You know how some people have collections that dance on the border of obsession? Like the teenage girl who loves pink so much she doesn’t go a day without it being the central theme of her outfit. Or the kid who collects stuffed animals to the point of near-suffocation at bedtime. What about the girl who loves frogs so much that her bedroom is full of frog figurines, and frog t-shirts, and stuffed frogs, a pet frog, and was even nicknamed Frog because of how she jumps when she plays volleyball??? Oh. That was me…
So, I admit it. I had a bit of a frog fetish in my younger years. I expected most of my birthday and Christmas gifts to have some relation to frogs because, well, everyone knew that’s what I wanted. Needless to say, there are oodles of evidence left over from this past time, somewhat forgotten.
Frogs continue to have a presence in my life even though I’ve been cured of the material mania (though the occasional frog-themed gift still presents itself–like it’s some kind of joke or something.). First of all, one of my favorite taiko songs to play is called 蛙 (Frog), written by Stan Shikuma and you get to jump around like a frog when playing it (I love jumping). I can watch frogs forever. I love their dances and their colors.
Recently, with the filling of the rice paddies and the planting begun, frogs have become a part of daily life here. In fact, frogs are a constant by day (watch out for the squashed ones on the road) and audibly a constant by night. Please enjoy a small glimpse of our personal orchestra. There’s a free show every night, so just let us know if you’d like to join us:
I didn’t quite capture the dramatic nuance here, but there are moments of silence. That’s the moment when I notice their presence most. And suddenly, miraculously, they start again simultaneously.
Sunday morning broke cold and clear and I followed my kitchen routines, plowing through a pile of oranges and frying up some chikuwa (kind of like hotdogs made out of fish). After half a pot of coffee I felt too full to race, but then again two weeks of hot pot, beer, and dirty air in China had already set me a world away from competitive running. I lingered in the kitchen until the last possible moment and then announced my departure to the morning unconscious and biked through silent neighborhoods to city hall.
There was far more than the hodgepodge of Susami runner folk that I had expected. Hoards of young men, too many to match with the local demographics, bopped around in matching warmup jackets which identified them as members of highschool teams from around the southern part of the prefecture. Tanabe was particularly well represented, beginning with the “Aa-ru-staas” and the “Supaa-JK” teams. At the local level were teams made up of the soccer, baseball, and table tennis clubs. Horitani Sensei quickly found me and brought me to meet an Allstar who is apparently the 8th fastest (under 19 years old) 800m runner in Japan. I smiled, wished him well, and walked toward the bus that would take the runners for stages 3 and 4 into the mountains. (Each ekiden team is composed of 7 runners who combine to run the 17.5km from Samoto down to Susami — I was assigned the 3.5km 4th stage). Horitani Sensei’s silent, serious son Takumi sat beside me on the bus as it labored up the ridiculously narrow switchbacks causing the fish sausage to churn in my stomach.
