I arrived at 19:07. The lobby was empty and there was no sound coming from the quilted velvet doors. Smugly assuming I was early I almost crossed the road to grab a bite to eat. Lucky I didn't, that would have been cocky! The concert had started, of course, at seven on the tit and I was not the first but literally the last to arrive. As I slipped through the padded doors I was confronted with the hundreds of backs and arses of a crowd already two songs in dammit! I couldn't believe I was stuck at the back of another concert! I wanted to let my elbows guide me to the front but alas Japan has made me too polite! Still, no biggie. The venue was tiny so even at the back you could see the writing on their Tshirts. The lead singer WhatisFucknosenberg or whatever is really really sexy in that way that ugly people manage to be only because they are really arrogant - which he was! I fell for him instantly. He is ugly because he is pale and scrawny and stooped. He also has the worst hair I have ever seen. Of course, its supposed to look that way and it says much about his innate deep sexiness that he still looks good under a long curly mullet with middle parting curtains to boot. Absolutely disgusting. And as he sweated bucketloads his mullet got longer and longer sticking to his neck and down his back.
The others were just hairy - not sexy at all. They looked like cave men or engineering students. The keyboard player, it seems had made some effort to look like...something, by wearing tacky plastic sunglasses. All in all their appearance was not overwhelming - they looked like a fun but kak South African band playing at Sunningdale hotel.
They played the whole of Oracular Spectacular - Kids being the highlight of course. Really fucking cool! Everyone went mad. Then 8pm had arrived and they had played the whole album and that was that. Lights up, roadies up to walk the guitars off. I went to the bar to get my one free drink and everyone else who had had their one free drink before curtain-up flocked out to buy the ugly tour thsirts. Three variants competed to be the ugliest tshirt design available, not just in the venue, but I suspect, on the whole island. As I stood in line amongst Osaka's horn rimmed uber-hip, clutching my free drink, I realised (as did the horn-rimmeds too I think, on some level) hang on, I dont want one of these ugly starchy t shirts in plastic packets from under a tressle table - I want the shirt the singer was wearing! Old and sweat drenched - it might have been blue or really old black - anyone's guess. I want that one! hmph. I bought one from the cardboard box under the tressle table. Design A. The black one with wizard purple bubble writing "mgmt" across the boobs, and a cutesy lion with purple paws. Sounds sif? It is. Better than T shirt B though, a clip-art hot dog drinking a beer or T shirt C which was lime green - I dont care if it had the best font, lime green is a crime. Like the hair, the shirts are dead ironic you see and I want to be as ironic at Whatis Fucknosenburg. I will sweat prodigiously into my new tshirt and make it old.
I had forgotten how heavy handed Japanese bar ladies can be with the hard tack - by the time I had downed it, bought my t shirt and been spat out into the street I was proper pissed. In the middle of Osaka. Where would I find a bed in the megalopolis? I was lucky that it was night time and I couldn't see quite how mega this lopolis really was, otherwise I might have cried.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
capsule hotel - driected by Luc Besson
The area of Namba lies in the middle of The Osaka JR loop line. You would think this would make it very easy to get to but alas the opposite was true and it took ages to get there. On and off trains for hours whilst time ticked toward midnight. Finally I found the right stop and climbed the grubby station stairs into the hubbub of Namba. Namba is loveland. Love hotels everywhere. At night they light up and look the furthest thing from seedy, they look like magical castles or shining churches. Some have neon sign cherry blossoms floating up their ten storey exterior, some have massive inflatable creatures outside. My favourite one, a mint green chapel shaped thing had millions of fake flowers bursting out of every window and the door. I don't think Japan knows from kitsch or, at least, doesn't think of it as something bad and to be avoided. I have learned to stop worrying and love the kitsch.
Tonight I was not going to on of these temples of excess which only make economic and moral sense to couples, I was going to the soberly titled Namba Capsule hotel - an unusual capsule hotel in that it allows women (on certain floors). I found it squeezed between all the pink and florescence on a tiny side street. Inside and out it was the opposite of love land. It was all mustard carpeting and peeling wall paper. The concierge was a gruff and shabby old man with a shiny head fringed with bristly tufts. He eyed me sceptically. Had I been to one of these before he asked? No, I admitted I hadn't. Hmmm. Was I a foreigner? Yes, I said, thinking that much was obvious. Hmmmmmm....I could see him debating whether to let me stay. I wasn't sure if he thought I would be prissy and report him to some guide book authority or be a tourist and destroy the reclusive anonymity the guests desired by running amok down the corridors, drinking and taking photos. I tried to pull a face that suggested I would do neither of these things (what face is that exactly, i wonder now). It worked and he handed me a grubby key that opened one locker downstairs for my shoes and one upstairs for the rest of my stuffu. The capsule itself didnt have a lock. This would have worried me if I had been in any other country in the world.
