It was not until Magnum arrived at work that I began to suspect all was not quite what it seemed. ‘Aha,’ he beamed, on learning I had accepted the invitation. ‘We will go drinking tonight. Aha ha ha. We will drink many beers and eat lots of food. We will try many strange foods. You must challenge yourself.’
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘It is a test for you.’
After work, Mr Tokunaga picked me up from my apartment. ‘We will go to a very small Japanese pub,’ he said. ‘It serves many – how do you say? – delicacies. You can try many interesting dishes.’
We arrived at a decrepit-looking building and entered by a back door. It looked as though we had wandered into somebody’s home. Mr Tokunaga ushered me through the kitchen and into the restaurant. A few empty tables and chairs filled the smoky, dimly lit room. No one else from the Board of Education was present.
A bent old woman shuffled into the room and enthusiastically clasped Mr Tokunaga’s hands. ‘It’s so good to see you again, sir. It has been such a long time. Come this way please, we have prepared a special room for tonight.’ It seemed my ritual test of manhood was to be conducted behind closed doors.
The woman twisted her head to peer up at me. ‘Oooh,’ she rasped, ‘so tall.’ Cackling, she led us out of the room and up some stairs. A screen door stood closed at the top of the staircase. The woman knelt, and bowed as she pushed it open. Enthusiastic laughter and a round of applause erupted from within. All the men from the Board of Education and several mysterious new faces grinned up at me. I recognised some as the men with whom Magnum had been conspiring. Magnum himself was sitting in the far corner of the room. He laughed heartily and beckoned me to sit down in the centre next to Mr Smiles.
A beer had been poured for me, and Mr Smiles called out for the woman to bring a pot of sake. My co-workers were already red-faced and tipsy, and one of the men had his neck tie fastened around his forehead.
Mr Smiles stood and welcomed me formally, before thanking everyone for showing up. With that, another round of beers was ordered. I suddenly had two untouched pints of beer and a pot of warm sake sitting in front of me. I decided to sample the sake first. I noticed that whenever I took a sip Mr Fujimoto, who was sitting on the other side of me, would quickly top up my small ceramic cup.
Magnum sat quietly in the corner, watching me carefully. A small bespectacled man next to him studiously studied the menu, whispering in Magnum’s ear and pointing eagerly. Magnum beamed, several mysterious dishes were ordered, and I was asked if I needed another beer.
We were soon tucking into spring rolls and fried chicken wings as if this were the last supper. A plate of sushi arrived and I was given first choice of the expensive-looking selection. I chose a tasty salmon roll, but Mr Fujimoto clicked his tongue in disapproval and heaped four of the largest pieces on to my plate.
‘Mr Hamish,’ he lectured, ‘you must eat. You look hungry.’
Japanese hospitality dictates that a guest should never have an empty plate, bowl or glass. This protocol was being strictly observed, and I was made to sample every meal on the table, given the last mouthful of every dish, and if my glass of beer or cup of sake became empty they were replaced instantly.
Magnum stood up and left the room. When he returned, he nodded to Mr Smiles. There was an expectant hush. The screen door opened and the old woman entered the room. She was carrying a plate of writhing purple spaghetti. The plate was placed in front of me.
I had noticed a live octopus in a large tank when we had entered the restaurant. He had been swimming around happily. My manhood test, however, had required him to be plucked from his tank, laid on a chopping block, and have two of his finest tentacles removed with a cleaver. The two wriggling, squirming tentacles had been diced into smaller wriggling, squirming pieces and carefully laid out on an attractive serving platter.
The assembled company gasped. Live octopus tentacles, it seemed, were a rare treat, and a tremendous honour for the guest.
I looked down at the plate. One of the tentacle pieces had managed to crawl to the edge and drop on to the table cloth. The rest were squirming helplessly. Emboldened by the alcohol I’d consumed, I reached out with my chopsticks and grabbed a large piece from the middle of the plate. Magnum clapped and everyone cheered. The tentacle resisted and stuck fast to the plate. I tugged and it came free.
