O bento. A bientot!

So this week, the plan was that Bridget would instruct us on how to make Ramen.  Not as easy as one might think either.  It's more than just a bowl of hot water and noodles.  However as it was Willa’s birthday, Bridget offered instead to bring Obento for each of us.  I said sure, why not? I’m so impressed with Bridget’s cooking at the moment that she could’ve suggested bringing a half-eaten packet of chips she’d nicked off a pre-schooler and I would’ve said yes without hesitation or reservation.  Obento is a compact meal in a box, usually served at lunch time, but there’s no hard and fast rule about it.  It’s packed full of various foods to sample, that make up a basic Japanese meal.  There’s meat, seafood, vege and of course rice.  It can be served hot or cold.  If you buy it at the train station it’s called Ekiben, another example of the Japanese playing with words. 

We were going to surprise Willa, whose actual birthday was the day before.  It can be tough celebrating such a personal milestone so far away from home so we were determined to make sure that she at least had something nice to eat.  We all sat around the table, when Bridget pulled out three heart-shaped boxes of Obento, from her oversized bag.  Yep, THAT bag.     

Now I’ve had Obento before, and frankly while the food looks magnificent, I don’t usually eat all of it.  Some of the food is great, and the rest is just okay.  This Obento however was the exception.  Easily the best boxed meal I’ve ever had.    

The wieners were cut to look like Octopus, hence the name 'takowina'.  They were placed ‘head down, legs up’.  The meat had their own corners to occupy, patties with patties, chicken with chicken.  The chicken karaage had been skewered with small plastic sticks, the top shaped like Mickey Mouse's head.    You can never have enough Disney references in Japan.   

The overall look, once you opened the lid was very impressive.  Portion size was just right, and all the different foods tasted well together.  We each had a cup of hot Japanese Tea as the perfect compliment, to an equally tasty meal.  Presentation is very important in Japan especially when it comes to food.  I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that a meal tastes better when it looks great, but it certainly puts the diner in the right space to accept that as truth.  I'm not expecting the kind of dressed up food you see in cook books or magazines, but as they say, you are what you eat.  

The meal was absolutely delish!  Everything is bite-size.  A pair of chopsticks is all that's needed.  No knives because you don't need to cut anything.  No spoons because there's no liquid, and no forks because nothing needs to be speared.  The word 'bento' apparently comes from a root word that means 'convenience'.  

The meal also consisted of green beans drowning in some kind of tantalising herbal mix, the sweetest cherry tomatoes, crispy lettuce, succulent sweetcorn and yummy onigiri, all neatly packaged in a heart-shaped box.  Valentine’s Day having been celebrated four months ago.  But that is of little consequence in Japan.  Something cute that immediately grabs the attention of females?  What else could be more fitting than boxes in the shape of hearts?

I heart you Bridget!  Thank you so much for another stunner of a meal! Gochisosamadeshita!  

Alcoholia

I want to mention a little bit about what happens when the Japanese ‘let their hair down’.  It may come as a surprise to many people but when the Japanese drink (alcohol I mean) a lot of fun is in store for anyone in their company. 

I have never been to a country where alcohol could be bought from vending machines.  Nor have I seen ‘top shelf’ liquor being sold in supermarkets.  Nor have I seen cans of alcohol being sold separately, outside of a six-pack in Convenience Stores (Dairies).  I really didn’t know what to make of it.  Was Japan behind or ahead of the rest of the world in terms of their attitudes to alcohol?  I know if alcohol was sold so freely back home, we’d have chaos.   Maybe it’s the attitude of the people and the culture that makes the difference? 

I remember being told earlier on that Japan has a zero tolerance to drink driving.  Alcohol is not permitted in the system of any driver, for whatever purpose.  You will go to jail.  That is to be sure.  I was told that as a foreigner, if you break this particular law, you will be fined, be imprisoned and when your sentence is over, you will be deported, and NEVER be allowed to come to Japan again.  I thought it was a bit harsh, but then maybe we shouldn't treat our lives and the lives of others as bits of nothing? The worst case scenario of someone driving drunk on a road filled with other people in cars, is death.  Either they die or someone else does. Or both. Or all. If you look at it from that perspective, zero tolerance doesn’t seem like such an unreasonable, heavily weighted law after all.  However, the Japanese make sure that the message hits home, by also legislating that anyone who is aware of someone getting behind the wheel of a car drunk and does little or nothing about it can also face criminal charges.  That includes friends and family.  No one can plead ignorance.  Again, this is in place so people don’t die.  I wonder, in my own country, whether we’d see less carnage on the roads if we adopted this hard line.  Anyway, getting way off track.

     

The first dinner I was invited to attend with some work colleagues was a definite eye opener for me.  In my head I thought it would be a rather dull and formal affair where we’d eat, drink but definitely under no circumstances would we get merry.  It was a sensible assumption to make given that at work, my colleagues are serious, focused and extremely restrained in both action and speech.  Of course they have a laugh from time to time and crack a smile every once in a while.  I just don’t know what (or maybe who) they’re laughing about or what they’re smiling at.      

The long table was laid out in traditional fashion.  We were all going to be sitting on cushions on the tatami floor, and I had to quickly suppress the urge to sigh disappointingly at the absence of chairs.  I can never sit on my knees as ladies are supposed to do.  Instead, I sit cross legged like the men, but before long, pins and needles attack me and I end up extending my legs under the table, trying not to touch the person’s legs, sitting opposite from me.  That would be awkward.  It’s not the most comfortable position to be in when eating, especially when there’s no obliging wall behind you to lean on. 

Anyway, I had arrived early with a few other people.  When we entered the room where we would be dining, we were shown a small wooden bowl full of folded bits of paper.  Ah, a random seating plan.  I wish I’d stayed home.  I resigned myself to an evening of awkward silence, averted eyes and nervous smiles.  The piece of paper I selected read, ‘11’, so I went to sit at the far end of the table.  Number ’12’ was already seated.  It was the Social Studies teacher whom I’ve said hello to on a couple of occasions but never anything beyond that.  Number ‘10’ was one of the English Teachers, thank you Jesus.  There was certainly nothing random about that.  I'm sure she was asked to 'take one for the team' and sit beside me for the evening.  I didn't care.  I beamed at her as she made her way down my end of the table.  At least I’d have a bit of conversation to go with my meal. 

When everyone had arrived, the Principal was invited to say a few brief words of welcome to kick off the ‘festivities’.  Drinks were ordered and people began pouring for each other, and taking the opportunity to say a quick ‘hi and how are you’ before returning to their seats.  The clinking of glasses and bottles, signalled the first ‘Kampai’ of the night.   Looking across the table at some of my colleagues as they sculled back bottles of beer and glasses of chuhai, umeshu and sake, I thought to myself it would be more prudent for them to drink slowly otherwise they’d be pissed in an hour.  Little did I know that this is what happens here.  I was about to witness first-hand what it means to get drunk in Japan.  You drink quickly because you’re on the clock.  A long night we don’t have.

