UNDER
THE
OSAKAN
SUN
A FUNNY
INTIMATE
WONDERFUL
ACCOUNT OF
THREE YEARS
IN JAPAN
HAMISH
BEATON
To Mum and Dad, who inspired me to get out and experience the world
Prologue
‘‘Wax on, wax off’—it was perhaps not the most enlightened teaching available to mankind, but at age ten I had been enchanted. The elderly Japanese karate teacher Mr Miyagi and his protégé, Daniel-san, had entered my life via The Karate Kid movies. I stared up at the television screen and was awestruck by Daniel-san’s oversized bandana and heroic super-crane flying kick. I marvelled at Mr Miyagi’s ability to catch flies with chopsticks, and dispatch villains with a tweak of the nose.
I bought a copy of the book and decorated my bedroom with a poster of Daniel-san performing a flying kick. I dreamed of wearing my own oversized bandana, and karate-kicking an arch-enemy off a rickety bamboo bridge to rescue a princess.
My devotion to these superheroes would soon be submerged by an embarrassing period in my life when I obsessed on Beverly Hills, 90210 and sported a tragic’90s haircut that my mother had helped choose—but my interest in things Japanese had begun.
At age thirteen, I was thrust into three months of Japanese language lessons. A bespectacled Japanese woman with the unlikely name of Mrs Lutnaant—her husband was German—encouraged me to practise formal greetings, and patiently tolerated my attempts at writing basic characters on the blackboard. I was a poor student, completely unable to keep up with the bright girls, and my interest in long, ridiculous-sounding words started to wane. But Mrs Lutnaant had seemingly detected a small glimmer of potential. ‘Beaton-san, you must try harder,’ she would exhort. ‘You can speak very good Japanese, but you must try harder.’
I was baffled when at the end of the term I received an A minus. The following term I decided to continue: Mrs Lutnaant’s absurdly generous grade had not only given me a new level of self-esteem, but had rekindled my interest. I now approached my studies with enthusiasm, spending weekends memorising vocabulary and perfecting my handwriting.
I continued to receive good grades, but Mrs Lutnaant was never satisfied. ‘Beaton-san,’ she would lecture, ‘you should know this word. Beaton-san, you should study harder.’
During my third year, when I was sixteen, Mrs Lutnaant made a comment that profoundly affected me. ‘Beaton-san,’ she said in her usual sharp tone, ‘one day you will live in Japan.’
I was electrified. Suddenly, I had a goal. I was no longer ingesting copious vocabulary lists just to get an A on a report card; I was gaining skills for an adventure.
Sadly, once I got to university, Japanese lectures proved to be less than inspirational, consisting of monotonous expositions of Japanese characters and grammar. I could see no point memorising academic vocabulary and translating dense university texts. There was no personal interaction, no fun, and no hint of practical relevance. Several times I came close to chucking in the towel, but Mrs Lutnaant’s words rang in my ears.
Finally, though, the torment ended. I had completed my degree. The land of the rising sun beckoned. I obtained a job, a three-year working visa and an air ticket. Eight years’ study of Japanese were about to be sorely tested.
1
Endless day
One-thirty in the afternoon. I am standing halfway up a small flight of steps that leads to a concrete fishing pond where some young boys are idly fishing. The pond is a stagnant oasis, away from the main road and surrounded by green rice paddies. Nearby, crickets are competing with cars and trucks as to who can produce the loudest racket.
The humidity is stifling. The neck of my business shirt is soaked in sweat and my black leather shoes are radiating heat. All of my personal belongings are packed into my near-to-bursting suitcase, whose handle has cracked under the strain and is now digging into my swollen left palm.
I wipe my sweaty brow with my free hand. I have never been so hot in my life.
I am in Japan, or more precisely in Kanan Town in the southeast of Osaka Prefecture. It is mid July, the height of summer. I have just stepped into a blind date with a country I have been studying for eight years. I am about to meet my new employers, set foot in my new apartment, and start a three-year chapter of my life in a new world.
