Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  I had noticed, however, that conversation was always very polite, and often dominated by the talkative Mrs Terauchi. Occasionally other members would dispute her outlandish interjections, but for the most part they went unquestioned. An example was her response to Mrs Tanaka’s news that her son and daughter-in-law were planning a holiday in Honolulu.

  ‘Aha! Hawaiian sumo wrestlers are not so strong. They have weak knees. Most foreigners have weak knees,’ Mrs Terauchi raved.

  Mrs Matsui nodded in mute agreement. Mrs Tsubota coughed, and pursed her lips. Mrs Tanaka twiddled her thumbs. Mrs Kiguchi murmured a soft ‘Oh really?’

  I flexed my supposedly feeble knees. It was time to inject some lively discussion into our conversation sessions.

  What my mothers needed, I decided, was a formal, well-structured debate. I explained the rules. Each person would take a turn at speaking – defending and promoting their team’s theory. The opposing team would then be given the chance to make a rebuttal. Each team was to try to convince me, the judge, that they had the most convincing argument.

  I divided them into two teams, old v. young: Mrs Terauchi and Mrs Kiguchi v. Mrs Matsui, Mrs Tanaka and Mrs Tsubota. The first topic was ‘The merits of country life v. the merits of city life’. The older team would present the merits of country life.

  Mrs Terauchi began. After making some valid points about the beauty and tranquility of the Japanese countryside, she lost the plot and added some extraneous comments about the history of Kanan Town and ancient rice-farming techniques.

  The younger team then made a good response, with convincing remarks about the convenience and abundance of services available in urban areas.

  Mrs Kiguchi shyly attempted her reply. Despite tripping over some tricky English words, she managed to explain that a slow-paced country life was better for your health than a hectic, money-driven lifestyle in the city. I smiled and gave her a good mark.

  ‘I have to admit though,’ Mrs Kiguchi continued in Japanese, ‘that the other team made a much better argument than I did.’ She bowed politely. ‘I agree with all their points so far.’ She bowed again and smiled at her opponents. ‘Please do not be offended by my remarks,’ she said politely.

  I sighed. I should have realised that the mild, courteous nature of my Japanese mothers would never adapt to the cut and thrust of Western-style debate.

  The younger team took the floor and Mrs Matsui made some well-thought-out comments about the greater number of employment opportunities and higher level of financial rewards available in the cities. Mrs Kiguchi nodded and hummed along in agreement. ‘Yes, yes, good point,’ she said, bowing. ‘Well done.’

  Mrs Terauchi was beginning to realise that her polite friend was becoming a hindrance to their team’s performance. ‘Shhhh,’ she hushed. ‘You can’t agree with them. You’re on my side. Remember, we’re the country life team.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Kiguchi blushed and covered her mouth delicately. ‘Can I change teams then?’

  The women exploded with laughter.

  The debate ended happily. The younger team had been thoroughly convincing, and Mrs Kiguchi cheerfully agreed when I announced that her opponents were the winners. ‘Hamish sensei, I enjoyed our discussion today. I’d like to have a debate next week,’ she said, clutching my arm as I walked to the door.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad that you enjoyed it,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, it is very nice to talk about things.’ She covered her mouth as she began to chuckle. ‘But please, sensei, next time can I have a different team-mate?’

  As I wheeled my bicycle down the driveway I looked back. Mrs Kiguchi was bowing and chuckling with Mrs Terauchi, making sure her comments had not caused offence. Mrs Terauchi laughed and bowed. The group closed the door. They would return to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  17

  The Great Lake Biwa Circumnavigation

  My good friend Justin was in one of his endearingly enthusiastic moods when I answered the telephone on a warm September evening. ‘I’ve got it,’ he began eagerly. ‘I’ve got a map. It’s all sorted. I’ve come up with a winning plan for the best weekend ever. You’re going to love this.’

  I listened apprehensively. I already knew what Justin was about to propose.

  ‘I’ve found a map,’ he repeated excitedly. ‘It was on the internet. It’s a road map for the entire Osaka prefecture. It’s just what we need for the trip. Whaddya reckon?’

  I groaned. ‘So you’re still keen to go on this trip of yours then?’