Cute little dishes of mostly seafood began to make their way onto the table.  When I think of the sushi I used to eat back home, it just doesn’t compare to what was being put in front of me now.  Never mind not being able to hold a flame to it.  You wouldn’t even be able to light the wick.  Every dish is aesthetically pleasing, fish expertly cut and displayed in such a way, that you’re momentarily conflicted about whether to simply sit there and take snaps of it, or to start chomping on it.  Most of the time, I didn’t even know what I was eating.  Only that it came from the sea, and the serving size was so small that making a scene about not being able to identify it would seem trivial.  Pop it into your mouth.  If you don’t like it, swallow it whole.  A teaspoon of soya sauce makes the strange looking food go down.  A flame was ignited under every individual sukiyaki hotpot. The contents cooking tenderly as a mouth-watering aroma filled the air. 

I began stuffing things into my mouth whilst enjoying the surprisingly refreshing entertainment provided by my alcohol fuelled colleagues.  Most of those drinking were by this time, thoroughly red-baked in the face, eyes unfocused and mouths loosened considerably.  Shrieks of laughter could be heard up and down the table and the restraints being cast off as people became more and more animated.  I couldn’t understand any of the conversations taking place, but the tone strongly suggested that everyone was having a good time.  I found out that the Social Studies teacher can speak a LITTLE English and is a very kind-hearted man, who incidentally knows a little magic.  The usually stern looking Science Teacher has a great sense of humour, with a splash of cheekiness.  The scholarly Vice-Principal is able to have an intensely intellectual, rational conversation, despite beer oozing through his pores. The Bus Driver is simply the life of the party, moving from one person to the other, even me!  And together they all drink like fish.  A thin veil of haze hung in the air from those who chose to light up cancer sticks, nostalgia assaulting my nostrils as I remembered those long forgotten days of my youth spent as a serial passive smoker.   

Tonight, everyone wanted to speak English and staff that I had never spoken to before, had some pearls of wisdom to impart to me.  Most of the time I just smiled back.  'A' for effort, 'C-' for execution.  Being off your face does have its advantages, giving you the courage to do things you would never do sober.  They’re really very nice people once the screen comes down.  As with most people, ‘peeling back the layers’ of one’s character and personality to others is not an easy thing to do.  Trust has to be established first and upkeep is essential.  So I happily concluded that I had gained a little bit of their trust, for them to let me in on some things.  These people are not detached or rigid and certainly not boring.  I guess a release of certain emotions do have their place.  At the right time, in the right situation, and with the right people, they can come out.  And when they do, you need to have your camera ready. 

What amazes me is how strict the time frames are.  There is a beginning and there is most certainly an ending.  Our dinner began at 6.00pm and by 9.30pm we were standing up away from the table, listening to the Principal making the final farewell address, anticipating that one clap thing that we’re all supposed to do (I’m proud to say I’ve always managed to clap together with everyone else) and then leaving!  It was all over just like that.  The only proof that this extraordinary dinner had happened at all, was a stomach full of expensively delicious food, and for those who had been drinking, an embarrassingly unsteady gait.      

I watched with fascination as some of my colleagues went from stone faced sober to stupidly drunk in a ridiculously short space of time, knowing that when we get back to work Monday morning, it’ll be ‘business as usual’.  Amazing.  No collapsing on the kerb, no verbally abusing other revellers, no vomiting in rubbish bins, and certainly no compromising positions down the alleyway behind the restaurant with a co-worker.  And yet we still had fun.  Wow.     

There are certainly advantages to indulging in fun with boundaries.  You finish strong.  You get to go home before the excitement wears off (as it so often does, in the early hours of the morning).  You get enough rest to sleep it off, and don’t feel like road kill in the morning.   You get to remember what you did the night before and it’s not such a bad thing.  You didn’t have enough time for your behaviour to deteriorate to a point where you may have embarrassed yourself or others.  Everyone goes home happy, everyone gets home safely. 

There is a perception of Japanese people, that they work hard and don’t do much else.  Yes they do work hard.  But they play hard too.  Just not to the point where they flush their self-preservation down the toilet.  It’s good to get drunk once in a while.  Just don’t be stupid about it and end up in hospital or worse.  Of course this is a general view.  I’m sure Japan like other countries has their equal share of boozed up idiots.  Most of my work colleagues have families, and perhaps this kind of fun suits them, a brief, temporary break from routine and responsibilities.  It’s good.  

The Paper Crane

The paper crane is the Japanese symbol of innocence, eternal youth, happiness and good fortune.  Basically you can’t go wrong.  You’d be hard pressed to find a child in Japan who doesn’t know how to fold one.  And when a kid places one in your hand as a gift, it’s a lovely gesture of kindness.  At first you don’t really know what to do or say but it reminds me of when I was their age, and kids would pick up acorns that had fallen from the trees on the school field and give them out to their friends.  You’d inadvertently be stockpiling these things in your desk for the remainder of the school term. It’s rude to toss out ‘presents’ but what do you do with them? 

No doubt you may have heard the story about a young girl by the name of Sadako Sasaki who was two years old at the time the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.  While she survived the initial impact of the blast, she did not escape the ‘atomic sickness’ that was to affect a visible number of the population in years to come.  She was diagnosed with cancer.  Her Leukaemia, almost certainly was a direct result of exposure to radiation from the fall out.  The 6^th and 9^th of August 1945, will be forever remembered in the bloody history of two nations.  For Japan where the bombs were dropped and for America where the bombs came from.  No other nuclear weapons have ever been discharged on another nation in any other war or conflict since.  There’s a reason why Hiroshima and Nagasaki are the first and only cities in the world to suffer the devastation of an atomic bomb.  If you ever come to Japan, I would strongly recommend that you visit the Hiroshima Peace Museum or its equivalent in Nagasaki and find out why.    

Unfortunately for Sadako, and many others like her, she would not get better, she would not be cured, and she would not return home.

Sadako believed in an old Japanese story that anyone afflicted with sickness would be cured by the Gods, if they made 1000 paper cranes in their honour.  Sadly she succumbed to her illness and died before she could complete her task.  She was 12 years old.  Her family and friends decided to finish it for her.  She was tenderly laid to rest surrounded by all 1000 of her colourful paper cranes.  A statue of a young girl holding a paper crane stands in Hiroshima’s Peace Park, to commemorate Sadako’s short life and the legacy she left behind.  Each year at Obon, held in August, paper cranes from all over Japan are sent in (and maybe even from around the world) to adorn the statue, immortalised in bronze.  

