Tales of Sendai, Part 1

There's a relaxed air in Kokobuncho as we stroll away from one of the city's favourite bars. It was hot in there, and while it's not that much better out here, the cooler air on sweat-dappled skin is a welcome relief. People move slowly, anxious to avoid heating up. There's no hurry anyway. It's only midnight; there's plenty of entertainment left to be found, and ample time in which to find it. Sendai's nightlife district takes a big deep breath, and we breathe with it.

*****

"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. It reminds of us of all that once was good and could be again. Baseball..."
- Darth Vader

I'm guessing it was the influence of the Americans during the Occupation. Whatever the reason, baseball is enormous in Japan. Ask any Japanese who their favourite sportsperson is, and they'll most likely list one of the players in the American Major League, someone like Ichiro, Matsuzaka or Matsui. So with the influence of baseball an inescapable fact of life here, we decided we'd better take a butchers while the season lasted.

Off we set to the Fullcast Stadium on a rather nice September evening: Stacie, Cari, Stephen, Amy and myself (Stephen's behind the camera).

As it turned out over the course of the four-hour game, baseball is a lot like war. There are long periods of dullness punctuated by short intervals of intense excitement and terror. Okay, maybe there was no terror. But you get the idea. Whole innings will pass with nothing happening. There seems to be some kind of detector for this lack of activity, because at random moments between innings, the field will be invaded by what seem to be brightly-coloured gnome rabbis, who charge about and play air guitar. If you're lucky there might be an eagle-man on a motorcycle. Welcome to Japan!

Luckily for the Kiwi and the Englisher, there were Americans on hand to explain what was going on. Even they, though, were surprised by what turned out to be the biggest difference between the Japanese and American games: half the game is spent cheering. Whenever the Sendai team was at bat, a big sign flashed up the name of the current batter, and the crowd would stand and begin a rhythmic chant/clapping routine. And they would sing. And it quickly became apparent that every single batter had his own unique song. And the crowd knew them all. The guy standing behind us was ear-burstingly enthusiastic. By the end of the night our palms and throats would be raw.

Anyway, the game. Sendai had scrambled two inelegant runs, and the very next innings, the opposition ran in five. Doom settled over the stadium for the next few innings, and was only shaken off when one of the Sendai players clobbered a monster home run right out of the park. The crowd went totally bananas, and continued to do so as Sendai gradually clawed back the deficit, hitting the winning run in the very last inning. Excited Japanese fans turned in their seats, seeking more people to high-five, and we were happy to oblige. One young man, resplendent in check shirt and jeans yanked up above his navel, marched down the row, high-fiving each of us in turn. Everyone had these long balloons, and these were inflated and released at the moment of victory

So that was baseball. Oh! I also bought a hot-dog. Because you have to buy a hot-dog at the ballgame.

*****

There's a strange paradox apparent in the design of green space in this town. I can't say for sure whether it exists in other cities; indeed it may not: Sendai is famous for the sheer quantity of its trees and parks.

And maybe that's the problem. For while many of these parks seem well-appointed, they are subsequently left to decay, as if the mere act of establishing them was enough, and there's no need to allocate money for maintenance.

I first noticed this when I caught the subway up to Dainohara and spent an hour exploring Shinrin-koen ("koen" = "park"). This place is essentially a long, low hill covered in trees and threaded with paths, with the occasional point of interest carved out at the edges. The paths themselves were wide, muddy and lined in railings representative of another ghastly Japanese habit: fake wood. This stuff is cast in the shape of textured wooden logs out of plastic or concrete, painted brown, then placed in a natural environment as if it isn't at all a jarring departure from the nature of the location. There were buildings too, as you might expect to find, but rather than attempting to blend with the landscape, they stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb, slab-columned triumphs of white-painted Modernist functionality. You can see an example in the background here:
Those hexagons, while being the most interesting landscape feature of the whole park, would have looked a lot better if they'd been filled with more than overgrowing long grass. The same grass grew untidily out of what were meant to be neatly-manicured hedges and messed up what might have otherwise been an interesting arrangement of bronzes. The nearby lake was still and dirty. There was a lot more concrete used that was strictly necessary.

Kotodai-koen and Nishi-koen suffer from the same problems. The trees there are wonderful, but once you get lower than two metres it's like the powers that be just stopped caring. Kotodai-koen has some beautiful Japanese maples, but the path is poorly maintained, the fountain is filthy and the flower-beds are overgrown with weeds. The ground at Nishi-koen looks mostly like an unsealed parking lot down at the domain.