  Justin could hear the negativity in my voice. ‘You bet I am!’ he thundered. ‘Don’t you get cold feet on me now, mate. You told me last month that you were keen to do this. Well, I’ve found a map. That’s all that was missing before. There’s nothing stopping us now.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ I tried to be supportive. I did not want to dampen my friend’s enthusiasm.

  Justin had, for some time, been daydreaming of attempting a three-day bicycle pilgrimage, which he claimed would settle an ongoing debate between himself and his Japanese co-workers. Justin’s elaborate cycle journey would see him pedalling furiously north from Osaka City, across the Kansai plains, up and over a tall mountain range, and then around Lake Biwa – the largest lake in Japan – before then returning to Osaka.

  Justin was convinced that this daring expedition could be completed comfortably within three days. His co-workers argued that the trip was virtually impossible to complete by bicycle, and even if it could it would take at least ten days, assuming the cyclists somehow managed to cross the ‘towering’ Mount Ise.

  Justin had debated this strongly, pointing out that the distance between Osaka and Lake Biwa was not great (seventy kilometres on a map), and that ‘pitiful’ Mount Ise could be overcome by even an amateur cyclist.

  He was, however, reluctant to attempt The Great Lake Biwa Circumnavigation on his own, and his dreams of proving his co-workers wrong started to fade when he struggled to attract any friends who were willing to accompany him. Finally, I had consented to his repeated requests during one of our midweek drinking sessions in downtown Osaka.

  ‘C’mon, mate. You said you were keen last month,’ Justin scolded. ‘I’ve found the map now. That’s all we were waiting on.’ He paused.

  ‘All right then,’ I sighed. ‘When do you want to do this?’

  ‘Last weekend of October. It’s a long weekend: we’ve both got the Friday off work. I’ve got everything planned. All you need to do is turn up to my apartment on the Friday morning.

  ‘Honestly, it’s gonna be a breeze. We’re going to be legends after this. No one’s ever tried it before. We’re going to show them what New Zealanders are made of. We’ll teach these namby-pamby stay-indoors workaholics how to enjoy life.’

  Justin’s enthusiasm was starting to dispel my nagging doubts. ‘So tell me about this map then,’ I muttered.

  ‘Excellent. That’s the spirit.’ Justin’s smile was audible. ‘Hang on a tick, I’ll go and get it.’

  I sighed again. What had I signed up for?

  The Great Lake Biwa Circumnavigation was just over a month away. I still had plenty of time to get into peak physical condition and razor-sharp mental fitness.

  In the staffroom, Mr Higo chuckled as we young single teachers picked away at our lunchtime octopus tentacles and noodle salad. The teachers’ relay team had just come last for the third year in a row at school athletics day. This time Mr Hioki was to blame. He had tripped over his own feet in the home straight.

  ‘Say, who wants to go drinking tonight?’ Mr Higo asked cheerfully. Everyone nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Great.’ He smiled. ‘This will be good training for Mr Hamish’s bicycle ride to Lake Biwa. He needs to become very strong.’

  My plans of circumnavigating Lake Biwa on a bicycle had quickly become public knowledge after I had shared them with Mr Higo.

  ‘Why do you want to ride a bicycle to Lake Biwa?’ Mr Hioki asked.

  ‘It is easier to go by train.�
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  ‘Your trip will take two weeks,’ Mr Shibukawa lectured. ‘Your legs will be very tired.’

  I shook my head. I was surprised to find myself becoming as defensive about the bicycle expedition as Justin. ‘No, it’s not so difficult,’ I protested. ‘My friend and I will be able to complete it in only three days.’

  My colleagues looked at me with wonder. ‘You must be very strong to try such a trip,’ Mr Omura said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied nonchalantly. ‘In New Zealand, people ride bicycles everywhere. The trip to Lake Biwa will not be so difficult.’

  My cool self-confidence had seemingly been convincing. My fellow teachers nodded in awed respect. Mr Hamish, the rugged athlete from New Zealand, was obviously very strong.

  Later that evening we assembled at a local Korean barbecue restaurant. Mr Higo was keen for a big night out. We hunkered down on tatami mats and he ordered several large plates of beef and ox tongue. I had developed a particular liking for barbecued ox tongue; upon hearing this, he ordered another two platefuls.

