日本語能力試験三級

合格した！！

Sankyuu berry macho.

Sushi War

I return, drunker by far than I should be at this hour on a Wednesday, fresh from a midweek sesh with the clerk from one of my schools, who also happens to teach in the weekly assembly of studious foreigners and native Japanese volunteers I've been frequenting since September. Apart from a mutual love of Eberhard Weber, I have learned also of the profound battle between Sushi chef and customer.

Apparently (and bear in mind that at the time of writing, I am pretty damn drunk) when entering a sushi restaurant (a real sushi restaurant, not one of those Kaiten [conveyor belt] places frequented by plebs) the first thing one orders is Japanese style omlette, a.k.a yakitamago a.k.a gyoku. This is the initial yardstick by which the merit of the establishment is measured. The pernickity, overtly sadistic or just plain savvy customer will first examine the colour and aroma of this offering, then taste it. At this point, the chef, or sushi-ya-san will be fretfully awaiting the connoisseurs judgement. As an alternative to a speedy "bill please," the customer may decide that the gykou is good enough to warrant staying, at which point they will order hot sake

Relief for the sushi-ya-san!...for now...

There then follows a battle of the wills, both chef and customer testing the others depth of knowledge in this chosen battlefield. The customer will ask the chef to recommend the days special, a challenge which will reflect on the chef, as he no doubt chose the special himself from the fish market at some ungodly hour in the morning. This is a ritual battle with one victor. The cunning customer could potentially walk away from a sushi banquet fit for a Daimyo for as little as twenty-five quid, the alternative being twice as much if the sushi-ya-san works out that his opponent is in fact blagging it.

This confrontation with the chef is apparently typical of Japanese cuisine, and now this factoid has been imparted to me, it makes perfect sense. In most of the restaurants I've been to here, there is naught separating chef from customer but a modest kitchen counter. Here, the cook is completely responsible for what is served in their restaurant, with none of this hiding behind the double-swinging kitchen doors. If a customer doesn't like what they've been served, then the chef will answer to their complaints, before the entire shop if need be.

Diving deeper into the Japanese consciousness and acknowledging a profoundly militaristic culture, this practice presumably has its roots in the tea ceremony - Samurai, preparing to go into battle would have a nice cup of tea beforehand. Perhaps they had families and children. Perhaps they would go on to win a great victory for their Lord and lands. Perhaps they would die in trying. Perhaps this would be the last cup of tea they would ever drink. Better then, to make it the best cup of tea ever, before them, to make it with all the effort one would put into fighting for their home and to be answerable to ones comrades before death and glory.

It's funny and frustrating that I feel I'm only just getting a handle on this amazing country with only four months left of being here.

Power up! V(^-^)V

Ten years ago, the seventh incarnation of the erroneously titled Final Fantasy series bleeped into life on the original Playstation. It may have cost many their degree. It damn near cost me mine. A colossal virtual world and the means to navigate it were presented along with a story arc that potentially offered infinite gameplay. One commanded an increasing troupe of wanderers encountered at different parts of the tale, enemies became friends, friends became enemies and the death of one corner of a love triangle simplified matters in one sense, but deepened them in another. Video game characters had taken a great leap away from the pill popping madman who can only face his ghosts when he`s pumped up with the right stuff.

Ten years on, this supposed Final Fantasy has apparently left more of an emotional dent than the following five (possibly six) – not only are we graced with a feature length, absurdly dense CGI animation, but limited edition drinks bearing the ambiguous moniker of “Potion.”

This has been tickling me for a couple of days now, especially considering where it`s come from – to find, in Japan, source of the life consuming computer game, echoes of the mortally wounded sprites` most treasured resource, precious, life-giving, healing potion, lying around in a convenience store is like a pixelated half-dream come true.





Indeed, this country can be a paradise for the easily amused.

Cut the clap.

DISCLAIMER: the title of this entry is not a reference to the myth that Japanese people mix up their "l's" and "r's". "L" doesn't exist in their syllabic alphabet, and the closest thing it has to an "r" only slightly resembles an "l"...anyway...

I’m on a very long holiday right now, and I love it. I have a life beyond public school education and English conversation classes – I can go exploring in Tokyo.

