Yes, the blog hasn't seen any attention for the last couple of months, and although I'd like to pretend that that's been because my attention has been monopolised by the sweeping tide of recent world events, it would be only proper to concede that laziness, a lack of life-changing personal events and, well, laziness are once again primarily to blame. But not entirely to blame...
My attention of late has turned to helping the local area's tourist board construct an English section for their web-site, which has meant that I've been taken around Azumino's sightseeing hotspots in an attempt to give me a better idea of what to write about. Such locales have included a wasabi farm, no less than three picture book museums and the soba (buckwheat noodles) parlour, Konekone House. After participating in a spot of soba-making at the aforementioned establishment, I became the unsuspecting foreign curiosity of a local newspaper headline, finally attaining fame in this land after a paltry two-and-a-half year tenure.
AET - The Artist Formerly Known As 'Alex'
My attention of late has turned to helping the local area's tourist board construct an English section for their web-site, which has meant that I've been taken around Azumino's sightseeing hotspots in an attempt to give me a better idea of what to write about. Such locales have included a wasabi farm, no less than three picture book museums and the soba (buckwheat noodles) parlour, Konekone House. After participating in a spot of soba-making at the aforementioned establishment, I became the unsuspecting foreign curiosity of a local newspaper headline, finally attaining fame in this land after a paltry two-and-a-half year tenure.
AET - The Artist Formerly Known As 'Alex'
- Location:My House
- Mood:
lazy - Music:'I'm Good, I'm Gone (Acoustic)' - Lykke Li
Besides the thankless task of teaching English to kiddies in the apathetic throws of post-pubescence, another aspect of my job in Japan involves having to attend the various seminars and conferences mandated by our Japanese puppet masters in the Prefectural Board of Education. While these events present a welcome day-off school and the chance to catch up with lesser-sighted friends from around the prefecture, they also mean that I have to negotiate with the modicum of responsibility that has been bestowed upon me through the sole virtue of having lived here for two years: namely, the position as one of the prefecture’s 'block leaders.'
In essence, the role of a block leader is a simple one: make new-coming JETs feel welcome, while helping the powers-that-be in the Prefectural Governor’s building organise and present the aforementioned conferences throughout the year. Although I’ll begrudgingly admit that this added responsibility is a good way of adding a bit more credibility to my continuing presence in Japan in terms of the old CV, it does require that I occasionally indulge a pet-hate of my mine – presenting workshops by myself.
Typically, my phobia of public speaking manifests itself through desperate schemes to lessen my stage time, such as coercing other people into helping me, and last week’s JET October Meeting proved to be no exception. So, in making a presentation on using technology in the classroom, I cobbled together a short introductory film – itself, a technological aid in lessening the whole burden of a talk on my nerve-ravaged larynx. While the introduction fails to fill the whole 35 minutes of a presentation, it at least serves in giving those at home an idea of what a Japanese school looks like, so I’ve posted the completed film below.
Thanks goes out to my dear friend Erin, my lovely supervisor Mayumi and the bemused volunteers of my third-year Oral Communication class.
In essence, the role of a block leader is a simple one: make new-coming JETs feel welcome, while helping the powers-that-be in the Prefectural Governor’s building organise and present the aforementioned conferences throughout the year. Although I’ll begrudgingly admit that this added responsibility is a good way of adding a bit more credibility to my continuing presence in Japan in terms of the old CV, it does require that I occasionally indulge a pet-hate of my mine – presenting workshops by myself.
Typically, my phobia of public speaking manifests itself through desperate schemes to lessen my stage time, such as coercing other people into helping me, and last week’s JET October Meeting proved to be no exception. So, in making a presentation on using technology in the classroom, I cobbled together a short introductory film – itself, a technological aid in lessening the whole burden of a talk on my nerve-ravaged larynx. While the introduction fails to fill the whole 35 minutes of a presentation, it at least serves in giving those at home an idea of what a Japanese school looks like, so I’ve posted the completed film below.
Thanks goes out to my dear friend Erin, my lovely supervisor Mayumi and the bemused volunteers of my third-year Oral Communication class.
- Location:My House
- Mood:
refreshed - Music:'I Love Buddha' - Monkey (Damon Albarn & Jamie Hewlett)
The pink flood of cherry blossom in the spring, the fiery canvass of aged leaves in the autumn, the icy hues of snow-capped mountains in the winter – these images are undoubtedly the most celebrated spectacles of the changing Japanese landscape throughout the year. And yet, for those who look closer, further wonders of the changing seasons may be discovered; and no such marvel is as wondrous as the spectacle unique to the heavy rains that affect these few weeks of the year.
Having survived drought, ravenous birds and the purging floods of the ever-relentless summer rains, the final weeks of July see an eruption of baby frogs from the many rice-paddies that idly litter much of the Nagano suburbs and countryside. Ordinarily, the aftermath of such an event would invite biblical comparisons to the Second Egyptian Plague if it weren’t for the fact that the rice-paddies in the area are flanked by an arterial network of some of the busiest roads in Azumino – roads where hundreds of thousands of froglets find themselves prematurely skipping a step in their otherwise complex lifecycle by means of an intimate union between asphalt and rubber. How I love summer.
Thank god I'm still using winter tyres
Having survived drought, ravenous birds and the purging floods of the ever-relentless summer rains, the final weeks of July see an eruption of baby frogs from the many rice-paddies that idly litter much of the Nagano suburbs and countryside. Ordinarily, the aftermath of such an event would invite biblical comparisons to the Second Egyptian Plague if it weren’t for the fact that the rice-paddies in the area are flanked by an arterial network of some of the busiest roads in Azumino – roads where hundreds of thousands of froglets find themselves prematurely skipping a step in their otherwise complex lifecycle by means of an intimate union between asphalt and rubber. How I love summer.
Thank god I'm still using winter tyres
- Location:My House
- Mood:
guilty - Music:'Hold Yr Terror Close' - The Go! Team
A showcase of English Haikus from my students’ summer creative-writing test - a genuinely fine collection of pieces, although in some instances, showing perhaps more promise in circumventing creativity than necessarily expressing it…
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| Past Tears Accumulate | A Batting Solution |
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| Stretching Copyright | Clouding Copyright |
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| Summer of Love | Summer Bummer |
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Summer Blues | Ice Cubes! |
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Rhyming Mad | Cold Cash |
- Location:My House
- Mood:
artistic - Music:'Get Gone' - Tom Waits
Being the sort that is easily bullied into participating in municipality-sponsored events promoting grassroots internationalisation in Japan, last month saw me manning the UK booth with fellow Brit Jo at the annual Chikuma International Festival. Save for the poorly judged placing of the Taiwanese booth immediately adjacent to a none-too-happy Chinese stand, few things happened at the event that would otherwise warrant a journal entry. However, it was the remarkable discovery made whilst making 200 portions of fairly unremarkable apple crumble for our booth that perhaps justifies at least a little time clumsily punching away at this keyboard.
The day prior to the festival was to be spent making the aforementioned British pudding, and I had made plans to join Audrey and Zia at a community centre in Saku to exploit the buildings generously outfitted kitchen. Being in a rush to get there, I only had time to get a few necessary ingredients in bulk before arriving at the remote centre, assuming (naively) that those items missing from my shopping bags could be easily picked up elsewhere.
“Zia, where’s the nearest supermarket?”
“Why, what do you need?” asked Zia, earnestly sipping from a glass of water.
“Enough butter to make 200 portions of apple crumble.”
[Zia’s eyes widen and all her ability in containing the water in her mouth is lost with her ensuing reaction]
“Pffff… HA!!!”
While my memory of Zia’s rather gauche response may be somewhat embellished for the sake of dramatic effect, it perhaps best serves in illustrating how ridiculous my question was for anyone who had even a tenuous awareness of Japanese current affairs from the past year. Although the western press would have you believe that the current food crisis is a phenomenon primarily affecting the developing world, spare a thought for Japan, who for the past year has suffered a shortage of the very ingredient I was short of. After finally composing herself and having realised that I was genuinely ignorant of the current situation, Zia kindly explained why it was terribly unlikely that I would find enough butter for 200 portions of apple crumble.
The story goes that there was a surplus of milk a couple of years ago, which led the then government to demand that it be flushed away and for future production to be dramatically decreased in proceeding years. Being the by-product of the milk manufacturing process, butter production was subsequently affected also, a result that the short-sighted politicians hadn’t counted on. To cut a long story short, less milk was produced in proceeding years, and thus, Japan now finds itself largely sans beaurre.
Ordinarily, a butter shortage would be a noticeable event in developed countries dependent on toast, calorific baked goods and Body Shop fruit-based cosmetics; but here in Japan, the lack of butter seems to be no more noticeable to the average citizen than a shortage of pork rinds would be to a Jewish dietician. That’s not to say the current crisis hasn’t attracted the attention of the national media, of course. Rarely a week has gone past since Zia’s revelation in which I have failed to see news footage of imported butter being unpacked, interviews with distraught restaurant sauciers and images of exorbitantly priced butter sitting (understandably) unwanted on supermarket shelves. But such coverage is little consolation for the precious few people in Japan who are dependent on the churned stuff in their daily lives – most notably Greenpeace activists, who will presumably have to look to cheaper alternatives in continuing to wage their crusade against Japanese whaling.
