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."

Travelling without moving

There is the image that persists these days of China as a country of bicycles. Twenty years ago this was still true; today, perhaps not so much. With rising industrialisation and growing affluence, the car has become much more popular. As a consequence, on some days it can be a bit of a mystery as to whether Beijing, a city which gains 100,000 new cars each year, is surrounded by hills (as an atlas might suggest) or not.

If you want an example of a Bicycle Country, look to Japan.

One of the first things I saw upon stepping off the shinkansen in Yamagata was a vast row of bicycles parked on the street. I thought these were perhaps some kind of public transport initiative, but they actually belonged to people conducting a variety of business in nearby shops. Later I encountered huge underground garages devoted entirely to two-tiered racks filled with bicycles. On the footpath one must constantly be aware of the bicycle traffic whizzing past (cycling on actual roads is a an adventurous form of suicide - more on this later).

These bikes range from state-of-the-art mountain stompers to Raleigh 20s, touching modern urban machines and 50s-style old lady bikes on the way. The urban things, the ones you see on websites surrounded by excitingly modern slogans, look at first glance just like a Raleigh 20; a closer inspection reveals full suspension, light construction and an ability to fold away. That's not to say that the Raleigh 20 loses out. There are plenty of chopped-up, modified examples of this ancient road crusader, outfitted with suspension and other shiny gadgets to bring them up to speed.

It's easy to see why many people turn to bicycles and massively-grouted public transport for their getting-around needs: driving in Japan is more fraught with peril than badly-prepared fugu. To start with, street lighting is minimal. The traffic lights are all out of sync; nasty snarl-ups are not uncommon. Throw in additional hazards like cyclists manoeuvring nearby in black clothes with no lights. Then consider actual driver behaviour.

People will think nothing of abruptly stopping mid-lane to attempt to turn right across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Indicator use is purely optional. Accelerating after the light goes green seems to be considered rude; however, accelerating through a red light is accepted practise. Woe betide any cyclist who braves these clogged arteries: there is actually no room allocated for them (in fact, the wide and well-marked cycle lanes of NZ are alien to everyone here). Cars drive on the left-hand side; this fundamental point of familiarity is at least present. While here, however, a car remains something behind the wheel of which I never intend to get.

---

It's a little unsettling how some people can remind you so strongly of others. So just to let you know: Chrissie, Belinda, Bronwen, there are Japanese people here who look just like you (Bronwen, she also wore the same clothes and glasses as you...it was very eerie). Also encountered: doubles of Kim Jong-Il and Don Brash (!). And one of my students looked so much like Chris Cornell I was expecting an impromptu rendition of Jesus Christ Pose. Maybe it was best for everyone that this did not happen.

---

Perhaps the best time I have had here was not the yakitori restaurant, a little mom & pop place soaked in atmosphere where they cook the food in front of you on a little fire; nor the karaoke amid a vast feast in a Korean restaurant in Kokobuncho, the entertainment district; but walking to the ward office to collect my gai-jin card (a little piece of plastic that prevents the police from arresting me and beating me up).

Something to understand about Japanese streets: they become very very small once you depart the main roads. So in a few paces from a busy road you can be in a peaceful little suburb, all stone walls, gardens and ramshackle houses. Also, and I don't know if this is because of the earthquake risk, there are no underground cables. Everything seems to be suspended above the street on poles. If you look up at the sky your view will be criss-crossed by many black lines.

This is what I did, staring at the sun through the dark lenses of my goggles, and at the power lines and jet contrails crossing in front of it, the massive TV masts on the nearby hill visible through a gap in the buildings, the train clattering across the huge raised concrete pylons of the rail line, rotor+ in my ears. The first time I went that way I waved to an old Japanese man repairing his fishing net outside his house; I was a little disappointed I didn't see him this time. I felt very comfortable in those streets; perhaps it was a reflection of home, scaled against the Japanese pace of life. One day I'll go back and wander randomly some more.

I said, Effortless Segue!

(just forget about the last paragraph in the previous post, ok?)

Speaking of small, I have seen a glimpse of hell. The walls of the subway stations are covered in tiny tiles, maybe 9" tall by 3" wide. They line the cavernous stairwells and cover the hundreds of metres of hallway and platform. What's so hellish about tiles, you may ask.