This is why genuine natural locations, smartly adapted, are so thrilling. Places like Matsushima are gems of landscaping, effortlessly incorporating elements such as paths and pools while valuing good maintenance. Too bad the Sendai City authorities don't feel the same way, but then we in New Zealand are well aware of the general uselessness of local government, aren't we?

The Crew

I’ve been steadily collecting photos of everyone with whom I work so I can do a sort of mass introduction, and also so you have a clue who I’m talking about in later posts. We’re quite a diverse lot! (caution: contains lots of deadpan biographical humour; prepare your pinches of salt!)

Those Still With Us




Tom’s from Chicago. He recently shaved his beard off, which made him look like a completely different person, but he's decided to grow it back.

Amy and I are divided by a centuries-old enmity. She’s from Cornwall, and the Mildons are from Devonshire. This apparently makes us deadly enemies, although it’s amazing what beer and shop talk will do for inter-shire relations.
Stephen is one of my flatmates, and hails from Pittsburgh. He does a wicked Howard Cosell impression, and strongly denies any Mob connections.


Posing here with Amy are Ellen from New Plymouth (left) and Carrie from Pennsylvania (no telekinesis jokes please). Ellen was actually in my interview group in Wellington. We were most surprised to see each other.


Welsh Stephen shows off his gentler side. Swansea is the ideal nurturing environment to raise a well-balanced and caring child. Wishes Wales actually had a chance in the World Cup.


Natalie’s Papuan/Australian and lends an unmatched artistry to her work. She tells hilarious stories about her family.


Big Chris (named to distinguish him from Little Chris) regales us with tales of his wild youth in rural Wisconsin. He is a champion of honesty, truth and pragmatic thinking, which often puts him at odds with Japanese politics and other institutions.


Ryan is my other flatmate and fellow gamer. He is a beacon of modern American culture in a strange and unfamiliar land. Sometimes inadvertently finds himself an "other institution."


Used to the frozen wastelands of central Canada, Andrea is enjoying the sweltering Japanese summer a great deal.


Ben is Australian. He'll be transferring out in a few days. He is dedicated to working on his alcoholism.


Completing our Australian contingent is Luke, from Adelaide, here looking thoughtful at the local jazz bar. He lives downstairs from us, and we live on the second floor. Makers of lame music jokes the world over are pretty disappointed about that arrangement.

Missing: Stacie, just arrived from Pennsylvania and with whom I work quite a lot; Michael, a big enthusiastic guy from Chicago; Luke, a strange lad from Auckland; Matt, a Zimbabwean who recommends the Trans-Siberian Railway.

The Departed






This is Kylie, from Christchurch. She and Ellen transferred to Kobe not long ago. She was one of four other New Zealanders here, and the only one I really saw from time to time. She exhibited the trademark Kiwi taciturnity.



Sayuri is from Chicago and paints wonderful abstract works that reflect life in Sendai. She has had two exhibitions here. Our house became Artwork Central as all her paintings were packed up prior to her departure. They were exciting days.

So there you have it. Now in the future when I refer to "Welsh Stephen" or "Amy" or "Big Chris," you'll know who I'm on about ;)

Day of Islands (Part 2)

(sheesh)

The path around Oshima brought fresh delights. I'd taken my sandals off by this point, so I got to feel the bite of the soil and its trees; the stone. The whole island was just begging to have some kind of puzzle integrated into its features.

We made our way back to the harbour, eschewing the somewhat seedy-looking aquarium. The boat trip had been recommended to us, and while we were considering our options, a group of Japanese approached and suggested we join them. Since a larger group lowered the ticket price considerably for all concerned, we went for it.

Now, unfortunately, the thing with small sandstone islands covered in forest is, once you've seen a couple...you've kind of seen all there is to see. You start looking for other features to catch your eye. It was a worthy ride, to see the extent of the bay and the sheer number of islands in it, but it didn't add much from a scenery-appreciation perspective.

There was only one place left to explore now: the large island of Fukuurajima. We crossed the long red bridge, which was made, somewhat disappointingly after Oshima's lovely wooden span, of concrete and steel. The forest here was much more lush than Oshima, with a great deal of undergrowth. By this time the sun had gone behind some rather heavy cloud, deadening the light; this, along with the style of vegetation (including the remarkable resemblance of the torreya tree to our own totara), produced the impression of walking somewhere in New Zealand. There was a moment of cognitive dissonance, relieved by obvious evidence of Japan: ants the size of my thumbnail.