Yet while any other country might do nothing more than despair under such culinary hardship, the indomitable heart of innovation still beats strong in the country that gave us cup noodle, rotating sushi bars and electronic toilets. While I can’t verify the authenticity of the following advertisement, I can only be optimistic that such a breakthrough in the dairy-manufacturing process will finally bring hope of a solution to the current butter crisis…
 |  |
Jo nervously waits for the hordes to arrive... | ...who proceed to pillage our booth of all of its scones and apple crumble. |
“Zia, where’s the nearest supermarket?”
“Why, what do you need?” asked Zia, earnestly sipping from a glass of water.
“Enough butter to make 200 portions of apple crumble.”
[Zia’s eyes widen and all her ability in containing the water in her mouth is lost with her ensuing reaction]
“Pffff… HA!!!”
While my memory of Zia’s rather gauche response may be somewhat embellished for the sake of dramatic effect, it perhaps best serves in illustrating how ridiculous my question was for anyone who had even a tenuous awareness of Japanese current affairs from the past year. Although the western press would have you believe that the current food crisis is a phenomenon primarily affecting the developing world, spare a thought for Japan, who for the past year has suffered a shortage of the very ingredient I was short of. After finally composing herself and having realised that I was genuinely ignorant of the current situation, Zia kindly explained why it was terribly unlikely that I would find enough butter for 200 portions of apple crumble.
The story goes that there was a surplus of milk a couple of years ago, which led the then government to demand that it be flushed away and for future production to be dramatically decreased in proceeding years. Being the by-product of the milk manufacturing process, butter production was subsequently affected also, a result that the short-sighted politicians hadn’t counted on. To cut a long story short, less milk was produced in proceeding years, and thus, Japan now finds itself largely sans beaurre.
 |  |
An obaasan looks for butter... | Ah, here's some! At a very reasonable £9.80 a pack... |
Yet while any other country might do nothing more than despair under such culinary hardship, the indomitable heart of innovation still beats strong in the country that gave us cup noodle, rotating sushi bars and electronic toilets. While I can’t verify the authenticity of the following advertisement, I can only be optimistic that such a breakthrough in the dairy-manufacturing process will finally bring hope of a solution to the current butter crisis…
- Location:My House
- Mood:
hungry - Music:'Town To Town' - Del Tha Funkee Homosapien
*As a small introductory note – through a mixture of unresolved E-Mails with my father and simple tardiness on my part – the following entry was supposed to appear over a year ago, and so naturally, doesn’t reflect recent events.
June 2007
“Global warming is a matter of much seriousness.”
“…Ummm, yes... Yes it is. Did you read an article about global warming?”
“…I…l don’t know.”
Articulate, learned and environmentally conscious. While I wouldn’t expressly credit my ex-supervisor with the former two attributes, Ueno Sensei’s continued determination in taking a proactive interest in engaging me in conversation has been at least touching, if not somewhat bizarre in execution. In his newly esteemed position as head of the English department, Ueno Sensei has also taken it upon himself to prescribe a new set of vocabulary books for the first-years, one of which he asked me to review prior to their distribution amongst the students. On opening the book at a random page, I was staggered to see ‘recalcitrant’ amongst a sea of verbosity that few native speakers of English would readily identify as being of their own mother tongue, little alone be able to define. Flicking through the rest of the book failed to lessen my fear that its contents were too advanced for fifteen-year-old students – a concern I raised with Ueno Sensei, who went on to lament with monumental understatement:
“Oh dear. I buyed [sic] forty books…”
Quite.
Anyhoo, as I neglected to go into any depth in my previous entries, Mum and Dad came to stay with me in the wake of the 124 North Street reunion that was so many weeks ago. As welcome as the visit was, we did few things around Nagano that I have not gone on to expatiate these pages with already – except, that is, accepting an invitation from Yamaguchi Sensei to observe one of his classes… While I can understand that some of my previous entries regarding his lessons read like the embellishments of an overactive imagination, I’m hoping that the following account from my father will put to rest such doubts and provide an objective insight into the sheer inanity of Yamaguchi Sensei’s teaching methods. Enjoy.
Alexander had led us to believe that his house was basic to a degree that might not be acceptable in the less privileged parts of the Republic of North Korea. Such an advance description of course makes the reality a pleasant surprise. Externally, the house does have the look of a prefab that has seen much better days, but internally it seemed much better than adequate, even allowing for the toilet arrangements. Certainly better than some accommodation that we have shared (the hotel in Leh comes to mind). Sleeping chez Alex does mean sleeping in a sleeping bag on a futon on the floor but then, what is wrong with that (for 6 days anyway)? That said, there is clearly nothing in the way of insulation. I could see that winter (and perhaps summer) could be tough.
Toyoko has the tired quality of many schools in the UK, and probably the world over, despite the requirement to change into indoor shoes immediately the threshold was crossed (a requirement I can recall from my primary school, now nearly 50 years ago). The staff room had more of a local flavour, literally a flavour, in that it smelled of the teachers’ lunches. The stove in the room by itself was making a not insubstantial contribution to global warming. Ueno Sensei provided us with tea but without introducing himself or making any of the conventional conversation which might be associated with meeting the parents of his classroom assistant. It was almost as if he did not really have a command of English. More conventional, and courteous, was Miazawa Sensei who could use the language that she was teaching to make conversation with the visitors. More than that she had written a welcome to Japan to Alex’s father and mother. She gave us each a tenugui (a neckerchief). She was altogether delightful.
Yamaguchi Sensei was taking the English OCII from 10:55 until 11:45 and had invited Alexander to bring us along – a courteous gesture which opened up all sorts of pedagogic possibilities (or so one might think). The classroom is an awful warning against premature investment in innovative technology. In about 1980 this classroom must have been state of the art. Sadly, because someone had the very best of intentions, it is now something of a museum with most of the infrastructure unused and possibly unusable. Yamaguchi Sensei nevertheless remains a technophile …perhaps on the view that a machine would do a better job than him, a view that might be sound as long as it is not Yamaguchi who is in charge of the machinery.
Let me try to explain. The class is in oral communication. The members are 17 year-olds or thereby. They have opted for this class. Some of them may have ambitions for university places, although Toyoko does not have a good record in this respect. So these are kids to be encouraged and given every opportunity to practice their English, preferably in interaction with the classroom assistant who is, after all, a native English speaker specially recruited by the Japanese government for that very purpose. Is that the approach of Yamaguchi Sensei? No it is not. Does Yamaguchi Sensei have an alternative but comprehensible approach? No he does not. Is Yamaguchi Sensei a bad teacher? No he is not – he is a monumentally bad teacher.
The lesson begins by us being asked to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we have done – a fair enough start if this is to lead on to questions, either by us or to us, but not if it goes no further than a few sentences from the two visitors – who, it is to be presumed, can speak English and are therefore not in need of practice. No opportunity is given to the class to say anything. Instead, they have the benefit of the first technological interlude - a recording in strangulated Japanese tones of the song of a young woman leaving her father’s home for the last time in order to be married. Sad. Indeed very sad. It is the view of Yamaguchi Sensei that young people do not get sufficient opportunities to listen to such music. The expressions of those of the class who had not already rested their heads on the desk did not indicate that this view was very generally shared. One might think that things could not get worse. Wrong. An expressionless American female voice is next played on the tape:
“Mismatch – when persons or things are matched incorrectly or inappropriately, according to the Merriam Webster dictionary.”
When did you last use “mismatch” in conversation? If you wanted to define the word, might you not want to find something less circular? But, in any event, what purpose was being served by playing the words again, and again, and again – and more pressingly, without explanation? But just when things seemed to have hit rock bottom, Yamaguchi Sensei demonstrated that he was truly an original, a master of the misleading, a heroically and imaginatively bad teacher. With almost clinical precision, he broke up the recorded passage, playing only its first half:
“Mismatch – when persons or things are matched.”
The above phrase was played over and over ad nauseam. Not only mindless but positively incorrect! Remember, these kids have been given no subject or other indication of the structure of the lesson. They have not been asked to say anything or write anything or do anything. If it were not for the fact that they are in an advanced state of boredom, they would be entirely confused. The class ends with a tourist film (with a voice-over entirely in Japanese) showing the delights of Kyoto, which we, the visitors, might or might not have seen during the previous week. By then no one cared. No, that is not quite true. I cared, not about what I may or may not have seen in Kyoto but about these school children who are wasting hours of their lives that they could be spending learning what is (until Spanish or Chinese takes over) the world’s most important language.
June 2007
“Global warming is a matter of much seriousness.”
“…Ummm, yes... Yes it is. Did you read an article about global warming?”
“…I…l don’t know.”
Articulate, learned and environmentally conscious. While I wouldn’t expressly credit my ex-supervisor with the former two attributes, Ueno Sensei’s continued determination in taking a proactive interest in engaging me in conversation has been at least touching, if not somewhat bizarre in execution. In his newly esteemed position as head of the English department, Ueno Sensei has also taken it upon himself to prescribe a new set of vocabulary books for the first-years, one of which he asked me to review prior to their distribution amongst the students. On opening the book at a random page, I was staggered to see ‘recalcitrant’ amongst a sea of verbosity that few native speakers of English would readily identify as being of their own mother tongue, little alone be able to define. Flicking through the rest of the book failed to lessen my fear that its contents were too advanced for fifteen-year-old students – a concern I raised with Ueno Sensei, who went on to lament with monumental understatement:
“Oh dear. I buyed [sic] forty books…”
Quite.
