We practised shopping and paying for groceries, and interest levels seemed to flicker back to life. However, shortly after one class a colleague told me that fake money would encourage the students to become counterfeiters; I would have to destroy all the young minnows’ currency before I got into big trouble. I grudgingly conceded, but secretly gave Jun a 1000-yen bill that had his face on it. If Jun goes on to mastermind a Yakuza counterfeiting operation, I shall be wholly responsible.
At the same time as the young minnows’ class was proving a challenge at school, a mind-boggling mystery was developing at home. I had started to receive a large number of ‘hang-ups’ on my answerphone. The messages were all recorded during the middle of the school day, when I would obviously be at work. There was never a name or message, just long pauses with a few breathing sounds.
Then one evening while I was at home eating my dinner, the phone rang. Knowing that anyone I wanted to speak to would leave a message, I ignored it. After several rings the answerphone clicked on, and the phone switched to speaker mode. Mrs Oki’s nasal voice wafted into my living room and she started having a one-way conversation with the machine.
‘Hello? Heymishi? Talk to me. Please speak Japanese.’ She then hung up before the beep, in the same fashion she’d been doing for the past fortnight.
She called back thirty minutes later, and it turned out that the reason for my two week’s worth of anonymous calls was that she was worried I might be cold. It was currently twenty-three degrees. I tried to tell her that I was fine, and that this temperature was similar to a New Zealand summer. She ignored me and asked again if I was cold. I said no.
In between talking to herself, her cat and the TV, Mrs Oki asked what I had planned for the coming weekend. Would I like to come to her house for dinner? I told her that unfortunately my weekend would be taken up with the Kanan Town Danjiri Festival, but it was unclear whether she was still listening, as she mumbled something about cat food and hung up the phone.
Sure enough, the next Friday evening, just as I was racing out the front door to catch a train to Wij’s birthday party, Mrs Oki called again. After a few confused minutes, she asked me what I had planned for Sunday morning. Trying to stay calm while visualising my train pulling out of the station without me, I reminded her that the town festival was scheduled for both Saturday and Sunday.
‘Oh!’ she said, ‘I didn’t know your town had a festival.’ The phone clicked and she hung up.
5
Fame
Kanan Town Danjiri Festival had been etched on my calendar pretty much since my arrival in Japan. My supervisor and the men at the Board of Education had been raving about it for months. Over the summer, Magnum PI had given me long explanations of the festival’s history, and Mr Fujimoto had told me about the exhaustive preparations.
The festival always took place on the third weekend of October. A tradition dating back hundreds of years, it had originally been held to celebrate the end of the rice harvest and the beginning of autumn. The citizens of Kanan Town joyfully took to the streets, wearing long white ‘hapi’ coats emblazoned with slogans unique to the town zones, and spent the weekend drinking, dancing and pushing around the danjiris, huge floats shaped like Buddhist temples, with intricate woodwork panels depicting religious scenes.
The danjiris of Kanan Town were reputed to be among the most intricate and expensive in all of Japan. As they measured up to three metres tall and weighed over a tonne, large teams of strong men were needed to push and roll them through town. A four-person band would sit at the helm playing flutes, clanging cymbals, beating drums, and leading the revellers in rousing anthems about the glory of Kanan Town.
Each town zone had its own danjiri valued at several million dollars, and the crews competed fiercely to be the loudest, fastest and most colourful. This had caused bitter rivalries, and feuds between rival teams stretched back generations. The two loudest teams, Kankoji and Shiraki, now regularly attracted loyal, aggressive youths from around the district. Many of the old hands felt the presence of these yobs had diverted attention from the original intention of the festival. Nevertheless, I was strongly encouraged to attend.
The opening day dawned cold and drizzly. Autumn was definitely taking hold in my small alpine town, and summer was now a thing of the past. Around noon I set off. I was not entirely sure where I should be heading. By now the danjiri crews would have spent the morning parading through their respective town zones and most of the members would already be drunk. I had heard that in the middle of the afternoon they would converge on a recently harvested rice paddy somewhere in the country side. No one was able to give me precise directions, but I was not expecting significant difficulty in finding several thousand people and ten massive mobile shrines on a bare patch of farmland.
