Iizaka Town

Iizaka Town

Yesterday, I went to a town called Iizaka. It neighbors Fukushima city, and is in what is know as the Date (say: Dah-Teh) district of Fukushima prefecture. If you have heard anything about Iizaka, you have heard this: the city is home to over 70 onsen, or hot springs. It is the most famous place in all of the Tohoku region (think: Japanese bread basket) for hot springs. And where there are hot springs, there are old people. Iizaka is famous for hot springs and old people. I had to see it.

I moseyed on down to the station. It was a freezing miserable day, but at least it wasn’t raining. When I arrived, I saw the other piece of common knowledge spread about Iizaka: it’s train service. The Iizaka train is famous in Fukushima for being the oldest, slowest, noisiest, bumpiest and most expensive train in the whole prefecture. It is operated by a private company so they can basically do whatever they want and charge whatever they feel. But, I hadn’t been on any trains in close to 4 months, so I was excited to move somewhere by way of rail.

I neared the ticket area. Usually, there is vending type machine with locations and prices. Put in your money, push the button and a ticket will appear. Not so. I looked around with the “hey, gaijin here, someone tell me what to do” face. It worked flawlessly and a man I assumed to be the ticket collector beckoned me over. I told him in astoundingly flawless Japanese that I was making my way, or trying, to Iizaka. He looked to his watch and pointed. He pointed to a train off in the distance along the platform. Sensing some sort of time urgency I made my way through the turnstile, and toward the train. I still didn’t have a ticket.

As I boarded, I noticed the 200 year old lady in front of me push a button to open the door. A few people were in front of me, and I was the last to board. After I got on I noticed the same button inside the train. The slowly turning gears in my brain alerted me that this was some type of open and close button. I didn’t want to bother with it, so I took my seat. I figured that the door would close on it’s own after a few seconds. Nope. The freezing cold wind was blowing in the train and everyone was pissed off. Eventually an old man stood up with a “hmmmpf” and closed the door. He looked at me. I looked at him. If he was an American, he would’ve flipped me off. But, this is Japan and the old man could do it with his eyes alone. Sorry old man, if you’re reading this.

As I sat, waiting to depart I realized that there was absolutely no time urgency what-so-ever. The ticket collector must have assumed that like most people boarding the train, I would require approximately 15 minutes to walk the 30 feet from the turnstile to the train. I wondered why he had pointed at his watch. Why didn’t he let me buy a ticket? Why was the train he pointed to under a sign marked to a different city? I was really starting to miss the efficiency, ease, and professionalism of the JR trains as opposed to this privately owned abomination. A JR train would never have a door button.

Anyway, we were off. The train was almost empty. There were a few old people, and an occasional school girl. It got me thinking: why were there so many more school girls than boys? This train had a maybe ten girls (the train only had three cars so I could see beginning to end no problem) in uniform, on a Sunday nonetheless, and not one boy. I started to wonder even more: were there really that many more school girls than boys? Did I just not see the boys because they didn’t wear tiny skirts in the middle of winter? Was it the socks? My mind started to wander. I snapped out of it by staring at an old lady who was staring at me. Her frigid stare and strange amalgam of winter clothing brought me back from my uniform induced stupor.

After about 10 stops, or about 30 minutes, I realized that I should have arrived in Iizaka already. I whipped out my handy dandy iPhone and checked my GPS. Lo and behold, I was a farther from Iizaka than when I had started. I was passing a “town” called Takako, which is basically the Japanese equivalent of naming a town Eleanor, or Beatrice, or some other antiquated name. I got off at the next stop. I was in the middle of nowhere. The sky was absolutely massive and clouds dotted out the sun. The wind was whipping and the groves of apple trees surrounding me were dancing in unison. I didn’t care about Iizaka. I could’ve stood at that train “station” for an hour absorbing the view. Luckily, the next train back to Fukushima was in 45 minutes so my wish was fulfilled. I took a seat and watched the clouds roll by. (If you have never seen clouds in Japan, you are in for a treat. They move with astounding speed and are quite mesmerizing.)

I hopped on the train, found the stupid door button and settled in for the ride. Once again, old ladies with prying eyes, sleeping old men and motionless school girls surrounded me. On the return journey, I thought back to the ticket collector at the turnstile. Was that guy purposely screwing with me? Not only did he give me a clear indication of time urgency, but he pointed directly to the wrong train. I daydreamed about slapping him with my glove and challenging him to pistols at dawn. At least I got to see Takako and her beautiful view.

Once I arrived back in Fukushima, I realized that I could’ve returned for free and simply boarded the correct train. I had never paid. I thought about it while standing approximately ten feet from the collector who clearly didn’t know shit about nonverbal communication. I decided to be honest and walked back through the turnstile, did a u-turn, and paid again. I wasn’t bowing this time. Bastard. This time I ignored all forms of help and walked directly to the train under the massive sign with the arrow and ENGLISH pointing to Iizaka.

I was off. The real Iizaka train was definitely all it was hyped up to be. It was bumpy, it stopped every 11 feet, it was cold, and the loudspeaker announcing the next station was too loud, yet somehow still incomprehensible. I put my chin on my chest and closed my eyes.

