Moshi moshi!
Seven days in Japan by Dylan Strain
Labradors wag their tails, weaving in and out of passengers alongside their masters, sniffing bags for drugs. My finger prints and picture are taken electronically at Kansai Airport (Osaka) but it’s all done with the utmost politeness, respect and occasional smile.
Fukuoka from the air
I’m one stop before my last flight to final destination Fukuoka. Here, I experience my own turbulence on the ground. Somehow I lose presents for my Japanese contact teacher, (whiskey and London Underground tea) then I’m informed my luggage has gone missing, leaving me without clothes or teaching materials and there’s work tomorrow. I’ve also got to run to check-in and get to my boarding gate.
However, I impress myself with a Zen approach to it all.
Everything turns out to be just fine, when I eventually realise, later on the plane, that I’ve now got a day and a half off. “Happy days,” I think to myself as I relax into my seat to stare at beautiful clouds, coastline and later, the amazingly long lasting view of a city that is hardly an architectural gem.
In terms of size of city in Japan, it’s Tokyo, Osaka and then my city for the week, Fukuoka. Have I flown half way around the world for Japan’s Birmingham? Anyway, the luggage arrives the following afternoon.
In my very comfortable business hotel room, the intelligent toilet gives me a pleasant warm jet of water on the bottom - a welcome to Japan of sorts. I have a shower. More than half of one wall is a huge mirror in the bathroom. The room has steamed up. I get out to find, above the basin, a perfect size rectangle of a mirror, un-misted and ready for service. This makes me burst out laughing. Ingenious, brilliant and funny all at the same time.
Time to explore perhaps the main area of the city, Tenjin.
The Subway
The green line, a three stop subway ride to Tenjin, is a pleasure. The staff are beautifully turned out, greeting you with pleasantries as you go in and out of the barriers. If your ticket doesn’t work, they don’t need to check your ticket, they assume it’s the machine at fault and take you on trust.
On the train, people are sleeping. It’s 4pm. A girl is multi–tasking, asleep with mobile outstretched in hand for anyone to steal should they wish to. I’m the only western face in the carriage. I enjoy the novelty. The carriages are relatively silent, though many people are texting on their latest flip - up phones. Turn the screen sideways and watch TV, although no one does; need a dictionary, no problem they’re built in. I’m told, later in the week by a Japanese girl, “People would never call anyone from the subway, it wouldn’t be polite.”
The train glides beautifully along. The recorded announcer announces, “Wat-a-nabe Dori,” (quietly) as the next station stop, her voice making the sound of the letters quite beautiful. On alighting, amusing, relaxing and slightly bonkers tweety bird noises greet you as you climb the escalator. Keep to the left, not the right as in England. (They do drive on the left however).
The subway is reasonably priced, 200 Yen (under a pound for zone one), 100 if you are just going to the next stop. 600 Yen (well under three pounds) for a day pass. Fukuoka, for many things, if not most, (including food) is cheaper than England.
The immaculately groomed member of staff in green, complete with peaked cap, thanks me and most other people for using the service. He is largely ignored. It is a pointless job of service, but endearing, I try a badly pronounced “arigatou gozaimas” - thank you. At least I’ve started speaking bits of my new language, even if I if get it wrong. I think the authorities are very proud of their new green line and they should be.
Shopping
Town planners are clever in Japan. Between subway lines at Tenjin, there lies an absolute plethora of attractive stores in a quite vast, smart underground mall. You can access the main department stores here, one being Mitsukoshi, taking me straight into a Harvey Nicks / Harrods type of a food hall.
I’m assaulted, nicely, by assistants all firing a “moshi moshi” at me, wanting me to try their fare. It’s great fun being a Mitsukoshi food hall virgin, the pleasantries, the bowing and all, but the locals must get a bit tired of it.
“Merry Christmas” in Japan? - Consumerism
Since my arrival into Japan, I’ve been bombarded from all around, everywhere, by awful electronic versions of every Christmas song you can possibly think of. Christmas is wrapped around me, trees, greetings signs, men dressed up as Santas on scooters (delivering pizza).
