Overcooked lions and raw horse
A month of dear friends' birthdays. Quite pleased with myself for getting sorted on the posted greetings front, although I fear none arrived exactly on time. Still, it's nice to receive a morsel on the doormat when the excitement has turned to disillusionment.
Cycling home this evening, the richly peach-hued sun was razor-edged, standing boldy out against equally honed clouds. Wetly ploughed fields teemed with flocks of tiny birds who rose in dense formations as I clicked past, Zero 7 caressing my ears.
Last week the Hioki ALTs were summoned to dine with the Lions Club. I assumed for some reason that this was the name of a club of elementary teachers wanting to talk about the best way to teach fruit names or some such, so rolled up in my battered motor and singularly scuzzy fake Adidam too-tight sports trews after a mucky day at elementary school. I met Chris and Jun-chan in the car park of the Ijuin backstreet Kinuya looking worryingly smart, and worry increased as we were bowed our way up to the third floor of the musty building to a swish tatami room, outside of which were lined up comparatively large shiny mens shoes. Their owners were knelt around the low table inside, bowing of course whilst scrutinising the agendas of what turned out to be the monthly meeting of the illustrious Rotary-like Lions Club, to which we'd been invited. We were given name tags and soon asked to stand up while the fustily-dressed old men and a couple of ageing ladies in beautiful kimonos sang the Lions anthem and recited a nominated section of what seemed like a Code of Honour, all of whose words were displayed on embroidered wall hangings around the room. They proceeded to welcome us and sat down to their short meeting, discussing their recent success cleaning up after some festival and organising people to donate blood during the festival, as well as their upcoming marshalling roles in the Ijuin Marathon Taikai. Jun-chan whispered that we'd have to give a jiko-shokai. Great. Jiko-shokais are deceptively simple, and I have had to reinvent mine to suit many an occasion. Short and self-deprecating 'What I like' at drinking events like Tsuki's birthday party at Kens or the gathering of musical eccentrics at Crowbar, business-like and professional at town hall meetings when our presence has no relevance to the meeting (of, say, the Old Ladies of Hiyoshi Unite) but is required to verify its importance and nestlement in the official bureaucratic net. Or, as in this event, more long-winded and focussed upon you as an invited guest who is there to acknowledge indebtedness and interest in those who have invited you. It's got both easier and more intimidating as my Japanese has improved, because you want to say more interesting things but are constantly tripped up by judging which register of politeness to use, quite how much information is necessary, whether to judge titters as encouraging approval or embarassed shock at your idiocy, etc etc. This time, having moved down to a different room and been commanded to split up and sit 'barabara' amongst the old men, and post kanpai, I spoke tentatively of wanting to work in a volunteer capacity in the future, how organisations like the Lions can foster international understanding and basically how great Japan is...and other such bull diarrhoea. It seemed to go down well but I suspect the grammar was a million miles off. Jun-chan and lovely Malaysian Wan-san (whose name in katakana has about 8 sections!) gave polished, tight chuff-chuff drawing self-intros in their marvellous Japanese.
Surrounded by guzzling men, I was on full-alert to make sure I was filling the thimble-sized glasses with beer as soon as they were looking empty enough to invite resentment at my ill-acquaintedness with the Japanese imperative to prevent anyone else from the embarassment (more like faux-pas) of having to fill ones own glass whilst indulging the core prerogative of fuelling social intercourse with alcohol (on which note, I was mildy taken aback with the virtual exhortation in the intermediate JET Japanese language course book to 'take advantage of the opportunity' to 'maintain good relationships, become closer to someone with whom you've never spoken to before, become able to say whats on your mind or have a chance to open up and talk one-on-one about an issue'. This is dangerous encouragement for someone like me who after three beers will be interrogating the mild mouse-like lady in the corner about her views on the yakuza or Japan's treatment of the Ainu, whales or their ridiculous capacity for digging up roads). After receiving a wad of meishi and fending off guffaws about my having been to Cambridge (I don't know how they found out but somehow it spread like wildfire and assuaged the criticism my spattered trackie bums may have garnered), I had one guy tell me to take advantage of this diverse gathering of distinguished men, that they included 'lawyers, doctors' and were 'mostly all chairmen'. It was ridiculous- I couldn't believe I was meant to pander to their demands to concur that yes, Cambridge is just as wonderful as Keio and that oooh, aren't rich men in suits wow-worthy! They nominate their co-members and pay rather large subscriptions to put on posh sashes at events and make themselves feel like the saviours of society by upholding family values and picking up litter sometimes. I was rather relieved to leave, especially after the nasty chawan-mushi (salty steamed egg in a cup) and deep fried prawn mush with a claw sticking out of it, some sloppy eel in a cup and other things I'd rather leave to the rockpools.