Once I arrived in Iizaka, I was happy. The city was small (less than 24,000), the sky was massive and beautiful, and the river running through the city was a nice refrain from the noise of Fukushima. It was noticeably colder. I zipped up my vest and headed off toward a hill. Usually when I arrive in a small city, I walk toward the closest hill and try to get to the top. Iizaka had a nice little hill from which I could view the city and take in the beauty of an extremely old and slightly dilapidated shrine. The river wound through the downtown and buildings jutted up from each bank in sheer walls of 10 stories or less. It was quaint and peaceful. It reminded me of Flagstaff, Arizona.

I wandered around in the downtown and eventually found a little park type thing with a place to dip my feet in some hot water. I walked to the main house area to see if I could rent a towel. It was free. I liked Iizaka even more, instantly. I soaked my feet in some scalding hot water as other old people and a few couples did the same. The same old ladies with the frigid stares and strange clothes now smiled at me and bowed. The power of something as simple as hot water was amazing.

With my feet nice and boiled, I dried off and slid my boots back on. I wanted to find the real hot spring. The pleasure of the hot water on my feet made me want to soak my entire body. I was not prepared for such a venture, but I figured I could at least find the bathhouse and come back next weekend. I walked around, through a nice temple and a graveyard and eventually found a big wooden building with a steaming tank raised high next to it. This had to be it. I was curious to see the inside of such a structure and also see what type of amenities they offered. Maybe I could rent a towel and whatever I else I needed. I walked over to the sliding doors. The doors were marked with the kanji for men and women, separately. You know what that means: naked time. I slid open the door and saw a small entrance area with a place to remove shoes. There was another sliding door inside and someone was coming out of it. I peeked in. I’m not really sure what I expected, but there was a bunch of naked dudes and steam. Everyone was old.

I ran. I ran all the way back to the train station, back to my house and into my bathroom. I filled my bath tub and threw in some bath salt. I drank a beer and read a book, and I didn’t have to see any naked dudes. Afterward, I lay in my bed until my hot water induced fever dissipated, slowly drifting off to sleep. It was fantastic. I can see how a public bathhouse would be enjoyable, if it was the year 1450. I think I will stick to my bathtub at home, though. No body minds if I drink beer, fart, or drop my book in the water. Nobody minds if I forget to push the button on the door. And, best of all, there are no ticket collectors on the way to my bathroom.

Cats and Dogs

Cats and Dogs

The shoe factory, and Japan as a whole, decided that November 23, 2010 would be a national holiday to honor all those hard working salarymen (myself included) with a day off. Unluckily for the salarymen they probably have to work twice as hard during the week or come in on Saturday AND Sunday to make up for the lost time. Regardless, I wanted my long, three day weekend to occupy my mind and give me a change of scenery. I decided a one night vacation would do.

I had recently heard about an island called tashiro-jima. I don’t know what that means, but the island is also known as “cat island”. Let me describe it to you. A long time ago, this was a bustling fishing destination. Although the island is only about 5 miles across, many people lived here and many more stopped by on their way out to sea. The island also used to produce silk. They kept some cats as mousers in order to protect the worms from the mice. Over time, the fishermen became fond of the cats always welcoming them home and begging for scraps of fish. They came to realize that the cats were not only good luck, but that their actions could be interpreted in order to predict the weather and fishing conditions. I couldn’t agree more.

Anyway, the island is facing population decline. Everyone is moving to the big city. The island is now home to about 100 people. The youngest is 37, the rest are all over 60. A perfect place for an aspiring old man such as myself. There is no hospital, school or (gasp!) convenience store. A boat comes once a month with gasoline. There are a few inns and markets and that’s it. But, what the island doesn’t have, it makes up for in its stray cat population: there are over 200 stray cats. I don’t know who counted, but that’s the figure I found in my research. Dogs are strictly forbidden. Sounds like a great place to wander around and take pictures for all my loyal fans.

I was beginning to make my travel plans, when I observed the calendar. November 22 was my departure date. I then observed my bank account. The observations were bleak. My life has become a series of TARP bailouts and great depressions; getting paid monthly is very tough. That first week after salary is joyful, I have endless money. The days before the 25^th are painful. I eat white rice three days straight. To complete the metaphor, I usually end up borrowing some cash from my British and Japanese counterparts, who I have named The Royal Bank of Matthew and Mrs. Zaibatsu. That aside, I realized I could not go to Cat island…yet.

I did the next best thing: I went to the cat café!. That’s right, Neko (cat) café. Neko café is a “café” inside of a movie theater. Yes you read that right. Inside this café are drink machines and cats. 12 cats, I think, all of whom are permanent residents. You pay per hour and can drink all the machine made coffee, soda and tea you want. You can sit and read peacefully with a cat on your lap (boring), or run around like a 24 year old idiot American and harass the felines. It is quite spectacular. For 600 I got about 40 minutes or cat pestering pleasure including tail pulling, ear scratching, paper ball/string chasing. I was happy. There isn’t much more to say about Neko café. It is simple and enjoyable.