I cycled past the school and into unknown territory. I bounced and daydreamed for several kilometres along a picturesque path through rice paddies until at last I rejoined a main road and saw, far off in the distance, a large dancing procession of people in white coats. Hiding my bicycle under some bushes, I raced across the paddy-field. The instant I reached the procession I was accosted by a group of my first-grade female students, who took my photo, filled me in on where to buy the best candyfloss, and proudly displayed their white coats with the brash red symbol for Kankoji. Several of the group did not, in fact, hail from Kankoji: they had switched allegiance because the danjiri crew apparently contained loads of cute guys.
Suddenly the girls stopped giggling and dispersed as a short sprightly old man wandered over. The man shook my hand and exclaimed in barely audible tones that he was overjoyed that I had made it to the festival. In short order he had bought me two cans of beer and was leading me by the arm around the festival ground. I was torn between confusion at not understanding what was being said, and a haunting misgiving that I knew this old man from somewhere. I tried to make my escape, fearing he was a crackpot who might try and hang out with me for the rest of the afternoon. I certainly didn’t want this old codger cramping my style with the ladies.
Repeatedly foiling my attempts and excuses, he prattled on about the danjiris and pointed to various faces in the crowd. I was puzzled to see people bowing respectfully, and then the identity of my mystery companion dawned on me. It was none other than the town mayor, Mr Kitahashi.
I spluttered into my beer and managed to pull off some polite Japanese in the nick of time, commenting on how beautiful the danjiris looked and what a wonderful town we lived in. Mr Kitahashi, who had replaced his normal black business suit with a checked shirt and denim jeans, beamed broadly. I was hoisted on the top of several danjiris and word was sent for the town photographer to come and take photos of Mr Hamish for the town magazine.
By mid afternoon the rice paddy was packed. Locals of all ages mingled happily, while agitated youths strutted around showing off their bleach-blond hairstyles, facial piercings, Terminator sunglasses, groomed goatees and gaudy hapi coats. My students, too, were out in force. The teenagers had been preparing for the festival for months, diligently growing their hair long enough to spike, curl, or puff up into a multi-coloured ball.
Hanging out with the mayor had given my popularity and level of fame an immense boost. Little children raced over and gave me plates of food from unknown benefactors. I was hauled into countless group photographs and introduced to gushing parents. Meanwhile, some of the danjiri crews regarded me suspiciously, unhappy with a lanky white guy stealing the limelight from their spiked pink hair and crayon-yellow afros.
The mayor suddenly reappeared and I was invited to join a group of town officials on their picnic mat. A huge array of food and drink awaited. The mayor sat next to me and kept my sake glass topped up. I overheard him telling several people that I thought the danjiris were beautiful and that Kanan Town was a wonderful place to live. This produced awed gasps and reverent whispers. I would then chip in with a drunken rendition of ‘Oha!’ and the onlookers would politely fall about laughing. As always,
I would be proclaimed an expert on Japanese culture and an inspired linguist.
By the time darkness started to fall I was a wreck. Mr Kitahashi had single-handedly forced me to drink the equivalent of a carton of sake, and I had long since lost track of the number of beers the town officials had poured for me.
Magnum PI and old Mr Fujimoto from the Board of Education joined us on the picnic mat. Both were also red-faced and intoxicated. Magnum was, he declared, pleased with the festival thus far but Sunday would be even better, with more food and drink on offer. Mr Fujimoto agreed, but foolishly suggested that the Hiraishi zone’s danjiri team was performing well this year. Magnum, a staunch Kankoji supporter, took deep offence and a heated debate ensued.
I chortled to myself on the mat. In my happy state I had failed to realise that most people were packing up and moving on. Mr Kitahashi bade me farewell, sternly instructing Magnum to take good care of me. Magnum saluted and suggested we go and get a drink. With Mr Fujimoto in tow and the quarrel seemingly forgotten, we staggered off down the road towards the convenience store.