Its slimy coating was, however, difficult to grip with the chopsticks. The tentacle dropped to the tabletop and started to crawl away. I gripped it again and swooped it into my mouth.
There was another drunken cheer and the audience peered at me intently, eager to see how I would react to this delicacy. The tentacle squirmed madly and attached itself to the roof of my mouth. I gagged, and then proceeded to chew the demon tentacle until it gave up the struggle.
The taste was oddly refreshing. There was no oozing blood or ink, and no fishy after-taste. I gave a satisfied thumbs-up and got a pat on the back from Mr Smiles. Magnum slumped back in his corner, a relieved smile on his face. I had passed the first section of my test.
After the octopus tentacles had been devoured, the screen door slid open again and the woman shuffled in again with another dish. A live fish lay flapping on the plate. His mouth opened and closed in shock, and I tried not to look at his terrified face. Strips had been cut in the fish’s sides and Mr Smiles demonstrated how to delicately peel these off with chopsticks. He then laid several on my plate and encouraged me to dip them in soy sauce before eating them. Everyone joined in, and the poor fish was soon reduced to a bare skeleton.
Eating the flapping fish had apparently been the final part of my man-hood test. I was given another beer, my sake pot was topped up, and fried noodles and steamed buns were ordered.
The mysterious strangers introduced themselves and enthusiastically shook my hand. The man with the necktie around his head told me that he was interested in prehistoric artefacts. Kanan Town and the surrounding countryside were, he explained, famed as the site where archaeologists had unearthed a wealth of old arrowheads and cooking pots. Burial mounds and prehistoric tombs could be found if you knew where to look. He would take me sightseeing and show me his favourites.
Magnum sat sagely in the corner, a contented look on his face. He had found his new apprentice.
By the end of August, I had settled into my new home and was feeling well-established. I was smugly confident I would be able to handle anything that Japan could throw at me. Then the summer holiday bubble burst.
3
Jun Fujita and the young minnows
I met Jun Fujita for the first time on the hottest day of summer. It was the middle of the holidays and Mr Tokunaga had decided to take me on an introductory tour of the school. The office thermometer had stopped working at 36 degrees, and during the short walk between the town hall and the school gate several sweaty haloes had appeared on my white cotton shirt. My shoes and socks were damp and grimy as I removed them in the locker bay, and my feet slid as I tried to insert them into the plastic hallway slippers that were five sizes too small.
My first impression of the school was, therefore, of intense heat. The buildings lacked any form of air-conditioning or ventilation. As we walked slowly through the hallways, I struggled to stop the tiny slippers firing off my feet like banana peels. Every time I retrieved them, I noticed an increasing number of sweat beads in the toe area, and pitied the poor soul who would inherit the slippers after me. I also noticed that since my feet could fit only halfway, my heels were dragging along the floor, collecting a thick layer of grime.
By the time I was shown into the staffroom, I was a bedraggled mess. The sweat stains on my cotton shirt had merged to form the map of Australia, and the heels of my feet suggested I had been working in a coal mine. Fortunately, the PE teacher was the only other staff member at school, and he was busy making a phone call.
The staffroom seemed even less ventilated than the school corridor. Heat waves accosted me from every direction. As I tried
to stop fainting, the door swung open and a small boy burst through. He was about five foot tall, with a spiky crew cut that was long in the front but gradually became shorter until the crown of his head was practically bare. His face had the distinctive characteristics of Down’s Syndrome.
The boy opened his mouth to call for the PE teacher, noticed me and turned to stone. I managed a smile and he continued to stare. I waved and he took to his heels and fled.
Mr Tokunaga seemed not to notice the small boy’s dramatic entrance and exit, and we continued our tour of the school. I was thankful when we eventually staggered into the fresh air to survey the playing field. Two clubs, athletics and girls’ softball, were practising in the sweltering heat, but on seeing me the students waved and cheered. I waved back and felt like a rock star.