Where do the dogs come in, you ask? Well in my wanderings, I also happened upon a dog café. This one is a little different. First of all, it is called “Happy Seed”. I have no idea why. Happy Seed sounds like something only a person with a y chromosome could make. Whatever. They have only one permanent resident: a Pomeranian name Koro. He is very friendly, and like all Pomeranians, very stupid. This café makes its money by offering a nice setting in which to enjoy and coffee while your dog gets groomed. Afterward, your dog can play with Koro and also marvel at his stupidity and cuteness. I went to this café also, but it was on a Monday and Koro was the only dog there. There were a few others, but they (or their owners) were only interested in grooming and they left shortly after their services were finished.

While my adventures were not quite as adventurous as Cat island, and its hundreds of cats and, not to mention, it’s near hundred of near hundred year old people, I was satisfied that I got to spend some quality with some friendly animals, see some new places, and meet some new people. Cat island will have to wait until next time. Maybe the population will have thinned a little by then, but I’m sure I’ll still have fun talking to a 90 year old fisherman and feeding the cats.

Cant Live With It, Cant Live Without It

Cant live with it, cant live without

(This post, thankfully, doesn’t really require pictures. Instead, please enjoy some random shots of Fukushima)

I’ve been in Japan for almost 6 months. I’m still shocked on a daily basis, no doubt, but recently I’ve been pondering how I would feel if I left. I have no intention of doing so, but I have started comparing my old life with the new and improved (read: new and different). Japan has started to feel normal…things I always imagined as fresh and exciting have started to become mundane and usual.

One thing that I could not live without is the Japanese toilet seat. If you are betting that this item is what spurred me to write this article, then you sir/madam are correct. I cannot live without a Japanese toilet seat. If you have yet to experience this new fangled and delightful contraption, then you are in for a surprise. Some things I like: walk in front of it and the lid lifts up automatically. A heater begins to warm the seat like a toaster coil…now when I sit down I worry about burning my ass instead of freezing it. Bashful when nature calls? No problem. Hit a button or two and you have a loud and obnoxious fake flushing noise. It is clearly a recording, but I’m sure all the other bathroom users would rather hear a recording of water as oppose to curry and beer from the night before leaving your body. Smells bad? No problem. A tiny fan like the one in your computer will carry all your scents away to some nether region of the earth. Toilet paper? That’s for losers. I require 3 different and unique streams of nicely warmed water (with controllable pressure) to clean my soiled parts after I doody. You can even control the direction of the stream (by moving your ass of course). Somehow, the toilet always seems to get the target right on the mark…this makes me think that somewhere in Japan, there is an R&D department working on the next generation of butthole detection technology. We’ll just leave that one be.

There is a problem, though. Somehow my Japanese language primer failed to include a chapter on Japanese toilet kanji (characters). Pushing a button for the first time without knowing what it will do is downright terrifying. Is that the gentle warm mist or the deep colonic? Did I choose the scalding enema or the creepy fake coughing sound? There is only one way to find out…you must be brave young grasshopper! Oh yeah, and be sure you know which button means STOP.

Another aspect of Japanese life that is downright fantastic is the service industry in general. No matter what the venue, the wage, or the occupation, employees will bend over backwards and forwards (bowing?) to help you and see to it that you are satisfied. Every time I go to 7eleven or Sunkus (Japanese name for circle K) I see this philosophy implemented. If there is someone behind me in line and only one cash register open, the employee will scream something and suddenly another employee will come sprinting out of some corner, dropping whatever he or she was doing immediately to help the next customer. I mean full on sprint, linebacker status, from the back of the store to the front just to ring up one customer at 3:30am. With a smile.

This would never happen in America. You are lucky if there is two people working the registers. Forget getting the first guy to call for help. You know he is covering while the other employee does whippits in the back of the store, knowing his time will subtracted later on if he asks for help.

Although I bash the American store clerk (convenience store or otherwise) there is one thing that the Japanese clerks do that drives me crazy. I have no idea why, but when the transaction comes to the point where I am due change and a receipt, the Japanese clerk will bundle the entire stack into a neat little package. Bill’s on bottom, receipt in the middle, and a stack of coins on top. This is placed ever so lightly and precariously in my hand. All the time they saved rushing an employee up to front is done away with when it takes me 3 minutes to sort out my change and documentation. What’s that you say? You bought a 105 yen rice ball with a 5000 yet note? You better be ready to organize as soon as that change comes your way. It’s really hard to explain, but holding my wallet in one hand and trying to separate coins off the top, a receipt into the trash box (next to the register) and bills into the bill fold section of my wallet with my other hand is nearly impossible. IT DRIVES ME INSANE! I don’t want a damn receipt for a donut anyway! You said it best Mr. Hedbird R.I.P.

The Races

I hate horses. Let’s just get this out of the way to begin with. A horse, to me, has the same mentality as a cat. A cat will let you stroke its back and scratch it ears, but as soon as it becomes tired of your antics, it will try to kill you. A horse has the same temperament. If it does not approve, it will try to hurt you. The reason I don’t like horses and I do like cats is because when cats decide they’ve had enough, they feebly try to scratch and hiss. A horse, on the other hand, weighs much more than a human and can therefore injure or kill it easily. I hate horses because they can kill me easily, and they’re easily spooked.