Colin’s students line up for the kids’ race At the village or rather settlement of Okauchi (Stream) the stage 4 runners were dropped and I took off for four miles of warmup along the area’s namesake.The ekiden began at 10am, but it was nearly 10:30 before the baton (actually it’s a sash) was handed to me by my city hall teammate. With a motorcycle escort, I zigzagged out of Okauchi, climbed a short hill, and then began a series of descents, pounding downhill at sub-4:30 mile pace. I’ve run these roads countless times since arriving and I always tend to do the downhill portions running backwards inorder to preserve knees and quadriceps, so I knew that I would be in some serious pain later for having committed to this (in fact, I could hardly move on Monday and Tuesday). I finished my 3.5km in 10:00 and passed six teams in the process. All six of these teams would later pass us back, but nevertheless City Hall went on to it’s best finish and fastest time in the 17 years that records have been kept for this race. Mayor’s Fake Finish Photo-OpFrom the end of my stage I jogged the last 8km back to Susami where Carrie was standing at the finish line having just witnessed City Hall’s final runner, the mayor himself, stumble across the finish line. Inside the community center a crowd of men and teenage boys was stuffing themselves with rice balls and soup ladled from two cauldrons at the center. The computer-generated results were already out with a complete breakdown of how fast each stage had been run. I tried to converse with a couple of my students but it made them nervous, so I stood alone slurping some vegetable soup and watching the community mingle. A staff member notified me that my time was identical to that of the 800m star. This actually made me question how much of a star he could really be if he couldn’t run any faster than a guy who’d been sitting on trains for two weeks. Colin at EkidenThen came the invite. It had seemed inevitable and, indeed, there was no way that a bunch of city hall boys could pass up this chance to celebrate distance running by gathering together to drink shochu (liquor) and smoke. It was planned that everyone associated, no matter how remotely, with the City Hall ekiden team would meet at 5:30 at a small restaurant around the corner from our house. Besides feeling obligated, Carrie and I could not miss what was our first opportunity to eat in a Susami restaurant. I readied myself for debauchery by returning to the mountains for another 18 miles of running and reflection — probably a bit much for the body, especially when later I found myself kneeling on numb, tired legs and quenching my thirst with alcohol for a too long evening. It was all men except for Carrie and we supped on sukiyaki which is basically like Chinese hotpot, but with beef rather than lamb, and without the intensity of spice or variety of vegetables.The conversation ranged from topics I couldn’t follow (most), to who was once or twice divorced, to repeated rehashings of the ekiden, including mentions of how fast so-and-so had run in 1998 and how fast someone else had run the same stage this year. I’ve never seen unfit, heavy smokers discuss distance running for so long and with such love and hope that perhaps next year they may run a bit faster. Food and drink (far more of the latter, unfortunately) was served by an elderly husband and wife who were simultaneously tending to a couple of drunken fishermen who occupied the two bar stools beside the stove — that was it: one long table and two bar stools, a nice size for a restaurant actually. Carrie kept whispering — she whispers often in Japan– that the witching hour would soon be upon us when without warning everyone would stand and leave. The hour arrived, but with it an invitation to head down the street to a Sunaku (”Snack”) to sing karaoke and continue our celebration of athletic performance. Carrie urged that this was the opportunity that I needed to hang out with other “guys” and then high tailed it for home. True, I’d not been to a sunaku either, but I really didn’t feel like beginning Sunday night. Nevertheless I trooped along to the playhouse-sized tavern where I was immediately disarmed by the sight of the same proprietor to whom we had just said goodbye standing behind the bar in a fresh apron. Apparently, the missus runs down the street and opens up her sunaku whenever her restaurant clients have a post-meal hankering for howling along with synthesizers. I could no longer think and after a 27-mile day and so much kneeling, my legs were screaming for relief. Instead, I got a glass of shochu and the karaoke bible of every known pop song in every known language. In retrospect I wish I had selected something in Russian, for through the back-slapping and synthesizer they never would have known the difference. Their standard order of performance was to sing verse one and then down four straight glasses of beer — probably as a way to distract from the awful flute interludes — before recommencing with verse two. Eventually I managed Bridge Over Troubled Water with the mayor before excusing myself amid a flurry of embraces and kisses. The gauntlet of kisses was particularly unexpected and as I stumbled home I wondered anew about this gathering of proud divorcees.
So, hopefully the next entry will be Colin’s account of our recent weekend in Fukuoka. In the meantime, here’s something to tide you over. The Start:
Colin running strong at 18K. According to my watch he was at about 1:01:30 when I snapped the shot:
Yes, he did get a little tired… eating a snack in Ohori Koen park following the race:
A beautiful view at the park:
I acted as coach this weekend, but mostly to get the free meals:
Samuel Wanjiru, the current Half Marathon World Record Holder ran his debut marathon at Fukuoka, winning it in 2:06:39. Following him is Deriba Merga, and then Atsushi Sato who will represent Japan at the 2008 Beijing Olympic, having qualified in this race:
We biked to the beach two nights ago to take in the sunset, but got there a little bit late. This is the beach right in Susami Town, a few minutes from our house.