In the lift I could barely contain my excitement. A capsule hotel! My own capsule! I couldn't wait to see it. Stepping out of the lift I was confronted first with a bank of blue metal lockers and behind them a dimly lit corridor. The capsule mouths opened straight onto the corridor - some were unoccupied and open, others had their brown blinds down, their inhabitants already asleep or doing whatever else one does in a capsule. Read? Shoot up? Mine - number 317 was on the bottom row right at the end of the passage. I clambered in and pulled down the blind. Feeling around the moulded plastic walls i found the light and flicked it on. Wow! It was my own sci-fi cell. The plastic was off white as was the bedding. It was old but clean and starchy. The dimensions were less like a coffin and more like the interior of an economy car - small indeed but not claustrophobic and to further assuage any fear of suffocation there was a small fan silently circulating the air. Along the one wall the plastic bubbled out to form a narrow shelf. At the foot of the bed the plastic bulged down housing a small tv whose remote was dangling below on a rubbery chord. There was also a tiny mirror and a digital alarm clock set into the wall. All this luxury for 200 Zed a Rands. I was so happy! Lying in my pod sipping water. I watched tv quietly for a bit, there was some space anime movie showing which complemented the situation perfectly. I could hear people in other capsules turning over, coughing and fiddling with their phones. It was comforting to hear them but never see them. It all felt extremely futurist and dystopian - storyboarded in the seventies or with the seventies in mind. Before going to sleep I nipped out to shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor. There, as in the pod there was everything you would get in a regular hotel, just utilitarian and small . A shower box, a basket of sterilized hairbrushes, a box of single service toothbrushes in packets, a hair dryer, shampoo and soap. Little basins to spit your little toothpaste into and little stools to sit on while drying your hair.
In the morning it was still pitch black in the capsule. I turned on the yellow light, got dressed and fixed my face in the tiny mirror. I then went down to the lobby where the no-frills complementary breakfast of boiled eggs toast and coffee was being enjoyed by the guests - all of them skinny and middle aged, all of them smoking, burping and farting. I sat and ate with them. We ignored each other together. By daylight the love hotels admitted their seediness. The glamour gone, I headed back into the station.
Tonight I was not going to on of these temples of excess which only make economic and moral sense to couples, I was going to the soberly titled Namba Capsule hotel - an unusual capsule hotel in that it allows women (on certain floors). I found it squeezed between all the pink and florescence on a tiny side street. Inside and out it was the opposite of love land. It was all mustard carpeting and peeling wall paper. The concierge was a gruff and shabby old man with a shiny head fringed with bristly tufts. He eyed me sceptically. Had I been to one of these before he asked? No, I admitted I hadn't. Hmmm. Was I a foreigner? Yes, I said, thinking that much was obvious. Hmmmmmm....I could see him debating whether to let me stay. I wasn't sure if he thought I would be prissy and report him to some guide book authority or be a tourist and destroy the reclusive anonymity the guests desired by running amok down the corridors, drinking and taking photos. I tried to pull a face that suggested I would do neither of these things (what face is that exactly, i wonder now). It worked and he handed me a grubby key that opened one locker downstairs for my shoes and one upstairs for the rest of my stuffu. The capsule itself didnt have a lock. This would have worried me if I had been in any other country in the world.