Even though I have a certain animosity (read: fear) of horses, I nonetheless like to see them. They are amazing creatures, just like cats. So when the biannual Fukushima horse races began, I decided I must attend. What could be better than to sit in the cool sunshine, with the colors of autumn all around and a crisp breeze, doing the same thing, in the same spot, as people 200 years ago?

I arrived at the race track, one of the nicest buildings in all of Fukushima. This is one of those places that they built to attract people to an otherwise unremarkable city. There are only 5 places, give or take, in Japan that host horse racing. Fukushima is one of them. There were rumors that we might see some celebrities. The rumor is that celebrities bring their extra marital affairs up to Fukushima, from Tokyo of course, to watch the horses and not get caught by the media. I wouldn’t know a Japanese celebrity anyway. I was there for the excitement of the sport. And to gamble. And to eat and drink beer.

100 yen was all it cost to enter. That is about $1.15. After that, one could, in theory, enjoy a full day of excitement for not a penny, or better yet, not a yenny (1 yen, or a yent) more. But who could resist then opportunity to actually make money while one enjoys a sport? I know I couldn’t, and cant. I immediately found a program and began to skillfully and tactfully choose my horses on nothing but their names. In keeping with tradition, the horses had the most ridiculous names possible which made choosing fun and difficult. A few notable examples: Eugenic Blue, Gingei (a type of fish), Miguel, World Rolex, Ti Amo Brio, Universe Guy, and Smile King. I could go on an on. I usually bet on which ever horse had the most striking name, and if there was a gaijin (foreigner) horse, I would bet on him or her. There were a few from the USA and a few from Ireland.

You place your bet by filling in a super complicated card that looks like a standardized school test sheet. Lots of bubbles, number 2 pencils. After that, run it through and machine, add money, and collect your receipt. I usually only bet 100 yen at a time, but on the last race I went big and bet (and lost 1000) yen. Thankfully, we had a Japanese speaking friend with us that figured out the betting cards….somewhat.

The first time my skill with name choosing paid off, I had bet incorrectly, and although I had chosen the winning horse, some other parameter wasn’t met and I was sadly paid no money. It is really demeaning to walk back to the machine with a big grin, insert your receipt with the expectation of money, and receive nothing but a giant exclamation point on the screen and a very polite and very Japanese explanation that they cannot pay you any money at this time. Keep trying sucker is what it really says.

I simplified my betting formula and streamlined my choosing algorithm. I now chose only the gaijin horses. One horse, first place, all or nothing was my bet. And I won. Yes, that is a picture of your’s truly with a victory ticket. I chose Gingei to come in first place and he did. I had bet 100 yen and was a paid back 500 yen. It was sublime. I immediately bought a victory beer which cost 400 yen. Thank you Gingei!

The races are in Fukushima for the duration of November. Since I have officially been diagnosed with gambling fever, I shall return next weekend, if the weather permits, for a fun filled day of sun, gambling, food and drink. And of course, those frightening, yet majestic beasts known as horses.

Typhoon Park

to all my loyal fans (15 according to my blogger homepage) sorry my posts have been few and far between. I'm struggling with a bit of writer's block. please send me any all requests in the comments. thanks for reading! -Uri

Typhoon Park

The weekend was approaching, so was the typhoon. I pray for clear skies on my weekends, but this being the wettest, greenest country in the world, it does have to rain sometimes. Usually it rains on Sunday and Monday, when I am free from the clutches of the shoe factory. This is a fact. Today, I decided, the rain would not get the best of me. I would suit up with all the waterproof gear in my possession and head off to a new park to enjoy the autumn leaves.

I had just bought a pair of rain galoshes, but I decided, “nah the rain isn’t that bad. I’ll leave ‘em at home”. I left my apartment without my rain coat on, hoping to brave to ever so fine drizzle that is a Japanese typhoon. Rarely are the drops big and heavy, but for some reason the misty drizzle makes you twice as wet. The tiny drops stick to everything and cannot slide off like the big drops I’m used to. Needless to say, I got to the second flight of stairs of my apartment (lucky number 404) before I put on my rain coat.

I made it to the bus station, mostly dry. My pants were a little damp, and my shoes were wet, but my socks were dry. Nothing a 40 minute bus ride wouldn’t cure. There was the usual confusion about which bus to board, where it was headed and the anxiety of heading in some direction without really knowing if it was the intended direction or not. If you can’t live with this type of grief, don’t leave your country. Luckily, Japan is so damn beautiful that even getting lost is usually rewarding.

I made to the intended destination, a sports park at the base of the Azuma-Bandai skyline. I got off the bus, and was treated to rain. Once again, this isn’t the big drops of pouring rain, but the light mist that you can barely feel, but soaks you to the core. After a quick pit stop for a coffee and a map consult I headed off into the park.

I could’ve cared less about the rain. With everything being damp and dark green, the colors of the leaves seemed to pop even more than usual. The reds, oranges and yellows were significantly brighter against the soaked wood and green grass. Everything seemed to have the contrast turned up. Everything felt much more surreal against the wet backdrop. The clouds hugged the mountain crests behind the park and lazily floated up and over…actually I don’t know if they were clouds or fog, technically. All the leaves, brown, green, yellow or red, shined with the sugar coat of rain water.