Funds being low as Marky Mark's waistband, decided to abandon my long-looked-forward-to trip to Yoron to visit Emily and roadtrip it to Kumamoto to take up the ravishing kiwi Michelle's offer of horse sashimi and shelter. I met her as a fellow TOA and was impressed by the general articulacy and easy-going go-gettingness of New Zealanders. She's a Wellingtonian ready to jump ship to Australia along with her siblings and, by the sound of it, half the under 30s of that fine part of the Commonwealth. Ruth, Nadine and I headed up the Route 3 on Saturday, passing little treats such as a giant Tottoro strung with fairy lights, a wee monorail that snakes up the mountainside at Tsunagi to a tottering rotemburo, comedically higgeldypiggeldy landslide defences and stops for enormous sacks of seasonal satsumas. We eventually hooked up with Michelle in a car-park in central Kumamoto, whose approach runs parallel with the astonishing mid-construction Kyushu shinkansen which will eventually link Kag to Osaka. We'd fed ourselves on a rare Thai meal and followed Michelle's enormous rear dent to her friend's loaned city apartment for some getting ready. I love these sneak-peaks into other JETs loves and lives- this friend had some of his incredible photoraphy mounted on the wall, bookshelves stuffed with interest...yet we never met him. The night out was grand- Michelle seems to command nomihodais on demand, plus the former Sanctuary club played old classics I've not had the pleasure to headbang to for yonks. Fast forward...the smell of brown rice cooking is making my mouth water and fingers speed....
We toured Kumamoto Castle, an imposing and marvellous reconstruction of the 6 storeyed fortress last serviceable during the post-Meiji Satsuma rebellion when it was burnt down during Saigo's affront. Most of Japan's castles went this way (I mean, they are made of frigging wood, what do you expect?) and have been reconstructed. We met a ninja who enthusiastically bowed before showing us his best attempt at climbing the walls, and made it to the top storey where fuzzy weather excluded the most expansive views but still gave an impression of the sense of paranoid feudal besiegement with the dramatic mountains in shrouded rings, wonderful patches of autumnally-hued trees and the grey city scape somehow blending into an imaginary past...
Cycling home this evening, the richly peach-hued sun was razor-edged, standing boldy out against equally honed clouds. Wetly ploughed fields teemed with flocks of tiny birds who rose in dense formations as I clicked past, Zero 7 caressing my ears.
Last week the Hioki ALTs were summoned to dine with the Lions Club. I assumed for some reason that this was the name of a club of elementary teachers wanting to talk about the best way to teach fruit names or some such, so rolled up in my battered motor and singularly scuzzy fake Adidam too-tight sports trews after a mucky day at elementary school. I met Chris and Jun-chan in the car park of the Ijuin backstreet Kinuya looking worryingly smart, and worry increased as we were bowed our way up to the third floor of the musty building to a swish tatami room, outside of which were lined up comparatively large shiny mens shoes. Their owners were knelt around the low table inside, bowing of course whilst scrutinising the agendas of what turned out to be the monthly meeting of the illustrious Rotary-like Lions Club, to which we'd been invited. We were given name tags and soon asked to stand up while the fustily-dressed old men and a couple of ageing ladies in beautiful kimonos sang the Lions anthem and recited a nominated section of what seemed like a Code of Honour, all of whose words were displayed on embroidered wall hangings around the room. They proceeded to welcome us and sat down to their short meeting, discussing their recent success cleaning up after some festival and organising people to donate blood during the festival, as well as their upcoming marshalling roles in the Ijuin Marathon Taikai. Jun-chan whispered that we'd have to give a jiko-shokai. Great. Jiko-shokais are deceptively simple, and I have had to reinvent mine to suit many an occasion. Short and self-deprecating 'What I like' at drinking events like Tsuki's birthday party at Kens or the gathering of musical eccentrics at Crowbar, business-like and professional at town hall meetings when our presence has no relevance to the meeting (of, say, the Old Ladies of Hiyoshi Unite) but is required to verify its importance and nestlement in the official bureaucratic net. Or, as in this event, more long-winded and focussed upon you as an invited guest who is there to acknowledge indebtedness and interest in those who have invited you. It's got both easier and more intimidating as my Japanese has improved, because you want to say more interesting things but are constantly tripped up by judging which register of politeness to use, quite how much information is necessary, whether to judge titters as encouraging approval or embarassed shock at your idiocy, etc etc. This time, having moved down to a different room and been commanded to split up and sit 'barabara' amongst the old men, and post kanpai, I spoke tentatively of wanting to work in a volunteer capacity in the future, how organisations like the Lions can foster international understanding and basically how great Japan is...and other such bull diarrhoea. It seemed to go down well but I suspect the grammar was a million miles off. Jun-chan and lovely Malaysian Wan-san (whose name in katakana has about 8 sections!) gave polished, tight chuff-chuff drawing self-intros in their marvellous Japanese.