Anyhoo, as I neglected to go into any depth in my previous entries, Mum and Dad came to stay with me in the wake of the 124 North Street reunion that was so many weeks ago. As welcome as the visit was, we did few things around Nagano that I have not gone on to expatiate these pages with already – except, that is, accepting an invitation from Yamaguchi Sensei to observe one of his classes… While I can understand that some of my previous entries regarding his lessons read like the embellishments of an overactive imagination, I’m hoping that the following account from my father will put to rest such doubts and provide an objective insight into the sheer inanity of Yamaguchi Sensei’s teaching methods. Enjoy.
This journal entry is written at the urging of Alexander whose motivation I take to be a need to corroborate the frankly surreal experience that it is to be in an English class taught (if that is truly the word) by Yamaguchi Sensei in Toyoko High School. I will come to Yamaguchi Sensei but I am grateful for Alexander’s encouragement to make a record of our trip before its details have been lost to my memory. An experience that cannot be recalled might almost not have happened. It is not an exaggeration to say that a whole life can slip through one’s fingers. I constantly resolve to keep a diary and constantly fail in that resolution. My photo albums are the closest I have got. Writing is much better. It forces the writer to think about his experiences and that is an exercise that mines and then strengthens (although, admittedly, also fabricates) memory. It also, of course, produces a record, for the writer and their readers. All this is achieved by a blog, but then that is well beyond my technical powers.
With that prologue, here are excerpts from my Japanese Journal, complete with my account of Yamaguchi Sensei’s class, with additional photos of our time in Nagano.
Friday 20th April 2007
Arrival To Nagano
The Limited Express Shinano 17 departed from Nagoya at 15:00 and arrived at Matsumoto Station at 16:59. Alexander was waiting at the barrier. The Japanese are a lot taller than is popularly believed but Alex still stands out in a crowd – but then his parents would think that would they not? Alexander drove us in his modest but effective Mitsubishi Toppo (why do I bother having a BMW?) from Matsumoto to Toyoshina. We were to get used to the smell of the spilt kerosene (for the stove). Alexander bought us dinner at the Buena Vista Hotel – just a little reminiscent of Auckland last October, but the restaurant did not revolve.
With that prologue, here are excerpts from my Japanese Journal, complete with my account of Yamaguchi Sensei’s class, with additional photos of our time in Nagano.
Friday 20th April 2007
Arrival To Nagano
The Limited Express Shinano 17 departed from Nagoya at 15:00 and arrived at Matsumoto Station at 16:59. Alexander was waiting at the barrier. The Japanese are a lot taller than is popularly believed but Alex still stands out in a crowd – but then his parents would think that would they not? Alexander drove us in his modest but effective Mitsubishi Toppo (why do I bother having a BMW?) from Matsumoto to Toyoshina. We were to get used to the smell of the spilt kerosene (for the stove). Alexander bought us dinner at the Buena Vista Hotel – just a little reminiscent of Auckland last October, but the restaurant did not revolve.
 |  |
Carol Outside Alex's House | Alex's Trusty Steed |
 |  |
Alex & Carol Strolling Into Matsumoto Castle | Outside Matsumoto Castle |
Monday 23rd April 2007
A visit to Toyoko High School
A visit to Toyoko High School
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| Alex & I at the Matsumoto Museum of Modern Art | Carol With A Box Of Brodie's Coffee |
 |  |
| Jigokudani Hot Springs | Macaque Monkey |
The lesson begins by us being asked to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we have done – a fair enough start if this is to lead on to questions, either by us or to us, but not if it goes no further than a few sentences from the two visitors – who, it is to be presumed, can speak English and are therefore not in need of practice. No opportunity is given to the class to say anything. Instead, they have the benefit of the first technological interlude - a recording in strangulated Japanese tones of the song of a young woman leaving her father’s home for the last time in order to be married. Sad. Indeed very sad. It is the view of Yamaguchi Sensei that young people do not get sufficient opportunities to listen to such music. The expressions of those of the class who had not already rested their heads on the desk did not indicate that this view was very generally shared. One might think that things could not get worse. Wrong. An expressionless American female voice is next played on the tape:
“Mismatch – when persons or things are matched incorrectly or inappropriately, according to the Merriam Webster dictionary.”
When did you last use “mismatch” in conversation? If you wanted to define the word, might you not want to find something less circular? But, in any event, what purpose was being served by playing the words again, and again, and again – and more pressingly, without explanation? But just when things seemed to have hit rock bottom, Yamaguchi Sensei demonstrated that he was truly an original, a master of the misleading, a heroically and imaginatively bad teacher. With almost clinical precision, he broke up the recorded passage, playing only its first half:
“Mismatch – when persons or things are matched.”
The above phrase was played over and over ad nauseam. Not only mindless but positively incorrect! Remember, these kids have been given no subject or other indication of the structure of the lesson. They have not been asked to say anything or write anything or do anything. If it were not for the fact that they are in an advanced state of boredom, they would be entirely confused. The class ends with a tourist film (with a voice-over entirely in Japanese) showing the delights of Kyoto, which we, the visitors, might or might not have seen during the previous week. By then no one cared. No, that is not quite true. I cared, not about what I may or may not have seen in Kyoto but about these school children who are wasting hours of their lives that they could be spending learning what is (until Spanish or Chinese takes over) the world’s most important language.
Carol and I under the sakura
- Location:My House
- Mood:
complacent - Music:'Alice' - Pogo
It’s a dangerous place Japan. Even while being cautious of the local fauna (snapping chihuahuas in Coco Chanel handbags), wary of roaming vigilantes (diminutive old coots who rummage through neighbours’ refuse on recycling days, hoping to catch out those mixing PET bottles with polyvinyl packaging), and mindful of drug-dealing custom officials, a world of danger remains for those who dare to call Japan ‘home.’
And that is why my agricultural high school, Minamiazumi, is taking no chances with its new poster campaign to promote awareness regarding the apparently common danger of lightning. In these posters, hiking, swimming, driving, taking shelter and seemingly even minding one’s own business on flat terrain are strongly discouraged under what seems to be any meteorological circumstance, stormy or balmy. It would seem that rather than chancing lifetime odds comparable to matching five numbers with a soul lottery ticket, one is better off just staying inside – so long as ‘inside’ is not defined by a wooden awning on one stilt. Overzealous caution or a cunning ruse to keep would-be truants in the nonconductive confines of the school building, I’m not quite sure.
Talking of the statistically improbable, it may come as a surprise to some that I’ve decided to stay for an additional year in Japan. A trip back to the UK at Christmas confirmed that while I miss the friends and family I left behind for the Orient, for some reason that is difficult to articulate, I don’t much miss living there.
Perhaps out of an oversimplified sense of association, I’ve always thought of countries in sets of colours. For Italy, a rusty terracotta tone juxtaposed against a soft olive green. Brazil, a tropical emerald hue marbled with azure. Egypt? That’s easy, a sand-weathered gold set against a pale cerulean. With the entire coastline of the Azores in mind, I’d probably plump for a light teal set alongside a bleached chalk for Portugal.
While these colours possibly represent superficial heuristics – architecture, flora, landscapes, national flags – I suppose they are also borne out of an association for a country’s culture, people, their attitudes and so forth; and either by default for my own national identity (or perhaps just out of contemptuous over-familiarity for it) I only see the UK in shades of the same colour. Buildings: concrete grey. Skies: cloudy grey. Politics: Gordon Brown grey. Fashion: Top Shop grey. Music: David Gray.
With the explicit exception of the latter case, grey is not necessarily a bad thing – it has neither the uncompromising bleakness of black, the tedious piety of white, nor the gaudy brashness of the primary colours for that matter – but at present, I feel no longing to return to it. Japan still seems to be a viable stepping-stone for travel and new experiences that are distinctly not grey, and while I concede a niggling worry that I’m hiding behind poorly conceived analogies and excuses of unresolved travel for the sake of putting off that inevitable next step, I’m actually quite happy that I’m staying here for another year. Unambitious, perhaps, but then ambition is sometimes more dangerous than chancing lightning on top of a very tall mountain – just ask Kiwi.
And that is why my agricultural high school, Minamiazumi, is taking no chances with its new poster campaign to promote awareness regarding the apparently common danger of lightning. In these posters, hiking, swimming, driving, taking shelter and seemingly even minding one’s own business on flat terrain are strongly discouraged under what seems to be any meteorological circumstance, stormy or balmy. It would seem that rather than chancing lifetime odds comparable to matching five numbers with a soul lottery ticket, one is better off just staying inside – so long as ‘inside’ is not defined by a wooden awning on one stilt. Overzealous caution or a cunning ruse to keep would-be truants in the nonconductive confines of the school building, I’m not quite sure.
 |
The perils of straying out of school |
Perhaps out of an oversimplified sense of association, I’ve always thought of countries in sets of colours. For Italy, a rusty terracotta tone juxtaposed against a soft olive green. Brazil, a tropical emerald hue marbled with azure. Egypt? That’s easy, a sand-weathered gold set against a pale cerulean. With the entire coastline of the Azores in mind, I’d probably plump for a light teal set alongside a bleached chalk for Portugal.
While these colours possibly represent superficial heuristics – architecture, flora, landscapes, national flags – I suppose they are also borne out of an association for a country’s culture, people, their attitudes and so forth; and either by default for my own national identity (or perhaps just out of contemptuous over-familiarity for it) I only see the UK in shades of the same colour. Buildings: concrete grey. Skies: cloudy grey. Politics: Gordon Brown grey. Fashion: Top Shop grey. Music: David Gray.
