Hiroshima Diaries Hiloshima - Tea-Time Tedium

Hiroshima Diaries Hiloshima

A scary phenomenon was unleashed onto an unsuspecting world last week, a phenomenon that could yet prove deadlier than SARS - the Japanese student with the Ginger French accent. Two hitherto very pleasant bakery school students were subjected to my attempts at beginners' French, a highly entertaining hour, in which we touched on the major topics affecting world peace with conversations such as "Mick Jagger habite a Londres. Et vous?… Sophie Marceau habite a Paris. Et vous. Je m'appelle Ginger. Et vous? Elle est chinoise? No elle est japonaise." It was a multi-lingual week as I also made my debut on the university lecture circuit the previous day, spouting forth on my specialist area, The Changing Nature of Contemporary Russia, of which more later.

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Prior to Toyland, my favourite sign in the world could be found in a remote part of northern Somalia, in a village that has been visited by perhaps ten non-Africans ever. I had gone to inspect a health post, which the local community had constructed from cash supplied by the Dutch Government. The health post was clean and busy, a successful venture in a country where so many projects flop. There was a message of gratitude from the people of Qararsoor painted on the front wall:

This health post is thanks to Dtuch Gout.

I could just imagine them in the smoky parlours of Amsterdam. "Another glass of port for Somalia, old boy?" Spelling mistakes often produce hilarious results, but you just can't beat old-fashioned Japanese honesty here in Hiroshima (or Hiloshima as I have started calling it):

All our products are useless. So we sell them half price.

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I have learned some valuable classroom lessons by trial and error. I now know never to wear a short-sleeved shirt when I teach children. The golden hair on my forearms caused chaos with the six year-olds, one of whom spent the whole lesson stroking my arm and muttering "sugoi" (amazing), while the other child showered me with kisses from my hand to my elbow as I tried to correct her work. Then she sneezed violently over me. Thankfully there is no SARS in Japan, officially at least…

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It never occurred to me that Asians might have problems with knives and forks, in the same way as we do with chopsticks. As I sat in the restaurant in Hiroshima Airport, I watched as a teenage girl was grappling with her steak. She soon gave up and handed it to her mother who cut it into manageable pieces. Mother and daughter then swapped utensils and the girl polished off her steak and chips with chopsticks.

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"And the worst thing about coming back to Japan after living abroad for five years is that all my fellow Japanese look the same. It's unbelievable." This is something that fascinates me. Africans think all Westerners look the same, yet can distinguish various African tribes. So too, it seems, with the Japanese - we all have blue eyes and blond hair. Japanese youth is doing all it can to be different these days. Dyed hair is all the rage, the most popular colour a light brown dye. The result of this, of course, is that all these 'alternative' people look exactly the same. I would hazard a guess that there are more girls aged 20 with dyed hair than those who sport the natural look.

And yet people are trying to be different. Spiky hair, goatee beards (for those with sufficient facial hair), provocative t-shirts, bizarre headgear, powerful (and noisy) motorbikes, groups hanging around in the centre playing the guitar and drinking beer. It reminds me so much of Moscow in 1991 - a youth now free to express itself after decades of conformism.

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"So what are you going to do now?" I asked. It had been a fairly dry lesson, a one-to-one with a civil servant, talking about sewage and agriculture (my knowledge of random topics is increasing rapidly and I can now pontificate on subjects as fascinating as Japanese sewage systems and the major differences between Western and Japanese flower-arranging). I was expecting a dry answer.

"I am going to destroy a few brain cells in the bar. See you." That's what I like about teaching in Japan - there is the constant surprise. Far from finding them shy and reserved, my experience thus far is that the Japanese are very blunt when talking to foreigners. Another chap was telling me about the economic downturn and how many friends had lost their jobs. His job was safe, he assured me with a smile, but some close friends had committed suicide in the last couple of years. He was still beaming.

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On my way to the airport for my Korean holiday with Bids, I walked through Peace Park on a bright Sunday morning and was surprised to see a lesson going on on the grass - half a dozen young Japanese learning the ancient art of wielding the samurai sword. Ancient, traditional Japan - it is so easy to miss it completely here. A few days later, a student showed me pictures of her in a kimono at a Japanese tea ceremony lesson. I hardly recognised her. It was time for me to start digging beneath the surface of modern Japan, and find out what this country is about. Japanese culture - the jury is out.

After an afternoon of Japanese tea ceremonies, I was forced to conclude that the English equivalent, at least in terms of excitement, was the ancient sport of watching paint dry, only not quite as dull. Don't get me wrong, I had a very interesting day, but quite how people can count this activity as a hobby is beyond me. It was interesting to experience a completely different world, different values, but it is an experience I will (can) only go through once. I know people who have studied how to perform tea ceremonies every week for ten years. For those of you flippant enough to suggest that making a cuppa involves throwing a tea bag in mug and letting it stew, you don't know how right you are. And the other incredible thing about a tea ceremony is that the tea is undrinkable.