In the lift I could barely contain my excitement. A capsule hotel! My own capsule! I couldn't wait to see it. Stepping out of the lift I was confronted first with a bank of blue metal lockers and behind them a dimly lit corridor. The capsule mouths opened straight onto the corridor - some were unoccupied and open, others had their brown blinds down, their inhabitants already asleep or doing whatever else one does in a capsule. Read? Shoot up? Mine - number 317 was on the bottom row right at the end of the passage. I clambered in and pulled down the blind. Feeling around the moulded plastic walls i found the light and flicked it on. Wow! It was my own sci-fi cell. The plastic was off white as was the bedding. It was old but clean and starchy. The dimensions were less like a coffin and more like the interior of an economy car - small indeed but not claustrophobic and to further assuage any fear of suffocation there was a small fan silently circulating the air. Along the one wall the plastic bubbled out to form a narrow shelf. At the foot of the bed the plastic bulged down housing a small tv whose remote was dangling below on a rubbery chord. There was also a tiny mirror and a digital alarm clock set into the wall. All this luxury for 200 Zed a Rands. I was so happy! Lying in my pod sipping water. I watched tv quietly for a bit, there was some space anime movie showing which complemented the situation perfectly. I could hear people in other capsules turning over, coughing and fiddling with their phones. It was comforting to hear them but never see them. It all felt extremely futurist and dystopian - storyboarded in the seventies or with the seventies in mind. Before going to sleep I nipped out to shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor. There, as in the pod there was everything you would get in a regular hotel, just utilitarian and small . A shower box, a basket of sterilized hairbrushes, a box of single service toothbrushes in packets, a hair dryer, shampoo and soap. Little basins to spit your little toothpaste into and little stools to sit on while drying your hair.
In the morning it was still pitch black in the capsule. I turned on the yellow light, got dressed and fixed my face in the tiny mirror. I then went down to the lobby where the no-frills complementary breakfast of boiled eggs toast and coffee was being enjoyed by the guests - all of them skinny and middle aged, all of them smoking, burping and farting. I sat and ate with them. We ignored each other together. By daylight the love hotels admitted their seediness. The glamour gone, I headed back into the station.
Homelessness and Liberty
The night at Capsule Hotel Namba had made me feel very out-of-this world. Everyone I have spoken to about Osaka finds it to be a big city. I found this too. They do not however, think of it as alien. Which I did. I felt so foreign and disassociated the next morning, as I headed back into the train intestines, I might as well have been in space.
I got off at a station that, according to my Lonely Planet, was stone's throw from Liberty Osaka Human Rights Museum. When you are in a train you could be anywhere in the country (squint a bit and you could be anywhere in the world). Outside this particular station though, I felt nowhere in Japan. Not anywhere I had been or seen before. It was dirty. The chicken wire flanking the tracks was hung with debris and a powdery brown with years of pollution and neglect. The museum, which should have been looming in front of me was nowhere to be seen so I decided to penetrate the area for a few blocks and see what was what. Everywhere on the street were little shabby stalls made of blue plastic sheeting. Some of the stalls had plastic on the ground in front of them too on which were assorted items which, I guessed, were for sale. Old video tapes, broken shoes, small grubby plastic purses. Stall after stall of worthless tsatkes. It looked like a street-long garage sale that was selling stuff that came from a home too poor to have a garage. Ten minutes walk into the area and I found street after street to be the same. Concrete buildings that wept black goo from their cornices and in front of them the blue stalls. For miles and miles in every direction. There were also more dogs than I had yet seen in this country and they were not the precious, groomed little handbag dogs that belong to fancy women in sunglasses. They were big and baleful township braks. Some were roaming slowly through the clutter of stalls and some were shut up in chicken wire cages between the buildings. Some sat at the feet of men who wore overalls of pistachio green I recognised as construction wear. The men, like the dogs were baleful, slow, innumerable and indiscernible from one another. They sat and smoked or crossed the streets without apparent purpose. This was not the first time I had seen this many people on the streets of a Japanese city but it was certainly the first time I had seen so many people without a destination. They were clearly not going anywhere. They were nowhere.
I have become used to being stared at here. It is impossible to slip under the radar because I cannot 'be Japanese' in appearance, however much I try to be in behaviour. In this derelict neighbourhood I was more conspicuous than I have ever been; wearing my white coat (which is inexplicably still bright white - it must be magic) and I literally shone , reflecting light and otherness against the grot. I found a way out of the maze of shacks - I had given up pretending they were commerce ventures of sorts and accepted them as what they were - the first informal housing I had found in the country and these sad, sad men my first homeless in Japan. Toothless, dirty. Smelly. A taxi found me on a main street lined with petrol stations and whisked me off to Liberty Osaka; which wasn't that far away distance wise, but that it had trees and playgrounds and public amenities like post offices around it, made it a world away. In the taxi I tried to work out why I had felt so threatened. I was from South Africa man. I can do homeless, I can do poverty. I'm not a naive first-world baby who cries when she sees a dog...or a man...foraging through garbage. Has four months in Japan made me soft? Yeah, so the men had stared at me. But by now, I should be used to that - everyone here stares. No one had approached me or tried to mug me or anything. They had done nothing but stare, so why was I so freaked?