As we walked back to the entrance to collect our shoes, I noticed a small spiky head with curious eyes peeping through a window in the hallway. I waved and the spiky head and curious eyes vanished.
My plastic slippers were now horribly slimy, and my soggy socks offered welcome relief. I hopped around on one foot, trying to put on my socks and shoes without overbalancing. Looking up for a second, I saw the small boy hiding behind a pot plant. I gave him a smile and waved. In doing so, I lost my balance, tripped and crashed into a locker.
The boy stood and stared. His open mouth cracked slightly to form a shy grin, then he turned and ran away.
A fortnight later, my glorious summer holiday was over. After six long hard weeks of sightseeing and reading novels at my desk in the Board of Education, I would finally make it to school.
I stood nervously to attention during the morning staff meeting while Mr Kazama, the owl-like principal, introduced me to my fellow teachers. His formal speech produced some hushed bows, a few smiles, a smattering of frowns and a couple of scowls. I then scuttled back to my desk. The schedule for the remainder of the day was completely bare.
One by one, the school’s three English teachers approached my desk and introduced themselves. Mrs Takaoka was a kind-looking middle-aged woman whom I would be assisting during first-grade classes. Ms Domae, the second-grade teacher, who I guessed was in her thirties, seemed shy and unsure how to talk to me.
Mr Higo was twenty-four; until my arrival he had been the youngest teacher in the school. Chirpy and smiley, he asked if I would be interested in purchasing school lunches on a regular basis. He explained that the small handful of unmarried male teachers relied on these lunches as they were unable to cook for themselves. The lunches were not very appetising, he confided, but they were certainly better than anything we could make ourselves.
After a five-minute chat about octopus and squid, I was left to continue my efforts to look busy and productive. I spent an hour lining up my few dictionaries and English-language books and sorting and arranging my pen collection. I updated my diary and sorted out my schedule for the next few days. There were no appointments, and no tasks needing to be completed. I counted the change in my wallet: 256 yen, enough for an ice-cream and a can of Coca-Cola on the way home. I read a few chapters of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone and caught myself nodding off.
Sadly, my students would not be as well rested. The Japanese education system demanded that summer holidays were filled with sports team practices and copious amounts of homework. The first week of term would be entirely devoted to serious exams, to test whether the students had spent their time reading about mediaeval Japanese history or playing PlayStation or baseball. Exams would then need to be marked and handed back. This meant I would have two more weeks to fill before I set foot in an actual classroom.
I was not overly concerned by this. I would be paid. In fact, by the time I actually started teaching in Japan I would have been paid for eight weeks of eating chocolate, reading Harry Potter, sleeping at my desk, getting drunk and throwing up on trains.
The school principal did, however, attempt to save me from sinking into a slothful void. I was called into his office and presented with my first ever task – to deliver a speech the next day at the school assembly, in front of five hundred people. I sat back in his plush leather sofa and nonchalantly asked what sort of speech he would like – a formal welcome, a self-introduction, or even my first impressions of Japan. He shook his head. He would, he said, prefer a song or dance.
Despite being gripped by an instant surge of panic, I put on a professional veneer and assured Mr Kazama he would enjoy my performance. I rose from the sofa, shook his hand and walked calmly back to my desk, where I collapsed into a nervous wreck.
I spent the next hour trying to concoct a theatrical performance that would not single-handedly destroy all my future credibility with the students. Dancing was immediately discounted. Apart from a mild ability to stay in time with techno beats at nightclubs, my dancing skills were non-existent. I would need to resort to song. This did nothing to calm my nerves: my singing was only marginally better than my dancing.
The next problem was what song to choose. The New Zealand national anthem had been my immediate choice, but I could remember only the first verse. My knowledge of Maori songs was poor at best, and I shuddered at the thought of having to translate the lyrics into Japanese. My last resort was the meagre list of English pop songs that I knew by heart. My brain churned away and the best it could come up with was the early’90s Guns and Roses hit ‘Don’t cry’. I tried humming it a few times, and could already imagine myself having an embarrassing accident while trying to imitate Axl Rose’s hoarse shrieks and high-pitched whines.