With the explicit exception of the latter case, grey is not necessarily a bad thing – it has neither the uncompromising bleakness of black, the tedious piety of white, nor the gaudy brashness of the primary colours for that matter – but at present, I feel no longing to return to it. Japan still seems to be a viable stepping-stone for travel and new experiences that are distinctly not grey, and while I concede a niggling worry that I’m hiding behind poorly conceived analogies and excuses of unresolved travel for the sake of putting off that inevitable next step, I’m actually quite happy that I’m staying here for another year. Unambitious, perhaps, but then ambition is sometimes more dangerous than chancing lightning on top of a very tall mountain – just ask Kiwi.
- Location:My House
- Mood:
contemplative - Music:'Hip Hop Hooray' - Naughty By Nature
I’m still alive.
Now that the grandparents have been unburdened of what would probably be their first assumption in seeing these pages so barren of news lately, I should perhaps try and make amends by finally bringing this journal kicking and screaming into 2008. Contrary to what a lack of updates might otherwise suggest, interesting things have happened to me in the last seven months, although this statement is seemingly belied by the conspicuously large gap between this entry and the last. A visit from Hannah and Stacey, an English debating competition, my surprise visit back to the UK (the surprise being for my parents, not myself), a ‘powder-packed’ ski season, a bachelor party in Tokyo, school graduations, another visit from my ever-concerned mother (this time with her friend Gail), a cycling weekend around Japan’s largest lake, a volunteer trip to Cambodia and a surprise birthday party have all come and gone since November – all worthy of mention, but nevertheless neglected by these pages up until now.
A lack of free time, a lost ability in being able to see the ‘strange’ in Japan, writer’s block, the niggling worry over whether my time here is even interesting enough to warrant writing about in the first place; call my laziness in updating this journal what you will, but having reflected on how quickly the last year has gone by (and being all too aware of what precious little I remember of it), I’ve decided to set aside some time each week to write new posts. So in the spirit of my new resolve to update these pages a bit more regularly, I’ve bought a paid subscription to Live Journal (no more advertisements for Japanese dating services); added links to my Japan photo albums (found in the sidebar to the right) and even went all out with a new page design - and as I’m sure you’ll agree, nothing quite says ‘commitment’ like three moustaches flying over a moonlit lake.
Now that the grandparents have been unburdened of what would probably be their first assumption in seeing these pages so barren of news lately, I should perhaps try and make amends by finally bringing this journal kicking and screaming into 2008. Contrary to what a lack of updates might otherwise suggest, interesting things have happened to me in the last seven months, although this statement is seemingly belied by the conspicuously large gap between this entry and the last. A visit from Hannah and Stacey, an English debating competition, my surprise visit back to the UK (the surprise being for my parents, not myself), a ‘powder-packed’ ski season, a bachelor party in Tokyo, school graduations, another visit from my ever-concerned mother (this time with her friend Gail), a cycling weekend around Japan’s largest lake, a volunteer trip to Cambodia and a surprise birthday party have all come and gone since November – all worthy of mention, but nevertheless neglected by these pages up until now.
A lack of free time, a lost ability in being able to see the ‘strange’ in Japan, writer’s block, the niggling worry over whether my time here is even interesting enough to warrant writing about in the first place; call my laziness in updating this journal what you will, but having reflected on how quickly the last year has gone by (and being all too aware of what precious little I remember of it), I’ve decided to set aside some time each week to write new posts. So in the spirit of my new resolve to update these pages a bit more regularly, I’ve bought a paid subscription to Live Journal (no more advertisements for Japanese dating services); added links to my Japan photo albums (found in the sidebar to the right) and even went all out with a new page design - and as I’m sure you’ll agree, nothing quite says ‘commitment’ like three moustaches flying over a moonlit lake.
- Location:My House
- Mood: accomplished
- Music:'Autumn Sweater' - Yo La Tengo
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Word of the Day
ir-on-ic (adj.)
ir-on-ic (adj.)
- Relating to something said or written that uses sardonic humour.
- An ascription to the incongruity between what actually happens and what might be expected to happen, especially when this seems absurd or laughable.
- What one may ascribe to a situation in which one's lavatory is condemned by the local council, stripped away from the floorboards and left to stagnate for 10 days as construction workers destroy their driveway and idle for the remaining 96% of the time - all while said lavatory's owner suffers from involuntary episodes of diarrhoea.
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My water closet for the last 10 days | Pneumatic drill - Apparently now a permanent fixture in my driveway |
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The condemned toilet | Portaloo - Complete with directions for micturition and defecation |
- Location:My House
- Mood:
distressed - Music:'Uptown Top Ranking' - Scout Niblett
As I alluded to in the previous entry, the last month has seen two separate BBQs at the house. The first one, a farewell party for the leavers in the area, was the usual blend of liquor and ladylike behaviour that has so come to typify any occasion involving the Saku girls and the likes of (the now sadly departed) Madeleine and Kat. Highlights included the eventual lighting of the BBQs after ninety minutes of Dec fanning matches over damp newspaper; Kat calling her boyfriend James in England after imbibing 3 bottles of wine (well, two – the other being my £1.25 bottle used for cooking and stripping paint); and the now obligatory arrival of the local law enforcement to quell an impromptu after-party held in Lloyd’s new car.
On top of the aforementioned antics, those who sat on my deck and braved the uncertain prospect of a typhoon were treated to a visit from my nearby neighbour. A kindly old fellow, Kamijo San had invested a curious fascination into the goings on in my garden during the deck’s construction and had generously lent me some power tools to help finish the job. In thanks, I had returned his tools that morning with a bottle of Glenfiddich – hoping that it would numb his senses enough to be unbothered by the evening’s revelry. More fool me, the bottle did nothing other than whet the sexagenarian’s appetite for gaijin company and bizarrely enough, poetry. After unleashing a torrent of slurred Japanese that even Nami (a native speaker of Japanese) couldn’t make out, Kamijo San unexpectedly broke into reciting Robert Louis Stevenson in clear-as-day English to Todd and Justin, before heading into the house to greet my other soon-to-be-bemused guests. After waving goodbye to some early leavers the following morning, I returned inside to survey the remaining souls who were juxtaposed against a mess of empty cans, bottles and ripped shoji screens. As I slumped down to the floor, it seemed that Mother Nature wanted to join in the destructive fun by unleashing an earthquake underfoot. Thankfully, the tremor did no more than make the room move around in such a way that made me think I was still inebriated, although those in the prefecture above seemed to fare much worse.
Although it certainly wasn’t as destructive as the previous BBQ, the belated ‘welcome enkai’ that I offered to hold at my house for the new teachers certainly proved to be as interesting as the previous event. On watching each arrival enter the garden, it was amazing to see the lengths at which some of the teachers went to make the event a success; from the propane BBQs that Omori Sensei had rented to the homegrown vegetables that Isobe Sensei contributed. However, the real coup for the BBQ that (initially) turned most heads was Koyama Sensei’s unveiling of a nama biru machine. This tawdry contraption was meant to emulate the pouring of draught beer – a real novelty for the locals who ordinarily sup their fermented beverages from bottles and cans – but sadly (with its infernal insistence on only churning out froth) turned out to be the worst gastronomic innovation since halal pork.
On top of inviting the teachers who had thus far helped me to feel welcome in Japan, I had also felt obliged to invite those who had done anything but make my life easy. Surveying the fold-up table of nibbles that the teachers had contributed with his typical expressionless marionette-like gaze, Yamaguchi Sensei had remained silent for much of the evening until a shift in conversation provided him with the ideal opportunity to turn on his trademark charm in front of the assembled company.
“Alex, did you make all of this food?” asked an incredulous Miazawa Sensei – clearly one who has never been a beneficiary of her husband’s presence in the kitchen.
Playing down her apparent scepticism with the assurance that potato salad and guacamole are hardly regarded as the hallmarks of a Michelin-starred chef, I nevertheless made the qualification that the tomato salsa was admittedly not a work of my own and had been hastily purchased from the local supermarket prior to her arrival. However, such self-deprecation could do little to dampen Miazawa Sensei’s continued enthusiasm for the potato salad; and so, embarrassed by her lavish praise, I began to explain the simplicity of the dish by deconstructing it into its constituent parts of a bag of potatoes and a jar of mayonnaise. I needn’t have bothered further, for Yamaguchi Sensei was close at hand in selflessly helping me to deflect any veneration where he saw unfit.
“It is good of you to say that you did not make the tomato salsa, least we have wasted time by giving you false praise for making it,” beamed the teacher, who amazingly maintained the same blank-look of a Thunderbirds puppet despite the clear smugness at the thought of his latest charm-offensive.
Yamaguchi Sensei’s kindly remark aside, the real highlight of the night had to be a sight that inspired such jaw-dropping disbelief that I wasn’t sure whether it had actually happened or not until I had uploaded the contents of my camera the following day. On arriving into my back garden, Ueno Sensei (my beloved supervisor from last year) waddled straight past the other guests without so much as a ‘konnichiwa’ and wasted little time in clumsily sliding back the screen door to the house. With a strange sense of urgency about him, Ueno Sensei entered into the spare room and shuffled towards my bedroom, clearly excited by the dumbbells that lay on the floor. After a couple of vain attempts in picking the weights up, Ueno Sensei returned to the spare room exhausted, collapsed face first onto the tatami floor and lay there motionless. As I walked by on a supply trip to the kitchen 10 minutes later, the defeated body suddenly sprang to life by way of a few startled grunts. Suddenly looking up, Ueno Sensei’s eyes met mine with the pleading look of a starved puppy and subsequently started to gesture towards his backside by repeatedly patting his buttocks.