The Museum is manned by volunteers - little old men and littler ladies in nylon waistcoats. They were very kind to me. They gave me a walk about headset that provided English commentary and they tag-teamed me so that I was never alone in the otherwise deserted rooms. The exhibits are divided into twelve sections. Twelve sectors of Japanese society that have had their rights infringed upon and, in some cases, that continue to be marginalised. The Ainu, Okinawan first peoples, Koreans in Japan, Gays and Lesbians, people with AIDS, women, the disabled, victims of pollution and Minamata disease, Hansen's disease survivors, Buraku and the homeless. In past posts I have written effusively about Japan's advanced-ness, the nation's progressive practices with regards to the aged and the sick. I have seen the monuments to war and peace in Hiroshima. I suppose that any country and its policies turn out to be putrid if you scratch the surface. Seeing these twelve exhibits completely shattered my idea of Japan as a land of boundless compassion. I found out about Eugenics, extreme racism and modern high-tech discrimination based on ancient feudal kak. I learned about people crippled by hazardous chemical fuck-outs or wars who the government then ignore or worse, ship off to die somewhere with no infrastructure where no one will see or smell them.
The lowlight of the whole experience was the section on homelessness in Japan, Osaka in particular. The area in which I had got lost an hour or so before, it turns out, is called Kamagasaki. It has for generations been the place where day labourers gather and get work. Working a day in construction or on the docks gets you a stamp in a little passport type book. That stamp is then presented at a government office and you get a small wage. With these wages men would be able to pay a day's rent in a hostel - all those grubby grey buildings that weep muck from the windows. Problem is, with Japan's ageing populous, thousands of day labourers are now too old to labour. If they don't work they don't get money and if they don't get money they cant pay a night's rent. So instead of living in the buildings they now live outside them, in the blue plastic shacks. The scores of men I saw doing nothing were waiting for work that day or maybe, at ten a.m they were already waiting till the next day. Apparently there are 30,000 day labourers in Kamagasaki nearly all men and nearly all over 50. What I had seen now made such horrible sense. I thought again about why I had been so frightened there. Maybe it was fear mixed with embarrassment - it's bad enough being a tourist anywhere but to be so obvious a tourist around people who maybe didn't want to be looked at?
I got off at a station that, according to my Lonely Planet, was stone's throw from Liberty Osaka Human Rights Museum. When you are in a train you could be anywhere in the country (squint a bit and you could be anywhere in the world). Outside this particular station though, I felt nowhere in Japan. Not anywhere I had been or seen before. It was dirty. The chicken wire flanking the tracks was hung with debris and a powdery brown with years of pollution and neglect. The museum, which should have been looming in front of me was nowhere to be seen so I decided to penetrate the area for a few blocks and see what was what. Everywhere on the street were little shabby stalls made of blue plastic sheeting. Some of the stalls had plastic on the ground in front of them too on which were assorted items which, I guessed, were for sale. Old video tapes, broken shoes, small grubby plastic purses. Stall after stall of worthless tsatkes. It looked like a street-long garage sale that was selling stuff that came from a home too poor to have a garage. Ten minutes walk into the area and I found street after street to be the same. Concrete buildings that wept black goo from their cornices and in front of them the blue stalls. For miles and miles in every direction. There were also more dogs than I had yet seen in this country and they were not the precious, groomed little handbag dogs that belong to fancy women in sunglasses. They were big and baleful township braks. Some were roaming slowly through the clutter of stalls and some were shut up in chicken wire cages between the buildings. Some sat at the feet of men who wore overalls of pistachio green I recognised as construction wear. The men, like the dogs were baleful, slow, innumerable and indiscernible from one another. They sat and smoked or crossed the streets without apparent purpose. This was not the first time I had seen this many people on the streets of a Japanese city but it was certainly the first time I had seen so many people without a destination. They were clearly not going anywhere. They were nowhere.