We live on the Kii Peninsula and along the southeastern part of the Kii mountain range lie three shrines, Kumano Hongu Taisha, Kumano Hayatama Taisha, and Kumano Nachi Taisha, collectively known as Kumano Sanzan. Originally these 3 shrines had their own distinct form of nature worship. As Buddhism and Shinto religion began to intertwine and it was believed that Japanese dieties were incarnations of Buddhas, a theory developed that Amida (Buddha of Infinite Light and Life), Yakushi Nyorai (Buddha of Medicine and Healing) and Kannon Bosatsu (Bodhisattva of Compasion and an emanation of Amida Buddha) preside over these 3 shrines respectively. Attracting much religious attention, they began to prosper as an important pilgrimage destination.
The pilgrimage route, Kumano Kodo, still exists in pieces. Some sections are well-used today by hikers who wish to imagine the holy quest as it was made so many years ago. Other sections are well-forgotten, laden with cobwebs and silence. When the original trail was constructed, flat rocks were laid to mark the path and where preserved, it resembles a stone road.
Personally, I’ve yet to trek to the well-advertised sections of the trail. In 2004 the Kumano Kodo was named as a UNESCO World Heritage site and is beginning to receive more and more visitors. Very near to us, however, are two sections of the pilgrimage trail that most people never hike. One of them is tame enough that Colin actually includes it regularly as part of his “big loop” when he’s out running. The other section we ventured together last Monday.
I was in a dull mood. Colin had another three-day weekend and we’d spent the first 2 at festivals by day and trying to conquer our neighbors’ relentless techno beats with sleep by night. Hiking was really the last thing I was yearning to do, but with a sometimes-all-you’ve-gotta-do-is-get-your-foot-out-the-door attitude, we headed out. I tried getting my complaints out early: “I’m tired.” “I feel like I’m sleep walking.” “My knee really hurts.” Somehow, all this negative grumbling did nothing to lift my mood.
After an hour of strolling through countryside, we reached the trailhead. We selected suitable walking sticks from the bin and started out slowly–or, rather I should say, up. As the ascension began, I hoped for my mood to lift as well. This too was a slow process.
Consistently confirmed by Colin, we were always “nearing the top”, but I’ve learned to not take his assurances as truth. Eventually we reached a small shrine and took a brief water break.
Feeling a bit more energized, we continued. A web of spiders along the way, the walking sticks often swung through the air in an attempt to prevent that awful feeling of cobweb on face with sweat, rather than tapping in step. It was at this point when I began to relax. I stopped looking constantly down, fearing slithering serpents, and enjoyed the experience of walking such a sacred pilgrimage trail as many had before myself. It was quiet except for the birds and cicadas and we saw no one else.
The last section of our trail before we would walk on roads again to the train station in Hikigawa, was the least traveled of all trails we’d been on. When we thought it had ended, it stretched on and I was starting to feel trapped and claustrophobic. The path narrowed on the edge of the mountain on one side with a steep grade dropping off to the river on the other. Covered with leaves and grasses, we began to lift our feet high to avoid anything slithering about, but kept moving at a rapid clip, trying to ensure we caught the train.
Again, looking only down, I almost missed what was happening when Colin yelled and fell backward toward me. I thought he had lost his footing at first until he said, frantically, to move back down the trail. It finally happened. The first face to face encounter. I peeked up on my tiptoes at the medium-sized ophidian, yellow in color and frozen in motion. He was reared up, ready to defend and unwilling to let us pass. No longer feeling sleepy and really just wanting some open space, I caught my breath.
Options. Okay, we wait for the snake to leave. Colin tossed a rock at him to encourage his exit, but his only response was a solid five seconds of tail rattling. Alright, so he’s venomous. After a few minutes, it seemed that option one was unreasonable for the impatient. Colin suggested we scale the drop-off edge of the mountain, clutching on to dirt and dead leaves which could very well be hiding who-knows-what, until we passed what seemed to be the snake’s territory. I felt my claustrophobia disappear and patience set in. I could wait hours for the one snake we were already acquainted with to be on his way, but Colin had already stepped over the guard railing to see if an escape was possible.