Nestled in between the super-hip neighbourhoods of Harajuku and Shibuya, Yoyogi Park is like the chill out space of a three-room club. It attracts creative individuals looking for a place to do their artistic thing, more often than not, varying degrees of pop group and a near residential tribe of dread-locked percussionists but it also sports jugglers and dancers wielding fans or Santa costumes (depending on the weather).

Yesterday, I discovered in a large concrete boulevard (the starting point for last weeks’ Tokyo Pride March) small pockets of break-dancers. I’ve always found something slightly ludicrous about hip-hop; I simply can't, won't and don't stop. This could be down to a combination of the absolute nonsense some rappers come out with, and bad luck – I’m assured that there is “intelligent” and “right-on” hip-hop out there, but I haven't found enough to convert me. To be fair, my own record collection hardly displays Wildean wit, but lyrical content becomes insignificant when one is witness to the astounding acrobatics on display to the tune of ripped wax.

Back in Kawasaki, itself no stranger to street performers, one such dancer had attracted a crowd of Friday evening shoppers. His backward somersaults were accompanied by a hip-hop soundtrack and the audience doing the unthinkable – there are few things I hate more in the world than rhythmic clapping. The appreciation of a good performance is dulled into shameful silence when one discovers their fellow punters have been reduced to a legion of imbecilic sycophant sea lions.

That’s a rather unkind analogy, reminding me of a trip to the dilapidated dream that is Coney Island, and my first and only attendance to a Sea World style performance. The audience was made up of an elementary school outing and a couple of squadrons of US Marines, clapping the rhythm of a turgid sub-Ibiza house drone, whilst a graceful, beautiful creature of the deep, a sea lion no less, spun round on a back flipper. Our entertainer didn’t clap once, and I was with him on that, although I would have given him a fish had I the chance. Truly, he was a seal of quality.

Ice Cream & Salt.

Sailing away from Tokyo bay at night, millions of light bulbs dimly sketch the outline of skyscrapers, whilst more prominent and famous landmarks have their own source of illumination. Having this notoriously cramped city spread before you grants a perspective of scale previously only offered by outings to towering vantage points. Even the pale imitation of the Eiffel Tower looks impressive.

This metropolitan manifestation of the ever-imminent future recedes into the black distance with each wave, and we seem to travel back in time to Hachijojima (八丈島), southernmost of the sub-tropical Izu islands.





Formerly a prison colony of the Edo period, the island boasts an extinct volcano, Hachijo Fuji, Nazumado (one of Japans' top ten scuba diving locations), consistently warm water and no less than seven varieties of mushrooms that glow in the dark. Significantly, it has two features absent from Tokyo; an abundance of space and comparatively few people.



Not ten minutes walk from Sokodo Port lies a free campsite commanding a view of a dark volcanic rock beach and the Mihara mountain range. For the past eleven years, from July to September, a typhoon shelter on the grounds has accommodated Watanabe san, a construction worker from Tokyo who visits the island every summer to go fishing. He is a deeply tanned, well built man of fifty-eight, with a disco-stud curl to his salt and pepper hair, a gold chain hanging around his neck, and a mouth of perfect teeth which appear to be false, but reside in a genuine smile. He is well known amongst the fishermen and professional chefs of the island, and draws a crowd when bearing his prizes from the ocean



There is a great supply of dry wood and fire pits. Our clothes bear the aroma of a week spent cooking by campfire. The highly suspicious Japanese sausage (related to the wiener) is rendered more than palatable with a smoky taste, whilst corn on the cob is fired with a more vigorous character than if it had been boiled, but no campfire pleasure can best baked potatoes and beans after a lengthy abstinence.

In contrast to the emptiness of the streets, the beaches and oceans are teeming with life. Amongst the rocks, coral and rippling polygons of sunlight, it's possible to see puffer fish and stingrays, but also less notorious denizens; butterfly fish sporting black and yellow stripes; long and incredibly thin flesh-coloured creatures, with large eyes and no discernible mouth; lone hunters who seem to change colour, red, blue brown and green; glittering, silvery fish like a shoal of daggers with quietly chattering beaks; graceful streaks of brilliant yellow, delicately nibbling on the nutrition-rich sea-bed; a multitude of tiny flickering wisps of light that swim together like a breathing cloud.


