The minions are now in Tokyo, they ride the metro, they sleep on the shoulders of fellow travellers. Soon, the minions will be in your city too……
The train is late. Naoko waits anxiously, looking over her shoulder along the platform to see if he is there. Will she meet him this morning? Will her brief journey from home to work cross his? She has prepared meticulously for this chance meeting, a wordless rendezvous with an unnamed person. She has never even spoken to him, but she thinks she knows his name, Yoshi, gleaned by eavesdropping on a brief conversation between him and a colleague a couple of days previously. Yoshi, a name full of promise, harbinger of good news. Will he be Yoshi, from the Kanji for righteousness or good luck; or will Yoshi just be a nickname for some other name like Hideyoshi, Yoshinori or Akiyoshi? All she knows is that he catches the train at Meguro station, briefcase in hand, dark-suited, freshly-shaven and gets off at Roppongi, a mere 12 minutes together in the same carriage. Since she first met him—or rather, noticed him—her mornings have been a challenge. What carriage should she take; where should she wait on the platform without being too obvious, yet not too anonymous to not be noticed? And what about her hurried, clumsy gestures, her awkwardness, that hesitant and uncertain gait which start to show when she approaches that station.
She rehearses what she will say to him, and although the morning is already warm, she shivers at the thought of finally breaking the ice. Why shouldn’t she make the first move? A series of questions rush through her mind; “will he be married?”, “will he answer me if I speak to him?”, “what should I say to appear friendly yet not too forward?”.
This morning Naoko has dressed with extra care, pressing her dress repeatedly to eliminate every crease, her bag and shoes match, her hair washed, brushed and held fast with a simple clasp, a souvenir brought by a friend from Florence. Although she has carefully prepared every detail, she feels a stranger in her new outfit and misses the security and comfort of her black slacks and low-heeled shoes.
She has been pacing the platform now for four minutes, watching the hands of the clock take her closer to her meeting. She carefully calculated to miss the previous train by waiting outside the station to strategically watch the entrance. He didn’t arrive for the 8.54 train and so she lingered, pretending to look at the shop windows and read some non-existent message on her mobile phone to give her an alibi to delay going through the turnstile. Now it is getting late. He still hasn’t arrived and if she doesn’t catch the nine o’clock train she’ll be late and although her new boss will not say anything, she will feel his disapproving look and the raised eyebrows of her colleagues. Indeed, since she “met” him, people had started to remark on her changed behaviour, her new clothes, her evident distraction.
She hears the arrival of the train being announced and shuffles into the queue to board, then suddenly she hears a shrill cry. “Come, hurry up; we’ll miss the train!”. She turns round sharply and sees him, hand-in-hand with a young boy dressed in a school uniform pulling him by the arm along the platform. He stops behind her, the doors of the train open and she steps in followed by Yoshi. Still holding his son by the hand, he looks at her and proffers an awkward half-smile. Her gaze meets his, then he looks down at the front of her dress. Inadvertently her hand reaches out and she touches that very same spot where he was looking and feels the dampness of her tears on her dress.
Twelve interminable minutes still to go.
Essentiality verging on severity; shades of grey and natural wood with an occasional burst of colour in the form of a pale-coloured flower, a stencilled motif, a stylised leaf. Japan lacks colour, or rather, it values colour regarding it as a rare spice, a precious commodity which is used sparingly on the neutral backdrop of the city. Its gardens are shades of green and brown on brown and green, its shrubs and plants show varied yet similar hues from blue-green and dusty sage to yellow-tinged khaki and dark bottle green. Its streets are palettes of grey tinged with vestiges of colour; shop signs stridently shouting their yellows and reds. Pavements are full of black or grey-trousered, white or pale blue-shirted workers marching meaningfully to some monochrome destination. At road corners, waves of black and white workers flood the black and white pedestrian crossings, invade the roads and pavements with their dark colours, like sombre waves washed onto a beach with some sporadic white caused by the wind catching the breakers as they lose their momentum. 