So here's the deal. You go to a picturesque Japanese public garden and admire the diverse flora and fauna, luxuriating in the tranquillity by the lake, away from the endless traffic that is modern Hiroshima, then head off to a tea-house, where you take off your shoes, walk across the tatami matting and park yourself on the row of carpet provided. Classical stance is to sit on your heels in an extremely painful kneeling position. For thirty-five minutes. The Japanese seem to be able to achieve this without effort, but I am soft and, the only foreigner, reverted to the cross-legged position.

Did you remember the Bourbon Creams?

Elderly ladies shuffle around on their knees in elegant kimonos serving the guests (we numbered over 30). There is a complicated exchange of greetings and lots of bowing which I did not understand (I merely bowed every time someone looked in my direction). Then, amid more bowing and fanfare, a small (and I mean small) teacup is placed in front of each guest. After more bowing, we got to take a sip. It was one of the foulest brews known to man. And cold too. Still I forced it down as I didn't want to cause offence, especially to my two students who had invited me. More bowing and shuffling resulted in another kimono-clad lady offering some kind of sweet. Rather than planting my hand in the bowl and muttering "Ta very much", I had to select one and pick up with chopsticks, then return the chopsticks, having wiped them clean on the tissue provided for the next person. More muttering, lots of bowing and then a second cold cuppa, its bitterness offset by the sweetness of the candy (as I find myself saying from time to time).

I thought I had somehow missed the point of the whole thing, being forced to sit in silence in an extremely uncomfortable pose, bowing every minute and then being pressed to drink something that was undrinkable, but it is not just me - several other gaijin have had equally negative tea ceremony experiences. I was glad I went for the experience, but, given the chance to repeat or watch paint dry with a chilled can of lager, there would be no contest. This despite the fact that I learned that I witnessed a leaf tea ceremony, much different to a powder tea ceremony. Yes mate, about as different as watching Dulux orange matt emulsion and white gloss dry.

The calm before the paint drying

Our day out at the rice planting festival, on the other hand, was a magnificent affair. My neighbour Vanessa is more enthusiastic about the Japanese experience that I, but I agreed to join her and another couple, Simon and Hiromi, for a day out in the country at the annual rice planting festival. According to Vanessa, the girls would be planting the rice in the field, while the boys would watch with beer in hand. Seemed like a reasonable plan to me, so we headed out on a Sunday morning. I was curious about a number of things, not least what rice seedlings look like, for I had no idea how they grew, save that waterlogged fields were in the equation somewhere.

It soon became apparent that this was to be a traditional affair. The girls were whisked off into a room to change into their 'uniforms' and soon emerged resembling an Oriental version of Little Bo Peep, with a colourful outfit consisting of navy blue dress with white Japanese characters, a red sash, what looked like a handkerchief covering their cheeks and a ridiculous straw hat, in the shape of an upturned wok and dark knee-length socks. Very sexy, I am sure. Simon was roped into proceedings, as they were a man short, and emerged in similar attire, sky-blue being his main colour, although I did enjoy the fetching pink bobble on top of his equally ridiculous hat.

There were several other foreigners taking part and the local press was out in force. I have never seen the paparazzi in action and was shocked at their intrusive nature, as they simply thrust cameras in faces without asking permission. Still the atmosphere was friendly enough and I sauntered over to the field for the main event, armed with three cameras to record the day for posterity. As the sun beat down on the tree-clad mountains, I looked around at the other fields, an impressive array of order; every field bar one was waterlogged and muddy, complete with line after line of small green shoots in perfect rows. The planting season had begun. Only the field in front of me was devoid of the green shoots, for now at least.

Although my colleagues would soon be wading through the mud, the field was now occupied by five bulls decorated in an assortment of colours and pomp, small banners with kanji writing on their backs. Each was led by a man, resplendent in nave blue attire and straw wok. Any thoughts of me wanting to get involved in the planting disappeared as I watched the bulls crapping and peeing with abandon; five minutes later Vanessa and co. would be knee deep in the same place. I treated myself to a beer and fought with the dozens of photographers for a favourable vantage point.

To the beating of drums and with great fanfare they came, these women planters. Standing a metre apart and to the sound of drums and ancient planting songs, they began to plant the seedlings, sticking them in the mud and the bull droppings. I could smell them from ten metres away. There was a beautiful symmetry to proceedings and to the field too, as perfect green lines began to form as the ladies planted and walked slowly backwards. Simon's job was crucial, as he was holding the line with a long piece of string, which indicated where the next row was to start. After about an hour, three beers to the good, I went over to my colleagues who were busy cleaning up. More paparazzi shots and some sake (which I still find disgusting), then on to the bathing house.