I have become used to being stared at here. It is impossible to slip under the radar because I cannot 'be Japanese' in appearance, however much I try to be in behaviour. In this derelict neighbourhood I was more conspicuous than I have ever been; wearing my white coat (which is inexplicably still bright white - it must be magic) and I literally shone , reflecting light and otherness against the grot. I found a way out of the maze of shacks - I had given up pretending they were commerce ventures of sorts and accepted them as what they were - the first informal housing I had found in the country and these sad, sad men my first homeless in Japan. Toothless, dirty. Smelly. A taxi found me on a main street lined with petrol stations and whisked me off to Liberty Osaka; which wasn't that far away distance wise, but that it had trees and playgrounds and public amenities like post offices around it, made it a world away. In the taxi I tried to work out why I had felt so threatened. I was from South Africa man. I can do homeless, I can do poverty. I'm not a naive first-world baby who cries when she sees a dog...or a man...foraging through garbage. Has four months in Japan made me soft? Yeah, so the men had stared at me. But by now, I should be used to that - everyone here stares. No one had approached me or tried to mug me or anything. They had done nothing but stare, so why was I so freaked?
The Museum is manned by volunteers - little old men and littler ladies in nylon waistcoats. They were very kind to me. They gave me a walk about headset that provided English commentary and they tag-teamed me so that I was never alone in the otherwise deserted rooms. The exhibits are divided into twelve sections. Twelve sectors of Japanese society that have had their rights infringed upon and, in some cases, that continue to be marginalised. The Ainu, Okinawan first peoples, Koreans in Japan, Gays and Lesbians, people with AIDS, women, the disabled, victims of pollution and Minamata disease, Hansen's disease survivors, Buraku and the homeless. In past posts I have written effusively about Japan's advanced-ness, the nation's progressive practices with regards to the aged and the sick. I have seen the monuments to war and peace in Hiroshima. I suppose that any country and its policies turn out to be putrid if you scratch the surface. Seeing these twelve exhibits completely shattered my idea of Japan as a land of boundless compassion. I found out about Eugenics, extreme racism and modern high-tech discrimination based on ancient feudal kak. I learned about people crippled by hazardous chemical fuck-outs or wars who the government then ignore or worse, ship off to die somewhere with no infrastructure where no one will see or smell them.
The lowlight of the whole experience was the section on homelessness in Japan, Osaka in particular. The area in which I had got lost an hour or so before, it turns out, is called Kamagasaki. It has for generations been the place where day labourers gather and get work. Working a day in construction or on the docks gets you a stamp in a little passport type book. That stamp is then presented at a government office and you get a small wage. With these wages men would be able to pay a day's rent in a hostel - all those grubby grey buildings that weep muck from the windows. Problem is, with Japan's ageing populous, thousands of day labourers are now too old to labour. If they don't work they don't get money and if they don't get money they cant pay a night's rent. So instead of living in the buildings they now live outside them, in the blue plastic shacks. The scores of men I saw doing nothing were waiting for work that day or maybe, at ten a.m they were already waiting till the next day. Apparently there are 30,000 day labourers in Kamagasaki nearly all men and nearly all over 50. What I had seen now made such horrible sense. I thought again about why I had been so frightened there. Maybe it was fear mixed with embarrassment - it's bad enough being a tourist anywhere but to be so obvious a tourist around people who maybe didn't want to be looked at?
just a trailer
Hi guys! Just got back from a 24-hour mini-adventure in Osaka. I have so much to write about! Look forward to blogs on the following: mgmt, capsule hotels, love hotels, IKEA, homeless people in japan, salarymen and Christmas & Japanese conspicuous consumption.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
gunch
I dread Gunch coming into the teacher's room nowadays. How can that be? He is my closest ally at school, a deep and funny man - charming and kind. He enjoys teaching me and he does it very well. He always remembers to ask where I am going on the weekends, brings me pictures and books about the place I am heading for and the following Monday he asks sincerely about my adventures. He is my teacher and he is my friend.
But ever since the night he told me that his health is not good I have started to notice how sickly he seems. I keep thinking back to the Gunch before he told me he wasnt well. Did he have the same black bubbling cough? Was his suit always so tatty looking? It has always been chalky and wrinkly, since I met him in the heat of summer, but did it hang so limply then? When I met him he was an eccentric and natty man, now he looks dirty and unkempt. Has he always mumbled to himself quite so much? I dont remember. I simultaneously attend to his every splutter and berate myself for doing so, invading his privacy by eavesdropping on his body.