Sound in Tokyo is also monotonous; a dull, white, continual noise of distant cars and air conditioning units creates the backdrop to the occasional ambulance siren and the petulant beep of pedestrian crossings emitting their audible signal to the non-seeing eyes of Tokyoites bent over their phones or absently into the distance. The overall effect is pleasing, relaxing and calming; eyes feel rested, free from an onslaught of gaudy, garish street signs and posters, ears liberated from harsh city noises. Buildings loom severely over the city, casting their elegant, grey shadows onto the streets; green- or grey-tinged glass cladding, stainless-steel fire hydrants or bannisters reflect the occasional ray of sun to create pinpoints of light in the city blanketed from colour. An old Japanese woman dressed in a Kimono in a gleamingly-modern underground station; the colour of her silk obi reflects on the gleaming metal sides of the escalator which takes her upwards towards the sunlight. Her wooden shoes, lacquered in black with white ankle-socks support her wavering gait as she steps onto the polished marble floor of the station, like an exotic butterfly moving in the severe urban landscape in search of her like. Colour is present but must be searched for; it is discretely hidden in the inner pages of newspapers and magazines, it is seen in little good-luck charms hanging from the omnipresent mobile phones, in the bento-boxes packed with their array of coloured vegetables and seafood, resting on a sea of white rice and green algae, in iridescent silks which reveal their hidden colour when examined with intention.
A serendipitous surprise walking along Meguro one Sunday morning. Traditional dancers from W. Japan performing in honour of the noble “sardine”…….
Inspired by reading Lafcadio Hearne’s Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation (1904) in which he talks of the different approaches used by the Japanese in all walks of life, I too return to the age-old and irresolvable enigma of “interpreting” or “understanding” the Japanese and their culture, but I do not intend to become another of the countless victims who have fallen by the wayside in resolving a riddle that has no answer. Indeed, can we answer the question “what constitutes a culture”, or “what does it mean to be Japanese”. Is it possible to generalise and attribute the same characteristics to the Japanese, be they from Hokkaido, Honshu or Kyushu, from different social classes, different environments, rural or urban? A typical textbook definition of culture is the following: a way of life of a group of people; their behaviours, beliefs, values, and the symbols that they accept, and that are passed from one generation to the next by communication and imitation.
Following these lines, I could therefore affirm that the English drink tea at 5 o’clock, watch cricket at weekends, and eat cucumber sandwiches on those rare sunny days that their inclement climate grants them.
I will avoid playing the part of the amateur social anthropologist attempting to resolve what great minds such as Luís Fróis, the Portuguese missionary who first arrived in Japan in 1563 and who wrote his “Striking Contrasts in the Customs of Europe and Japan“, a hefty yet easily-readable tome dedicated to a comparison of the differences between Japan and Southern Europe countries of that period. Further, more recent examples: the previously-cited Lafcadio Hearne, and then Ruth Benedict, author of the textbook par excellence on Japanese culture, “The Sword and the Chrysanthemum“, a truly amazing feat considering the author had never set foot in Japan, and was assigned this project by the US government during the early years of the Second World War to predict the reaction of the Japanese people in the case of defeat.
My meagre contribution to these exhaustive texts on comparative anthropological studies of Japan and other cultures will be in the form of direct observation.
Something that struck me as odd at first, but then when reflecting on this, it seemed no odder that what I have witnessed since childhood. Japanese women thread a needle by holding the thread in the left hand and moving the needle towards the thread; just to be clear, instead of moving the thread towards the eye of the needle, it is the needle that is moved towards the stationary thread. I am in no position to assess the benefits or problems associated with this technique, but I point it out for your interest.
Apparently, when working, Japanese carpenters plane by moving the tool towards their bodies, as opposed to the more common custom of Western carpenters of planing when moving away from the body. Again, thinking of this, it has its reason as there is much more control of the movement when one moves towards one’s body that moving in the opposite direction.
Building workers or labourers weak incredible puffy trousers, known as Tobi trousers. Evidently, this special work wear has an ancient origin and has now become a distinctive feature of workmen in the construction industry. Sometimes these Ottoman-like trousers are accompanied by Tabi shoes, a sort of rubber-soled boot but with a special notch separating the big-toe from the others, thus giving the worker a better grip when climbing scaffolding…..
Going to bed now. More posts later…..
Remember my first earthquake… now here is my first typhoon.
Only missing a tsunami and I think I will have done a Grand Slam…..
How appropriate, the word “typhoon” has Eastern origins; indeed, it is derived from the old Chinese words, “big” and “wind”. Indeed, it is a big wind, but the oriental definition omits the “wetness” that seems to characterise Japanese typhoons. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we have two of them, both skirting around Tokyo to do damage elsewhere, one going south towards Osaka, and one still to reach the Japanese coasts, but much further to the North in the island of Hokkaido.