Never write kids off.... ever

Some days you go to school and everything works out well.  Your games are fun, your lesson is well received and you leave the classroom feeling as if you've truly inspired these kids that you think are the cutest buttons in all of civilisation.  This is your 'Lean on Me' moment.  
Other days, you wonder why you bothered to get out of bed.  Once in a while, you enter a classroom where the kids just seem to exude a strong dislike for all things English. They drag their feet when given instruction, and when asked to offer an answer, always check first by asking 'eigo de?' (in English?).  Really? What do you think?  
It's painfully clear that today, these kids don't want to speak any English, and most certainly don't want it spoken back to them.  They don't tell you this of course, but you'd have to be living in an incubator to not feel the 'not quite hostile but soon will be' tension in the room.  
I joined the 3rd grade class at Elementary School and immediately upon entering their classroom, I wanted to turn around and leave.  You could just feel something was off. I'd always had fun with this class, so I foolishly thought that I could somehow win them back.  Not likely. 
Several disruptions during the course of the lesson made it difficult to keep the students focused, much less interested.  Four separate incidents, occurring simultaneously, each involving a different student was to blame.  
One student who I think is autistic, lost the plot and began screaming and banging his fists on the desk for reasons apparent only to him.  Another boy refused to remain seated in his desk, much less focus on the lesson.  Instead he pranced around the class, shouting at the teacher pulling out books, and pens and whatever else, he could get his hands on.  Still another boy, was wandering about the classroom, not talking to anyone at all, just flittering here, there and everywhere.  He left the classroom to skip down the corridor several times so that a teacher aide was in constant pursuit.  The fourth student was a girl who I was very surprised at, as I had never seen such an outburst from her before.  She started crying, again for reasons apparent only to her and bolted out of the classroom.  She didn’t go far as she had cocooned herself into a corner of the wall a little way down the corridor.  The teacher left the class to go after her, smiled at me apologetically, but left me all the same with the remaining students.  She came back in several times during the remainder of the lesson, to say a few words in Japanese to the kids, knowing that I didn't understand, smiled weakly at me but not offering a translation, and then disappearing out the door again.  The boy who had initially been shouting at her, was now riding on her frickin' back!

When the bell finally rang to signal the end of that disastrous lesson, I made a mad dash for the door, intent on hiding out in the toilet for at least 20 minutes.  As I was descending the stairs, three girls from the class had called out to me.  No!  I stopped midway down the stairs and turned around.  The three girls rushed to stand a few steps above me.  They turned to look at each other, and then one of them counted ‘ichi, ni, san (1, 2, 3)’.   Nothing.  They all began talking again, completely ignoring me and I slowly moved down one step.  My attention was rapidly beginning to wane, and if I thought for one second that I wouldn't make one or all three cry at my hasty departure, I would've slid down the bannister by now.  They seemed to sense that their 'captive audience' was all set to make a break for it.  Looking intensely at each other, they nodded their heads as they all counted off, ‘ichi, ni, san’.
What followed was the most adorable rendition of ‘This Old Man’, I had ever heard.  I was gobsmacked.  An old nursery rhyme that I hadn’t heard in years, being sung by three little Japanese girls in a small rural town, in the middle of nowhere.  This was Mastercard priceless this was.  I don’t even think kids back home are taught this song anymore.  To me this was a nursery rhyme belonging to a generation that had long grown up and grown old.  As far as I know, the last time that song was voluntarily sung by a kiwi kid was back in the 80s.  I’m sure if I asked my 7 year old nephew about this song, he’d cock his head at me and ask, ‘What’s a knick knack, paddy whack?’. 

Every word was pronounced correctly, and the tune was on key.  By the end of their performance, a number of younger children had gathered on the stairs, staring at me, staring at the songbirds.  I clapped loudly in appreciation, and the wide-eyed little sprogs, unsurprisingly followed suit.  The three girls beamed at me, obviously pleased that they had managed to sing the song without a hitch.  They did more than that.  I was immediately transported back in time, to Kindergarten, when I first learnt this silly song. This was the song that helped me with my numbers. 

And then in true Japanese fashion, one of the girls then handed me a little paper crane before all three of them scampered away, holding hands.        

Failed lesson forgotten.    

Rice to see you, to see you, Rice!

If you ever have the good fortune of travelling through the Japanese countryside in a train (not the Bullet Train), one noticeable feature of the landscape are the rice fields.  They are everywhere!  You can never have enough rice I guess and it is the staple crop of Japan.  My students are amazed when I tell them that we don’t grow rice in my country.  What do you eat then? Um potatoes and bread (and usually not the low GI variety either).  I then tell them that while we don’t grow it, we do still eat it.  Again, amazement followed by confused looks.  ‘If you eat it, why don’t you grow it?’.  Cos we buy it from other countries, like yours.  And maybe it has something to do with the soil and the climate?  I’m reaching now.  The hole I’ve dug for myself is getting deeper.  I’m talking to a bunch of kids who are being raised up in a society that promotes and exemplifies self-sufficiency.  They have no concept of relying on others to do what you should be quite capable of doing yourself.  But then again they also don’t understand international trade or the global market either.  Hmmmm can we just stick to the alphabet please?

A few weeks ago, Bridget, Willa and I set off for a place in the country called Senmaida.  Apparently there are two Senmaidas in Japan.  One of them happens to be in our very own Prefecture, two hours away to be exact.  In English, it’s loosely translated as the ‘1000 rice fields’.  Bridget refers to it as the Japanese ‘Machu Picchu’.

It’s a series of rice fields, of all shapes and sizes ‘cascading’ down one side of a mountain.  You can well imagine that given its’ location, the drive there would involve negotiating a very long, narrow, winding and stomach churning road to get to the top.  I almost didn’t make it.  I had made the mistake of eating breakfast that morning consisting of toast smeared with jam and peanut butter.  I could feel the peanut butter now slowly creeping up my throat, threatening to spill out at any given moment.  I closed my eyes for most of the journey up the mountain but that didn’t seem to do much at all.  We stopped off at the first lookout and jumped out of the car.  Willa and Bridget stepped out to get a better look and I shot out of the car to throw up.  Bridget handed me a small paper bag that I proceeded to fill up with my breakfast.  After wiping my face and mouth several times, and gulping down some water, I felt okay to carry on.  Next thing I know, we’re posing for photos! 

The rice fields were planted long ago and over the years their number has diminished.  There certainly aren’t 1000 of them there anymore but still enough to create a lovely effect.  The different shapes and sizes of the rice fields make them unique as the standard rice fields that you see in Japan are rectangular, uniform and located on flatlands.  Senmaida is a little known tourist spot tucked away in the countryside.  However, the rice that is grown there is not for show.  Nothing in this country which is classed as food, is ever wasted.  The rice fields are planted and harvested like rice fields are supposed to be planted and harvested.  Each rice field is labelled with a name usually of someone who has ‘sponsored’ that particular field or maybe even been responsible for planting it.  We had seen a small field which had been funded by a well known politician, so the casting of the sponsorship net extends beyond the boundaries of the little mountain village.  It’s a nice tranquil place and worth the trip if you’re in the area.  We were lucky enough to meet an elderly man who showed us his spectacular pictures of Senmaida, taken over the years.  His photos were from different angles, in different seasons, at different times and one of them had even featured in a lifestyle magazine that he happened to have a copy of in his back pocket!  Sadly, his pictures weren't for sale.  