Magnum dared me to chat up a group of young women. I approached stealthily, summoning all the charm I could. A suitable Japanese chat-up line failed to materialise in my head, so I played my one reliable card – the lost foreigner. ‘Excuse me,’ I slurred, ‘could you tell me the way to the convenience store?’
‘It’s over there,’ they replied nervously. They pointed 100 metres down the road to the brightly lit frontage of the only building on the road.
‘Hey, Mr Hamish, hurry up and get their phone numbers,’ Magnum yelled. The girls fled in terror.
Several beers later, I had lost all track of where I was. Hazy recollections of stowing my bicycle under a bush swam through my head, as did admonitions not to cycle through rice paddies in the dark. Dismissing these random thoughts, I plodded down the road with Magnum. Mr Fujimoto had called his wife to come and find him. He had now disappeared into the darkness and was probably asleep in a ditch.
‘Here we are,’ Magnum announced as he knocked on the door of a darkened house. A light went on, and it occurred to me that it was one o’clock in the morning.
‘Good, they’re still open,’ he said, and rubbed his hands. It seemed we had arrived at the house of one of Magnum’s friends.
From the sign, it appeared that the front room of the house doubled as a small tea shop during the weekday lunch hours. A sleepy couple in pyjamas opened the door hesitantly. Magnum bowled in and ordered a couple of beers. His friend appeared to find this intrusion most amusing. He, too, ordered a beer, and his wife staggered off to the refrigerator.
Somewhere in my head, a small voice suddenly suggested I get myself home. I lurched out into the cold night air and, through some miracle, found my hidden bicycle. I hopped aboard and and started pedalling, taking the long route along well-lit paved roads rather than the pitch-black track through the rice-paddy. After the best part of an hour, I made it home. I congratulated myself with a glass of water and slumped into bed.
Early the next afternoon, not wanting to miss the grand finale, I groggily rejoined the festivities. My drinking buddies seemed in poor health. Magnum was apparently in trouble not only with his wife, but with his friend’s wife at the tea shop. Mr Fujimoto had a headache and apologised that he would be unable to stay up for a second night’s drinking.
We stood around in the car park eating fried noodles. Old men bought me beers to thank me for educating the town’s young folk. Their wives asked me what I thought of Japan, and if I liked the local food. Hiro from the waka-ayu class appeared with a plate of octopus balls, which he had bought especially. He then introduced me to his father and, noticing that I was cold, offered me his jacket. Even when I put on my own jacket to show him I had come prepared, he insisted that I drape his tiny red jacket over my shoulders.
After ten minutes Hiro started shivering violently. I handed him back his jacket and bought us both some piping-hot savoury pancakes. Hiro was delighted and got sauce all over his chin. I did little better, and thanks to a temporary ineptitude with chopsticks ended up with food down the front of my jacket.
Eventually the danjiris started to appear, and their bands struck up loud, clanging anthems. The crowds cheered. Fireworks crackled and exploded, and the festival roared back into life.
The danjiris now lined up neatly in a row: the final showdown was about to begin. Each team had twenty minutes to create as much of a spectacle as they could. This involved the huge floats being pushed and pulled as fast as possible up and down the length of the car park, with frantic drumming, passionate anthems, whistles, cymbals, fireworks, and an acrobatic maniac who danced on the roof secured only by a rope around his ankle.
The crews, who had been practising for months, knew their roles by heart. The older team members were positioned behind to push, while the younger, sumo-like ones were in front to pull the massive yokes. The people with the most extreme hairstyles were placed on the outside to add a theatrical element. The bigger teams had also employed nubile females to dance alluringly in front of their floats.
Within an hour some of the smaller town zones had completed their performance, and the local favourite, Kankoji, was preparing for its big moment. Magnum, as part of the Kankoji Danjiri Council, was allowed to walk behind the danjiri with other middle-aged alumni, flaunting his hapi coat and joining in the singing. Making me promise to applaud loudly, which would apparently help Kankoji become the crowd favourite for yet another year, he strode off to join the throng of supporters.