It has rained in Tokyo for 3 days, but real rain. Rain that falls so rapidly that is doesn’t have a chance to drain away before more rain comes. Rain that floods houses, drenches gardens, soaks shoes, inundates fields, wets windows, saturates soil, penetrates roofs, and dampens spirits. I never really understood the precise definition of the word “downpour” until arriving in Japan. A downpour means that one minute it can be quite pleasant and dry and then in the space of a few seconds, torrential rain falls from a fairly cloudless sky. Anyway, Toyko—organised as ever—has been broadcasting announcements on public loudspeakers all day, with flood warnings and cautions. Here are some photographs from the terrace………
Silence pervades Tokyo, like a blanket smothering any source of noise. Building sites with sound absorbent cladding, elevated highways with sound barriers, cars with silent motors, a total absence of ringing smart-phones and inane one-sided conversations. Rivers of commuters flow into underground stations, each walking meaningfully towards their own destination, oblivious yet observant of the others. No words are exchanged, no evident signs of communication is heard or seen. The silence of Tokyo is not only the absence of conversation, it is the absence of any type of communication. Gazes never meet, or in the chance occasion that this does happens, it is done furtively; a stolen glance immediately interrupted. A momentary trespass into the intimacy of the other, a few tentative steps across that boundary and then back. Eyes emptied of emotion look into space, impassable, expressionless faces carved from off-white stone reflect inwards any feeling.
A few words surreptitiously exchanged, almost whispered in embarrassment; commuters avidly read their mobile phones seeking solace from the off chance of catching someone’s eye, their eyes flit across the garish, cluttered advertisements that hang in great profusion in the underground carriages. Other anonymous travellers seek asylum in sleep, either feigned or real, it is of no importance; heads fall to one side, fingers loosen their grip on mobile phones or bags, the expressionless face dons a softness as the body rocks too and fro like a child being nursed to sleep with the rhythmic movement of the carriages and the repetitive litany announcing the next stop…….
Tokyo is a strange city, a city full of anachronisms, contradictions, eccentric juxtapositions, and apparent contrasts. Isn’t it strange that the largest urban conglomeration on the planet with a population shifting somewhere around 30 give or take 5 million depending where you place the city limits, is strangely calm and tranquil. Yes, you will find streets heaving with crowds, an underground network with white-gloved guards pushing commuters into carriages during rush hour, a train station (Shinjuku) with thee and a half million passengers per day and more than 200 exits, but despite this sheer mass of humanity, there is no apparently chaos, no invasion of privacy, no trespassing beyond those set boundaries which fluctuate subtly and almost imperceptibly. Main thoroughfares full of traffic, but yet no noise, no revving of motors, no screeching of tyres; everyone seems to know where they are going and in no particular rush to get there.
The pavements are sometimes so chock-a-block that pedestrians follow street traffic rules and walk on the left while on-coming pedestrian traffic passes on their right but again, no pushing nor jostling, just a stream of people like water flowing smoothly along well-defined channels. Main roads with four lanes in either direction cleave the city into manageable little pieces; a patchwork of roughly cut out neighbourhoods stitched together with asphalt, interconnected and linked with pedestrian crossings, underpasses and bridges. Venturing into these dark little patches of city, just a few metres from the main roads, are little village of one- or two-story houses propping each other up, gardens invading the road which is already too narrow and crooked for cars and thus, are hidden away in impossibly small spaces eked out between external staircases winding up to houses, plant pots huddled together in miniature gardens, and silence.
The only sound that interrupts the dark silence is the repetitive call of crickets and a low, feint buzz of distant traffic, almost imperceptible yet still present like a sonorous backdrop to the Tokyo night.
Japan: Schooled about Stool – Osaka wows faecal-focused learners
While going to the toilet is often flushed aside as a crass topic for children’s education, Osaka has warmly embraced the topic of toilet-tutelage, dazzling faeces-focused learners at the ‘Toilet?
The exhibition is a faecal roll-coaster ride of stool-related information and attractions, giving guests the opportunity to slide down an over-sized toilet over three metres high, wear faecal-fashioned hats, and learn from singing, interactive toilets. People visiting the museum also get the chance to examine various types of excrement, both human and animal, in all their glorious shapes, sizes and smells.
From CCTV News
Now, I’d just love one of those hats to stroll down Ginza with.
Thanks to Leonardo from Rome who tagged this for me……
Lost in Translation in Tokyo 