There's something peaceful and carefree about the place, although you'd be crazy to try and roll down the mountain.  You'd drown before you get to the bottom.     

Masterchef Japan

My dear friend, Bridget, bless her heart somehow got roped into cooking several dinners for myself and Willa.  Willa and I are neighbours.  She teaches English as well, and I’m happy to say that we hail from the same isles in the Antipodes.  She’s been a great source of support for me, and we’ve shared a lot of laughs together.  It’s always a blessing, especially when living abroad to have someone from back home close by to call upon when needed.  Kiwi humour is ‘unique’ shall we say and you need a good dose of it every now and then. 

We were all sitting around the table one day talking when Willa said that she didn’t know how to cook Japanese food and wished that she could.  Bridget immediately stepped in and offered to show her how to cook a few easy meals.  I didn’t put my hand up to learn, as I am acutely aware of my limitations in the kitchen.  I decided that I would tag along instead to take pictures but more importantly to feed my face.

So I turn up on Willa’s doorstep, last Wednesday night, stomach completely hollow of any food as both she and I eagerly await Bridget’s arrival.    Tonight Bridget is going to be making Curry Rice (Kare Raisu).  She came bustling in a few minutes later, armed with a big bag full of pre-cut vegetables, a generous stainless steel bowl of hot, cooked rice, three sets of utensils and crockery and the formidable look of a woman on a mission.  She also brought with her a box of Japanese curry pre-mix and several squares of individually wrapped dark chocolate (I’ll explain later).  All Willa was required to contribute were two cooking pots and water from her kitchen tap.  I came armed with my smart phone to take those all important snaps.  So as I’m standing there trying to dress up various ingredients for a ‘glamour shot’ and getting in Bridget’s way, Willa transforms into a culinary student with pad and paper, taking down the recipe as Bridget goes over each step.

 

After about 20 minutes of boiling, simmering, cutting, tasting and mixing, the curry is now ready to be devoured.  Bridget serves up a perfect little mound of rice on each plate and expertly pours a generous ladle or two of curry around it.  She then retrieves a stash of pickled ginger from her oversized bag and tells us to add some to the rice for a ‘kick’.  As we sit down to our meal, hands together in a gesture much akin to prayer, we all chime in with an ‘Itadakimasu’ (Japanese version of saying grace?), snap our disposable wooden chopsticks apart and begin a full assault on the meal placed in front of us.  Yummo!

Now, Japanese curry is not to be confused with Indian or even Thai curry.  It’s really more like a casserole.  There’s nothing really spicy about the taste.  It’s rather sweet, which I guess can be attributed to the chocolate.  Bridget told us that adding chocolate is optional, and is entirely down to individual preference and taste.  She added 4 squares of dark chocolate to the pot, mixing it in just before turning the element off. I did try to convince her that three squares of chocolate seemed more than sufficient and I would be willing to dispose of the remaining piece.  She said no.  The curry is supposed to be sweet, so in lieu of chocolate, I guess sugar is used?  

This is a quick and easy meal adored by all.  I intend on packing several boxes of curry pre-mix to take with me, when I leave. 

This week, Bridget did not fail to disappoint.  Again she came with her big bag of tricks, filled this time with the necessary ingredients to make Oyako-don (refer to previous entry about this tasty dish).   Willa opened the door for Bridget to enter and we chatted with her as she removed her shoes.  So excited were we to see her that we continued to talk with her while she stood barefoot holding her big bag and slowly buckling under the weight of it.  The poor woman stood there for a few minutes, not being able to move past the entrance (cos we were blocking her), or set her things down.  And not one bit of complaint.  Somehow I managed to find my manners and took something off her hands (not the big bag mind you) and Willa welcomed her in.

Bridget put her apron on almost immediately and began removing items from the bag and placing them on the bench.  Again, Willa supplied a cooking pot, saucepan and water.  Bridget informed us that she was going to make us miso soup as well.  Oh nice! 

The time it took to cook both the Oyako-don and miso soup was less than the time taken to cook the Curry Rice, the week before.  Lo and behold a short time later, we were seated at the table, face planting into our bowls, coming up only for air.  Hondashi which is Japanese soup stock is a special ingredient used in a lot of Japanese cooking.  It is magic, and magic as you can well imagine is not optional.  Miso is available at all supermarkets in Japan of course but Bridget informed us that the miso she had used was homemade.  Bridget’s mother owns a restaurant, and makes the meanest chawamushi I’ve ever had the fortune of tasting.  Chawamushi is a savoury egg custard filled with other stuff.  The egg taste is not overpowering and it reminds me of a chowder of sorts.  It comes in a small cup and once you’ve eaten it, you don’t get anymore. 

The Oyako-don was delicious of course, even though myself and Willa both witnessed Bridget put at least 7 teaspoons of sugar into the saucepan!  Apparently the sugar isn’t optional either. 

Next week is Ramen.  It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if golden syrup was the secret sweetener for this dish.  We’ll have to wait and see.          

What to do in times of trouble. Look no further than Japan.

When I first arrived in Japan, I distinctly remember being thanked by several people for coming so soon after the Tohoku Earthquake.  People bowed to me in a gesture of humble thanks.  I think for the first time in my life, I was described as courageous and bold.  Wow. 

Looking back, I’m so glad that I didn’t know how to say ‘you’re welcome’ in Japanese.  If I did, I have no doubt that I would have merrily answered these people, having next to no idea what I had supposedly done to deserve such gratitude, but not being conflicted in the least about accepting it.  How arrogant is that?  People say ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ all the time.  It just rolls off the tongue.  Auto pilot response. It’s not a big deal.  But I think that in this case it is.     

I’m sure everyone will remember the 9.0 magnitude Mega-thrust Earthquake and the devastating Tsunami that followed, which wiped out coastal towns in the Tohoku area, on the 11 March 2011.  According to Wikipedia, official statistics released were that 15,883 people died, 6143 were injured and 2671 people are still missing.   Waves reportedly reached a height of 40 metres and reached as far as 10 kilometres inland.   The Nuclear Power Plant in Fukushima was damaged on a diabolical scale, resulting in a Level 7 Full Nuclear Meltdown of three of its six reactors.  Chernobyl is the only other recorded nuclear disaster to have registered a Level 7.  As a result surrounding towns were evacuated and people displaced and suddenly homeless.  It’s estimated that decontamination of certain areas will take several decades, specifically those surrounding the Plant site.  Some people have been permitted to return, but not all, and certainly for some, a return home in the foreseeable future is highly unlikely.       