Surrounded by guzzling men, I was on full-alert to make sure I was filling the thimble-sized glasses with beer as soon as they were looking empty enough to invite resentment at my ill-acquaintedness with the Japanese imperative to prevent anyone else from the embarassment (more like faux-pas) of having to fill ones own glass whilst indulging the core prerogative of fuelling social intercourse with alcohol (on which note, I was mildy taken aback with the virtual exhortation in the intermediate JET Japanese language course book to 'take advantage of the opportunity' to 'maintain good relationships, become closer to someone with whom you've never spoken to before, become able to say whats on your mind or have a chance to open up and talk one-on-one about an issue'. This is dangerous encouragement for someone like me who after three beers will be interrogating the mild mouse-like lady in the corner about her views on the yakuza or Japan's treatment of the Ainu, whales or their ridiculous capacity for digging up roads). After receiving a wad of meishi and fending off guffaws about my having been to Cambridge (I don't know how they found out but somehow it spread like wildfire and assuaged the criticism my spattered trackie bums may have garnered), I had one guy tell me to take advantage of this diverse gathering of distinguished men, that they included 'lawyers, doctors' and were 'mostly all chairmen'. It was ridiculous- I couldn't believe I was meant to pander to their demands to concur that yes, Cambridge is just as wonderful as Keio and that oooh, aren't rich men in suits wow-worthy! They nominate their co-members and pay rather large subscriptions to put on posh sashes at events and make themselves feel like the saviours of society by upholding family values and picking up litter sometimes. I was rather relieved to leave, especially after the nasty chawan-mushi (salty steamed egg in a cup) and deep fried prawn mush with a claw sticking out of it, some sloppy eel in a cup and other things I'd rather leave to the rockpools.
Funds being low as Marky Mark's waistband, decided to abandon my long-looked-forward-to trip to Yoron to visit Emily and roadtrip it to Kumamoto to take up the ravishing kiwi Michelle's offer of horse sashimi and shelter. I met her as a fellow TOA and was impressed by the general articulacy and easy-going go-gettingness of New Zealanders. She's a Wellingtonian ready to jump ship to Australia along with her siblings and, by the sound of it, half the under 30s of that fine part of the Commonwealth. Ruth, Nadine and I headed up the Route 3 on Saturday, passing little treats such as a giant Tottoro strung with fairy lights, a wee monorail that snakes up the mountainside at Tsunagi to a tottering rotemburo, comedically higgeldypiggeldy landslide defences and stops for enormous sacks of seasonal satsumas. We eventually hooked up with Michelle in a car-park in central Kumamoto, whose approach runs parallel with the astonishing mid-construction Kyushu shinkansen which will eventually link Kag to Osaka. We'd fed ourselves on a rare Thai meal and followed Michelle's enormous rear dent to her friend's loaned city apartment for some getting ready. I love these sneak-peaks into other JETs loves and lives- this friend had some of his incredible photoraphy mounted on the wall, bookshelves stuffed with interest...yet we never met him. The night out was grand- Michelle seems to command nomihodais on demand, plus the former Sanctuary club played old classics I've not had the pleasure to headbang to for yonks. Fast forward...the smell of brown rice cooking is making my mouth water and fingers speed....
We toured Kumamoto Castle, an imposing and marvellous reconstruction of the 6 storeyed fortress last serviceable during the post-Meiji Satsuma rebellion when it was burnt down during Saigo's affront. Most of Japan's castles went this way (I mean, they are made of frigging wood, what do you expect?) and have been reconstructed. We met a ninja who enthusiastically bowed before showing us his best attempt at climbing the walls, and made it to the top storey where fuzzy weather excluded the most expansive views but still gave an impression of the sense of paranoid feudal besiegement with the dramatic mountains in shrouded rings, wonderful patches of autumnally-hued trees and the grey city scape somehow blending into an imaginary past...