It doesnt help that, because of the school renovations we go down and then up four flights of stairs every time need to get to class. When Gunch and I make the walk together we stop on the landings between every floor to look at the trees and the beautiful mountain. He needs those few minutes between floors and the least I can do is play into the distraction of the view. It also doesnt help that at the end of every class Gunch goes to the field next to the school and has a smoke. He smokes the strongest cigarettes available.
The students think Gunch is funny. Sometimes they laugh with him but sometimes they are laughing at him too: swooning once he turns his back to show their friends that yes, they can smell the sharp sourness of cigarettes on his suit. Laughing when he writes something incorrectly on the board. I can see them do this. They make no effort to hide it from me. It is heartbreaking. I want to shake them and try to explain to them - Dont you see! This silly old man is the most important teacher you will ever have.
I might be exaggerating Gunch's condition because I have become so acutely aware of it. I try to act as if the wracking cough and dripping nose do not bother me when he sits with me for our lessons but I know that there must be micro-expressions of disgust that flash across my face. If he sees them they must be so hurtful I hate myself for having them. I hate that I can't genuinely ignore his current condition.
It might just be a winter cold (I did ask and he said he often gets chesty in winter). Every day I silently appraise him - is he looking better than yesterday? Sounding better than yesterday? It is this new layer of our interaction, my constant and uncontrollable appraisal that makes me dread our time together. Gunch's frailty is making me see him differently and judge myself for seeing him differently. I hate it. I wish things could go back to the way they were when I never suspected he was sick. Then, Gunch was a constant whereas now I have confront the fact that I might not have him forever. It is a horrible thing to face.
But ever since the night he told me that his health is not good I have started to notice how sickly he seems. I keep thinking back to the Gunch before he told me he wasnt well. Did he have the same black bubbling cough? Was his suit always so tatty looking? It has always been chalky and wrinkly, since I met him in the heat of summer, but did it hang so limply then? When I met him he was an eccentric and natty man, now he looks dirty and unkempt. Has he always mumbled to himself quite so much? I dont remember. I simultaneously attend to his every splutter and berate myself for doing so, invading his privacy by eavesdropping on his body.
It doesnt help that, because of the school renovations we go down and then up four flights of stairs every time need to get to class. When Gunch and I make the walk together we stop on the landings between every floor to look at the trees and the beautiful mountain. He needs those few minutes between floors and the least I can do is play into the distraction of the view. It also doesnt help that at the end of every class Gunch goes to the field next to the school and has a smoke. He smokes the strongest cigarettes available.
The students think Gunch is funny. Sometimes they laugh with him but sometimes they are laughing at him too: swooning once he turns his back to show their friends that yes, they can smell the sharp sourness of cigarettes on his suit. Laughing when he writes something incorrectly on the board. I can see them do this. They make no effort to hide it from me. It is heartbreaking. I want to shake them and try to explain to them - Dont you see! This silly old man is the most important teacher you will ever have.
I might be exaggerating Gunch's condition because I have become so acutely aware of it. I try to act as if the wracking cough and dripping nose do not bother me when he sits with me for our lessons but I know that there must be micro-expressions of disgust that flash across my face. If he sees them they must be so hurtful I hate myself for having them. I hate that I can't genuinely ignore his current condition.
It might just be a winter cold (I did ask and he said he often gets chesty in winter). Every day I silently appraise him - is he looking better than yesterday? Sounding better than yesterday? It is this new layer of our interaction, my constant and uncontrollable appraisal that makes me dread our time together. Gunch's frailty is making me see him differently and judge myself for seeing him differently. I hate it. I wish things could go back to the way they were when I never suspected he was sick. Then, Gunch was a constant whereas now I have confront the fact that I might not have him forever. It is a horrible thing to face.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
sumo
Fukuoka, the biggest city on the island of Kyushu is ugly. The buildings are all prefab, there are malls of obscene proportions and mustard and tomato sauce coloured kombinis on every corner. Perhaps in summer the trees lining the street soften the man-made edges somewhat but when I went they were naked and scraggly, shivering in the drizzle. The Sumo stadium is a brown toad squatting across three city blocks looking up into the commercial sprawl. If the sprawl was grey liquid from some sci-fi volcano, full of urban debris running in rivulets towards the sea, the toads fat concrete arse would dam it up pretty effectively. Around the stadium are what feel like acres of concrete where people can gather and chat, take photos, buy stuff and sumo spot.