Saunas are all very well, but nothing beats the Japanese bathing experience. Simon and I went off to the gents bath. The first thing to remember is that you clean yourself BEFORE you go in. Showers and toiletries are provided and then it is into the selection of pools and saunas, all of varying temperatures. A hot spring jacuzzi was my favourite, although I did enjoy mixing temperatures. A wonderful way to while away an hour or two. The sauna was large and hot, although most of its users seemed oblivious to the heat, fascinated as they were by the sumo wrestling on the television in the sauna.

Next stop was the sushi train, a wonderful invention. These are restaurants where you sit at the counter and watch the sushi coming round on individual plates. Each plate costs about 50p and you simply pay for the number of plates at the end. There is wide variety, a living menu. If nothing appeals, you press a button on your personal intercom and order whatever you wish. I sat in awe as a family of four (two of them young children) racked up sixty-two plates between them. Some people deride these restaurants as the sushi loses its freshness and is generally of poor quality. It tastes pretty good to me and I am reminded of the numerous customers who used to apologise to me for not having good taste in wine - they liked a wine that cost three quid a bottle. How lucky they were and how lucky I am not to be a sushi snob - there is a sushi train restaurant opposite the office I teach on Wednesdays, and I happily blow $8 on a full meal. Meat is something I rarely eat these days. A wonderful day, one that was concluded with a visit to the tenpin bowling alley, a popular pursuit here.

Several of you have enquired as to Vanessa's slapping tally. In the Tokyo report, I referred to the Great Japanese Illness, in which Western men fall in love with Japanese beauties and then see no way back to Caucasian women. All the guys were convinced it would be a matter of time before I saw the 'light.' I am still looking. Vanessa promised to interview me every week to check for any symptoms of the illness and to slap me if she found me getting sick. She has slapped me but once.

There was a student who I thought was vaguely cute in a moment of weakness. The moment passed but not before I had confessed to Vanessa and also not before the powers that be thought it would be amusing to inform the student, which led to an interesting lesson the following week (one to one), in which she repeatedly asked me if I thought she was cute and told me that the happiest part of her week was the seventy minutes in my class, especially if was just the two of, to which the only reply was:

"You should get out more then, shouldn't you? Now, on Page 43…" Of course the compliments form the supposedly shy Japanese continue to flow, my favourite from this week's crop being:

"If you weren't so fat, you might be handsome." (middle-aged lady, in all seriousness). Several other comments have been even ruder. I find the whole thing enormously entertaining, although some of the other teachers have different views.

The teaching is going well and I am certainly being exposed to a variety of situations. My bonding with the children continues to torture me, mostly because I cannot communicate with them. In one class, a perfectly happy six year-old suddenly burst into floods of tears on me. As I sat on the floor cuddling her and trying to find out what the problem was, the other kids were baying TEACHER, FINISHED!!!!! Cry Baby clung on and I couldn't move, so the last ten minutes of the class were spent ordering the others to draw '8 happy red elephants', '2 sad blue zebras' on the board. Hours of fun. The next week the girl burst into tears inside three minutes. It transpires that if she loses a vocab game she will cry, but I am not to stop the competitive games. Kids? Who needs them?

I am particularly enjoying my day out at the Mitsubishi factory where I teach a course for beginners to fourteen 18 year-old trainee engineers. The factory, a sprawling complex on the coast, seems to be a clean and efficient place, where the guard greets me in English and enquiries after my health. The students, in blue overalls, do not want to be there, but the course is part of their traineeship. Clad in blue overalls and with name plates in English on the desks, they rise as I enter and, upon instruction from the head trainee, they bow in unison and shout something indecipherable which I take to be 'Good Morning' but could equally be 'Fuck off, Englishman.' This is repeated at the end of the class. They are proving more willing students with every passing week and I take in a soft ball now, which I throw around the class, asking questions in English as I do so.The Mitsubishi boys - 14 engineers... And no girlfriends

I have also made my debut on the university lecturing circuit. My long-term pal Andy arranged for me to give a seminar to the Russian department about my time in Russia, which seemed like an easy way for me to make some cash, at least until the seminar topic was changed three days before it was due to take place. I met the Russian lecturer to discuss various themes and then she decided that she wanted my seminar to be not on my experiences but The Changing Nature of Contemporary Russia, about which I knew nothing (I have spent one month in Russia, back in 1995, in the last ten years). In particular she wanted me to focus on corruption, Siberia - where I once spent a weekend - and present conditions for the ordinary worker. Needless to say the Ginger database was raked and I am grateful for the excellent contributions from those of you in Vienna, Gori, Strasbourg, Portland, Tbilisi, Moscow and Omsk who helped save the day. As a result of this, I find myself giving a lecture on the Arab-Israeli conflict to the professors of the university next week, which will be something more of a challenge, although it has been fascinating reading more about the conflict. I have just finished Ariel Sharon's autobiography, as frightening a read as I have ever had the dubious pleasure.