Lying with my face nearly in the dirt and kicking my feet into the earth to make footholds, we both managed to get to our target: a tree about 20 feet past the snake. I looked back, wanting him to realize how courteous we’d been and acknowledge the trouble we went through to bring peace to his life. He was gone.
Five minutes later we emerged. The trail ended, we placed our walking sticks in the bin for another person to use some other time. We needed to walk quickly since there were at least two more miles before the train station. The sunshine brightened my mood and I wanted to stop to take crop pictures. Granted, this was not the most exciting thing for Colin and it was his turn to whine–we needed to keep moving. I managed to get some leafy greens before catching up with him.
Within a mile of the train station, I felt like collapsing. Not having been up to a hike to begin with, it was four hours later with one more mile to go. The street we were walking was not conducive to to pedestrians and we hugged the edge of the road with our footsteps. After a near-encounter with mukade (a highly venomous centipede) hanging out on a branch, I decided my preference was to walk down the middle of the road and hop to the side when a car rolled by.
Then, a car stopped right next to us. An old woman rolled down the window and urged us to get in. We refused, as is polite, a few times. Both of us laughing about it (due to Will Ferguson), we slid onto the backseat. Her husband drove and asked where we were going. “Just up the road to the train station,” Colin said. They asked where we were from and what we’d been up to. Colin was saying something and I looked out the window to see the train station fly by. I heard them mumbling about how long it would take to get to Susami.
Though it was just a short ride, less than 15 minutes, this couple had no plan to go to Susami that day, and it was a nice ending to a day that started out off-kilter. The air-conditioning was refreshing and I noticed the dirt covering my clothes. What a mess we’d leave their car. Planning to go grocery shopping before heading home, they dropped us off in front of Okuwa. I bowed deeply and thanked them and they drove away.
Okay, before I continue… a little bit on what’s new.
I’ve been lucky enough to have stumbled upon a small dance company in its beginnings right here in Susami called Dance Pacific Blue (no Japanese name). Every Tuesday I spend my mornings trying to come up with a few phrases in Japanese that might begin to describe what I’ll teach that afternoon. These phrases, however, promptly escape my lexicon once I turn on the music. Rhythm is necessity for my being and I love being a tap dance teacher once again. The class grows weekly and I’m able to “trade” my class for a jazz class taught by the leader of the company.
This dance group is where I’ve come to know Nancy and Naoko (直子), two women who I now call friend. It’s interesting to me that it’s often easier to become good friends with other women in Asia than it is in the US. Perhaps this is simply perception and really it’s that I have a stronger hope that we are. Nancy is Philippina and has lived in Susami for the last 12 years. I appreciate her energy and unreservedness. Naoko is close to my age, just moved to Susami in April this year and does side jobs in translation. She is also my language partner.
Colin plans to race a half marathon next month in the next town, Hikigawa. Temperatures have dropped to mid-60s, so it should be a pleasant race along the Hiki river. In a couple of weeks, he’ll begin teaching an evening, twice per month, Adult English Conversation class. Of course, his main focus for the time being continues to be the Indians, and I find myself getting sucked in as well. Needless to say, our weekend was slow and uneventful since both mornings and part of the afternoon were consumed by the game.
Next weekend we’re going to a concert I’ve been waiting for months for. Shippu Uchi Taiko, the only taiko group in the whole prefecture that uses Oedo Sukeroku Taiko’s style (and naname-dai, Stan) is giving an anniversary concert!
November is a performance month for me. I’ll share one solo tap dance piece at the Dance Pacific Blue fall concert to advertise my class and there’s another Susami festival at which I’ve been asked to play taiko. I’m not sure how I’ll work it to play by myself quite yet… Maybe I’ll have to pull out some bits of that piece Kosta and I were working on that combines tap while playing taiko to add some depth to the piece. Or, maybe I need a few more years of practice before that comes together.
Plans for a trip to China in December are beginning to take shape. We’re both looking forward to going again. The last couple of times we’ve gone separately; it will be nice to take the train from South to North–a trip we last did in 2003.