My feet were soaked. I hated myself for leaving my brand new rain boots back at home, nice, dry, and worthless. My feet weren’t cold, just uncomfortable with their squishy-ness. Even though I could see my breath all day, I was never cold. I think the layer of cloud-fog was crucial in keeping some kind of warmth near the ground. The rain never once let up, so we retired to the sports center area and drank some coffee.

I took off my shoes and laid on a couch; all the children stared at me. It’s quite funny to watch a child realize you are foreigner. One moment they are running along, lost in their world of imagination. Their world is sublime until they catch your face. Once they see you they either wave and say “hello!” (rarely) or they become instantly quite and introverted. You can see a child go from mindless animal lost in imagination, to silent contemplator within 2 seconds. Their smile melts into a serious expression of fear and wonder. Often the parents follow the lead of the child, albeit much later on the uptake. Continually they look back to check on us after they have walk far past.

Speaking of children: near the sports center, there is a leaf pit. It is exactly as it sounds. A giant box, full of leaves for children to play in. I almost jumped in it my self. The kids would build up a big pile of leaves and heave themselves into, or throw there sister/friend into from behind. Such a simple idea…”hey lets build a box out of wood, fill it with the billions of leaves in this park, and let the kids play in it!” I was amazed, though, that super clean Japan would allow such a dirty device for children to play in. That leaf pit looked a haven for spiders and ticks, the latter of which I am deathly afraid. Sorry, no pictures, but I still haven’t overcome my fear of photographing children in the wild. It just doesn’t seem right.

The rest is history. I got on the bus, got off the bus and walked home. I ate at my usual weekend stop off, the wonderful CoCo Ichiban; a massive plate of rice and curry hits the spot any, cold or hot, wet or dry.

Autumn Festival

Autumn Festival

This weekend was a 3 day national holiday, celebrating the end of rice season and the beginning of autumn. Of course, there was a massive, crazy festival and the whole city, including the surrounding areas, came to party hard. I knew it was festival time because the streets were lined with decorations in haste. Almost every road in the whole city, it seemed, had rope hung about from door to door, all along. Each house was connected. On the ropes hung a little piece of cut up paper, something like a mobile. Later, I saw a man on a motorcycle speeding about the city, joining the house and buildings in ropes and hanging these paper dangles’. But, without fail, it rained heavily for about 16 hours the day before the festival and all this work was done in vain, for all that remained was empty rope and splotches of wet paper on the ground.

Sunday morning, I woke up to the sound of Taiko drums, the traditional Japanese drumming style that consists of a booming bass drum, a few mid range toms, and a really high pitched metal “cymbal” or cowbell type item. I was sleeping with my window open, and I was woken by the approaching clamor. I could hear a man sounding off a call, and group repeating a response. It sounds something like this: “yada yada yada yea”.

I looked out my window, and I could see a traditional Japanese float, or dashi, being pulled down the street. The seemed to circle my apartment a few times, continuing with the call and response as I fell in and out of consciousness. After a while, I had enough and I decided to wake up. I had some videos to return, anyway.

I walked through the city (my mama-chari bike has a flat tire) and noticed that everything was decorated. There were lanterns lining the downtown streets, and food carts being set up all around the station. There was a miniature steam locomotive at the train station for the kiddies to ride. Very cute. There was a brass band of elementary school kids playing golden oldies; I stopped to watch and was treated to Frankie Valli’s “cant take my eyes off of you” complete with a standing fanfare from the high brass section. It was excellent. I returned my videos (Dr. House, MD) and went back home to take a nap.

I woke up again at about 3pm. I wandered down by the shrine and was impressed by the amount of food vendors and people that had turned out for the festival of festivals. (If you want the lowdown on Japanese carnie food, please refer to the Koriyama fireworks article). I sauntered around, taking pictures and drinking a beer. There were lots of children, a haunted house, carnie games and lots of people with small, cute dogs. The sun was out, the clouds were gone, my jacket was off; I was happy.

As the sun started to set, the sky became as distinctly Arizona shade of orangish pink. The clouds were fluffy and had dark blue bottoms and Technicolor tops. The sky was clear, a rare sight in hazy, humid Japan, I enjoyed the sunset and took about 150 pictures of a bicycle parking area with the orange pink sky.

After the sun had set and city was still bathed in the pinkish grey of dusk, the floats started amassing in the downtown area. Every 10 minutes, a float was dragged in by a vicious group of children chanters, playing taiko from inside and screaming “yade yade yade ye” or whatever battle cry they had adopted. The floats (or dashi) were pulled onto the strip by the children, made a quick k-turn, and backed up along one side of the street. After a battery of about 15 floats had assembled each one was pushed forward toward the crowd for a kind of encore. They did their best to make as much noise and rile up the crowd. It was at this point that I got up close and personal with the floats as I wandered through the maze of people.

I got to look inside, through the lanterns, and I could see the wide eyed children bashing away on the drums next to stocked coolers and bottles of sake for the adults. It was then I noticed that every male over the age of 20 was drunk and shirtless. They were battling with the children, and it seemed the older the man, the drunker and more crazy he was. In some ways, the colors and sounds of the floats were amazing, but I was truly amazed by how the general public of Japan opened up and let loose. The same old guy I saw grinning and wrestling shirtless on the street was surely the sour faced and suited business man come Monday morning. I was approached my more people attempting to speak English than ever before. It was amazing to see a society transform there entire city, from streets to attitudes just for one festival.