Its explained to me that it’s a fun festival in Japan, Japan’s main religion being an unpracticed Buddhism. Like in England, only older people would go to church, unless for a wedding or funeral.
“Young couples would be the only people to buy presents for each other,” I’m told. Can this be true? ‘Christmas’ clearly sells a lot more goods than would be otherwise. Real Japanese culture is saved for the New Year, three days off and a special meal with the family.
I feel annoyed by the powerful in America. Drop the atom bomb at nearby Hiroshima and then sell corporate capitalism to The Japanese, including Christmas, as just one more device to keep the tills ticking.
Shops are often named in English, such as ‘Heart-In’ (a convenience store) with the tag line underneath reading, “Because we have a ‘heart’ in our shop.” Fine, shop names in English, but can most people in Fukuoka understand these signs, I’m not sure.
In Fukuoka, I witness an ultra consumerist society. Everywhere people are politely selling you things.
Young people are extremely fashion conscious, their hair - perfect, their clothes - expensive, designer bags in their hands where ever I look.
When I cover ‘Food & Drink’ with my school kids, they do a blackboard race to write down what they know. Coke, hamburgers, fries, Kitkats & M&M chocolates are some of the first items on the list. Macdonalds does its best business outside of the U.S. in Japan.
There are Christmas illuminations in a square nearby, drawing in the locals to take pictures. I have just bought a digital camera. I’m impressed; I’ve 1000 pictures available to me. Perhaps we have the Japanese to thank for wanting to take so many pictures?
Tenjin
It’s around 8pm in Tenjin. There are school kids everywhere in their well turned-out uniforms, scores waiting for buses or having a look in the shops.
At the zebra crossings, jay walking is not on, everybody waits for the green man in a hat. (In bizarre contrast, cycling very fast on the pavement, weaving in and out, nearly killing your fellow pedestrians, whilst talking on your mobile is allowed, much to my annoyance.)
Japanese electronic folk music tells us it’s green, time to cross. At first I feel the same way as the electronic Christmas music, but I become quite attached to the musical crossings quite quickly.
Plasticised food outside restaurant
I go for a bite to eat. Cafes and restaurants display their wears with real made up examples at the entrance or by plasticised versions. I point to a pasta dish (pasta / pizza is not unsurprisingly very popular) and order a tea, she has normal tea, but she doesn’t understand me at all – Earl Grey it is! What is it about other countries and their fascination with flipping Earl Grey tea? Often it’s all they have, served with hot milk. With my tea and hot milk I receive a tea bag timer for optimum dunking time. I follow the timer to the letter, but my tea is weak - piss weak, not to worry, the timer was great fun, reminding me of my unmistable mirror.
Everywhere in Fukuoka, many people choose to wear white face masks to guard against car pollution or because they have a cold. The irony here is that the bars, cafes and restaurants are thick with cigarette smoke, a turn off for this Brit these days, I eat and get out of there.
Hospitality in Fukuoka
On my way back to England I overheard an Englishman in Amsterdam say he’d been in Tokyo for eight years and knows he’ll never be accepted by Japanese people. This was not my experience over the week. For a start, I would often be asked by people in shops, “Where you from?” In chatting, I remembered that Japanese people say the ‘L’ for ‘R’ so, “I’m up for election this week,” could be interpreted the wrong way.
I’d been a little lonely on my second day in the school, the third day in Japan. In ‘Shakti,’ an Indian restaurant, (it’s difficult to be a veggie in Japan) one of the many Indian gods smiled on me. A pretty Japanese girl dressed in Indian clothing, escorts me to my choice of table in the main restaurant, but at the last second I choose a seat by the bar, her friend Mihoko is sitting there, four seats separating us.
Mihoko and Rena have travelled together in India and are big fans, Rena wearing Indian clothes everyday of the week as a badge of love.
Before much is said, there’s a fizz in the air, an energy, we’re all up for the chat, we’re interested in each other.