Knowing full well what my former supervisor wanted me to do, I feigned a failure in noticing him and made a swift beeline to the relative safety of the deck where most of teachers were assembled. Sadly, not everyone was to get off so lightly. After a poorly timed visit to the loo, Omori Sensei proved to be a far more susceptible target to Ueno Sensei’s continued entreaties, and reluctantly became an exercise partner to his colleague’s strange regime. However, as can be seen, Omori’s participation stopped short of actually sitting on Ueno Sensei’s arse, much to the relief of all the teachers who were now staring into the spare room from the garden in utter bewilderment. Like I said, a similarly interesting event…
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The Saku Girls | Despite April's apparent amazement, Jen was somewhat less impressed by Rhea's ability to stare at her own hand for the whole night |
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Car Party | With the BBQ delayed for over an hour, Madeleine's hunger finally reaches breaking point |
On top of the aforementioned antics, those who sat on my deck and braved the uncertain prospect of a typhoon were treated to a visit from my nearby neighbour. A kindly old fellow, Kamijo San had invested a curious fascination into the goings on in my garden during the deck’s construction and had generously lent me some power tools to help finish the job. In thanks, I had returned his tools that morning with a bottle of Glenfiddich – hoping that it would numb his senses enough to be unbothered by the evening’s revelry. More fool me, the bottle did nothing other than whet the sexagenarian’s appetite for gaijin company and bizarrely enough, poetry. After unleashing a torrent of slurred Japanese that even Nami (a native speaker of Japanese) couldn’t make out, Kamijo San unexpectedly broke into reciting Robert Louis Stevenson in clear-as-day English to Todd and Justin, before heading into the house to greet my other soon-to-be-bemused guests. After waving goodbye to some early leavers the following morning, I returned inside to survey the remaining souls who were juxtaposed against a mess of empty cans, bottles and ripped shoji screens. As I slumped down to the floor, it seemed that Mother Nature wanted to join in the destructive fun by unleashing an earthquake underfoot. Thankfully, the tremor did no more than make the room move around in such a way that made me think I was still inebriated, although those in the prefecture above seemed to fare much worse.
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Kamijo San recites Robert Louis Stevenson to a bemused Justin and Todd | An unconscious Zia is still remarkably perceptive in pointing out the source of the bad breath that had made her pass out |
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The following morning | Rita, wine-coaster and Kat |
Although it certainly wasn’t as destructive as the previous BBQ, the belated ‘welcome enkai’ that I offered to hold at my house for the new teachers certainly proved to be as interesting as the previous event. On watching each arrival enter the garden, it was amazing to see the lengths at which some of the teachers went to make the event a success; from the propane BBQs that Omori Sensei had rented to the homegrown vegetables that Isobe Sensei contributed. However, the real coup for the BBQ that (initially) turned most heads was Koyama Sensei’s unveiling of a nama biru machine. This tawdry contraption was meant to emulate the pouring of draught beer – a real novelty for the locals who ordinarily sup their fermented beverages from bottles and cans – but sadly (with its infernal insistence on only churning out froth) turned out to be the worst gastronomic innovation since halal pork.
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Omori Sensei and Mayumi get the BBQ started | Takasuna Sensei tries in vain to coax out anything more than froth |
“Alex, did you make all of this food?” asked an incredulous Miazawa Sensei – clearly one who has never been a beneficiary of her husband’s presence in the kitchen.
Playing down her apparent scepticism with the assurance that potato salad and guacamole are hardly regarded as the hallmarks of a Michelin-starred chef, I nevertheless made the qualification that the tomato salsa was admittedly not a work of my own and had been hastily purchased from the local supermarket prior to her arrival. However, such self-deprecation could do little to dampen Miazawa Sensei’s continued enthusiasm for the potato salad; and so, embarrassed by her lavish praise, I began to explain the simplicity of the dish by deconstructing it into its constituent parts of a bag of potatoes and a jar of mayonnaise. I needn’t have bothered further, for Yamaguchi Sensei was close at hand in selflessly helping me to deflect any veneration where he saw unfit.
“It is good of you to say that you did not make the tomato salsa, least we have wasted time by giving you false praise for making it,” beamed the teacher, who amazingly maintained the same blank-look of a Thunderbirds puppet despite the clear smugness at the thought of his latest charm-offensive.
 |  |
Yamaguchi Sensei’s kindly remark aside, the real highlight of the night had to be a sight that inspired such jaw-dropping disbelief that I wasn’t sure whether it had actually happened or not until I had uploaded the contents of my camera the following day. On arriving into my back garden, Ueno Sensei (my beloved supervisor from last year) waddled straight past the other guests without so much as a ‘konnichiwa’ and wasted little time in clumsily sliding back the screen door to the house. With a strange sense of urgency about him, Ueno Sensei entered into the spare room and shuffled towards my bedroom, clearly excited by the dumbbells that lay on the floor. After a couple of vain attempts in picking the weights up, Ueno Sensei returned to the spare room exhausted, collapsed face first onto the tatami floor and lay there motionless. As I walked by on a supply trip to the kitchen 10 minutes later, the defeated body suddenly sprang to life by way of a few startled grunts. Suddenly looking up, Ueno Sensei’s eyes met mine with the pleading look of a starved puppy and subsequently started to gesture towards his backside by repeatedly patting his buttocks.
Knowing full well what my former supervisor wanted me to do, I feigned a failure in noticing him and made a swift beeline to the relative safety of the deck where most of teachers were assembled. Sadly, not everyone was to get off so lightly. After a poorly timed visit to the loo, Omori Sensei proved to be a far more susceptible target to Ueno Sensei’s continued entreaties, and reluctantly became an exercise partner to his colleague’s strange regime. However, as can be seen, Omori’s participation stopped short of actually sitting on Ueno Sensei’s arse, much to the relief of all the teachers who were now staring into the spare room from the garden in utter bewilderment. Like I said, a similarly interesting event…
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Words just fail me... |
- Location:My House
- Mood:
hot - Music:'Left Hand Suzuki Method' - Gorillaz
With a property that ordinarily inspires (at least in the minds at my school office) no more than the thought of disrepair and imminent destruction, I thought it would nice to finally tart the place up in a way that would make the next twelve months of my time in Japan a little more tolerable. But with a house bedecked with sand-paste walls and furniture-averse tatami mats, even Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen would be hard pressed to think of anything more imaginative than a ‘Welcome’ doormat. Giving up on the interior design front, I took a deep breath and pried the backdoor open to reveal a jungle that, during the short course of the summer, had already claimed all of my garden on top of a long-forgotten pair of Marks & Spencers trousers from the previous year.
Now, I don’t have green fingers (if I did, I wouldn’t be likely typing just now and would probably be at the Toyoshina Red Cross hospital being treated for gangrene), but it seemed clear even then that I would inevitably have to somehow channel the spirit of Alan Titchmarsh to cover up the monstrous amalgamation of weeds, concrete blocks and rusted corrugated iron that had overwhelmed much of the garden. And so, inspired by my friend Tom’s own handiwork in his garden, I decided to buy several planks of wood with the intention of covering up the whole thing with something that loosely resembled a deck. However, having all the craftsmanship of the First Little Piggy, I thought it prudent to conscript the help of some people who at least did know the pointy-end of a screwdriver from its handle.
After I had hacked away enough vegetation to clear a sizeable area of garden real-estate the previous weekend, Aaron, Ben, Erika and Laurence kindly lent their services the following Saturday to get a head start on constructing the deck. A trip to Watahan – Japan’s premier supplier of oversized building materials – resulted in a shopping basket containing twenty-five 3m planks, three 3.6m joist support beams, nine concrete support blocks, a drill, a drill-bit, 200 screws, four litres of wood stain, thirty kilos of gravel, 25 square metres of bamboo thatch and two paint-rollers. After heaving the modest load to the counter, the bemused shop assistant reasonably enquired if we were making a house. Although we laughed off his question at the time, it seemed prudent enough in retrospect of the many subsequent trips to DIY stores that were to be made in the following three weeks…
By the end of the weekend, we had managed to secure the concrete blocks and support joists into the ground, stained most of the wood and set up enough bamboo thatch to cover the rather unsightly corrugated iron that made up the back wall of the garden. All that remained was to paint the rest of the planks, screw them down, lay down a ‘few’ pebbles and spruce up the garden with a spot of greenery. Three weeks, two more litres of wood stain, 80 metres of fairy-lights, six litres of weed-killer, twenty-five plants, two extra support joists, eighty litres of soil, a tree, 65 bricks, a visit to the Toyoshina Red Cross Hospital emergency room and a mere 700 kilos of five-colour pebbles later, I found myself with a semi-secluded retreat that (mercifully) bore little resemblance to the hideous sprawl that had once called itself my garden. However, the pleasant air of tranquillity that graced the garden would prove short-lived, for there were to be a couple of interesting barbeques in the following weeks that were to attract the attentions of a drunken neighbour, the ever vigilant Toyoshina police force, an earthquake and, most astonishing of all, a very public exhibition of Ueno Sensei’s physical prowess. As ever, fun times.