Inside the stadium was organised pandemonium. The foyer had a grid stalls that forced the the throngs to toddle between them, buying stuff. Omiyage is a Japanese custom I am particularly fond of - if ever you travel somewhere you are expected to bring back some small tsatske for everyone you work with. These tsatskes are called omiyage - a souvenier. They are often a foodstuff; a biscuit or jam or cracker and because its customary to buy like fifty of them, they are sold in big batches, individually wrapped then boxed beautifully. They are also cheap. A region or city will have omiyage that relates to its own sites or traditions or cuisine. The island of Miyajima has momiji manju, a maple leaf shaped cookie stuffed with custard; Setoda, an island not far from Mihara has mikan jelly pockets, little cups of delicious mikan segments suspended in clear bitter jelly. Dogo, where I went a few weeks ago has a kebab of three coloured mochi balls - brown, green and yellow. In Onomichi you can get a beautiful red box with four helpings of Onomichi speciality ramen noodles. Here, the omiyage were obviously Sumo themed. I bought sumo biscuits for my colleagues and little boiled sumo sweets for my language partner. As well as omiyage, stalls were selling official sumo memorabilia including the equivalent of a sumo wrestlers autograph: his handprint in red ink with his name calligrafied across it. Unlike other sports (I am specualting here, seeing as I think sumo was my first real live sporting event) the athletes do not sneak in through another entrance only to be seen in glorious play and then sneak out again with their omniscience intact. The sumos come in through the front doors just like everyone else. They mingle and get snapshots taken, they are among the crowds but in no danger of losing power and prestige because of this, their appearance and attitude make them utterly astonishing to behold, godlike. Tall and wide wearing traditional kimonos and wooden sandals. There hair is slicked into tight buns or, if they are top players their hair is glued into a bell shaped swoop with a small knot at the top. Maybe it is their diet, something makes their skin glow - they radiate health and strength. Their faces are smooth (the fat having ironed out any crease) they look like beautiful deities capable love and benevolence if you please them, horrible violence if you dont . After holding babies for about a hundred pictures taken with cell phones their trainers usher them to private rooms on either the left or right of the stadium. The sumo ring has an east and west side, wrestlers are assigned a side and are kept separate from those on the other side so as not to see their competitor until they are in the ring. They emerge from their room two bouts before their own and march down a red carpeted aisle, now only in the famous loin cloth and girder which is jewel coloured satin - brown, black, turqoise or purple. They sit on a small bench alongside the ring and watch the match before their own. The match build up and ceremony take far longer than the fighting itself. Competitors climb onto the raised mud ring and pick up a handful of salt which they throw dramatically across the ground. They then do those astonishing lef lifts bringing their thihgs up to their ears and down again - boom! They pace back and forth, go back into their corner to pow-wow with their trainers. They look at eachother and pace some more. A referee in a sumptuous robe shoos them onto their respective sides and calls for the bout to begin. They sqaut down, their legs shaking with readiness - they must leap up at exactly the same moment and engage, if one jumps before the other they restart, from the salt throwing all the way through. A successful start entails the two men leaping at and grabbing hold of one another in knotted locks that range in appearance from the amorous, to the deadly to the extremely awkward. Even a layman like myself could tell a good wrestler from a bad one. The bad ones writhe and jiggle while the strong ones keep as still as possible, waiting for their opponent to imbalance themselves. Once this happens the strong wrestler will move with lightning speed tipping the other man out of the ring or throwing him to the ground - the loser is the wrestler who first places any body part outside the ring or touches the ground with anything other than the soles of his feet. Sometimes the force of the final throw will send them both flying into the crowd (the closest seats are on the ground a treacherous meter or so away). The on-site ref then has to confer with four or five ringside refs as to who touched outside the ring first. The winner is declared - and the pair leave the ring, the loser first with his head hung low, the winner loiters arond for a bit, puts his shiny robe back on and saunters out to meet his fans clamouring in the lobby.
for sumo pics go here.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
tough tough toys for tough tough boys
About twenty years ago Dad took Paul Wilson to watch the bridge at Wits being swung into place. His girl children disappointed him by showing little to no interest in the event. Perhaps he rented Paul like he rented Kate and David Savage - to have a sprocket at an event where one feels compelled to have one. Beks and I didnt even fake an interest when Dad came home bursting with stories about cranes and hoists and engineering mastery. Sorry Dad, I hope our disinterest wasnt utterly shattering.