Both the girls are bright as a button. Rena is sparky, a character, she understands a lot that I say, but can’t express herself in English well. Mihoko is quietly confident; she has a sophistication about her, she dresses well and smokes cigarettes with an air of unknowing cool. She’s learnt her English from travelling in Asia. She has to work quite hard to talk to me, something I appreciated a lot, but always makes her point well.
“Call me Miho, people who are not Japanese find my name difficult to pronounce.”
Both women are excellent listeners, Miho making cute Japanese listening noises, a kind of long “Ooh” sound, often repeated.
We discuss travel, our dreams and our heroes.
“Women seem to be more equal than they used to be?” I enquire. “Yes, definitely with the young.”
We discuss the politeness of Japanese and English culture. “I must learn to say ‘no’ more” comments Miho.
After an hour, a middle-aged Japanese man sits down at the bar. Rena quickly ushers me up from my seat, re-sitting me next to Miho.
“I love getting bombarded with ‘Moshi Moshi’ in Mitsokoshi” I say. The man telling us, it comes from the more traditional greeting “moshmas.”
“I didn’t know that” says Miho. We chat away, mostly Miho and I, with occasional input from Rena and our new dinner guest.
Rena is keen Miho should take me out, show me some of Fukuoka. We agree to meet the day after next using the restaurant as our starting point. The girls seem somewhat giggly and conspiratorial as I’m walking out of the restaurant.
Johrei in Fukuoka
The number one religion in Japan is Buddhism, followed by Shinto and then Johrei. ‘Johrei’ means ‘purification of the spirit’ and basically involves sitting opposite someone whilst they give you healing energy using their hand without touching, for everyday health or to cure illness. The energy comes not from them, but from the natural energy available to us. Anyone can channel and give this energy. The Johrei energy releases or liquidizes toxins in the body.
A visit to one of many Johrei centres in Fukuoka took me to Hakata (which used to be a city in its own right on the opposite side of the river to Fukuoka) and is very close to the main train station of the same name. There, Mr Sakamoto, a down-to-earth peaceful man of around sixty, gives me Johrei for fifteen minutes and I heat up, feeling a tingling on my head. Afterwards he gives me a gift from their small organic shop.
I’m exhausted at this point in the week, I’ve worked hard and made the most of my time off, but my legs feel very light and I walk quickly with ease around the city for the rest of the day.
The Wednesday date?
Whilst we are sorting out a plan of attack for the evening, one of the girls’ friends, Katsunori sits down at the bar after a hard day's graft at the bakery where he works. Shortly later, Rena asks if I mind if she invites him to come with me and Miho. “No, I don’t mind” I say, but I do, I try to show it in my voice, but off we go, the three of us.
We set of by taxi (I love the grandmother chintzy style seat covers they all use) to a Yatai, a kind of market stall, sit down eating place, complete with plastic walls. They are very popular with the locals and tourists alike. A good-ish experience, given that we are three, I see Ramen (traditional noodle soup with pork and soy) and eat Oden (circular radish with tofu type rectangle.)
Katsunori gives me a crash course in chop stick eating, his whole demeanour unbelieving that a person can be so unschooled with his sticks. He turns out to have very little English, but he’s all smiles, bright baseball jacket, bright personality. He gets stuck in, communicating via Miho. I can’t help liking him, he’s disarming. Not for the first time, he throws in a cheeky smile, acknowledging something between Miho and me, asking via Mihoko as interpreter and therefore adding to his naughtiness, “Dylan.. Do you have a girlfriend?” I didn’t, haven’t, we’d split up four weeks ago.
In a Yatai with Katsunori
From here, I’m taken to a good-looking, but tiny bar, just one rectangular room, where we drink and sing karaoke for the next couple of hours. The electronic menu pads dotted around the bar offer quite a choice. A man wants to sing Oasis songs with me. We do. His name is Yasuykawa. He gives me his card, something Japanese people seem to do a lot, “Next time you’re in Fukuoka..”
I educate the bar in the ways of The Arctic Monkeys, doing my best to promote, “When The Sun Goes Down.” When my drink is finished, the landlady and friend of the girls’, fills the glass again, often without asking me. I shall have to be firm with her.
