word 'Pbilosoby'. The dictionary they used did not list this word and tried different combinations to no avail. The font makes the letter h look like the letter b, making it quite confusing to people like my parents with little English. I translated the words on my graduation certificate. We had a laugh. Then my anxious mother asked me about my job prospects and superannuation. The answer to the first questions exasperated her, and my response to the second question sent her shivers along the spine. Luckily, my father is nonchalant, almost indifferent. So I get a nice balance between the two extremes.

Now I have got to go to a tailor and get my suits. I will be a JOG: Japan-oriented-Gentleman.
Ryota
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1176261240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1176261240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ryota/s_e_asia/1176261240/tpod.html Tue, 07 Aug 2007 01:50:12 -0400 Ryo on bike (until mid-Jan)

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Bangkok, Thailand

Spent the last few days of my South-eastern leg of my travel in Bangkok. Just walking up and down the town, relaxing, checking out films, etc. The weather was becoming oppressively sultry, and the sun stronger. After two days I was wondering is there any more than shopping and eating in Bangkok? Lots of Japanese department stores in Bangkok. Lots of bars and restaurants catering to Japanese tourists. So it is fast becoming an economic colony of Japan.

I found two excellent massage parlours - one for feet and the other for traditional Thai-massage (whole body). Ready to face up the European leg of my tour.
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