I was reminded today of my genetic (gender-ic?) crane watching deficeincy when the construction going on at school, that has until now been carrying on without grandeur or obstruction to justice, reached a whole new level. Overnight it seems, two enourmous cranes have been brought right into the belly of the school. All cars and bikes have been relocated to make way for them and all but the most important building corridors have been cordoned off because the cranes have to operate over them and might crash into them any second. Until now the construction was both silent and invisible; it was like magic elves were fixing the school with magic and we could teach without noise or distraction. Today the cranes changed all that. Every single classroom has a view of the cranes and in every class every boy has their head turned towards the window, dumbstruck. They cannot tear their eyes away from the cranes. The hoisting and pivoting. They all gasp with terror and exhiliration as bundles
of scaffolding swing to within inches of the glass. I reckon I could spontaneously combust or spontaneouly stand on a desk and take my shirt off or and it wouldnt register; they just love to watch the cranes. Its not just the students either - the male teachers are equally mesmerised; physically in the classrooms dummying through teaching until the bell when they can rush out with the boys and get as close as dammit to the action. The crashing and grinding of cogs and billowing clouds of construction dust do not dissuade indoors. Far from it, they seem to be considered added bonuses.
I am trying to work out what causes the joy in boys who watch machines. Is it the machinery? What about the machinery exactly? Is it the kinetics? It is the horrible metal noises? Maybe it is that construction vehicles with their size and power are today's dinosaurs, simultaneously horrifying and exciting.
I watched for a little bit this morning. It was fun yes, but my admiration lacked focus. Sometimes I was thinking about dinosaurs, sometimes noticing the light and sometimes how impossibly clean the machines were. I also noticed the style of the construction workers' uniforms: they wear loose green pants that taper into four button cuffs mid-calf and ninja boots with the big toe separated from the others. so beautiful. I covet them.
After ten minutes I had seen as much as I wanted and I went inside to read. I had tried, but I couldnt fool myself into the frenzy, the endless fascination being experienced by the boy people.
I was reminded today of my genetic (gender-ic?) crane watching deficeincy when the construction going on at school, that has until now been carrying on without grandeur or obstruction to justice, reached a whole new level. Overnight it seems, two enourmous cranes have been brought right into the belly of the school. All cars and bikes have been relocated to make way for them and all but the most important building corridors have been cordoned off because the cranes have to operate over them and might crash into them any second. Until now the construction was both silent and invisible; it was like magic elves were fixing the school with magic and we could teach without noise or distraction. Today the cranes changed all that. Every single classroom has a view of the cranes and in every class every boy has their head turned towards the window, dumbstruck. They cannot tear their eyes away from the cranes. The hoisting and pivoting. They all gasp with terror and exhiliration as bundles
of scaffolding swing to within inches of the glass. I reckon I could spontaneously combust or spontaneouly stand on a desk and take my shirt off or and it wouldnt register; they just love to watch the cranes. Its not just the students either - the male teachers are equally mesmerised; physically in the classrooms dummying through teaching until the bell when they can rush out with the boys and get as close as dammit to the action. The crashing and grinding of cogs and billowing clouds of construction dust do not dissuade indoors. Far from it, they seem to be considered added bonuses.
I am trying to work out what causes the joy in boys who watch machines. Is it the machinery? What about the machinery exactly? Is it the kinetics? It is the horrible metal noises? Maybe it is that construction vehicles with their size and power are today's dinosaurs, simultaneously horrifying and exciting.
I watched for a little bit this morning. It was fun yes, but my admiration lacked focus. Sometimes I was thinking about dinosaurs, sometimes noticing the light and sometimes how impossibly clean the machines were. I also noticed the style of the construction workers' uniforms: they wear loose green pants that taper into four button cuffs mid-calf and ninja boots with the big toe separated from the others. so beautiful. I covet them.
After ten minutes I had seen as much as I wanted and I went inside to read. I had tried, but I couldnt fool myself into the frenzy, the endless fascination being experienced by the boy people.
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