Last weekend was full of Matsuris. It’s fall Festival time and most towns have their own celebration with their own traditions. On Saturday, we attended the Tanabe Benkei Matsuri, which I mentioned in a previous entry. I was a bit weary of going to Tanabe because it meant missing day 1 of our own local 3-day Aki Matsuri (Fall Festival). However, it turned out that 1 day was a lot to see and probably enough.
My first experience with Aki Matsuri was the annual event held in Bellevue, WA. I signed both Colin and myself up to volunteer for the festival before we left Ohio to drive across the country to Seattle. My goal in it all, besides a nice chance to volunteer, had been to scout the local taiko groups since many of the groups perform at the festival. Colin holds fond memories of the strict WA state food handling guidelines as many sushi bento boxes were deemed “not cold enough” in the coolers and were, therefore, illegal to sell. It became a volunteer all-you-can-eat free sushi table, which Colin took full advantage of.
As the years went on, I was able to perform at the Aki Matsuri myself and it’s a performance Seattle Kokon Taiko looks forward to every year. Not only do the local taiko groups perform, but there are martial arts demonstrations, tea ceremony, networking tables, classes to take, and a huge rummage sale.
Now for comparisons. Well, the only similarities I can draw are between the Bellevue and Tanabe Matsuris. The rummage sale was clearly present in Tanabe, though perhaps this was coincidence. Oh, and there were performances in Tanabe–lots of performances. And the great thing is that the rest was different. The 3 Matsuris I have experienced have all been completely unique. Rather than ramble, I will just speak about the Susami experience.
On Sunday afternoon, Colin was out for a run, I was getting ready to pick up my drum sticks to practice some sticking on the floor when I heard a drum. I’ve become skeptical of any drum-like sound recently. I want to hear it so badly that even the hum of an airplane gets me excited. Anyway, I dropped my sticks and hopped on my bike. The breeze made it difficult to detect direction, so I kept turning my head to more accurately follow the sound. I was drawn to the river where a few others were watching a big parade on the opposite side with large floats, swaggering. Most floats held a small drum, and were beaten in step with someone’s heartbeat and in sync with nothing. I watched from afar, snapped a couple of shots and went home to get Colin. Susami Parade Photo
We returned to the temple where the parade concluded. It was clear that this festival was for the men. They had been drinking the last few hours, yet they were in charge of Shi Shi Mai (Lion Dance), drumming, and flute-playing. Oh, and the yelling too. There was not much for the rest of us to do but observe and hope no one fell over, but they were having a great time, that’s for sure. Here’s a video of Shi Shi Mai:
I’m going to be re-organizing the Flickr account soon to include just a few highlights, since the account is currently full. So for now, you can click here to view a few photos from the Aki Matsuri and a few photos from the Tanabe Bekei Matsuri . Here concludes part one of A Festival, A Snake, and A Hitchhike. I’ll leave you with a quote from Will Ferguson’s book Hitching Rides with Buddha, which I received as a gift from one of my students before leaving Seattle. I’ve been reading this book aloud to Colin for quite a while and we think about it often since most of what he writes about is exactly what we are experiencing as we adjust to Japan, especially our trip this past Monday, which you’ll hear about next time. I highly recommend this book if you appreciate reading about a different culture with a bit…, or actually a lot, of sarcasm and humor thrown in.
At this time, Will is trying to get a ride out of Fukui city which is “famous” for its rude people. He’s been waiting for hours in the pouring rain, which has quite affected his mood.
“I dragged my backpack up onto my shoulders. It was soaked heavy with water, its space-age zephlon NASA waterproofing having proven ineffectual in the face of a Japanese rainstorm. I turned and was about to begin the long walk back into fun-loving Fukui City when a low-slung sports car pulled over. The vehicle was practically afloat. It was so low, it resembled a red life raft.