The Uakari is commonly known as the English monkey, as its' red face resembles those of Britons in hotter sunnier climates than they're used to. Within two hours of pitching our tent, we were sunburned to within an inch of our pallid lives and spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade and complaining about the weather.
The Japanese word for sunburn is "hiyake," a fact conveyed to us many times by passers-by. Such is the hospitality and helpfulness of these island folk that we merely had to walk into a shop in order to be directed to the suntan lotion. Aloe Vera is also a suitable balm for this bugbear of the travelling Englishman.

Time is meaningless when you're being a beach-bum for a week. There has been no urgency to our activities, no need to be anywhere or do anything. A week with nothing to do in a beautiful spot has been enlightening, especially upon returning to Tokyo bay. The air became dusty and harsh, eyes itched, previously un-sneezing noses erupted in abrupt reports and we found ourselves surrounded by millions of people, with very little time to do what they had to, crammed into a space which appears both colossal and absolutely tiny. I wonder about our chances of getting a seaside cottage on prescription.

七夕祭 - Tanabata Matsuri

Princess Orihime (織姫, Weaving Princess) and Prince Hikoboshi (彦星, Cow Herder Star) fell in love and were married. Unfortunately, being Gods, they had a number of responsibilities which, post-nuptially became neglected, and chaos was caused by Hikobashi's wandering cows, whilst Orihime's father Tenkou (天工, Sky King) had no more cloth. In his fury, he demanded that the lovers be separated, but then in a moment of fatherly remorse, he permitted them to see each other once a year on the seventh of July. People in Japan celebrate by writing wishes, usually in the form of poetry, and tying them to a bamboo tree.

The number seven is traditionally a lucky number in Japan. For starters, there are the Seven Gods of Fortune, the custom of eating Nanakusa, or "seven herbs" (Seri (Japanese parsley), Nazuna (shepherd's purse), Gogyou, Hakobera (chickweed), Hotokenoza, Suzuna, Suzushiro) in porridge on January 7th to cure illness, seven sins, seven virtues and let's not forget the Seven Samurai.

All this generally tends to point to the 7th of July 2007 (7.7.07) being a pretty damn auspicious day. Not surprising then that my favourite Japanese band, Boredoms (now recording under the name V∞redoms) are performing a once in a lifetime concert with no less than 77 drummers...


...in New York...which is surprising, but not the nice kind. Feast your eyes on the press release, then weep.

Chapter the one-hundred-and-fifty-fourth - In which Mr Pig is struck with fresh revelation as to the nature of the Land of the Rising Sun.

The Japanese Post Office doesn't sell envelopes. I should have seen that one coming.

The dreams of the boy are those of the man.

I staggered out of bed this morning, grumpy, drowzy, stiff, barely articulate and fiercely reluctant to go to school. I arrived bang on eight, only to be greeted by the Principal and told that my lessons were cancelled, and my presence wasn't required. He was actually quite embarrassed that my company hadn't been contated to let me know. Naturally, I was very understanding, and not in the least bit cross. What a great start to the weekend.

Sushi Bar in Asakusa

For those of you viewing at work, volume isn't essential, but it adds something.

Rapture

To my profound joy, a couple of my second year boys have hit upon the hilarious revelation that my name, with regards to the Japanese rendering of Western words, is but two syllables away from "clitoris." That they excercise their discovery with such regularity makes me hope they might actually start learning some new words...but I'm not holding my breath.

...er...

Part of me doesn't want to accept this, mostly because every source I've found is almost identical word-for-word, but something about it doesn't surprise me in the slightest...



EDIT : ah...

?!?!

Yesterday, I used the school computer to visit All Music in pursuit of information about Rainer Bruninghaus. Today I discover that this little trip has infected the computer with spyware, and I'm sort of in trouble. An apology from me isn't enough, in fact a senior teacher has to write a letter of apology to the board of education.

Flabberghasted just isn't strong enough.

Another Graduation...

The year seems to have passed in the blink of an eye, but at the same time dragged like a leaden coat and tails. The proceedings were just as emotional as last year, but we were graced with no less than three teachers wearing Hakama. Pictured is Endo Sensei, a teacher of Japanese who sits next to me, and one of the special needs teachers, whose name I haven't caught yet.