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My garden - before it saw the sharp end of my hand scythe | After reclaiming a long-lost pair of Marks & Spencers trousers from the foliage, Ben cops a look at Alex's trouser worm |
Now, I don’t have green fingers (if I did, I wouldn’t be likely typing just now and would probably be at the Toyoshina Red Cross hospital being treated for gangrene), but it seemed clear even then that I would inevitably have to somehow channel the spirit of Alan Titchmarsh to cover up the monstrous amalgamation of weeds, concrete blocks and rusted corrugated iron that had overwhelmed much of the garden. And so, inspired by my friend Tom’s own handiwork in his garden, I decided to buy several planks of wood with the intention of covering up the whole thing with something that loosely resembled a deck. However, having all the craftsmanship of the First Little Piggy, I thought it prudent to conscript the help of some people who at least did know the pointy-end of a screwdriver from its handle.
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The first exploratory plots are made | Ben and Aaron try and measure up |
After I had hacked away enough vegetation to clear a sizeable area of garden real-estate the previous weekend, Aaron, Ben, Erika and Laurence kindly lent their services the following Saturday to get a head start on constructing the deck. A trip to Watahan – Japan’s premier supplier of oversized building materials – resulted in a shopping basket containing twenty-five 3m planks, three 3.6m joist support beams, nine concrete support blocks, a drill, a drill-bit, 200 screws, four litres of wood stain, thirty kilos of gravel, 25 square metres of bamboo thatch and two paint-rollers. After heaving the modest load to the counter, the bemused shop assistant reasonably enquired if we were making a house. Although we laughed off his question at the time, it seemed prudent enough in retrospect of the many subsequent trips to DIY stores that were to be made in the following three weeks…
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Erika and Ben slave away in the rain as their taskmaster enjoys the shelter of his awning | Really, with only one person living here, I might as well have stopped here |
By the end of the weekend, we had managed to secure the concrete blocks and support joists into the ground, stained most of the wood and set up enough bamboo thatch to cover the rather unsightly corrugated iron that made up the back wall of the garden. All that remained was to paint the rest of the planks, screw them down, lay down a ‘few’ pebbles and spruce up the garden with a spot of greenery. Three weeks, two more litres of wood stain, 80 metres of fairy-lights, six litres of weed-killer, twenty-five plants, two extra support joists, eighty litres of soil, a tree, 65 bricks, a visit to the Toyoshina Red Cross Hospital emergency room and a mere 700 kilos of five-colour pebbles later, I found myself with a semi-secluded retreat that (mercifully) bore little resemblance to the hideous sprawl that had once called itself my garden. However, the pleasant air of tranquillity that graced the garden would prove short-lived, for there were to be a couple of interesting barbeques in the following weeks that were to attract the attentions of a drunken neighbour, the ever vigilant Toyoshina police force, an earthquake and, most astonishing of all, a very public exhibition of Ueno Sensei’s physical prowess. As ever, fun times.
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The (sort of) completed deck | Aaron weighs in with yet more concrete blocks |
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The first of 700kg (!) of pebbles are laid down | Plants - I guess it's not really a garden without them |
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The finished garden |
- Location:My House
- Mood: hot
- Music:'Devil Do' - Holly Golightly & The Brokeoffs
On Saturday, Todd and I ventured up north to meet up with Kat and Madz for a spot of camping cum (would-be) wake-boarding at the idyllic Lake Nojiriko, just south of the Niigata-ken border. Clean water, balmy weather and a healthy abundance of romaji (the reassuringly familiar alphabet that starts with an ‘A’ and ends in a ‘Z’) made the location seem as far-removed from Japan as a 90km trip from Toyoshina can afford, and it wasn’t long after our arrival that we found a great spot right next to the water to set up camp. Picking up the girls a little later, I watched on in amusement as Kat and Madz erected their tent for the first time in amazing rapidity, while Todd started-up the hot coals that were to singe the otherwise suspiciously orange sausages-on-sticks that had been bought (with some trepidation) earlier.
After a pleasant night blowing the (increasingly chilly) breeze, a cacophony of crows and early-rising bass-catchers were to wake us up at an hour that I hadn’t witnessed since abandoning Greenwich Meantime 10 months ago. A breakfast consisting of hotdog rolls, processed cheese and dirty lettuce was then followed by the decision to saunter over to the hut that was apparently offering wake-boarding. As we ordered lunch, Kyla soon arrived from Nagano-shi having already wake-boarded the day before, fully intending to do the same again that afternoon. However, sometime between eating our mi-ku-su pi-za and the discovery that the water was slightly cooler than we had first imagined, the decision was made that we’d probably give the whole water-sports part of our weekend plan a miss.
Despite Kyla’s best efforts to convince us otherwise, the rest of the afternoon was spent lazily by the small pier, watching the girls desperately fill in their tan lines before their return to Blighty in July. The afternoon was not completely wasted, however. On our trip back to drop the girls off at the station, we stopped off at a 7-11 and happened across the bag below – a little reminder of why we are in Japan in the first place.
As a sloppily placed by-the-by, Alasdair kindly bought me an upgrade for my Flickr account that means that I can now upload all of my Japan photos onto one website. I’ve yet to update it fully, but you can view all the full-sized photos by following the link 'My Japan Photos’ to the side of the page, or by simply clicking here.
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The Camp | Lake Nojiriko |
After a pleasant night blowing the (increasingly chilly) breeze, a cacophony of crows and early-rising bass-catchers were to wake us up at an hour that I hadn’t witnessed since abandoning Greenwich Meantime 10 months ago. A breakfast consisting of hotdog rolls, processed cheese and dirty lettuce was then followed by the decision to saunter over to the hut that was apparently offering wake-boarding. As we ordered lunch, Kyla soon arrived from Nagano-shi having already wake-boarded the day before, fully intending to do the same again that afternoon. However, sometime between eating our mi-ku-su pi-za and the discovery that the water was slightly cooler than we had first imagined, the decision was made that we’d probably give the whole water-sports part of our weekend plan a miss.
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Madz and Kat | Todd and Madz |
Despite Kyla’s best efforts to convince us otherwise, the rest of the afternoon was spent lazily by the small pier, watching the girls desperately fill in their tan lines before their return to Blighty in July. The afternoon was not completely wasted, however. On our trip back to drop the girls off at the station, we stopped off at a 7-11 and happened across the bag below – a little reminder of why we are in Japan in the first place.
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As a sloppily placed by-the-by, Alasdair kindly bought me an upgrade for my Flickr account that means that I can now upload all of my Japan photos onto one website. I’ve yet to update it fully, but you can view all the full-sized photos by following the link 'My Japan Photos’ to the side of the page, or by simply clicking here.
- Location:My House
- Mood: blah
- Music:'Time To Get Ill (Root Down EP)' - Beastie Boys
The beginning of April heralded in a new school year, and with it, a significant staff turnaround at Toyoko High School. The doyen of the English teaching world that is Ueno Sensei is no longer my supervisor and has been bizarrely elevated to head of the department – a promotion that smacks as the educational equivalent of the Noble Society honouring Robert Mugabe for his services to free speech. Despite this appointment’s inevitable potential for disaster, it has been nothing but good news for me, as lo and behold, I have a new supervisor! Not only can Nakamura Maiyumi Sensei speak English (as you may have now gathered, a by no means sure thing), but she also happens to be one of the most friendly and helpful people I’ve had the good fortune of meeting in Japan. As our office desks are right next to each other, we managed to very quickly form an amazing working rapport that goes as far as Maiyumi actually helping me to make lesson plans – a phenomenon that I had yet to experience until this year.
It was just a shame that in our second week of teaching together, the supervisor I had so come to treat with respect came to me with a piece of paper from the Kyoto Sensei (vice-principal). Maiyumi explained that the sheet was an agreement that I had to sign, declaring that I would drive safely during my employment at the school, a contractual obligation that made my hairs stand-on-end at the thought of a certain incident that had occurred the week before. On the cusp of asking my supervisor whether this had anything to do with the recent speeding ticket (I had blubbered to the police officer where I worked, you see), I thought better of it and held my tongue as I signed the declaration.
“You do drive safely, don’t you Alex?” Maiyumi enquired earnestly.
Taking my first minor withdrawal from the Bank of Lies, I solemnly nodded and handed back the sheet, pruning away any guilt with the reassurance that by British standards, I was driving safely. As it turned out after talking to Aaron later, at the beginning of the new year, most schools enforce such declarations as a preventative measure against wayward employees bringing shame and dishonour upon their institution; so it was with relief that my frugal use of the truth had at least kept me on good terms with Maiyumi – although to be honest (for once), my new supervisor seems so down-to-earth that I couldn’t imagine such matters really bothering her anyway.
Besides Maiyumi, Toyoko has two new arrivals: Koyama Sensei, my avuncular former-colleague from Minamiazumi Agricultural High School; and Miazawa Sensei, a lovely, but slightly frazzled-looking lady who likes to wake up at 4am to make cakes for the staffroom. At the agricultural school, the only change is Katsuno Sensei, who has swapped from Toyoko with Koyama Sensei. The staff turnaround has thus far worked really well and its cool to have the chance to have a fresh start with the new faces, although it has been interesting to note the behaviour of the staffroom veterans. Omori Sensei, the once dominant purveyor of staffroom banter, now sits quietly at his desk as Koyama Sensei’s rowdy exclamations shake the school foundations. Stranger still, parting ways with Ueno Sensei has only led him to belatedly take notice of my existence. Perhaps out of some sort of envy for my good relationship with Maiyumi, Ueno Sensei has since scuffled over with his belongings to the desk next to mine and has even made some rudimentary attempts at conversation. While his English may be as Neolithic as his gait, I can’t help but feel endeared to the new head of the English department and his rejuvenated attitude towards me. Who knows, he might even stop sleeping on the floor…
It was just a shame that in our second week of teaching together, the supervisor I had so come to treat with respect came to me with a piece of paper from the Kyoto Sensei (vice-principal). Maiyumi explained that the sheet was an agreement that I had to sign, declaring that I would drive safely during my employment at the school, a contractual obligation that made my hairs stand-on-end at the thought of a certain incident that had occurred the week before. On the cusp of asking my supervisor whether this had anything to do with the recent speeding ticket (I had blubbered to the police officer where I worked, you see), I thought better of it and held my tongue as I signed the declaration.