The day had started at a relaxed pace in a five-star, air-conditioned Tokyo hotel room. The Japanese government had bought me a business-class air ticket to Japan, put me up in the hotel and treated me to a massive buffet breakfast. I had then been chauffeured to Tokyo train station and ushered aboard a sleek, comfortable bullet train for a leisurely three-hour trip to Osaka. I had even been provided with a tasty eel-sushi lunch-box and a bottle of iced tea to enjoy during the journey.
Unfortunately, this lavish lifestyle was about to end. I was now out on my own, and the responsibility of the Kanan Town Board of Education.
The board’s representative, Mr Tokunaga, was waiting nervously for me at the Osaka Station ticket barrier. He coughed a hoarse smoker’s cough and shyly welcomed me to Japan. After taking great care to pronounce my name correctly, he announced that I should follow him.
With that he took off, weaving through a confusing labyrinth of train station shopping arcades and corridors. He seemed impatient, constantly checking his watch. Every 50 metres or so he paused, nervously checking that I was still following him, and that he had not lost Kanan Town’s new English teacher.
We eventually arrived at the underground line, where Mr Tokunaga, gesturing and waving his right hand, pointed out our position on the railway map. I managed to decipher that we were to go on a purple train and head south. Although I had studied Japanese for several years, the place-names made little sense. I had lost all sense of bearing.
Mr Tokunaga opened his briefcase and proudly displayed a comprehensive train timetable. He pointed at several highlighted sections, explaining that we were to catch the 12.06 train south, disembark at 12.25, transfer to another train at 12.28 and disembark at 1.16, just in time for the 1.20 bus.
He seemed worried. The bus would get us to the Kanan Town Hall at 1.28, so I would be cutting it fine for a 1:30 meeting. I was sceptical anyway: there was clearly no way the trains could possibly get us places at such exact times.
We stood silently on the empty platform. Mr Tokunaga checked his watch again. I glanced curiously at mine, wondering how many minutes late the train would be. 12.05. Hmmm, I thought, it would probably be at least ten minutes away.
The digits ticked over to 12.06. A piercing whistle sounded and a purple Midosuji Line train rumbled into the station. I was astounded. A sheer fluke, I decided, and climbed aboard.
Exactly nineteen minutes later Mr Tokunaga was nudging me to my feet. We had crossed downtown Osaka with precision timing and arrived at our first stop. I staggered after my guide as he took off through yet another maze of corridors, escalators, newspaper kiosks and convenience stores. I was dazed and disorientated. I wanted to pause and take in my new surroundings. I wanted to stick my head into one of the blue-neon convenience stores and see what sort of food was on sale. I wanted to leisurely peruse the newspaper kiosks, and take my time exploring this enormous station.
Meanwhile Mr Tokunaga was up ahead, putting coins into a machine. He beckoned me over and pointed at the coin slot. ‘This is a ticket machine,’ he said wisely. ‘Use it to buy tickets. This is an important station. You should remember your way. You will need to come back here. Don’t forget where things are. Our next train is this way.’ He thrust a new train ticket into my hand, clutched his briefcase to his chest and raced away.
I h
ad forgotten where our last train had been, and at what platform we had disembarked. I had no idea what station I was standing in, or to which station we were travelling. There was no time to pause – Mr Tokunaga was quickly disappearing into the sea of heads. I took off after him, banging my suitcase against my left calf and snapping the handle in the process. Blood oozed out of a cut on my finger.
True to schedule, the next train departed at 12.28. Mr Tokunaga found us seats. He now seemed more relaxed. ‘We are on the train to Tondabayashi,’ he said calmly. ‘You will live in Tondabayashi. I live in Tondabayashi also, but our job is in Kanan Town. Tondabayashi is a little big city. Kanan Town is a very little country town. Very very countryside.’
He said the last two sentences in English and coughed loudly when he finished. He asked if I were from a big city or a small town. We chatted about the differences between the populations and cities of New Zealand and Japan. Mr Tokunaga was excited to hear that I enjoyed camping, and exclaimed that he liked camping very much.