‘Are you okay?’ asked the driver. I squeezed in, dripping rain over everything. I was wedged into the passenger seat, my backpack across my lap.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you people?’ I yelled. ‘Three hours I waited, three goddamn hours!’ I put my glasses on and they immediately fogged over.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Well, I was going to Kanazawa BUT THAT WAS THREE HOURS AGO! Now I’ll be lucky to get to the next town.’ I pulled a soggy map from my jacket pocket and peeled back the pages until I got to Fukui. ‘Just get me out of this prefecture. What’s the first town after the border? Let me see. Kaga City.’
‘I can take you to Kanazawa,” he said.
‘Good. Then take me.’ I mopped my face with an already wet handkerchief and wiped the fog from my glasses. For the first time, I saw my driver. He was young, well dressed and very dry. ‘Are you from Fukui City?’ I asked.
‘Yes?’ he said, hoping that was the right answer. It wasn’t.
‘Well, what is it with you people? Doesn’t anybody care about anybody else anymore?’ (You ever notice how personal affronts inevitably signal the downfall of civilization as we know it?) ‘Fukui City people,’ I said, ‘are not kind.’ This is a really mean thing to say in Japanese, trust me.
We drove into the night. The car was deathly quiet, just the sound of the rain drumming across the car roof, like fingertips on Tupperware, and me hyperventilating. Slowly I calmed down enough to realize that perhaps it was not a good idea to verbally abuse the person who has rescued you. It might even be considered rude. To tell the truth, as soon as the adrenaline subsided, I was overcome with guilt.
‘Say,’ I said, suddenly cheery, ‘it sure is rainy tonight.’
The poor man eyed me fearfully, as one might well eye a mood-swinging lunatic. I introduced myself, he did the same. ‘Shoichi Nakamura,’ I repeated. ‘Swell name, that. It means middle village, right? My name means son of Fergus, but who Fergus was I couldn’t tell you. Somebody’s father, I suppose, ha ha, just a little joke there. It sure is rainy, isn’t it?’
Shoichi nodded and smiled as though speared in the stomach. A few minutes later he turned on the radio.
The familiar having failed me, I switched to ultra-polite Japanese. ‘And may I ask what you do for a living?’
‘I work for Nexus,’ he said. ‘We make computers.’
‘You work for Nexus? No kidding? Me too!’ But he clearly did not believe me, and the conversation drowned in its own bad beginnings. We arrived in Kanazawa City, hours later, after enduring the sluggish ordeal of a traffic jam and a harrowing glimpse of a four-car wreck. It was almost midnight. By now my guilt had reached pathalogical levels and I was trying anything, even money, to convince him I wasn’t really such a bad person.
‘Let me give you something for gas,’ I said, offering him roughly a hundred zillion dollars’ worth of yen.
‘No, no’ he said. ‘You are my guest. It is my’–and here his voice caught in his throat–’pleasure.’
In a way, I envy Catholics. I’m not sure I understand the details, but from what I gather, if you’re Catholic you just go into a closet and mumble your sins to a priest, he gives you some punitive tongue twisters, and all is forgiven. Then you go out and find some more sins to commit. It seems very circular and holistic. Protestants, however, are stuck with their guilt forever, and if you happen to be Presbyterian, well, forget it, you might as well just go shoot yourself.
‘Fukui is very beautiful,’ I said, flip-flopping like a politician on a campaign trail. ‘Lovely prefecture.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but the people are not kind.’ Ouch. Talk about twisting the blade.
‘Oh, that, I was just kidding. Listen, why don’t we go out for supper? I’ll treat.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but I have to get back to Fukui City, my friends are waiting for me.”
‘Your friends are waiting for you?’
‘Yes, I was on my way to a goodbye party for one of my co-workers. He was transferred today.’
‘You mean, you weren’t on your way to Kanazawa?’
‘No, I was just going around the corner.’
I began frantically rummaging in my wallet for more money. ‘Please. Here, for your troubles,’ I said, pressing fistfuls of cash at him, but it was no use. He wouldn’t accept any of it, and I just wanted to crawl under a petri dish and die like the piece of primordial slime I was. This wasn’t hitchhiking. This was bullying. I had browbeaten my way to Kanazawa and all my talk of Zen and the Art of Hitchhiking, and traveling with the Japanese and not among them, came back to me with unusual clarity.