This was easily the most destructive earthquake to ever hit Japan and the fifth most powerful earthquake recorded in the world.  So powerful in fact that the main island of Japan, Honshu, was shifted several metres to the east.  Of the 47 prefectures in Japan, 20 of them were directly affected by the Earthquake, and the subsequent Tsunami.  The destruction of buildings and homes easily surpassed several hundred thousand.  The Tohoku Earthquake and the Tsunami it triggered was a natural disaster of such epic proportions that the task of rebuilding what was completely demolished seemingly looked impossible and any attempts to do so would have proven futile.  Tohoku was in an extremely bad way and there simply are no adequate words to explain the devastation of what happened.  What man constructed over generations was decimated by Mother Nature in a matter of minutes.  How do you put that into comprehensible words? How do you describe something so cataclysmic? Many people stated that watching the news reports and seeing the images captured by eye witnesses was like watching an ‘end times’ movie.  If only.  The malevolence of the sea, snapping boats in two, destroying sea walls designed to hold it back with ease, roads dissolving like sand and houses being broken up and swept away as if they were made of twigs.  And in amongst all this terrible chaos were people, real men, women and children, claimed by the raging water. 

You don’t want to spout out the numbers either as if they meant nothing.  Each number equates to a life lost or changed forever.

That’s why this nation just floors me.  Whenever I think of what happened on that fateful day, I am astounded at these people and their strength, in spite of all the turmoil.  Their mighty spirits refuse to back down when all seems hopeless.    

The Japanese people immediately set to work again, to rebuild and to move on.  They are a people that are in constant motion.  They are doers.  They do not flinch at the first sign of hardship, nor do they cower when faced with challenges.  They pick themselves up, dust themselves off and carry on.  I have no doubt that their grief is palpable.  People died, people were injured, people are still missing, and their lives as they knew it were violently destroyed.  Young and old were taken so suddenly, and all too soon.  How could you not grieve at something like that?  These people are not unfeeling.  They bleed the same way we do.  But the difference is the Japanese channel their grief into the kind of focused energy that is determined to overcome such devastating loss and hopelessness.  It is not their way to sit and weep.  Instead they choose to grieve silently, while they feverishly set about righting the wrongs done to them.   They continue to believe that all is not lost.  And if there is still a life to be salvaged, no matter how small, they will continue to rebuild and look to the future.  Whether outsiders understand or even approve is irrelevant.  This is how they cope and I respect them for it.  When you see the pictures taken of parts of Tohoku immediately following the Tsunami and then pictures taken of the same areas, two years later, the transformation is mind-blowing.  People from all over Japan clamoured over each other to help Tohoku.  Of course the lives lost cannot be replaced.  They know that, but the best kind of memorial for them would be to rebuild and start again.  New towns built in their honour.  I have to say, I don’t know of any other country in the world that could have recovered so quickly from such utter destruction.   Back breaking work is still ongoing.  But the Japanese stoically take it all in their stride.  And look at how far Japan has come already.  This is a tribute to a truly resilient and formidable country.   

Now back to what I was saying before at the beginning.  So I get to Japan and people are thanking me for coming.  Apparently there was a mini exodus of foreigners out of Japan, shortly after the Tohoku disaster, and tourists decided to spend their cash elsewhere.  People going out but not a lot coming in. 

I admit that when I heard about the Earthquake and Tsunami, I checked the map to see how far the area was from the Prefecture I was going to.  Not even close.  But to have people express their gratitude to me for coming was truly humbling. My motives were purely financial at that time.  I was lured here by the almighty yen, totally ignorant to the pain and suffering this country was going through at the time.  Humanitarian relief was the last thing on my mind.  So please hold the applause.    

I felt like even more of a dickhead when after these people thanked me for coming to their country, they then enquired after my own. How was New Zealand coping after the Christchurch earthquake?  On the 22^nd of February 2011, exactly 17 days before Tohoku, an earthquake measuring 6.3 on the Richter Scale, struck Christchurch just after lunch.  Buildings were reduced to rubble, and 185 people were killed.  The loss of life was devastating and the destruction to the city equally heart-breaking.  To say that I was surprised by the question would’ve been an understatement.  I didn’t think that they’d even heard about Christchurch, let alone that it was in New Zealand.  

And then I remembered.  Of the 185 people killed in Christchurch, 79 of them were foreigners.  And of this number, 28 of them were Japanese students.  They had died when the building where they attended English classes collapsed.  A 70-strong search and rescue team from Japan arrived in Christchurch, with their own trained dogs to assist. They had come to recover the bodies of their countrymen.  However, less than three weeks later, their mission was understandably cut short with news that an earthquake had struck the north east coast of Japan.  They returned home.      

Like most of us, they would witness shocking video footage and heartbreaking eye witness accounts of the single most devastating natural disaster ever to hit their country. 

If I was to take anything away from Japan, when I leave, I hope it’s their resilience and their bull-headed determination to overcome all odds.  They remind me of the ‘Doozers’ on Fraggle Rock, begging their pardon.  I make the comparison with nothing but respect for Japan.  You have the colourful ‘Fraggles’, the clumsy ‘Gorgs’ and the Industrious ‘Doozers’.  The Hard-hat wearing Doozers are constantly building in the background, never stopping, always focused on the task at hand.  A whole episode can go by where you’re caught up in the dramas of the Fraggles usually being chased by the Gorgs, and then suddenly you notice some kind of construction in the background where there wasn’t one before.  That’s the legacy of the Doozers.  Of the three, they are the smallest in stature, but they are many, and certainly the most dedicated and committed.  Tireless in their efforts to create something out of nothing.  Aptly named.  That’s Japan in a nutshell.  
 

There is certainly no need to thank me for coming.  I didn’t come with any money or medical supplies.  I didn’t organise any emergency shelters and I certainly didn’t bring any kind of expertise that would be of any use in this situation. 

I should be the one to express my gratitude.  I cannot think of one negative experience worthy of mention that I’ve had here.  People have been nothing but kind and generous towards me.  Japan is not a closed society as many foreigners would think.  Of course you can only go so far and integrate so much, but that’s because you’re not Japanese.  That would be the case in any country. 

Living here, it’s certainly not difficult at all to admire the picturesque landscape and rich history of this nation (although I’m not overly fond of the wildlife).  All of this I have received, time and time again, and this with Tokohu still in the forefront of most people’s minds.  Two years is not a long time at all.  What happened in Tohoku is permanently imprinted in the psyche of this country and yet kindness and good deeds still abound.  In spite of the trauma of Tohoku, the Japanese have lost nothing of their warm hospitality towards others.  I don’t think anyone would blame the Japanese, following this particular natural disaster if they fell apart and chose to look out only for themselves.  Conserve their energy, save their money.  Japanese for Japanese.  But that hasn’t been the case at all.  The compassion of these people is priceless.  As far as I know they’re still contributing their fair share in foreign aid to poorer countries as well as meeting their responsibilities at a local level.  You can’t fake that kind of concern.  You certainly can’t produce it out of thin air either.  All the qualities of community that I remember as a child are still practiced here in Japan.  And what better time to lean on community than when tragedy strikes?  It’s truly a great country to live in.  And as my time here slowly runs out, I find that I’m somewhat ‘divided’ about leaving.  