As is the way with these things, everybody filed into the ostentatiously decorated gym, applauded whilst one hundred and fifty students marched slowly to their seats (by the end of two out of four classes, I was desperate to stop clapping), possibly daydreamed whilst those same students were presented with certificates, and almost certainly fell asleep during the Koucho sensei's (Principal's) speech. Notable this year was the fact that the farewell procession of sobbing third graders went out through the sports ground. By the time that had been organised, most of them had cheered up.



I signed a lot of year books, posed for an inordinate number of pictures, had a very tasty bento, complete with sekihan (rice steamed with sweet red beans) and then...nothing...

Long term readers of this blog will be aware of my most common complaint with work. For those of you who have come here by accident (and have made it this far), regardless of my workload or the actual presence of students, I'm required to stay on school grounds until 4:30. Usually I use this as an opportunity to really hammer my Japanese studies, but today (and days like it in the past) a cloudy block descended, rendering me incapable of concentration due to the sheer absurdity of it all. Why was I there? What purpose did it serve?

I sat there for a while and actually managed to get a bit of study done, but that niggling sense of being able to do it at home kept knocking. Then teachers started leaving at the morally reprehensible time of 2:30, and I began to question my sanity.

At the end of each day, I'm supposed to get a stamp on my time sheet from the Vice Principal (Kyoto Sensei). At Elementary School, where I usually finish at 1pm, I can coax permission to leave from the Kyoto by handing them my time sheet for the stamp, which invariably ellicits the salutation "O tsukare sama deshita," which literally means "honorific tired person was" and kind of means "very good day at work, you must be tired, (I'm) go(ing) home". Faced with another couple of hours of enraged thumb twiddling, I readied my paperwork for the walk up to the Kyoto's desk, only to be stopped by one Kamihara sensei, a Social Studies teacher for whom I have tremendous respect, not least of all for his affable charisma, who suggested we go to the gym and practice Kendo. Strike me down with a bamboo sword if I didn't say yes.

Kendo, simply put, involves donning cumbersome and visibility-reducing armour, before bashing your opponent with a big stick and shouting at them. There are three strike points, the head, wrist and body (or rather, right hip). Kamihara sensei is very good.

Kendo might look simple, but precision is the key. Kamihara sensei was really walloping me - I could feel it with the blows he rained down on my head - but I emerged relatively bruise free. The armour is pretty solid, and a direct hit will do little more than ring in your ears. I however have all the precision of a rabid elephant on a motorcycle, as Kamihara sensei's right hip can no doubt testify.

That done, he suggested we have a bout of Aikido which I am genuinely interested in. Quintessentially a self defense martial art, Aikido relies upon using the energy expended by potential attackers back on themselves. Kamihara sensei is also remarkably good at that, flooring me several times during our spat. I returned to the teachers room an hour later, sweaty, bruised and in the highest of spirits...

...until the Kyoto sensei (who can't speak a lick of English) asked an English teacher what I was doing today. That ruffled me a bit because I can actually speak Japanese. Said English teacher didn't ask me, rather she said she didn't know, and we should ask a different English teacher. Bear in mind that I am within spitting distance of these people. Off goes the Kyoto to find this other teacher, whilst I ask the English teacher if there was anything I could help with. She looked me in the eye and shook her head. I held my gaze, and she eventually came clean, not that there was anything to bloody well come clean about - grrr! I hate this country sometimes.

Peculiar day, highs, lows, tears, laughter, civility, lack of and bashing people with sticks. I'm going out with Hayley for her birthday.

The first cockroach of the year...

...pretty damn huge for February...we've broken the planet. Thankfully, this antenna waving monstrosity didn't have me in quite the same paroxysms of horror inflicted by it's kin nearly two years ago. Just as I'd made my mind up to leave as well...

In defence of Native English Speakers in Japanese schools.

Mary Newton has recently written a rebuke of an article which appeared in the Daily Yomiuri on the 9th of February. Within, James W. Porcaro, Professor of English as a Foreign Language at Toyama University of International Studies, calls for an end to the Assistant Language Teacher (ALT) program (provided by JET and various private companies) on the grounds that it is a massive waste of money with little in the way of observable benefits.