His wife, he said regretfully, did not share his enthusiasm. His specially imported German campervan had sat neglected in his garage for several years. He inquired if I would like to go camping at some stage. I hesitantly replied that I would, and he rubbed his hands together in delight. He would start work on repairing the campervan immediately and order new parts from Germany.
I asked him about his background. He said he had been a science teacher at a primary school in Tondabayashi, but the local government had transferred him to Kanan Town. He was married, with one son. He liked going to barbecue restaurants with his son, and he loved the countryside.
He had been born in a tiny mountain village in the Japanese alps, had moved to Osaka as a boy, and had lived in Tondabayashi ever since. He hated city life and loved skiing. His dream, he said, was to retire to the country and live out his days in a home-made log cabin. He had never stayed in a log cabin, but had seen them in magazines. He asked if there were many in New Zealand.
Mr Tokunaga exuded quietness. Apart from his heavy cough, which wracked his body every few minutes, he was softly spoken. His thick hair was flecked with grey, and his coughing made his hair fall over his thick-rimmed glasses. I liked him instantly. His big glasses, short stature and thick mop of hair made him look remarkably like the smaller of the two Ronnies.
The train rumbled slowly on, and the dense buildings of Osaka City gave way to plots of land filled with rice paddies. Mr Tokunaga announced that we were now in the countryside. I was yet to see any cows, sheep or barbed-wire fences, but there were distinctly more green patches in the concrete grey landscape. The buildings were more rickety than those in the city, and the houses more spacious. We passed concrete-lined rivers, motorcycle dealerships, convenience stores, vending machines, neon-lit casinos, roads lined with cars, massive apartment blocks, ancient Buddhist temples and intriguing-looking shops and stores. There seemed an endless amount of places to come back and explore.
Mr Tokunaga pointed ahead. ‘We get off at the next stop.’
I strained to see my new home town. More rice paddies dotted the landscape, but the scenery was little different from the rest of suburban Osaka. Large apartment blocks lined the horizon, and a massive unfinished highway on-ramp sat on the outskirts of the city.
A large white spire loomed into view above the apartment blocks. It seemed to be made of white plastic, like something from Disneyland. Five struts at the base merged to form a bulbous white body, which gradually tapered into a large tower in the shape of a melted candle.
I asked Mr Tokunaga what it was. He seemed embarrassed. ‘Ahhh, that’s Tondabayashi Tower. It’s the tallest tower in town.’
‘But what’s it for?’ This was not Japan as I had imagined it.
Mr Tokunaga coughed. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said. ‘This is our station. We get off here.’
The train stopped. I checked my watch: 1.16. I stepped out of the pleasant confines of the air-conditioned train and nearly fell over. For the first time since arriving in Japan, I experienced the country’s notorious summer heat and humidity.
Tondabayashi Train Station was a humble building with two platforms and no air-conditioning. It opened into a large chaotic bus terminal that stank of diesel and exhaust fumes. Mirages leapt and danced on the concrete. A row of green buses seemed to slump in the heat.
Mr Tokunaga had exited the ticket barrier and was waiting impatiently, waving and signalling that we needed to get on the number three bus. I climbed aboard, hoisting my suitcase and banging it against my ankle. Mr Tokunaga checked his watch again: 1.18. We were still on schedule.
I surveyed the bus terminal. There was an orange and yellow doughnut shop in the far corner, opposite what appeared to be a bank. Row upon row of cycle racks lined the side of the station and a gaudy casino sat across the road, its flashy silver and gold frontage faded and peeling.
The bus’s air-conditioning did not seem to be working. I could feel sweat patches appearing in the armpits of my suit and rivulets poured down my face. After five minutes we crossed a wide river and entered Kanan Town. Old wooden farmhouses stood in fields. A tree-clad mountain range loomed ahead. I was, at last, really in the countryside.
Mr Tokunaga rang the bell and the bus stopped. We seemed to be in the middle of the rice paddies. Mr Tokunaga pointed at a large grey building in the distance. ‘That’s the town hall. That’s where I work. That’s where we’re going. You have a meeting there, now. We must hurry.’