Speaking of Russians, I did spend a fascinating afternoon with 'Maria' in the park. Never one to pass up the chance of a russki chat, we agreed to meet for a coffee. Her story was interesting. At the age of twenty, she 'fell in love' with a Japanese man twenty years her senior, despite the fact that English was the only language they had in common (hers was not great). They married and moved to Hiroshima, where she was supposed to take up the role of traditional Japanese wife. On the plane over, she realised she couldn't speak a word of Japanese and wondered how she would cope. A pregnancy was followed by her husband leaving her, and she has been here ever since, raising her child with the support of his family.

I asked about her job, although I guessed (stereotypes) that, as an attractive Russian, she would be working in the hostess industry. Indeed she was, but she was doing very well out of it. By now bi-lingual, she works in an exclusive club, the only foreign worker, talking to businessmen after a hard day at the office, for which she is paid handsomely. When I pressed her for more details, I realised how well she must be doing. She is earning enough now so that she only has to work three nights a week. The club has a membership joining fee of $3,000, in addition to the monthly fee of $100. Not only that, but every time you pop in for a quick half on your way home, you are charged $200 for the first hour. It is her job to keep them talking. And talking. I have no doubt from our pleasant afternoon together that she is very good at her job. This is a big cultural difference with the West - in England, you would pop in for a swift half or two at your local pub if you didn't want to go straight home to the wife, and it might cost you a couple of quid.

Anyway, Japan still appeals, although I have found that my goals are shifting somewhat. This is the first place I have been tied to for some time and I like the stability after two and a half years on the road. I have finally had the time and space to look at where I want to go and have decided that place is home in Croatia. I didn't think I would experience homesickness again, but I do miss that little island of mine (and the other 10,999 who call it home). A drunken conversation in a Hiloshima bar at 3am has turned into a viable business idea and I, along with four friends, plan to open a language school, translation and tourism business, based on the island, from May 2004. There are many options, many possibilities and I am convinced that the idea is a winner. I am going home for a couple of weeks in August to do some market research and discuss further with the rest of the team.

In fact, if that drunken conversation started things off, the night I decided the Croatian idea was the right way forward also involved a drop or two and led to a difficult and somewhat embarrassing following day. I was out with the boys until about 2am when I decided it was time for an early night, especially as I had to be up early to teach at my boarding school. While there are many things I don't enjoy about teaching three classes of snotty fifteen year-olds, the worst aspect is that I know I will not sleep the night before, since I am petrified of 'doing a Richard.'

Richard is a colleague from Houston who started the week before me. We went on an all-night bender with some other teachers and he eventually left for bed at 6am, due as he was to meet the secretary at 8.40, who would escort him to the boarding school. As we carried on until 8am, we laughed at poor Richard and how he was going to get through the morning. It turned out that he got through the morning rather well, sleeping soundly until shortly after midday, despite the secretary banging on his front door.

As a result, the psychological fear of 'doing a Richard' weighs heavy on a Wednesday night for me. Having said goodbye at 2am, I wandered in the direction of the Internet café. Incoming email from Croatia got me thinking about the business idea and I sat in the park with a couple of beers and pondered. Suddenly it was 7.15 and people were on their way to work. I had to get my skates on too, so I showered and breakfasted and headed up to school. Teaching in a school after too many beers and no sleep is not recommended - lesson learned. Sleeping on tables for fat Gingers is also not recommended - lesson learned. I popped back to HQ after finishing at the boarding school, with three hours to kill before my evening students. The secretary lent me a pillow and gave me a key to the classroom upstairs. Exhausted, I plonked myself on the (admittedly quite flimsy) table and found myself at floor level a nano-second later, the remnants of the table beneath me. That is known as 'doing a Paul.'

Anyway, getting legless until three in the morning in expensive bars has been replaced by money-saving techniques such as drinking my $3 bottles of wine at home instead. I have quite high hopes that the publisher interest in the book will translate into something concrete and I have also started a second book, which I hope to have completed by the time I leave Japan. I MUST learn Japanese though, I have been very lazy on that front.

Enough from me. I need to plan a couple of lessons, as I am teaching English, German, Russian and French this week. Mick Jagger habite a Londres. How do we move on from there?

Keep writing,

Love Paul

From Hiroshima Diaries Hiloshima to Houston