The basis for his argument is a pessimistic criticism of Michael Auslin, a former ALT (from 1991-'92) who, as Prof. Porcaro neglects to mention, is himself a Professor at Yale. The picture Porcaro paints from Auslins remarks that he had "few responsibilities" and "a lot of fun", combined with his own opinions that the "fun and games" had by students in English class are in fact "detrimental" portrays ALT's as workshy graduates, looking for one more opportunity to slack off before they have to find jobs. Porcaro states that Auslin, and a total of 9,000 ALT's,

"...continue to demonstrate the same lack of educational value...at an annual cost of about 50 billion yen to Japan's taxpayers."

In an ideal situation, ALT's and their counterparts, the Japanese Teachers of English (JTE's) are supposed to present a "double act" in order to put an emphasis on communication, rather than learning grammar by rote, which doesn't necessarily aid conversation skills. The core of an effective English lesson with a JTE and an ALT is a good working relationship, but this isn't always possible for a variety of reasons.

For starters, I've been visiting four schools this year. No matter how good your relationship with the JTE is, it is impossible to be a consistent benefit to the students, because every other week, the ALT goes to a different school. When they return, the students and the JTE have adopted a routine that works without the ALT because they aren't there most of the time. Efforts are made to include the "guest", but usually these don't stray beyond the "human tape recorder" phenomenon.

Elaborating on the JTE/ALT relationship, very often, even with the most experienced JTE, they still make obscene errors of grammar. Some JTE's are hardly the "models of English-language" Porcaro describes. The ALT is useful because they represent an opportunity to communicate with the correct grammar. If the teacher is getting it wrong on the assumption that they're not, then they'll give this erroneous information to the students, which itself is deterimental to "cultivating Japanese with English abilities".

Prof. Porcoro dislikes the manner in which English is taught by ALT's, through the use of games,

"...as they merely reinforce the impression that learning English is not an important and serious endeavor..."

but a way needs to be found that makes the subject appealing to students. Many children don't see the point of learning an alien language spoken in countries on the other side of the planet. The serious approach apparently favoured by Prof. Porcaro could potentially be another opportunity for students to sleep in the middle of class, rather than a chance to get involved in speaking.

Prof. Porcaro suggests that the money thrown at ALT programs would be better spent on more training for JTE's, but I know few of these overworked and underpaid public servants who have time to spare. Also, on a broader level, there is the fundamental fallacy of "education for all" - the fact is that the only students who will be good at english are those who are interested in it, and no amount of penny pinching will change that.

He also complains that the prescence of ALT's,

"...marginalizes and diminishes the role of JTEs in front of their own students..."

as if the JTE's were the most important thing in the classroom. Education is not about the "professional growth and development" of the teachers; it is about educating students.

What Prof. Porcaro completely misses is the cultural benefits of ALT programs. This is a opportunity for genuine cultural exchange on both sides. As many ex-JET ALT's have said to me, the JET program is less about English language education and more about introducing Japan to the rest of the world. Professor Porcaro's proposals completely erase this benefit for both students in a relatively isolated society and foreign visitors with a lot to learn.

Product misplacement

Laugh? I seem incapable of stopping.

Another enkai

I have been home for two hours since this seemingly purposeless gathering of teachers. I was warned previously that the principal of this school has taken to getting extremely drunk and making inappropriate speeches...thankfully, my Japanese ability is still equal to that of a particularly gifted chimp, and I missed the bulk of any faux pas he may have made...but he did get drunk extraordinarily quickly...and I was sitting next to him, and consequently, was denoted his drinking foil for the evening...suffice to say, it's friday night where I am, and enkai has been confirmed as my favourite Japanese word.

You ain't got nuffin' on me...

Today, I was stopped by the police. Considering that I've been here for nearly two years, I'm lucky that this is my first brush with the law. I was on my bike, approaching some roadworks when they hailed me to stop. First they told me it was dangerous, then asked me if I was going home. They then informed me that they wanted to check the registration number of my bike, presumably to make sure I hadn't stolen it. It's a good job I told them that it was a Christmas present from my girlfriend, and therefore would have been registered in her name. They radioed whichever bureaucrat they had to talk to, who checked the appropriate documents and confirmed that it was indeed registered to the person whose name I gave them.