Again I wandered off by myself. I descended a path and found, strangely, a large lawn set in the midst of the forest. There was a gazebo at one end, and at the other, neatly trimmed bushes covered in spider webs. Nearby had been built a pergola supporting the most monstrous wisterias I'd ever seen. It is said that Date Masamune brought the wisteria from Korea and adopted it as his personal tree. All around Sendai can be found wisterias, some of very impressive stature.

The view of the bay from Fukuurajima was not nearly as impressive without the sun. This house, however, apparently someone's residence, looked just fine.

And that was that. The sun came out again as we sat, thoroughly worn out, on the train platform. Pictures in magazines tempt me with even more spectacular scenes than these. It shall be my mission to find them while the sun shines.

38°14'46"N 140°53'0"E

I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier.

Across the street, taken from the shaded pedestrian crossing just above the box:

The weather's cooling, which is a welcome sign. Wednesday the 15th was the hottest it's ever been in Sendai since records began. Aww, Japan, just for me? You shouldn't have. No really, you shouldn't. It was thirty-seven degrees. A bus drove past me on the street; the wind of its passing singed my hair and aged my skin 5 years. I saw an old man simply burst into flames.

It's getting dark earlier, too. Autumn in Japan should be a treat.

Day of Islands (Part 1)

There's a famous haiku that goes like this:

Matsushima ah!

A-ah, Matsushima, ah!

Matsushima, ah!

It's supposed to convey how the beauty of Matsushima has left the poet speechless. I reckon it's in the same artistic category as framed sheets of blank canvas that sell for thousands of dollars. But then I'm just a gai-jin, so what could I possibly know?

Matsushima is an island-filled bay to the northeast of Sendai. When I say "island-filled," don't think "Bay of Islands." Think "a bay, filled with islands." There are about 260 of them, of many sizes. It was to this destination, one of the Three Views of Japan, that I traveled with Ryan and his girlfriend Miki one glorious summer day.

The train ride took only about twenty minutes, but served to emphasise the contrasts to be found in Japanese cities. One minute it can be solid city, then in a flash it's just rice paddies with lines of towering pylons in the distance. There was also a large sign proclaiming "Bridal Fapping!" which blew my mind a little.

It turned out we'd got on the wrong line, so we had to walk for maybe fifteen minutes back to the bay, but the way the entire vista is suddenly there as you turn a corner is quite amazing (a shame it was a little too amazing for the camera to adequately capture in one go). In a stroke of luck, a convenience store nearby sold sunscreen (a rare substance in Japan). Without it I would have been neatly roasted in about half an hour.

There are four main locations at Matsushima.

Godaido is the first we visited. It is an intricately-constructed shrine housing the god of the bay. It's on a tiny island right near the shore; like the others accessible on foot it is connected to the mainland by a red bridge (anyone who's played the "Myst" series might find it familiar - this of course, for me, added to the charm). Here I got my first taste of Shinto Buddhism; many people would approach the shrine, offer a coin out of respect, ring the bell to attract the god's attention, and pray. Tied to the trees overhanging the area were bad fortunes - tied here so they could not follow their readers.

The area is strongly devoted to Date Masamune, the founder of Sendai. He was known as the "One-Eyed Tiger;" smallpox had claimed one of his eyes (which he removed himself) and he was infamous for his hot temper and compulsive nature. Many representations of Masamune can be purchased here. On a nearby sub-island was a souvenir shop; had I desired it, I could have bought a Hello Kitty Masamune keyring, complete with black armour and eyepatch. I wonder what the great man would have thought of that.

Set back within the town itself is the temple of Zuiganji. It takes as long to get there as it does to see the temple itself. It is impossible to simply walk down the long forest path that leads to the gate. You have to turn aside on another path past the cliff. Into the cliff have been hewn many small Buddhist shrines. Some of these shrines go beyond the ordinary. The trees and forest floor proved just as interesting.

Once we'd negotiated the ticket booth and bustling guided tours, we made it to Zuiganji itself. It was not the home of Masamune, but he would visit it often, especially when receiving visiting samurai lords. To one side there was a courtyard leading to the East Wing, where food was prepared. On the south side of the courtyard was the museum, containing many wonders. Just about the first thing we saw was an umpan, a solid iron gong used to summon workers for meals. It was cast in 1376. I staggered. When you live in little old only-240-years-of-recorded-history New Zealand, such things come as a shock. If the statue of Masamune we saw was life-size as touted, he must have been tiny. It was unfortunate that we were unable to take any photos.