Rena arrives with boss, Shankar, the restaurant now closed. Rena and Miho sing traditional Japanese songs, Japanese pop songs, ballads and some Beatles. Miho wanted to be a professional singer for a long time, but shows some shyness in moments, a little unsure of her talent. She needn’t worry, or as she pronounces it, “welly.” Which is all I can do with my songs, give ‘em some welly, its full blast, I’m big in a small space, but I seem to be entertaining.
Shankar Rena Katsunori Me Miho plus friend
We drink shochu, a favourite with Mihoko, made from sweet potato (it tastes like watered down sake.)
“If you hadn’t had gone to the restaurant that night, we wouldn’t have met,” says Miho. She searches for a word, looks it up on a computer dictionary. ‘Chance’ it says. If ever a boy received mixed messages it was with Miho.
At 11.55pm, Katsunori announces it’s his birthday, erm.. any minute. Shankar, rushes out to buy a cake and onigiris (inexpensive triangular rice snack with seaweed – very tasty).
It’s Katsy’s birthday, but he’s mentioned Japanese animation to me and gives me a double dvd by Hayao Miyazaki in a Japanese case he’s got with him. Mihoko tells me she’s a big fan of his. I get the present and it’s Katsy’s birthday.
I sing him Stevie Wonder’s ‘Happy Birthday.’ I always thought this song was schmaltzy and light, but it’s actually a celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, someone we’ve talked about.
“Do Japanese people work too hard?” I ask Miho.“My grandparents worked too hard after World War 2. My parents worked hard, but the young don’t.”
My work colleague, Masami backs this up the following day, “Young people don’t want to work full-time anymore. They want the designer clothes, but work part–time and live in 24 hour internet cafes for 1000 / 2000 yen a night or pod hotels. It’s a big social problem here. These people are called ‘Freeters.’
I have tried very hard to call Mihoko by her full name, but keep mucking it up, a mixture of tiredness, the drink and not wanting to get it wrong and so of course, I do. She was right, I should have called her ‘Miho’ from the start.
Between twelve and one, Miho keeps asking me if I’m alright. “I’ll go home with you, I’ll just finish this drink.” I am not quite sure what she means by this, the sentence is lost in translation. She seems slightly put out that I’m so tired and a little quiet. I’m exhausted, I’ve worked hard and played hard, given everything on the karaoke, a lot of songs, but it wasn’t too much of a chore. I’m asked for my take on Nirvana’s ‘Smells like teen spirit’ for the second time, I belt it out, jump up and down, but inside I’m done.
Miho has paid for the whole evening, something she says The Japanese do for their guest, but I feel a bit bad that I’ve not put my hand in my pocket.
At 1.30 am, Me, Miho and .. Katsunori get out of the taxi at my hotel, I pay for it. (I decide the following day to buy Miho an Arctic Monkeys CD to say thanks for the evening).
“Have a great birthday Katsy!” He has to get up in a few hours to work in the bakery. Miho and I agree to meet at 8pm later that day. We look at each other as I go into the hotel until I’m out of sight.
The week at school
I teach fifteen, thirteen-year-old private school boys an English programme for the week. I am a little nervous about it all, I’ve never taught Japanese kids before, I expect the level of English to be poor, especially the written English, given the difference in alphabets.
It takes me a while to pronounce and learn each name properly. Ikuto (Ikto) Keisuke (Keyskai) Daisuke, Yusuke etc. I’m embarrassed by this, the kids know it. For most of the week I’m called “Teacher, teacher!” a fitting response, but I think I’d have got this anyway.
I’m told by their teacher Mr Mori, that Japanese kids are used to writing English but not talking it. Shota shows me his normal English book for vocabulary during a break. Each word is written and practised eight times, the students know a lot, but will they communicate with each other?
I ask a question to Yuichiro in lesson one (pronounced Youreachero) and to Mr Mori’s interest, he freezes visibly. If I raise my voice during a lesson, which I need to do a few times over the week, I can tell that they fear a bollocking in a way that other kids don’t. It never needs to come to that, they are respectful, compliant students in general.
The kids begin shyly, but most, quickly come out of themselves.