One of the first things that you have to settle in your head when coming here is that Japan is an active hive of seismic activity.  Earthquakes happen.  They are expected.  Everyone knows about them.  It’s hardly a secret.  That’s always going to be a point of consideration, when deciding to live here.  While I admire and commend Japan for their past and most recent efforts, I sincerely hope that an earthquake of Tohoku’s magnitude is never seen again in the lifetime of these people.  I have images of real faces in my head now.  They are no longer numbers.  The children I teach, the colleagues I work with, the friends I have and the people I’ve met.  I offer up a silent prayer that no further harm befalls this country, that I’ve had the privilege of calling my home for the past two years. 

There’s an old Japanese pop song that apparently shot to the top of the Billboard charts in America back in 1963.  It’s the only Japanese song to ever reach number one.  It’s called ‘Ue o Muite Aruko’ which translates to mean, ‘I shall walk looking up’.  It’s known in English speaking countries as ‘Sukiyaki’, apparently because the real title of the song was too difficult to pronounce.  Anyway.  It was sung by this amazing Japanese singer, the late Kyu Sakamoto. 

I remember listening to this song when I was at High School.  Not in 1963.  About three decades later actually.  I used to tune in to this radio station on Saturday nights, usually after 8 o’clock when they would play songs from the 60s.  It was some kind of ‘Golden Oldies’ programme but I loved it.  I’d sit there and rock out to songs containing simple lyrics, great melodies, sung by talented people who more often than not played their own instruments.  Shock horror. 

This particular song was always lovely to listen to.  The melody draws you in, even when you don’t understand what’s being sung.  Kyu Sakamoto’s voice is simply beautiful and he interprets the song so perfectly (at least I think he does).  You know instinctively that he’s singing about something sad.  It was only when I came to Japan that I thought to ask about the meaning of the song.

It’s about a man who chooses to look skyward so that his tears won’t fall down his face.  He tilts his head up as he walks.  The subsequent verses describe his burden of emotions, feelings of grief and despair.  He has experienced a loss of some kind.  But his response remains the same.  As he walks, he looks up to stop from crying. 

In my view, this song describes the Japanese at this time.  Their eyes will always be a little moist, their sorrow for Tohoku permanently anchored to their souls, but by focusing on the future, and striving for better days, the overwhelming sense of loss can be managed and the reality of what is can be accepted.  The tears may flow freely one day, but for now, Japan will continue to look up.      

Kids say the darndest things!

I love it when students take the initiative to speak English.  I wouldn't say that it happens often but when they do, it makes for some memorable moments indeed.  Some of them are mercifully unaware of how amusing they sound at times.  I’m not mocking them.  It's not the accent or the pronunciation of words.  It's usually how they describe certain things.  As their vocab is very limited they are restricted with what they are able to say.  But sometimes it's the profoundly simple things that they utter that make me smile.  I’m happy to see that for the most part, students like to play around with the language. Some words will trigger for them a particular phrase that they've heard (which they don't usually understand) but at least they are able to find some kind of context for it.  The other day the teacher was explaining to the kids that 'Mom' (Mum) and 'Dad' are informal more intimate forms of address for 'Mother' and 'Father'. She also gave the examples, 'Mommy' (Mummy) and 'Daddy', to which one of the boys replied, 'Big Daddy'.  It just hung in the air as none of the other kids knew what he was talking about, and the teacher I think was a little stunned.  I guess he watched the movie?  
When kids use their own wits to construct a response, you're able to catch a glimpse into their thought process.  That can be both enlightening and scary.  It’s all one big learning curve but it's the effort that I want to acknowledge more than anything.  

My friend and fellow English Teacher had commented on an interesting conversation she had with a Principal at one of her schools.  She said that his English is passable but he could care less about grammar and sentence structure.  His attitude (and I think it’s a great one) was that ‘so long as we are communicating that’s all that matters’.  The main thing is that you understand me and I understand you.  Well said.  There may be some things that get lost in translation but hopefully they’re not all that important as you have more than enough to engage in a really good, hearty conversation.  A missing slice of gherkin is hardly going to make a difference to the experience of munching on a Big Mac.  Weird analogy but it’s the only one that comes to mind at the moment. 

The other day I attended one of the 2^nd grade classes at Junior High School.  They were each given a worksheet with a specific dialogue printed on it, that they were required to memorize and recite to either myself or the teacher.  The class was divided into two teams, and the students paired off.  The race was on to see which team would finish first.  There were 14 different scenarios that followed this dialogue pattern.  All they needed to do was replace the city with another, change the weather conditions and the activity that they would be doing in said city. 

The dialogue was as follows:

     A.  You’re going to Osaka.  How’s the weather?

     B.  It’s hot.

     A.  What will you do there?

     B.  I will go swimming. 

After a few minutes, two boys walked up to the front and stood before me.  Concentrated looks worn by both of them, determined to score the first points for their team. I pointed to one and said, ‘A’ and designated the other, as ‘B’.  They looked at each other momentarily before speaking.  This is what they had to say. 

     A.  You’re going to Hokkaido.  How’s the weather?

     B.  It’s cold.

     A.  What will you do there?

     B.  I will eat hot food. 

I burst out laughing at the clever but snooty remark.  That was pretty good.  I looked up and found the boys merely staring back at me.  They were stumped as to why I would laugh at their dialogue.  Evidently, Hokkaido is very cold and eating hot food usually remedies this.  Makes sense.  Sarcasm is not as rampant here as it is back home.  Points awarded. 

The next pairing was of a gangly looking boy with spiked up hair who speaks with the urgency of a fossil, and a little speck of a girl who shrieks like a hyena.  When she laughs though, she makes no sound whatsoever.  Strange.  This was their attempt. 

     A.  You’re going to New York.  How’s the weather?

     B.  It’s cloudy.

     A.  What will you do there?

     B.  I will visit Jiyunomegami. 

I was confused.  ‘What? What did you say?’.  The boy who was ‘B’ nervously (and very slowly) repeated his answer.  Jiyunomegami.  I asked them, ‘What is that?’.

The Hyena girl immediately struck a pose, raising her right hand straight up in the air, her left arm resting on her chest as she focussed on a point just above my head.  Before I could nod to them that I understood, and that in English Jiyunomegami is ‘The Statue of Liberty’, the Hyena girl jumped up and down and started chanting, ‘Free girl, free girl!’.  I smiled and gave them the points.  When I told them the correct English translation, they stared blankly at me.  I sympathized with them.  ‘Free girl’ certainly is much easier to pronounce.  
   

At the end of each 1^st grade class at Junior High School, I’m often met with a chorus of ‘good-byes’ or ‘see yous’ as the students file out of the classroom.  They’re a good bunch of kids, who thankfully are still enthused about English.  On this particular day, several girls had passed by saying ‘good-bye’.  One straggler threw her arm around one of her friends and said, ‘Let’s go’ and I said ‘yes, very good’, pleased that she had spoken some English.  I nodded to her and repeated, ‘Let’s go’.  She smiled and walked past with her friend.  As she neared the door, I heard her say, ‘Let’s go to heaven’.  A phrase she’d obviously picked up from somewhere, having no clue about its’ meaning.  I called out to her, ‘No!  You don’t want to go there.  You’re too young!’.  The girls looked at each other, not knowing how to respond to the stream of English words that had poured out of my mouth.  Fight or Flight?  They quickly changed gears, picked up their pace and carried on through the door and down the corridor, without so much as a backward glance.      