It could be argued that these guardians of society were just doing their job, but as any disgruntled ex-pat in this country might point out, I was stopped because I'm not Japanese.

Recently there was a bit of a hoo-ha over the magazine Gaijin Hanzai Ura File (Foreigner Crime File), an undeniably racist publication that depicts foreigners committing crimes across the nation, touts the statistic of 47,000 felonies committed by non-Japanese each year and, according to Radio Australia News, asks

"...whether they (foreigners) should be allowed to devastate Japan."

The chain of convenience stores, Family Mart, pulled copies of the magazine off their shelves in response to complaints from customers. Considering that foreigners make up a tiny percent of the population, one can take comfort in the probability that it was Japanese customers doing the complaining. However, in the wake of such a row, it's still easy to feel threatened, especially with the apparent resurfacing of Nationalism in Japan

Claims like "47,000 crimes a year" can be misleading though. Whilst foreign crime is increasing, so is the foreign population. Also, according to statistics found at Japan Reference, over half of the 20,007 foreign nationals arrested in 2003 were apprehended for "offences" such as drug use, prostitution, speeding etc, as opposed to "crimes" like murder, robbery, arson, rape etc. Most of those arrested for offences were charged with overstaying a visa. 50% of the serious crimes were thefts, whilst only 477 arrests were for vicious crimes. Also, what is recorded is the number of arrests, rather than convictions.

There is the added problem of the language barrier - whilst most disputes between Japanese can be sorted out amongst themselves without the need for Police intervention, if one side of the conflict doesn't speak the language, it's inevitable that at some point, the Police are going to be called upon, thus adding another foreign "crime" to the pile.

According to the Instituto de Estudos Japoneses, promotion in the Police force is determined

"...as a rule, by recommendation on the basis of evaluation of their ability to carry out their duties, their experiences and their record of service."

Reading between the lines, and considering how important appearance is over here, if an officer is seen to be making a great effort, then that promotion is within their grasp. At the end of the day, if they can produce a folder bulging with potential offenders, stopped in the nick of time, then surely they must be doing something right. I, and quite possibly many others like me, are easy targets. My mistake of riding a bike in the wrong place at the wrong time, although not an offence, is no doubt going to go on a file somewhere and resurface in the next deliberately inflammatory publication as one of 47,000 "crimes" committed by foreigners each year.

Their investigation complete, they thanked me, and before sending me on my way, advised that I carry my rucksack on my shoulder rather than the basket in front of my bike, lest an "unknown person" apprehend it. If only they'd told me how to take precautions against ambitious or bored policemen.

Hakone

During the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603-1868) this town was an important stop off on the old Tokaido, the route which connected Kyoto to the new capital of Edo, now Tokyo.


At the base of Kamisan (God Mountain) lies lake Ashi, pretty much the centre of our long awaited break.


However, a surprisingly constant companion was the notoriously elusive Mount Fuji.


I still find it astounding that such a prominent mountain can be so difficult to spot. Our excursion last autumn to the Five Lakes region, at the very base of Fuji, gave us only this vague glimpse.


Fuji cheered us home on the way back to Kawasaki, its' unmistakable silhouette standing out against the orange sunset like a massive mound of mashed potato.

This trip was all about relaxing, which we did in style at the Fuji-Hakone Guest House, truly worthy of the plug. After the madness of commuting on a friday night from Kawasaki, we stepped off the bus into the mountains, fresh air and utter silence. Within an hour, we were in a rotenburo, unconcerned about the rain beause of the geothermally heated water. One drawback of bathing in volcanic springs is that you will reek of sulphur for days to come.

Hakone also, surprisingly, contained a museum dedicated to the novel Le Petit Prince.



The story being a memory from childhood, it was great to find this place, but one wonders what the hell a museum devoted to one book by a Frenchman is doing in a mountain town in Japan.

What have you done to me?!

Even in English, I struggle to tell hairdressers what I want. I'm going to get so teased at school tomorrow...


...thankfully Hayley & I are off to Hakone after work...photos to follow...