After the encore sound off for each float, I was immediately smashed into the front of one of the floats. I had no idea what was about to happen, but everyone’s eyes were skyward. The women that adorned the top of floats produced boxes of candy and began throwing it into the crowd below. It was like a piñata exploding over the entire downtown strip of a city. I was mauled by insane children (and adults) whipped into a frenzy by the idea of free sugar.

After the candy hand out, the floats marched along the city and continued to cry out “yade yade yade ye” until I was fast asleep. I’m assuming they all eventually made it to the cities larges shrine, where they were parked until…..you guessed it: the same thing repeated the next night. This was, and is, a three day festival. The last chance to party before the cold becomes unbearable and even the most sake riddle business man would shiver at the thought of being shirtless outside at night.

Azuma Kofuji

Hola! Sorry it's been so long! I had a bit of writer's block there for a while...thanks for reading!

Azuma Kofuji

My coworker and I, decided to have some fun this weekend. I suggested we take a day trip to the mountains before everything is covered in 10 feet of snow. We decided on a destination known as Goshiki-numa, the 5 colored lakes. It is near the mountain called Azuma Kofuji, which is, by the way, an active volcano. Very exciting. We decided to meet at the bus station at 9:00am on Sunday in order to catch an early bus.

We met around 8:50, ate some breakfast at a café and bumbled over to the tourist information stand. After about 30 min of chatting through the thick language barrier, we realized that we had missed the early bus (9:10 am). The next bus would leave us with about an hour on the mountain, for $30. Definitely not worth it. We decided that poor planning at a late morning had gotten the best of us. We grimaced, at decided to meet the next day around 8:30. I went home to do laundry and read. Blah.

The next day, we met a bit earlier and didn’t waste any time finding our bus. It was quite easy, and we were soon aboard and making our way skyward. After the bus had departed, we were treated to the obligatory 10 minutes of information spoken over a loud speaker. The driver would trade off with a recording and tell us interesting and indecipherable tidbits about our journey. He was always sure to ask me and my traveling companion if we understood, which we certainly did not. He even went so far as to occasionally pull the bus over on the narrow strip of mountain road and force us to take a picture of some plant or shrine from the window. There were a few times when he would slow the bus considerably, point his finger out the window at a bare patch of dirt, or a shrub, and shout some information at the 6 passengers, always making sure to stare me down in the rearview mirror. He was quite a jolly fellow.

As we climbed higher and higher, my ears popped and the clouds became nearer. Soon it was clear to me that we would have to go through the cloud (officially making it fog). We had only driven about half of the allotted time, so I figured we must drive through and arrive above the cloud line. I was quite excited to picture a world inverted, with clouds below and blue above. I got my hopes up a bit too high.

We got above the first set of clouds and were treated to a brief period of blissfully foggy and surreal scenery. The green fuzz of the mountainside was just beginning to change into its autumn attire. Every here and there were patches of trees with the wildest shades of red orange and yellow I have ever seen. Clouds above and below swirled and changed from misty grey to puffy white, with the occasional break of white sunlight. We climbed a bit more and were soon inside another barrier of clouds….and the bus stopped.

The weather became nasty. It was downright diabolical. Not only did the weather look intimidating, but since we were on living mountain, there was the stench of sulfur vents. On the way up the mountain, we passed a few vents and could see the steam billowing out of the side of the mountain.

I could see that we had stopped near some type of tourist center, but even though the bus was in parking lot, I could barely make out the lights of the door through the fog. I stepped off the bus and was smacked in the face by sideways rain. I didn’t button my poncho and wind instantly blew it up around my face and ears. I was covered in water within seconds; tiny drops of mist and sideways rain. We ran inside and were greeted warmly. We bought a couple hot bottles of tea, sat down, and decided to make a game plan.

There were many factors against us having a good time. We were at the mercy of public transport. There were two busses back down the mountain, one departed in 1 hour, the other in 5 hours. If we missed the last bus, we both wouldn’t make it to work until late the next day. The weather was horrendous. We were both unprepared for such dire conditions.

We decided to have a go at braving the elements and were soon outside. We found ourselves walking on a raised, wooden trail over a marshy swamp dotted with red yellow and green and the occasional deep pool of crystal clear water. With the wind howling and the rain pounding us, I could barely take out my camera for a picture. The visibility was about 30 feet. The surreal colors of the swamp, the alien and terrain, and the awful conditions made me feel like Frodo Baggins. We walked around for about 40 minutes and ran back to the shelter.

We decided to give up. The next bus left in 10 minutes. We ran out to the parking lot and boarded…we exchanged looks of wasted money and wasted effort. Our hopes had been crushed. My camera bag was soaked. We had been on the mountain for an hour and ten minutes.

We sat on the bus as it idled and the heater began to warm my feet. I felt like failure. I could tell my traveling partner felt the same way…we traded a few glances. Suddenly, he was up and talking to the bus driver. He was asking about where the second bus would pick up from. I knew what he was thinking; I was thinking the same thing. We weren’t going to let a little weather ruin our day.