“You do drive safely, don’t you Alex?” Maiyumi enquired earnestly.
Taking my first minor withdrawal from the Bank of Lies, I solemnly nodded and handed back the sheet, pruning away any guilt with the reassurance that by British standards, I was driving safely. As it turned out after talking to Aaron later, at the beginning of the new year, most schools enforce such declarations as a preventative measure against wayward employees bringing shame and dishonour upon their institution; so it was with relief that my frugal use of the truth had at least kept me on good terms with Maiyumi – although to be honest (for once), my new supervisor seems so down-to-earth that I couldn’t imagine such matters really bothering her anyway.
Besides Maiyumi, Toyoko has two new arrivals: Koyama Sensei, my avuncular former-colleague from Minamiazumi Agricultural High School; and Miazawa Sensei, a lovely, but slightly frazzled-looking lady who likes to wake up at 4am to make cakes for the staffroom. At the agricultural school, the only change is Katsuno Sensei, who has swapped from Toyoko with Koyama Sensei. The staff turnaround has thus far worked really well and its cool to have the chance to have a fresh start with the new faces, although it has been interesting to note the behaviour of the staffroom veterans. Omori Sensei, the once dominant purveyor of staffroom banter, now sits quietly at his desk as Koyama Sensei’s rowdy exclamations shake the school foundations. Stranger still, parting ways with Ueno Sensei has only led him to belatedly take notice of my existence. Perhaps out of some sort of envy for my good relationship with Maiyumi, Ueno Sensei has since scuffled over with his belongings to the desk next to mine and has even made some rudimentary attempts at conversation. While his English may be as Neolithic as his gait, I can’t help but feel endeared to the new head of the English department and his rejuvenated attitude towards me. Who knows, he might even stop sleeping on the floor…
- Location:My House
- Mood:
sleepy - Music:'Knife' - Grizzly Bear
Just as the reassuring emergence of warm-weather and sakura (cherry blossom) usher out the cold lifelessness of the last five months, I too got to wave goodbye to those who had outstayed their welcome during the course of the last month of winter. Kieran aside, I of course jest when I so flippantly dismiss the respective visits of my former flatmates and parents, although it is nice to be finally unburdened of the task of thinking of exciting things to do in a town whose most notable attraction is a wasabi farm. As so much has happened between Henry’s arrival back in the middle of March and Mum and Dad’s departure a week last Thursday, you’ll forgive me if I keep this a mainly photographic account of recent events. Sadly, however, this cannot be so for much of Henry’s initial stay, as we managed to lose my camera sometime between finding ourselves in a Russian gay bar on St Patrick’s Day and sleeping on a bench at Nagano Station until six in the morning. Which was probably just as well really, as for most of the subsequent week I was ridden with a nasty bout of food poisoning – not the stuff of pretty pictures, although for the indomitably curious, you may want to check out the work of somebody who did have a camera...
In any case, it wasn’t long before Alasdair and Kieran’s arrival ten days later, and despite the absence of a couple of mangy sofas and a 16” television belting out Neighbours, it felt very much like we were back in 124 North Street. Flanking the others’ trip to Kyoto, the time we spent together over the following two weeks included the usual Toyoshina stalwarts of visiting wasabi farms, monkey onsens, karaoke parlours and arsing on swings in the early hours of the morning, as well as helping out with Erika and the girls at a special ‘Easter Day’ for Ben’s elementary kids in Saku. Regrettably, however, few of these activities seemed as memorable as what would be my first (recorded) legal indiscretion since arriving on these shores.
In my eight months of living in Japan, there has been little to indicate that driving along any one of its roads is any safer than doing so through a Baghdad street market. I’m not one to usually draw from cultural stereotypes, but the Japanese really are the Italians of the Far East. Assuming that the driving code is more akin to a list of suggestions than a set of laws per se, an unsettling majority of Japanese drivers prefer to lock common sense outside their Toyotas and take to the road with a degree of recklessness not seen since Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin decided to fill his invention with H2. But while the Italians largely ignore the speed limit in favour of concentrating on lines in the traffic to cut through, Japanese drivers are by-and-large pretty good at looking at their speedometers, albeit not at what’s going on beyond their windshields. This would be puzzling given their already erratic driving habits if it weren’t for Japan’s fairly draconian speed-limits: 40/kph (24.9/mph) in towns and country roads, and 80/kph (49.7/mph) on the motorway.
And so, as we were driving back from the Azumino Glass Museum, I found myself being signalled from the side of the road by a man wearing dark apparel and a helmet, murderously waving at me with a big red-glowing stick. On first suspecting that we were about to be accosted by a dark lord of the Sith, I was somewhat relieved to discover that this man was merely a member of the Nagano police force rather than being a crazed wielder of the Force. Having been ushered into a large field-like car park, the sight of several police vans and other vehicles in our predicament soon suggested that I might have been taking liberties with the local speed laws. It wasn’t before I found myself in the back of one of those vans that I found out the magnitude of my transgression: 59/kph (36.6/mph) in a 40/kph (24.9/mph) zone that would have easily passed as a 40/mph road back home.
Having talked to my friend Todd after this incident, it would seem that I was one of the victims of Japan’s annual crackdown on speeding drivers – a time of year when many a young person will pass their test and receive the keys to their daddy’s Prius, only to be the primary targets of the police speed guns that litter the roads in April. After spending 40 minutes in the back of the van with an officer who couldn’t have been older than my younger brother, the smattering of common language between us led me to understand that I would be £60 and one-point poorer once I got back into the driving seat of my car. Scanning the rest of the occupants of the Toppo, the police officer politely asked for their respective identifications, obviously perturbed by the sinister nature of Kieran’s beard. Ironically, Alasdair and Henry showed their driving licenses, while the Irishman floundered in front of the officer as he struggled to find anything of consequence in identifying himself. Gingerly withdrawing a piece of plastic from his wallet, Kieran handed over his national insurance card to the officer, anxiously hoping that his English wouldn’t be sufficient enough to identify the large-type, bold-writ on the back of the card that read: ‘CANNOT BE USED AS PROOF OF IDENTIFICATION.’ Mercifully, this was the case, and we soon found ourselves arriving safely back home, albeit in twice the time of our outward journey…
Feeling that trains would better serve our remaining travel needs, our time together culminated in Tokyo as we attempted to cram as much of the city as we could before Alasdair and Kieran’s departure three days later. My time in Tokyo had thus far only included wandering aimlessly around the labyrinthine depths of Shinjuku Station, so the city was just as new to me as it was to the boys. Having had their fill of culture from Kyoto, it was felt that our first night would be better spent in Rappongi, the entertainment district of Tokyo notorious for its bars, restaurants and strip-clubs. My memories of that night are feint, but notable highlights included: a pusher’s lament following Henry’s polite decline to enter his strip-club (“Why doesn’t anybody like titties anymore?!”); Kieran and Alasdair’s episode of Fight Club; and finally, Henry being kicked out of MacDonalds at 5 in the morning after a Dutch girl who had sat down with us jokingly accused him of being a troublemaker in front of a humourless, sumo-sized bouncer. Being a gentleman, I of course stayed inside and finished my Egg McMuffin with the Dutch girl and her Bermudan friend who later joined us; all the while leaving Henry to wander the Roppongi sprawls in utter bewilderment.
The next day we… Oh screw it, it’s getting late now, so I think the below photo will suffice in documenting the entirety of our final day together…
 |  |
Much to Henry's despair, none of our meals were had here... | Henry Allison - University Graduate |
In any case, it wasn’t long before Alasdair and Kieran’s arrival ten days later, and despite the absence of a couple of mangy sofas and a 16” television belting out Neighbours, it felt very much like we were back in 124 North Street. Flanking the others’ trip to Kyoto, the time we spent together over the following two weeks included the usual Toyoshina stalwarts of visiting wasabi farms, monkey onsens, karaoke parlours and arsing on swings in the early hours of the morning, as well as helping out with Erika and the girls at a special ‘Easter Day’ for Ben’s elementary kids in Saku. Regrettably, however, few of these activities seemed as memorable as what would be my first (recorded) legal indiscretion since arriving on these shores.
 |  |
After a childhood spent in the potato-mines of Killarney, Kieran finally gets to experience 'fun' | Despite a background in biology, Kieran is thrown when he discovers where baby pandas really come from |
In my eight months of living in Japan, there has been little to indicate that driving along any one of its roads is any safer than doing so through a Baghdad street market. I’m not one to usually draw from cultural stereotypes, but the Japanese really are the Italians of the Far East. Assuming that the driving code is more akin to a list of suggestions than a set of laws per se, an unsettling majority of Japanese drivers prefer to lock common sense outside their Toyotas and take to the road with a degree of recklessness not seen since Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin decided to fill his invention with H2. But while the Italians largely ignore the speed limit in favour of concentrating on lines in the traffic to cut through, Japanese drivers are by-and-large pretty good at looking at their speedometers, albeit not at what’s going on beyond their windshields. This would be puzzling given their already erratic driving habits if it weren’t for Japan’s fairly draconian speed-limits: 40/kph (24.9/mph) in towns and country roads, and 80/kph (49.7/mph) on the motorway.