We weren't allowed to take photos of the temple interior either, but it was spectacular. Dark polished wood floors; painted and gilt panels on the walls; a shrine to the thirty-six samurai who committed suicide upon Masamune's death. I took this photo of the exterior gardens while standing in the corridor; behind me was a small room where the Meiji Emperor spent the night in 1874; next to it was a meeting room where mighty samurai would meet to decide the fate of Japan. Again I got that feeling of history smacking me on the forehead. These times long past were so close I could touch them.

The temple grounds were very nice also.

Not far away was another temple, Sankeiden, this time in honour of Masamune's grandson Mitsumune. Rumour had it that he was poisoned by the Tokugawa family because he was becoming dangerously influential. The gardens were a mix of formal and wild, and even included a small graveyard (out of shot to the left). The main hall is used these days for calligraphy classes and tea ceremonies.

We emerged from the shaded forest into the brilliant sunshine on the wide lawn by the waterfront. It wasn't even midday yet.

The medium-sized island to the south is called Oshima (but that's nothing special; every second island in Japan is called Oshima - it means simply "island"). The path there lent an air of mystery to it, as did the bridge. Ryan and Miki had gone off in another direction, so I decided to leave them and explore the island by myself.

It was like a dream come true; a mystery made real. There was a narrow cliff path leading to a tunnel driven through the rock. On the far side I was presented with a delicious choice: sunny grove or windswept headland? I chose the headland. I was rewarded well. The headland possessed a stark nature; trees clung to the bare earth and inscribed stones jutted at skewed angles from the ground. The view, with the wind whistling in my ears, was nothing short of spectacular, mixing sublime natural scenery with the ancient man-made stone markers. In that moment, I would have been happy spending the rest of my life in that one spot.

Time for a break, I think; all that linkage wears a body out. I'll post Part 2 soon.

It never rains...

I’ve always prided myself on my sense of direction. It’s not often I can’t find my way in an environment. Chalk it up to all that Doom when I was younger; whatever. I have of late discovered a phenomenon that is my arch-nemesis, something of which New Zealand is entirely innocent. That thing is underground travel.

On my way to the Sendai Honko branch, in the centre of the busiest area in Sendai, I am above ground for perhaps four minutes of the twenty that it takes to get there. The passages of the subway twist and jink and move in odd ways; calculating direction is impossible short of gluing a compass to my face.

Going home the other night, I thought I’d be clever and visit the supermarket on the way, getting off the subway a stop early and saving myself a lot of time. So when I arrived on the street and found that it bore no resemblance to anything with which I was familiar, it was almost inevitable that I decided to set off in the wrong direction. I could have cut to the chase and just climbed back on board the train, but no, I, navigation snob extraordinaire, was not to be defeated so easily.

My defeat was, indeed, not easy. It took twenty rain-soaked minutes. At which point I decided somewhat belatedly that the losses needing to be cut were significant, and made my way back to the subway.

Getting lost in the rain isn’t entirely a bad thing, though, if you are equipped for it. That day at Honko, I planned to walk back to Sendai Station and save myself 200 yen. I set off down Sun Mall in, again, the wrong direction, but it didn’t matter so much because getting lost during the day is much more interesting than doing so at night. In the end I found myself on Jozenji-dori, a magnificent tree-lined avenue in the Kotodai-koen district. From here there were many little streets down which I could find my way back, but I chose this one:

You can see the edge of my umbrella at the top of the picture – it was this little thing that made all the difference between “pleasant walk in the rain” and “misery incarnate.”

Interesting side note: no-one here wears raincoats. Maybe a clear plastic slicker, but not an actual coat. Here, the umbrella is the rain-defence of choice. Even when riding a bicycle. Rainy days can be perilous for a tall person like me; inevitably the entire citizenry brandishes an umbrella, the pointy edges of which jostle unpredictably round at eye height. It’s a subtle hint: “avoid facial trauma, foolish gai-jin! Use an umbrella like the rest of us!”

They sent me to Ishinomaki not long ago, which is a smallish city about an hour’s bus ride north-east of Sendai. The bus drops you off right outside the mall where the school is; the train station, however, which you use to get home, is a twenty minute walk away. And of course it was raining.

It wasn’t heavy rain, just that drifting mist that nevertheless soaks you in no time. I took my jacket off so a minimum of clothing got wet. With time running short, Rie (one of the staff – pronounced “ree-ay”) made me ride her bicycle to the station so I wouldn’t miss the train. It was just a couple of minutes, but riding down a dark street in the rain was the highlight of the day.