Once Magnum was out of earshot, Mr Fujimoto tugged my shirtsleeve and whispered in a hushed tone, ‘Mr Hamish, I would like you to join the Hiraishi team. People will be very happy to see you push their danjiri.’
I was unsure about this. For starters, I didn’t live in Hiraishi. The festival was a surprisingly serious affair and membership in the crews was highly sought after. A gangling foreign ring-in was bound to create jealousy and loathing.
Secondly, I didn’t have a hapi coat. The danjiri crews were fastidious about their appearance: they all wore hapi coats, white pyjama pants and rice-paddy slippers. Despite the flash hairstyles and fancy sunglasses, this was still Japan and group uniformity was paramount. I was wearing green track pants and a blue sweater.
Mr Fujimoto, though, had thought of everything. It turned out he was very well connected in Hiraishi circles. He shared a vegetable field with the danjiri’s crew captain, and his son was the crazy madman dancing on the roof of the float. I was presented with his old hapi coat, and before I knew it I was being introduced to the team.
Hiraishi was next to perform. Everyone was ushered into position. As I was one of the tallest people in town, I was allocated a highly respected position in the middle at the rear of the float. I was suddenly one of the main pushers and feeling very nervous. The float was enormous and we were expected to get it racing at high speeds.
Firecrackers exploded behind me, signalling the end of Kankoji’s performance. It was time for us to take the stage. Without any warm-up, we exploded wildly out of the blocks. I thrust my full weight on to the danjiri and got my legs pumping as fast as I could. As we yelled and whooped, the float seemed to fly across the car park. At the back, the crew jostled and shoved each other boisterously. At each corner the older team members pulled ropes to slow us down, and we turned the danjiri around to begin another run. The dancing girls pranced around us, and Mr Fujimoto’s son launched fire crackers into the air.
As we cranked the danjiri up to full speed for its final length of the car park, everything was becoming a mad blur. I puffed and strained as the weight of the danjiri began to catch up with me. The crowd yelled and cheered, the danjiri’s lanterns swung crazily, more fireworks exploded, and as the drum beat reached a frenetic climax we crossed the final checkpoint and dug in our heels, fighting to bring the huge float to a standstill.
Ecstasy reigned. The crew danced around me and I was clapped and thumped on the back. We for
med a tight huddle and continued the team anthem. Mr Fujimoto’s son, who had clambered down from the roof, was hassled for hugs and high fives.
The mayor materialised from the darkness and shook my hand. ‘Very good, Mr Hamish, very good,’ he enthused. ‘So you are a Hiraishi supporter now?’
‘I like Hiraishi – it’s a nice place to live,’ I said diplomatically. Mr Kitahasi’s smile grew. ‘Excellent, excellent. I have a farm in Hiraishi. I’m a Hiraishi supporter too.’ Too exhausted to try and correct him, I shook his hand limply and he raced off to congratulate other proud Hiraishi supporters.
All the danjiri teams had now finished their performances. I overheard murmurs that, yet again, Kankoji had been voted the best. I snorted in disgust: maybe my loyalty to Hiraishi was deeper than I imagined.
The danjiris and their tired crews now faced the long trip back to their home zones. For some this would mean several kilometres through dark farm roads and up steep mountain trails. Eschewing any such effort, I walked off to the school and retrieved my bicycle.
Kanan Town was ghostly quiet as I made my discreet exit along empty streets. I turned on to the stretch of road that headed towards the Ishikawa River bridge and stopped dead in my tracks. The road ahead was completely blocked. A huge mob of revellers were dancing and singing. A brightly illuminated danjiri was moving towards me, swaying alarmingly.
I had somehow managed to stumble across the Tondabayashi Danjiri Festival. Although Tondabayashi City was able to boast that it was the bigger, wealthier neighbour, when it came to danjiri festivals Kanan Town left it in the dust. Nevertheless, the large group heading towards me was in fine voice, and their float, although smaller than the giants of Kanan Town, had an enthusiastic band at the helm.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 8