We got off the bus, into the rain with our heads held high. I dropped off my camera bag in the tourist office, which they were happy to watch, cinched up my poncho, and we were off into the mist.

We hiked back through the marsh, over the clear ponds and fuzzy calico grasses. We found a trail head and headed into the storm. I was quite warm, but my comfort was totally dependent on the paper thing poncho I decided to bring along instead of a proper waterproof jacket. Every now and then, it would snag on a tree branch and I would let a little more water in. We made it to a beautiful lake that was almost perfectly round. From our vantage point, we could see across the black water and up into and hill surrounding its other side. The green wall was dotted with bright orange and yellow trees. The clouds swept over the water and gave even the brightest trees a pale shade of grey. It was breathtaking. We hiked on.

We headed off toward a campground. (Sidenote: this being Japan, there was a map on a pedestal at every point that the trail diverged or changed directions. Super safe.) Just before the campground we came to a substantially large log cabin. We knocked, and entered. An old lady greeted us and we asked if they had tea or coffee. She pointed to the stairs that were outside. We stomped up the stair case, removed our shoes and rain gear and entered a nice little bed and breakfast style cabin. It was traditional Japanese, with tatami mats and futons, but also had the flavor of a log cabin in Alaska.

We were greeted by a few other hikers and sat down for some coffee. A furnace glowed away in the center of the room and I attempted to dry my socks and jeans by standing near it. It was fantastically rustic and cozy. An older lady, one of the hikers, spoke surprisingly good English and we ended up chatting with her for about an hour while drying ourselves. Me and my traveling partner decided that we would have to come stay a few nights at this most beautiful of cabins when the weather was a bit better. The going rate was about $80/night which included food. Not bad considering the surroundings and authenticity of the lodging. We said our good-byes and were back in the mist.

The rain had subsided and I was really wishing I had my camera. We made it back to the tourist place/bus stop and ate a hot bowl of soup. My camera bag was safe and sound, with a little note in Japanese taped to it that I’m guessing said “this bag belongs to the tall crazy soaking-wet gaijin”. We bought some gifts for the office coworkers (as is the custom here) and boarded the bus for Fukushima, home sweet (dry) home.

Azuma was indeed threatening us today, but we shall return, hopefully on a beautiful sunny autumn day. I hope to stay overnight in the cabin and I will take a million more pictures to share. As for the 5 colored lakes, they will have to wait for my return. I’m sure they were near, we probably just couldn’t see them through the fog.

SUMO

Sumo

The shoe factory scheduled me for training on my day off, September 12^th. At first, I was a little annoyed that I would have to work six days this week, but after my boss handed me 15,000 yen, my mood perked up a bit.

Training was in Omiya, just outside of Tokyo. The yen was for a train ticket, sure, but I could do whatever I wanted with it. I thought about taking the bus to Omiya, a 5 hour endeavor, but I would only cost about 5000 yen, making me about 10,000 yen richer. I decided against using my precious weekend time sitting on a bus.

I started looking online to see if there was anything exciting happening in Tokyo that weekend…art show, concert, sport event. There was indeed a sporting event: the 15 day long Sumo wrestling tournaments that travels to Tokyo three times a year had come to town, and Sunday (the day before training) was the first day. My mind was made.

I called my partner in crime (you will remember him from “Island Time”) to see what he thought of this idea. He said he was in, and offered his place to stay. He lives in Akabane, which is almost exactly halfway between central Tokyo and Omiya. Our plan was perfect. I gleefully waited for the weekend to arrive.

On Sunday (I get Sunday and Monday off; the shoe factory is open Saturday) I hopped on the Shinkannsen (bullet train) and “shinked” at 320 kilometers per hour to Omiya. When I left Fukushima, I was wearing a jacket and carrying an umbrella. When I arrived in Omiya station, the heat shocked my body like a hot bath. I couldn’t believe how much hotter Tokyo was. Maybe it’s all the people, concrete, and lights.

I sweatedly hiked to my colleague’s house, dropped off my bags and together we went back to the station. We hopped on and off a series of trains and eventually ended up in a little part of central Tokyo called Ryogoku. Each train we got on seemed to have more and more sumo fans, and being Japanese, being a fan of something is totaling life consuming. It’s not enough to just support your favorite wrestler, no; you must dress like him also. And comb your hair back the same way and use the same flowery smelling hair grease (which I had begun to notice wafting through the air). You must eat like your favorite Sumo, whatever his favorites are, you must try to consume in the same amounts. Each train stop had more and more Sumo otaku (obsessed), not to mention a staggering number of gaijin (foreigners). We must be heading in the right direction.

When we arrived in Ryogoku, we didn’t really need to ask for directions, we just followed the herd of camera toting westerners (myself included) and Sumo fans. After about five minutes of listening to the rhythmic clack of sumo sandals on concrete, we arrived at the stadium. As we approached, there was something that looked like a line across, but not entering, the front entrance. All the people started to applaud and snap photos. Strange phrases in Japanese I could only imagine to mean “rip his arms off Tanaka-san!!” and “keep low today Watanabe-san!!” were barked in all manner. I then realized these weren’t fans…these were the actual sumo themselves. I saw sumo getting out of taxis, sumo getting off the bus; I swear I even saw one ride a mama-chari bike to the arena. They travel just like everybody else. One of the tenants of sumo philosophy is to remain humble. Even though they may eat their weight in egg yolks everyday for breakfast, they try to bottle up their massive size and egos for the few brief seconds of their fights. They were the quintessential gentle-giant, Lenny like characters. Of course, not all of the sumo come by JR train, some of the big shots, I’m sure, have limos and tour buses. These were the “little” guys, the semi-pros.