Some poor bugger had to grout them all.

There must be at least fifty kilometres of grouting in each station. There are about twenty stations on the Sendai subway line.

There are some larger grout lines which at first led me to speculate that massive sheets of tiles had been prefabricated and then just rolled out and glued into place, held together by some kind of vulcanising agent. However, closer inspection revealed not rubber but actual ceramic cement. It was indeed all done by hand. Centuries of Buddhism paid off as teams of Zen artisans prepared to grout the distance between Auckland and Christchurch.

You might be thinking that the technologically-minded Japanese had some kind of Grouting Robot designed and constructed for the purpose of tiling their subway stations. You may be harbouring notions that Japan is filled with glittering machines of wondrous design and barely-fathomable purpose, making the lives of their masters easy and leisure-filled.

This is not the case. Japanese high technology is retarded.

My Internet connection has to be confirmed every time I wake up my computer. It constantly suffers little glitches because it is PPP (Point-to-Point Protocol) rather than DHCP (Doesn't Hack off Customers Persistently). Today, for no reason, it decided that my flatmate and I couldn't both use the Internet. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe we'll have to build a small shrine on top of our network router.

The largest purveyor of technology in Sendai is a place called Yodobashi Camera. It is a truly monstrous department store, surrounded by tales of adventure in its labyrinthine pathways. It sells all manner of shiny electronic wizardry. Except, of course, for the device I needed to actually make my computer go. Japanese power sockets are two-slot affairs, completely incompatible with our three pins. In the store there was a huge wall of power adaptors. Surely among them was the one I needed? Well, no. A million adapters for Japanese power-users to take with them to other countries; the reverse situation isn't even considered. I had to go to the Apple Store and buy a part, only half of which I actually needed. Yeesh.

Our shower gives us unconditional hot-water affection. Our sink, on the other hand, is like some high-maintenance lover who leads you on and then abruptly gives you the cold shoulder. It's connected to some arcane heating device of dubious pedigree; there's no telling when hot water may be available. Running the tap for a while may or may not have any effect. My solution is to leave it for half and hour; if I'm ever reduced to burning incense in its honour, I'm just gonna tear it off the wall and put in a wood fire instead.

It's not all doom and gloom, though. Technology is applied in interesting ways that wouldn't occur to us in the West. Until next time, imagine this: full-suspension Raleigh 20

Size Matters

I had my first Kids lesson today. I was reasonably terrified; we only got a single day's Kids training and no practice. Things went very smoothly, though. All you need to survive is a vague idea of what the lesson's about and a good imagination. Oh, and energy. Some of the older kids can be a bit shy, and we have to get them up and rocking with all manner of games. This lot thought my dancing across the room was reasonably hilarious; they gave me that small allowance.

On my way back to the staffroom I was assailed by a jazzed-up two-year-old who mimed fangs and went "Raaaaargh!" at me. Of course I grinned and went "Raargh!" back at her. It was incredibly cute. Poor Natalie had that child in her next class...she came back drenched in sweat. Such is the crucible that is the Chibiko course.

The best kind of classes so far are the 2-student ones where they both tear the lesson to shreds and stand dominant atop its ruined corpse. A lesson like that can turn a lacklustre day into a really good time.

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If you plan on being in Japan for any length of time, be prepared for one terribly important thing: SMALL. All the little things in life are exactly that, little. Doorways, rooms and most significantly: food. Oh. My. God.

I go through a box of cereal in three days with modest portions. The bread comes in 8-slice bags (and it's all white...bowel cancer ahoy!). Want some fast food? You get maybe 10 chips in a pack. Delicious liquids in containers larger than one litre are unheard-of. Cheese is both rare and only 500g tops.

There is one saving grace in all of this (besides the really cool noodle packs): a place called Jupiter. It sells foreign foods. As soon as I get paid I am going in there to buy a packet of Tim-Tams and a big jar of Vegemite. I may eat it, or I may just smear it all over my body. I've yet to decide.

I had a really smart segue into another discussion, lined up and ready to go. Blowed if I can remember what it is, though.