He walked off down the main road. I noticed a footpath on the opposite side, but Mr Tokunaga seemed intent on walking head-on into traffic. Trucks of all shapes and sizes roared past. Despite being a sleepy little country town, Kanan Town appeared to be host to a major thoroughfare.
Why the bloody hell was I wearing a suit? The heat beat down. A smoke-belching concrete mixer roared past, missing me by centimetres.
Mr Tokunaga pushed on, regularly looking back to see if I were keeping up. My 30-kilogram suitcase crashed painfully against my shin. I braced myself, terrified of toppling under a speeding truck. Suddenly, Mr Tokunaga climbed a flight of steps that led up and away from the suicidal road. As I followed him up the steps on my rubbery legs I felt giddy and paused to steady myself. I was close to fainting.
Finally reaching the top, I surveyed what appeared to be a concrete fishing pond. Two boys absently toying with fishing lines stared up at me. I waved and wiped my sweaty brow again. The chirping crickets were driving me crazy and I felt ill. My left ankle and shin and my right calf were bruised and throbbing. My palms were scratched and swollen, and my suit was a bedraggled mess. The shimmering heatwaves were so close I could almost taste them. The town hall seemed a mile away.
Mr Tokunaga beckoned me to keep up my pace. He pointed and gestured at our destination. We were five minutes late. No doubt I was about to be fired. I limped after him, summoning my last few ounces of strength. At last, the automatic doors of the Kanan Town Hall opened with a hiss, and a cool breeze descended from heaven.
‘We need to go to level three,’ Mr Tokunaga said. ‘Everyone will be waiting.’
The twelve staff members of the town’s Board of Education and Social Education Department stood expectantly. The men were dressed identically, in dark trousers, starched white shirts and nondescript ties.
Mr Tokunaga coughed and I bowed. There was confusion. Several bowed back hesitantly. No one spoke.
Mr Tokunaga pushed ahead and beckoned me to follow. ‘First you must meet Mr Fukumoto,’ he whispered. ‘He is the big boss, the education superintendent. Then you can meet the other people.’
Mr Fukumoto had his own office. He was a stern old man with a powerful air. I immediately decided not to trifle with Mr Fukumoto. He looked like a man who would not take kindly to incompetence or idiocy.
He shook my hand and told me that he was over seventy-six years old. He asked if I liked playing golf and was enjoying Japan. I stammered about being hot but he appeared not to hear. He turned
to Mr Tokunaga. ‘You are late. The meeting with the mayor has been postponed for ten minutes.’
Mr Tokunaga blanched and hung his head. ‘I’m very sorry. I’m so sorry for keeping the mayor waiting.’
Mr Fukumoto was unimpressed. ‘That will be all.’ Our meeting was at an end.
I was now allowed to meet the rest of my co-workers. Again, this was to be done in order of social importance. Mr Muramoto was the division chief and sat in the centre of the room. Mr Fujimoto was the section chief of the Board of Education and sat on the right side of the room, at the head of his team. His team members sat next to him in order of rank, with Mr Sumitani the most senior. Mr Sumitani was completely bald, very slender and a little effeminate.
Mr Tokunaga sat between Mr Sumitani and the next man to greet me, Mr Tsujimoto. Mr Tsujimoto had a huge bristling moustache and his face creased when he smiled. He grasped my hand and announced that I would make a perfect drinking buddy. The office erupted in laughter – it seemed I had met the office clown. Next were two office ladies, who bowed deeply and, looking at their feet, hesitantly shook my hand. They offered to make me a cup of tea and shuffled meekly away.
I was now ushered to the left side of the room and introduced to the five members of the Social Education Department. The list of names, social ranks and job titles was becoming overwhelming. By the time tea was served I had forgotten nearly everyone’s name. Only Mr Tokunaga and his likeness to Ronnie Corbett were firmly imprinted in my brain.
It was time to assign some nicknames as an aide-mémoire. Mr Tsujimoto, the office clown, became Magnum PI. Mr Sumitani was a dead ringer for the Australian rugby player George Gregan, so I decided to call him George. Mr Fukumoto was a lot less scary when I thought of him as ‘the old boy’, while Mr Muramoto, the division chief, became Mr Smiles.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 1