  I had already been out drinking with this group of young male teachers several times that year. A typical evening would start at a barbecue restaurant, and then proceed to a karaoke booth for several hours of drunken crooning. After having had enough of howling and singing badly, several married teachers would bid us farewell and depart. Those of us remaining would then adjourn to a pub and drink ourselves even stupider, until, one by one, we would slowly disappear off home.

  Tonight was looking to be a typically fun-filled affair. Mr Higo had ordered the young waiter to keep our beers topped up, and to keep the plates of meat flowing until we could eat no more. Everyone was in high spirits, having spent a day outside in the sunshine watching the school sports. We laughed and teased each other as we recounted the teachers’ team’s loss.

  Mr Hioki blushed when his clumsy accident was re-enacted by Mr Nakata, and his face turned a strange purple, a mixture of beer and embarrassment. Outside the classroom and away from our tedious English lessons, I had slowly grown to like Mr Hioki and his bowl-shaped haircut. He was a valued member of the young male teachers’ drinking circle, and his hilarious renditions of cartoon soundtracks during our karaoke sessions proved he had a good sense of humour after all. I was also becoming used to his regimented teaching style, and had accepted that my role in his classroom was to act as a human tape recorder.

  Mr Hioki seemed to enjoy chatting with me during our drinking sessions, and other teachers would ask him to act as translator so they could ask me personal questions without feeling intrusive. He would be called upon to inquire whether I had a girlfriend in New Zealand, what I thought of Japanese women, and how many former girlfriends I had. He would usually chip in and reply on my behalf, giving exaggerated numbers and ludicrous answers. Mr Higo and Mr Hioki would end up teasing each other in English, and then ask me to judge who had been the most witty and humorous.

  Beer was flowing freely and I had consumed a large quantity of barbecued ox tongue and beef. Conversation turned to school – the scandalous attire of Ms Yurano, the mysterious disappearance of Mr Doi, and the bossy attitude of Mrs Nakazato. Mr Hioki was requested to inquire as to my opinion of Mrs Nakazato. I gave a diplomatic response.

  ‘Mr Hame, I do not think you like her so much. Ha ha ha.’ Mr Higo laughed. ‘Go on, tell the truth. What do you really think? I think she is too bossy.’

  I laughed. ‘No commento,’ I replied in an exaggerated Japanese accent.

  Everyone laughed. In a society that prided itself on veiled responses, my elusive comment had provided enough information for the listener to read between the lines.

  Mr Higo clapped me on the back and passed me another beer. ‘Is it time to go to karaoke?’ he asked. Everyone nodded and patted their swollen stomachs. We had been eating and drinking for two hours and the thought of more barbecue beef was making me nauseous. We finished our drinks and staggered down the road to the local karaoke establishment. Mr Hioki paid for a private booth for two hours, Mr Higo ordered a round of beer and we programmed in our favourite songs.

  As I am a terrible singer, tone-deaf and unable to hold a note, my karaoke technique consisted of belting out a few well-known numbers so loudly that any imperfections were drowned out. On this occasion I was the opening singer. I performed a hearty off-key rendition of Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, rocked through a duet of Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’ with Mr Higo, and squeaked through ‘Unchained Melody’ by the Righteous Brothers. Mr Hioki was keen to perform a duet with me, so we thrashed out a spirited version of ‘I just called to say I love you’ by Stevie Wonder.

  Despite the continuous supply of beer and sake, my throat was becoming a little hoarse. I decided to take things easy with ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon. We had now been singing for two and half hours, and were well over our time limit. Several of the married teachers announced that they would need to return home or meet an unfriendly reception.

  Four of us remained: Mr Higo, Mr Hioki, Mr Nakata and I. We decided to end the evening with a last couple of rounds at the local pub, Wasshoi. The couple of drinks soon turned into four pints of beer, a plate of noodles and a dish of fried chicken wings.

  Starting to feel a little queasy, I decided to head home before I did anything idiotic. I stood up and felt the evening’s alcohol rocket to my brain. I staggered slightly and leant against the wall.