Great.  Way to go.  Scare them straight with my own fears of death.  Hmmmm    

Why so tense?

A few months ago, I woke up one day to find that I had strained my lower back.  Don’t ask me how.  I went on holiday to Thailand, did absolutely nothing for a week, and a few days after I’d returned, my back gave out.  I just assumed that it would put itself right by the end of the week.  Unfortunately, the more I tried to ignore it, the more determined it seemed to get my attention.  It started to affect my walking which was both weird and scary.  I’d start walking and then after a few moments, I’d feel a sharp pain shoot through from my thigh, pass my glutes (I’ve never liked the word, ‘bum’), and settling in my lower back.   After a week or so of this I told my friend, Bridget about it.  I was worried that if walking became difficult then eventually driving would, and if driving became a hassle then I wouldn’t be able to work and if I couldn’t work, my contract would be terminated, my visa revoked and I’d be put on the first available flight back home.  Oh the drama!  So Bridget suggested that I come with her to see her Acupuncturist, who also happened to be a Physiotherapist or maybe it was a Chiropractor?  Almost immediately the phrase, ‘Jack of all Trades and Master of none’ sprung to mind.  Cynic that I am, I wondered which occupation he formally trained for, and which one he merely dabbled in.   

Now I’m the first to admit that I’m not the most ‘touchy feely’ kind of person.  I happen to like my personal space and take great pains to guard it well.  I don’t particularly like strangers (even if they are medical professionals) touching me, hence my aversion to anyone wearing a white lab coat or scrubs.   However, my tolerance for pain had hit its ceiling, so I agreed to go with her.   

So we front up to the clinic, the following day, where the Receptionist/Nurse (every staff member seems to have a dual role here) cheerfully takes down my details.  She smiles at me and asks me to write my name out in Katakana.

Hmmm, I can read it and maybe in theory I can write it, but I never thought to try.  No situation until now has called on my abilities to write anything in any other script but English. I asked her if I could write it in Romaji (Roman Letters) instead.  She looked at me pityingly and apologised that unfortunately that was not permitted.  I turned to look at Bridget and the Nurse clipped that idea well and good by telling me that Bridget was not allowed to write my name for me either.  The patient must record their own name for the file.  Those are the rules.  Shit.  I looked at her and she looked back at me.  She knew that I couldn’t write in Katakana and it was an awkwardly tense few moments for the both of us, as clearly I couldn’t progress to the next stage until I’d completed this one. 

Bridget wrote out my name in Katakana on a piece of paper making sure that I was watching her forming the characters.  She tried to be as economical as possible with her strokes while ensuring that it was still legible to the Nurse and easy for me to copy.  Bless her.  All I had to do was copy down what she wrote.  How hard could it be? 

Let’s just say writing something in theory is very different to writing it in the real world.  My hand was shaking and I had to blink several times as my vision became blurred.  I was like a preschooler learning her letters for the very first time.  Several pints of sweat later, I looked down at the piece of paper.  I prayed that my shoddy penmanship would be good enough.  Have you ever tried to write with a biro and no ink came out?  Then you do what we all do, scribble in the corner, and wait for gravity to kick in, as the ink slowly flows out of the nib.  That’s what’s my ‘name’ looked like.  A series of dark and faint scribbles.  Please don’t make me do it again.  I handed it over to her, and she barely glanced at it, smiled at me and bade me enter the Clinic Proper.  Looking back, I’m almost certain that I could’ve marked the form with an ‘X’, in my own blood, and she would’ve accepted it. 

The clinic is essentially one room with two Roller Beds in the back, and three make shift cubicles to the side, each separated by chequered pastel pink curtains.  I was led to a Roller Bed and invited to lie on it.  I discarded my coat and bag and lay down on my back.  The Nurse made some adjustments to the settings and then turned the machine on.  The bed began to contort as did my body.  Some kind of undulating rolling implement suddenly emerged out of the centre of the bed, making its way down from my neck to my thighs and back again.  I was not enjoying this at all.  I felt terribly exposed as newly arrived patients began to file into the room.  When the rollers moved down to the small of my back, I winced at the pain, but had nowhere to go, as my pelvis at this point was suspended high in the air, my back was arched in a grotesquely unnatural way and my blood-rushed head was all set to explode!  I felt like the possessed girl from ‘The Exorcist’.  This appointment wasn’t going exactly as I had planned.  I still hadn’t met the Physiotherapist and at this point, if I could’ve managed to sneak out without being detected, I would have.  This machine had a ‘medieval’ streak to it, and I just wanted to get off (and take a hammer to it). 

After the longest 10 minutes of my life, the machine suddenly stopped.  Breathing a sigh of relief, the Nurse quickly appeared, hovering over me, asking me if I was ‘daijobu’.  No, I wasn’t okay, but clearly she didn’t want to hear that.  She smiled with relief and then pointed to a stool for me to sit down on, which was in front of a small white machine loaded with knobs, switches and flashing lights.  A half dozen or so grey cords hung loose from the front, and at the end of each cord was a plastic suction cup.  These cups were placed on my shoulders and lower back and adhered almost immediately.  The Nurse flicked a few switches, turned a few knobs and then called out to Bridget who was now in one of the cubicles to explain to me what was going to happen next.  Behind the curtain, Bridget told me that the machine emits a series of electrical currents that penetrate through to tired muscles in order to stimulate them.  The Nurse wanted me to signal to her, how ‘strong’ I wanted those currents to be.  After the experience of the rolling bed, I wanted them to have all the impact of a feather, from a recently hatched chick.  The Nurse barely had time to touch the controls before my hand shot up for both my shoulders and lower back.  On a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of intensity, I made sure that it barely registered a minus 3.

Surprisingly, after 10 minutes of this, I did feel a little relaxed by the gentle pulsating energy that came through the cords.   But that could very well have been all in my head as in all honesty I couldn't feel much of anything. 

Following this I was put under some heated lamps which I was very grateful for as it was a cold night.  However, as you would expect, the one thing I would enjoy most so far was always going to be short and sweet.  Barely five minutes had passed, when I was ushered into one of the vacant cubicles to await the Physiotherapist.  Bridget fortunately was in the next cubicle so I whispered to her through the curtain that I was there.  She responded in a muffled tone and I pulled back the curtain to see her flat on her back, eyes closed with a million and one pins sticking out of her face!  I nervously asked her if she was okay, not knowing where to look, and she replied that she was. 