About half or more have mini computer dictionaries and my, do they use them, a hindrance in class, more than a help, but these boys want to learn.
Their work ethic seems higher than the average class I usually teach, they are slow to finish anything, but work on it until they are happy. They pour over their project posters (a chance to tell people in English about something they like). Examples this week – kendo, playing piano, baseball, the bassoon – hobbies basically, meticulously working on their drawings to accompany around fifty words of English.
The team games fail to prise a competitive nature out of the boys, they are the least competitive kids I have ever come across, well, as far as winning English games are concerned, quite a statement given that they are all boys.
One child is the class swot, his English - a cut above. Some are very handsome, some not, some are cheeky, some too cool for school, or too tired or distracted. I was silly, naive on day one, of course; kids are just kids.
By the Friday, they rarely call me “teacher!” and I know all of their names by heart, without a seconds pause. There’s an easy rapport between us.
The highlight of the week is a show performed in English. They have a lot of fun showing me their version of The Hokey Cokey in rehearsal. It’s to be our finale in the show.
The boys rehearse The Hokey Cokey
My boys deliver. They’ve been quietly spoken most of the week in practising the show, but now they all find new gears on adrenalin, words are well pronounced and heard by the parents. I’m proud of them. Nerve racking to perform in Japanese, let alone English!
Mr Mori says some great things about our week to the parents. He has said very little all week, now he says a lot. I am touched by his words. Some of the boys come up to me as they leave the hall, “See you Mr Diwan.” “Thank you Diwan.”
I leave the school grounds for the last time, alone. The weather is beautiful, warm for December, 12 degrees. I walk down the hill, back to my hotel, kind words replaying in my mind, a spring in my step.
The second date with Mihoko / The last evening
I can’t wait for 8pm. I’m seriously contemplating missing my return flight for three weeks of adventure in Japan before I start my next job. I’d be a ‘Freeter,’ living in 24 hour internet cafes to survive. The three weeks would still clean me out financially, but flying half way around the world for a week is a bit crazy. What if tonight meant missing that flight home for my birthday and Christmas with the family?
The time arrives at last, I’m in the Indian restaurant once again, the fourth time, it’s been our rendezvous for the entire week.
There’s no sign of Miho. Have I been stood up? I wait thirty minutes. I badger Shankar, the owner, to ring Rena, who isn’t working that night, to ring Mihoko herself. I speak to Rena, she’s not spoken to Miho all day, she will try to contact her.
Shankar tells me, “I’ve got four restaurants. I can make the contacts in Japan easily enough, but I will never get to really know the Japanese. They say they will meet you, then they don’t. Too many broken hearts!” he said jokily. Perhaps the man in Amsterdam is right, many Japanese people never truly let you in to how they’re feeling or thinking?
Eventually, two hours later, I speak to Mihoko on the phone. She’s been burning the candle, she’s tired, often staying up to drink until 3am with friends, before getting up to do her dull, repetitive job in mobile phones.
“Is it your last night?”
“Yes.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Well, I’ll be off quite soon, but if you come down, one, two, three, four hours, who knows?”
She laughs. She’ll be there in fifteen minutes, ten o’clock, two hours late.
We talk and drink for around two hours. I am a bit miffed by her attitude and it shows through a little, I’m sure.
Sipping her usual shochus and almost chain-smoking, something she does only when she drinks, she is tired, the enthusiasm and spark in her voice, a memory of previous days.
In Shakti Miho at end of my time in Japan
Just a few hours before my flight on a main road pavement near to the restaurant, I give her a little hug, a peck on the cheek.
I blow her a little kiss, turn and walk along the pavement. I am determined not to turn around, but after what seems an age, I take a sneaky look behind me. She has only just set off on her bike going across the road. She doesn’t see me looking.
Hmm, who knows then? Ah well, sayonara.
Eiko (translation - English Child) is from Hiroshima. People of her Grandmother's age and subsequent offspring have suffered badly. Her Grandmother tells Eiko and her generation to be peaceful. "You must be peaceful." With North Korea on the doorstep life is a worry for many people in the region.