  Mr Hioki looked at me with concern. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I assured him. I settled my bill and stepped outside. Foolishly, I had decided to take my bicycle with me in order to get home at the end of the evening. I had not foreseen that we would end up at Wasshoi, and had presumed that our last stop of the night would be further afield. Wasshoi was located only a hundred metres from my apartment building. A narrow, backstreet alleyway led in a straight line directly from the bar to my building.

  I swayed drunkenly on the pub’s doorstep and peered hazily down the lane. It was pitch-black and there was not a soul to be seen.

  ‘You should bike home!’ a voice in my head said. ‘It’s not that far.’

  I hiccoughed and looked left and right. There were no cars, no traffic, no people. I paused and considered. I should cycle home. I needed to get in shape for the great Lake Biwa bicycle ride. This was a perfect opportunity.

  I unlocked my bicycle, tripped over the back tyre and fell forward on to the road. I landed on my hands and knees, and stood up again shakily. I brushed off my dusty palms and straddled my bike. No problems so far.

  I turned to face my apartment building, and paused to collect my bearings. ‘Let’s go!’ I announced aloud, and peddled off.

  My left arm wobbled, the handlebars turned and I veered straight into a concrete wall. I lurched forward out of the seat and my private parts landed uncomfortably on the bike’s metal frame.

  I slowly found my balance and sat down again on the bicycle seat. I looked back at the Wasshoi doorstep. I had managed to cycle only three metres before colliding with the wall. I would need to concentrate.

  I peered into the darkness and visualised myself cycling steadily home.

  I set off again. I slowly built up speed. My right leg twitched and my foot slipped off the pedal. I wobbled madly and collided with a beer-vending machine. Still unable to control my right leg, I toppled sideways on to the pavement.

  I lay still for a moment, a confused bundle of drunken limbs and bicycle parts. My left trouser leg was caught in my cycle chain. I tugged at it blindly, and eventually it came free without tearing. Slowly, I started to untangle myself from my vehicle and tried to stand up. I looked back at the Wasshoi doorstep. It seemed to be quite distant now: I was halfway home.

  I turned, and looked at my apartment entrance. I was nearly there. I was standing outside Mrs Okuda’s house. I swayed on my feet and looked carefully at her vegetable garden. I would be in serious trouble if I ran over any of her pot plants.

  ‘Perhaps you should walk?’ I heard my brain
suggest. I stubbornly picked up my fallen bicycle. I refused to give up. I was nearly home.

  I straddled the seat and set off again. As I neared Mrs Okuda’s vegetable garden, I wobbled and teetered. My hands were sweaty and I held my breath as I passed her doorstep – nearly home, don’t blow it now.

  I had managed to pass most of Mrs Okuda’s beloved garden. A large sunflower stood to my left. My hands wobbled and I veered dangerously towards it. In an attempt to save both myself and the sunflower, I leant crazily to the right and my bicycle swerved in the nick of time.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  Crash! My front tyre struck the kerb. I fell forward, hit the handlebars and bounced on to the ground. My bicycle followed shortly after and landed upside down on my back.

  I lay still for a moment, wondering where I was. I looked up. ‘Tokiwa Mansion’ was painted in large Japanese characters above the apartment building entrance. I smiled. I would be able to walk the rest of the way from here.

  The next morning my alarm clock rang.

  I came awake slowly.

  My head hurt. I grimaced.

  I looked around.

  I frowned.

  I looked down.

  I was sitting upright on my sofa.

  I was fully clothed. I had spent the night sleeping in a seated position with my jeans and shoes still on.

  My head throbbed. I slowly began to recollect the events of the previous evening. I checked my shirt. No vomit stains. Thank heaven for that.

  My hands stung. I held them up for closer inspection. They were grazed and dirty. So were my trousers. The hem of my left trouser leg was stained with oil. Perhaps, I pondered, this was the level of stupidity and complete disregard for personal safety that would be needed to attempt the great Lake Biwa bicycle expedition.

  One of my Japanese friends had told me about an intriguing tourist attraction in Kyoto. ‘It’s called Monkey Mountain’ she explained excitedly. ‘You walk up a big hill and there are monkeys everywhere. They are free to run around wherever they want. You can feed the monkeys fruit. They’re soooo cute. Plus, it’s a great place for hiking. Do you have places like Monkey Mountain in New Zealand?’