A note on bicycles that I didn’t mention in my earlier post: Japanese bicycles are imbued with a pragmatism that is completely absent from from the New Zealand bicycling environment. Every single bike has chain- and mud-guards. In New Zealand, having those things makes you an old woman. In Japan it makes you not wet or dirty. It’s an interesting nod toward practicality in a country otherwise obsessed with saving face; I guess it’s a bit much to hope for from our macho culture.

At least rainy season’s over.

By jingo!

Yesterday I could have fetched a drink of water simply by waving a glass at the air. It was as if the whole city had been elevated into the clouds. There was a loss of visibility to buildings just across the square. I returned to the staff room feeling like I needed to towel dry; maybe next time I should change into swimming gear before heading out. And apparently, this is only the start. The students say terrifying things like, "you should see it in August."

Oh, neat.

I suppose I should be glad I'm not in Tokyo then, where the ocean actually attempts to replace the air. It seems that when Tokyo got "sea," it forgot to sign up for the "breezes" that traditionally go with that. Consensus is that large buildings are to blame; as a certain barbarian might have commented, "how does the wind get in here?" Where's a certain monster when you need it?

---

The Japanese are characterised in the West as reserved people (some might say repressed): unfailingly polite, hiding their true feelings, never discussing taboo subjects. I can't speak to any empirical truth about such an observation except to look at the other end of the spectrum: the farther people repress themselves, the more spectacularly they explode when they finally go sailing over the edge of whatever weird planet they inhabit. You've probably heard this story. You might not have heard this one, which had us shaking our heads in simple disbelief.

But it's a different kind of repression I want to look at. Since the Occupation, Japanese society has been affirmedly pacifist. Left behind was the jingoism and the labyrinthine and militaristic politics of the 1930s. Not even Mr Koizumi, deploying Japanese troops overseas for the first time since the war, could dent this sentiment.

The bus ride from Yamagata to Sendai is about an hour, and it's quite deceptive. You're never sure exactly where Sendai is supposed to begin. You pass many signs suggesting the city will begin any time now, but it fails to eventuate. Then you go into a tunnel for a bit, and when you emerge, powering up the ramp into the daylight, you discover yourself in the centre of town. Oh, who put that there?

As the bus cruised down Hirose-dori, my attention was drawn to a small car coming the other way. You are familiar with this kind of car. Rodney Hide is familiar with this kind of car. Cramped, barely able to contain its two occupants, and with a roof devoted entirely to loudspeakers. There was a small Japanese flag sticker on one door, and the loudspeakers blared indistinct Japanese. Some local political candidate out canvassing. Good for him.

Following not far behind this car was a beige Volkswagen van, similarly covered in loudspeakers, similarly engaged, but this time with two stickers. OK, the guy has himself an entourage. I suppose it's not uncommon.

The third vehicle was a small bus, and now there was no way this was a simple local candidate. Local candidates do not encourage followings like this. Local candidates also generally don't drive buses with monster national flags plastered to their sides. What was going on?

When the fourth and final vehicle passed, I knew. Huge and black, the bus had, in addition to the many flag stickers, streaming from behind it two great banners. One was the Japanese flag. The other was black with a gold rosette - I knew this was related to the national coat of arms; I discovered later it was the Imperial Seal, abandoned after the war. Through the window I caught a clearer glimpse of the men within. One was old, with the look of a dogged traditionalist. The other was Classic Weasel: greasy slicked-back hair, with a cant to the shoulders and eyes that fair howled "dodgy." But did that, or the flags, or the stickers tell me what they were about? No.

That would have been the armbands. The ones with the flags on.

This was my first encounter with the ultra-nationalists. Because ultra-nationalism is actually illegal in Japan, they call themselves "The Emperor's Party," and their slogans consist of stuff like "We support the Emperor!" Oh, and driving down the street late at night playing old anthems very loud. This crew is mostly harmless, content to rage against the dying of the imperialist light.

Not so content are the crime gangs with similar leanings. In 1990, the Mayor of Nagasaki was shot and wounded after he suggested the Emperor bore some responsibility for World War 2. A handful of days before I arrived, a different Mayor of Nagasaki was gunned down by a well-known local gang. My eyes popped when I first heard this. Suddenly I was back in the 1930s and its world of nationalism and seemingly random political assassinations.

With any luck the closest I'll get to this crowd again will be a scratchy recording played outside my window at midnight.

Coming soon: "Oh Matsushima!" or, "How to cheat at haiku."