Perhaps I could sing a Christmas carol? Any idiot can bash out a rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ or ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’, I thought to myself. But given the time of year, a Christmas carol seemed wildly inappropriate. I slumped deeper into my chair.
It was then that salvation arrived. Ms Domae approached my desk and asked what I was doing. I explained that I was trying to come up with a song for the school assembly. She looked unimpressed. ‘The previous English teacher sang a song and did a dance,’ she trumpeted. I hated the previous English teacher immediately.
‘That’s very nice,’ I said, ‘but I’m very bad at singing and dancing. I speak English very well though.’
Ms Domae beamed. ‘Maybe we can do your speech together,’ she suggested.
‘I thought Mr Kazama wanted a song or dance?’
‘No, no, he won’t mind. Just tell the students about yourself. They’ll be happy, and then he’ll be happy too.’
I was ecstatic with relief.
‘You write your speech in English,’ Ms Domae suggested, ‘then give it to me and I’ll translate it into Japanese for the students.’
‘Are you sure this will be all right?’ I asked again.
‘It will be fine,’ she replied. ‘Mr Kazama will be pleased to see us working together so well.’
The day of the assembly dawned bright and hot. By the time I arrived at school, preparations were already underway. For some reason the hour-long ordeal was to take place outside in the full glare of the sun. The students were being herded on to the sports field and shepherded into alphabetical order according to class rolls. Once perfectly ordered they sat down, each one carefully measuring the distance to the student in front and to their left and right. Within seconds this had produced seamless ranks of boys’ white shirts, making stark stripes next to the girls’ navy blue blazers.
The scene was set, the students were in place, and it was time for the first Kanan Town Junior High School term two assembly to begin. The principal and I climbed up on to the rickety tin stage. A hush fell over the already deathly silent crowd. I stood in front of the raised microphone. A lump of nervousness rose in my throat.
‘Hello,’ I shouted. There was a smattering of a reply. ‘Hello,’ I shouted again, more loudly. A bigger response. By the third time, I was sure that everyone had joined in.
I moved into a rendition of my newly learned Japanese comedy routine, ‘Oha!’ ‘Oha!’ was then the most p
opular comic turn in Japan. The performer started by forming a circle with the forefinger and thumb of each hand and pronouncing the syllable ‘O’. He or she then flicked the hand open to show the audience the palm with all fingers and thumbs extended straight, at the same time completing the second syllable of the ‘joke’ – ‘ha!’ – and the audience erupted into laughter, as if on cue.
The humour and meaning of this joke eluded me. I had been told its popularity was due entirely to the celebrity of its creator, a comedian and boy-band member called Shingo Mama. Shingo Mama had invented an alter ego for children’s television programs, in which he paraded around dressed as a housewife, singing and performing his mystifying ‘Oha!’ routine. His performances were seemingly aimed at four-year-olds, with songs about the benefits of brushing your teeth and eating mayonnaise. For some reason, ‘Oha!’ had become a national phenomenon.
I had been very sceptical of ‘Oha!’ when I had first seen it on television. Soon afterwards I had attempted to recreate it at the Board of Education and received a mixed reaction. Finally, having embarrassed myself with several under-par performances, I had been taken aside by a well-meaning co-worker, who recommended that I work on the speed of my flick and the volume of my ‘ha!’ Before I knew it, I had people rolling in the aisles and exclaiming that I spoke fluent Japanese and ‘knew so much about Japan’.
I delivered my fluent two-syllable gag to my audience of five hundred schoolchildren and received a huge round of laughter and a big reply. I repeated the routine twice, and each time received a loud and enthusiastic ‘Oha!’ back.
I then tried to get the audience to call out ‘Gidday!’ There were lots of giggles, and some of the louder boys yelled ‘Gud dye!’ to each other. It was then that I noticed how loud my voice was on the loudspeakers. What made it worse was that there was a slight time delay before several echoes of my voice made their way around the school, the town and the nearby mountain ranges.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 5