 |  |
The Big Man photographs himself with Alexander Kapranos | Having only been dared £50 to get this close to the beard, Zia seems reluctant to go any further |
And so, as we were driving back from the Azumino Glass Museum, I found myself being signalled from the side of the road by a man wearing dark apparel and a helmet, murderously waving at me with a big red-glowing stick. On first suspecting that we were about to be accosted by a dark lord of the Sith, I was somewhat relieved to discover that this man was merely a member of the Nagano police force rather than being a crazed wielder of the Force. Having been ushered into a large field-like car park, the sight of several police vans and other vehicles in our predicament soon suggested that I might have been taking liberties with the local speed laws. It wasn’t before I found myself in the back of one of those vans that I found out the magnitude of my transgression: 59/kph (36.6/mph) in a 40/kph (24.9/mph) zone that would have easily passed as a 40/mph road back home.
 |  |
Henry forgets the next move halfway through a game of 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes' | Henry's estimation of the size of Alex's manhood is serendipitously timed with a pair of rabbit-ears being thrown at him |
Having talked to my friend Todd after this incident, it would seem that I was one of the victims of Japan’s annual crackdown on speeding drivers – a time of year when many a young person will pass their test and receive the keys to their daddy’s Prius, only to be the primary targets of the police speed guns that litter the roads in April. After spending 40 minutes in the back of the van with an officer who couldn’t have been older than my younger brother, the smattering of common language between us led me to understand that I would be £60 and one-point poorer once I got back into the driving seat of my car. Scanning the rest of the occupants of the Toppo, the police officer politely asked for their respective identifications, obviously perturbed by the sinister nature of Kieran’s beard. Ironically, Alasdair and Henry showed their driving licenses, while the Irishman floundered in front of the officer as he struggled to find anything of consequence in identifying himself. Gingerly withdrawing a piece of plastic from his wallet, Kieran handed over his national insurance card to the officer, anxiously hoping that his English wouldn’t be sufficient enough to identify the large-type, bold-writ on the back of the card that read: ‘CANNOT BE USED AS PROOF OF IDENTIFICATION.’ Mercifully, this was the case, and we soon found ourselves arriving safely back home, albeit in twice the time of our outward journey…
 |  |
Henry is impressed by Alasdair's uncanny ability in remembering the lyrics of his chosen song | Kieran looks skeptical after Henry's insistence that he is actually hairier than the Irishman |
Feeling that trains would better serve our remaining travel needs, our time together culminated in Tokyo as we attempted to cram as much of the city as we could before Alasdair and Kieran’s departure three days later. My time in Tokyo had thus far only included wandering aimlessly around the labyrinthine depths of Shinjuku Station, so the city was just as new to me as it was to the boys. Having had their fill of culture from Kyoto, it was felt that our first night would be better spent in Rappongi, the entertainment district of Tokyo notorious for its bars, restaurants and strip-clubs. My memories of that night are feint, but notable highlights included: a pusher’s lament following Henry’s polite decline to enter his strip-club (“Why doesn’t anybody like titties anymore?!”); Kieran and Alasdair’s episode of Fight Club; and finally, Henry being kicked out of MacDonalds at 5 in the morning after a Dutch girl who had sat down with us jokingly accused him of being a troublemaker in front of a humourless, sumo-sized bouncer. Being a gentleman, I of course stayed inside and finished my Egg McMuffin with the Dutch girl and her Bermudan friend who later joined us; all the while leaving Henry to wander the Roppongi sprawls in utter bewilderment.
 |  |
The combined philosophical musings of two St Andrews graduates with First-Class degrees was soon to reach an impasse, leading to... | Fight Club! |
The next day we… Oh screw it, it’s getting late now, so I think the below photo will suffice in documenting the entirety of our final day together…
 |
The Next Day |
- Location:My House
- Mood: lazy
- Music:'Sunday' - Sonic Youth
Although one might think that after seven months I would have finally adjusted to being flung 8 hours beyond Greenwich Mean Time, my chronological acclimatisation of Japan continues to be tempered by further differences in the Japanese school calendar. A week last Friday saw one such difference as the beginning of March marked end of year graduations at both Toyoko and Minamiazumi. Although Einstein’s Theory of Relativity would postulate that time can only be perceptively slowed through shifts between gravitational fields or by travelling at exceptionally high velocities, after attending two Japanese graduation ceremonies in one day, I can safely suggest that the famous scientist’s treatise is in serious need of revision.
Combining the entertainment value of a Paris Hilton concert with the spirited tone of a state funeral, Japanese graduations tend to be rather tedious affairs. While the third-year girls do their best to enliven the occasion with the splendid colours adorning their kimonos, the effect is sadly diluted by the sea of grey suits that make up the interminable procession of guest speakers. As someone whose Japanese is only slightly better than their Swahili, it would be entirely unfair of me to critique the content of the graduation speeches, but based upon the unusually high rate of narcolepsy amongst my colleagues, it would be safe to assume that my linguistic ignorance was probably a blessing on the day. However, perhaps the most infuriating aspect of the two ceremonies involved a ritual that each speaker assiduously observed before even opening their mouths. Prior to taking the stage, each speaker would take the time aside to respectively bow in the direction of every audience-member – a procedure that seemed to account for each separate degree of their 360º radius.
Despite almost being the victim of a boredom-induced coma, I was very glad that I attended the Minamiazumi high school graduation, as it was there that I had an interesting conversation with the lovely Kitano-sensei. Asking whether Ueno-sensei had told me about the new events regarding my house, I informed her that (naturally) he had not told me anything of late. Anyhoo, to cut a long-story short, Kitano-sensei explained that Minamiazumi had bought my house and, quite sensibly, had no ambitions to blow it up in the near future. Not only was this news a great relief, but it was also serendipitously-timed, for the next day I had planned to hold my ‘house-burning’ party.
Memory serves me poorly from this point onwards, but I seem to remember that the night was pretty fun – even though it had been hastily downgraded from a ‘house-burning’ to a rather belated ‘house-warming’ party. Drinks at my place were followed by a karaoke session that lasted until 5 am, topped off by a fairly packed sleepover of 20 folk or so that used every last straw of the house’s tatami-space. Getting the chance to hang out with everyone definitely eased any lingering doubts about another year in Japan, whilst reassuring me that there’s certainly enough room in the house to accommodate the a few impending visits of friends and family – the first of which is the start of Henry’s stay this Friday. Yay!
 |  |
| Toyoko Graduation | Third-Years in Their Kimonos |
 |  |
| Me and My First-Years | Toyoko Graduates |
Combining the entertainment value of a Paris Hilton concert with the spirited tone of a state funeral, Japanese graduations tend to be rather tedious affairs. While the third-year girls do their best to enliven the occasion with the splendid colours adorning their kimonos, the effect is sadly diluted by the sea of grey suits that make up the interminable procession of guest speakers. As someone whose Japanese is only slightly better than their Swahili, it would be entirely unfair of me to critique the content of the graduation speeches, but based upon the unusually high rate of narcolepsy amongst my colleagues, it would be safe to assume that my linguistic ignorance was probably a blessing on the day. However, perhaps the most infuriating aspect of the two ceremonies involved a ritual that each speaker assiduously observed before even opening their mouths. Prior to taking the stage, each speaker would take the time aside to respectively bow in the direction of every audience-member – a procedure that seemed to account for each separate degree of their 360º radius.
 |  |
| Minamiazumi Graduation | Minamiazumi Graduates |
Despite almost being the victim of a boredom-induced coma, I was very glad that I attended the Minamiazumi high school graduation, as it was there that I had an interesting conversation with the lovely Kitano-sensei. Asking whether Ueno-sensei had told me about the new events regarding my house, I informed her that (naturally) he had not told me anything of late. Anyhoo, to cut a long-story short, Kitano-sensei explained that Minamiazumi had bought my house and, quite sensibly, had no ambitions to blow it up in the near future. Not only was this news a great relief, but it was also serendipitously-timed, for the next day I had planned to hold my ‘house-burning’ party.
 |  |
| Abby, Kat, Audrey, Madz and the Top of Erika's Head | Erika and Belinda |
 |  |
| Abby and Tamborine | Not content with stealing every maraca at the karaoke parlour, Madeleine 'Klepto' Easson borrows a few more trinkets |
Memory serves me poorly from this point onwards, but I seem to remember that the night was pretty fun – even though it had been hastily downgraded from a ‘house-burning’ to a rather belated ‘house-warming’ party. Drinks at my place were followed by a karaoke session that lasted until 5 am, topped off by a fairly packed sleepover of 20 folk or so that used every last straw of the house’s tatami-space. Getting the chance to hang out with everyone definitely eased any lingering doubts about another year in Japan, whilst reassuring me that there’s certainly enough room in the house to accommodate the a few impending visits of friends and family – the first of which is the start of Henry’s stay this Friday. Yay!
 |  |
| The Aftermath | Abby and Tom |
 |  |
| Justin, Audrey, Jen and Todd | Matt and Belinda - Bless |
- Mood:
bored - Music:'Ay Mama' - Devendra Banhart
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