Bridget firmly believes in the healing powers of Acupuncture so who am I to judge? I’ve never tried it before and from where I was standing, none of the needles had drawn any blood.  It still looked painful to me (although Bridget was smiling and chatting to me without any difficulty) and reminded me of that character, ‘Pinhead’, in that old horror movie.  Granted she wasn’t bald with deathly, white skin, but still the clues’ in the name. 

A deep voice greeted me from behind and I moved back into my own cubicle as the smiling face of the Physiotherapist came into view.  I apologised and he said ‘daijobu’.  There’s that word again.  There was no time for a quick verbal, let alone introductions, so I moved onto the bed, and lay on my stomach.  I had plenty to say, but he clearly didn’t speak English so what would be the point?  I told myself that of course he’d read my file.  What practitioner sees a new patient without reading their notes?  Then I imagined him massaging my eyeballs (clearly proving that he hadn’t glanced at my new file where I had painstakingly written out my name in Katakana no doubt!) and me later being led out of the clinic by a distraught Bridget, two roughly cut patches of gauze taped over my bloody eyes, bent over, clutching at my still crook back.  I’ve often been accused of having an over-active imagination. 

In a matter of moments, the Physiotherapist began to knead the knots out of my shoulders and upper back, which I thought was superb.  I finally began to relax.   I did wonder though, why he wasn’t targeting the specific area of my complaint, but I felt encouraged that my pain would soon be gone.  After about 10 minutes of this, he then asked me to turn over which I thought was a bit strange.  I did as I was asked and the Physiotherapist began to really work on my shoulders and my neck.  Again I wasn’t too sure how this related to my back pain but it felt good, so why not? 

He then cradled my neck between his hands and pressed deep into the back of my neck several times.  I won’t lie.  That hurt.  The heavenly back rub of a few minutes ago, all but forgotten.  His hands moved to the base of my skull, pressing inwards but my brain registered the pain somewhere behind my right eye!  Is this what reflexology is? I brought my hand up to cover my eye and tried to pretend that all was well, so he could quickly move on.  However, there seemed to be a particular bone in that area he had taken a fancy to, as he kept pushing and prodding it.  I began to visualise a future confined to a wheelchair, as clearly this guy was determined to snap my neck in half (well not completely as that would kill me wouldn’t it?).  The stubborn bone in question refused to move at his urging so he pressed it more firmly.  I winced and turned my face into his hand, and he immediately responded with ‘Oh my God!’.  The first thing he’d said to me in English and I have to admit it made me laugh.  A little.   A few moments later, he began to move my head slowly from side to side several times, like he was passing a basketball between his hands.  Suddenly, he jerked my head to the right and I let out a shocked gasp.  It wasn’t painful but what the hell?  He immediately followed up with ‘Oh my Buddha!’.  Is this guy serious? I smirked at the ridiculousness of his statement, although it didn’t quite fully erase the kung-fu move he just tried to pull on me.

He finally let go of my head and I foolishly thought that the end was near.  He took a small towel, rolled it up and placed it length ways behind my neck.   Taking the ends of the towel in each hand, he brought them together, just above my face and pulled upwards, lifting my head in the same motion.  I started to panic.  What is this new trick?!  He did the side to side motion again, and I felt my head swaying several centimetres above the bed.  With nothing but the thin hand towel to support me, I shuddered to think what would happen, if he suddenly decided to let go.  I had failed to consider the other scenario, however. That being if he decided to hold on.           
Without warning the Physiotherapist moved away from the bed altogether, taking my head with him!  I thought of that Burmese tribe with the golden rings coiled tightly around their necks.  They start wearing them from a young age, and over time it causes their necks to stretch and become abnormally long.  In their society it’s considered beautiful.  While I find it fascinating, I still didn't want to look like them.  I’d been quite content with the current state of my neck, never thinking to apply for an extension. 

The pulling wasn’t painful, but having never had this done to me before, I was uncomfortable and a little anxious.  My fear got the best of me when I felt my entire body moving a few centimetres up the bed.  I remember thinking, ‘well if he can move me then I mustn’t be that heavy after all’.  There’s never an appropriate time to think of one’s weight.  I cried out and he immediately stopped and parroting my tone, yelled out, ‘Jesus!’ for the entire clinic to hear. I opened my eyes and looked up at him.  He had this cheesy grin plastered on his face, as if he wasn’t trying to rip my head off just now.   I burst out laughing and covered my face with my hands (also making sure that my head was still firmly attached to my body).  What else could I do?  I would’ve fallen off the bed if not for him.  I’d forgotten all about my back and my neck, and just erupted with laughter.  I tried to stop several times, but started up again within seconds.  His own laugh quickly changed into a nervous chuckle, probably thinking that with all that pulling, he’d somehow munted a few of my brain cells.  I laughed again, but before I ended up making a complete fool of myself, I thought of my dead Uncle (the only image that makes me suddenly serious).  After a few minutes, I managed to calm myself right down, and then there was silence.  Right on cue, the Physiotherapist helped me up to a sitting position said a few things to me in Japanese that I didn’t quite catch, and looked at me as if he wanted to pat me on the top of the head.  There there.  Run along now.  Hmmm I’d managed to bring the session to an abruptly awkward close.  I thanked him for his time, got up, drew back the curtain and walked out feeling as if I’d just been flattened by a tank.

Afterword 

I still have full use of both legs, paralysis averted.  The Physiotherapist is a true professional and my pain subsided after a few sessions.  He’s still a clown and I say this with the greatest amount of respect for him.  He never ceases to make me laugh, nor any other patient he sees.  I guess he’s like the Patch Adams of Japan.  Except we’re not kids.  And we’re not dying.  And he’s not a doctor.  And it’s not a hospital. 

Apparently, I was ‘misaligned’, as I now know everything in the body is connected.  So once the bone in my neck began to comply, and my back was adequately manipulated, my lower back pain soon disappeared.  Once again, the Japanese Health System is such that I pay 540 yen per session.  That’s almost $7 NZD for about an hour of therapy.  Ridiculously cheap! 

The Japanese have managed to turn the phrase, ‘you get what you pay for’ on its head, once again.  It is very possible to get a good service at an affordable price.  Yes it is heavily subsidised through the government’s Health Insurance Scheme, and I guess you are compelled to make regular contributions towards it from your wages, but still, for someone who is in full time employment, is neither a student nor a pensioner, the price is just soooooooo low!  It’s nice to work in a system where workers are looked after.  Good things need not always require that you pay through the nose. 

Later on, I thought about the kinds of English phrases that get tossed about in the world, and ultimately picked up by non-English speakers. 

I’ve heard students at school exclaim ‘Oh my God!’ at one time or another.   Usually they make sure that I’m in earshot.  Correct use and context is irrelevant to them.  They say it because it’s English.  I guess it’s easy to mimic and remember and most English native speakers like me (as I’ve just proven) would find it highly amusing.  I know for kids as well as the highly entertaining Physiotherapist, the use of such a phrase is merely to bridge the great divide between our two cultures, to make a connection, to inform me that they know something of my language, however small (or inappropriate).  I know that they mean no offence, and I take none.