Once we were inside the arena (for a cool 5000 yen or about $50) we were treated, of course, to endless shopping. Any type of ware you could imagine: food, cups, tea sets, towels, posters, key chains, the ubiquitous phone “straps”, action figures, neckties, sumo hair grease…all of it with your favorite big shot sumo start emblemized all over. I thought about buying something but, I figured, if I really wanted a sumo sheet set I probably could get it off eBay.

We were starving, so we headed off to find some food. Before the match, one the things I had been most excited to try was “sumo stew” or chanko in Japanese. It is basically a mixture of any available ingredients, with no less than 1000 calories per bowl. Usually (traditionally) the sumo eat 10-20 bowls of this stuff to get hydration, electrolytes and (of course) their immense stature. The restaurant had it on the menu (in English! Yay!) so I ordered it. When the dish arrived, I was a little surprised. There was a cast iron bowl filled with raw ingredients, including chicken, mushrooms, onions, cabbage, fish cake, tofu, bean curd, carrot, and few others. There was also this little bamboo tube thing filled with some type of raw meatball mixture. The pot sat on this little butane powered stove. I almost told our server to take it back to the kitchen and cook the damn thing... why do they have to bring the kitchen out here? She turned on the burner and ran away quickly. I waited. 10 minutes later, after adding the meatball paste and poking the chicken to test for doneness, I decided to eat. It was delicious. It was basically just a miso broth soup (I’m guessing) with lots of fresh ingredients. You can’t really go wrong.

After we had eaten and paid, we took our seats. In true American fashion, we didn’t look for our assigned seats at all, but only looked for the seats which gave us the best view. We would move if the rightful owners approached, no harm no foul. The view was okay, not too far from the action.

The sumo fights were ongoing that day. Every 10 minutes or so, a little guy would come out and sing a really eerie song, bang some wooded sticks together and bow. Two sumo would enter the ring. They would initially stretch outside the ring, stomping around the ring and raising one leg up high into the air. Then they would enter the ring and squat down in front of each and stand up and squat, and stand and squat. They would stare at each other or swing their arms around and pretend nobody was there. Then they would leave the ring, squat in there corner and do a short water drinking ritual with a cup on a stick. After spitting out the water, they would stretch and stomp around some more. Then, they stick their hands into this box of white powder and throw it into the ring. Some sumo threw it high into the air, some threw it with a shallow angle at the ground, and some very excited sumo threw it directly at the press and ringside ticket holders. Finally, they enter the ring, bow, and face each other. They squat, and stare and after a few seconds. They begin.

The insanely long pre fight ritual really does wonders to bring out the ferocity of the brief battle. The sumo lunge at each other and usually slam together like two big horn sheep. They throw their palms at each others neck, not really a punch, but more like a cat pawing an insect to death. They lock up and try to push each other to the ground, or out of the ring. It is quite exciting. The Sumo really must trick each other, as well as overpower. Occasionally, one Sumo would simply side step the other’s initial lunge, causing his opponent to run directly out of the ring. Tricky bastard. I saw one sumo judo-throw another sumo twice his size over his hip. One of the western sumo wrestlers (yes I was shocked too, but they do exist) simply picked up his opponent by his waist and carried him out of the ring.

After the match, the loser would leave, and the winner would be presented with some type of item. I couldn’t see what it was but I’m guessing it was a biscuit or a hardboiled egg. He must be hungry. The ceremony was, strangely, kept short and sweet. They would sweep off the ring, and repeat.

It was quite enjoyable and I really began to notice myself talking a lot to my fellow friends and spectators. Even the Japanese we were sitting next to would nudge my ribs when something crazy was about to happen to slap me on the back when their favorite fighter won. There were fights in the stands. There were people banging war drums. I wished I had remembered to bring my vuvuzela. I would have been stopped within seconds, but it would have been worth it.

Surveying the audience, I began to realize that sumo was a strange sport, but the phenomenon of its popularity is something all cultures share. Every culture has their weird sport: Arizona has Rodeo, Spain and Mexico have Bullfighting, the British have Polo, Middle America has Horse racing. All these sports have one thing in common…it’s not really about the activity or the game being played, it’s about socializing. People come to Sumo to drink a beer, relax, get rowdy, and talk to the strangers they are seated near. It’s not a sporting event, it’s a social event. In the ringside seats, I could see senators being wooed, yakuza fixing fights, and business men talking about flowcharts and earnings. All this while the occasional sumo would fly out of the ring and smash about 4 people.

Sumo was exciting, it was interesting, and it was educational. But, for excitement, it had nothing on an NBA game. But, honestly, that’s the point. If Sumo were as exciting as Basketball or Soccer or Football, then it would lose some of the glue that made it exciting socially.