‘You are very kind,’ I said. ‘Very kind. You are a kind man.’ I repeated this like a mantra every few seconds until we arrived at Kanazawa Station.
‘Enjoy your stay in Kanazawa,’ he said.
Fat chance. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘give me your address and I’ll send you something, a present, some money, just to thank you.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That isn’t necessary.’
‘Well, thanks again for the ride. I really appreciate it.’
And off he drove, leaving me with several large burdens, only one of which was my backpack.”
This morning, rather than waking up to the sound of the town loudspeaker, it was the Indians game that drew me from my slumber. Colin sits, unable to look away, watching his favorite team as I write. Unfortunately, game 3 is not going as well as the first 2…
It’s been brought to my attention by a few of you that expectations are that we ought to be posting much more than we do. And, in fact, I have piles of photos that I have not posted on Flickr and have actually become busy recently, so I do have lots of things to write about. So, all I can say is we’ll do our best.
That said, above is a video of not such good quality, but taking/posting videos is a new process for me. I do not have a video camera, so I’ve taken just short clips with my digital still camera with no sound. The Benkei Matsuri was this past weekend in Tanabe, north by 50mins. and you’ll see one of the many groups dancing in the streets. Benkei is a popular warrior monk in Japanese folklore and he may have been called “Oniwaka” in his early days, or “demon child”. My most recent connection with a taiko group has been with Oniwaka Taiko. In the second video, you can see the Benkei character dancing while Oniwaka Taiko plays in the background. More soon.
It’s been at least three weeks since I’ve even opened this blog. I’ve allowed the onset of routine to deaden my motivation. That and the Cleveland Indians race against the Tigers to grab the central division title. I don’t think I’ve followed baseball so closely since I was in the 8th grade — devouring stats and watching the replays of Casey Blake’s late inning homers on my computer between my middle school English classes. In another week the playoffs will start and I may again take a blogging hiatus as Japanese television begins broadcasting most of games live during the late morning hours.
We’ve made a number of small, but exciting discoveries over the last week, let’s see… Carrie has discovered jazz/hiphop dance classes at the neighborhood association across the street from us and been offered a chance to start a tap dance class of her own. Taiko prospects are still being staked.
In the course of one the daily discussion I have about my bizarre diet, I finally managed to gain some insight on the local produce situation. Until now we have purchased 99% of our food at the local outlet of the Okuwa grocery chain. Most folks “just love the convenience” of Okuwa and otherwise supplement their diets with food from their kitchen gardens. However, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, just down the lane from us there is tiny farmers market supported by Japan Agriculture and named the Sunflower market (ひまわり会). In a small room inside of a farm machinery warehouse farmers, homemakers, and a couple of parttime fisherman line up their produce in baskets along the wall. Each bag of onions or taro or peppers is labeled with a price tag and the first and last name of the person who grew the food. As Carrie and I browsed on Saturday morning old women would smile beside us and mention quietly which particular pumpkin had come from their garden. And, while this was all rather quaint, it does not come with the prices one associates with quaint, organic farmers markets in the states. Everything is 50-60% of what it would cost at Okuwa.
On our recent stop at the Sunflower Market we were stopped by a neighbor lady who immediately set about explaining the onsen schedule that she and her husband follow, insinuating, I think, that Carrie and I ought to join them at the Wild Boar Onsen sometime. There are four onsen in Susami, three of which are in hotels on the outskirts of town, with the fourth, set right in the middle of town, being the Wild Boar. This is apparently where most folks go for their thrice weekly steamers, and where I too will frequent if the temperature ever drops below 80 degrees. Mrs. ? says that a vital part of the ritual is the beer that her husband consumes immediately after emerging from the bath.
In search of homegrown food I have also hacked through the gravelly weed pit that serves as our little yard and planted broccoli, carrots, and pumpkins (squash, really), and, frankly, whether or not I actually produce vegetables, I just enjoy going out there every week or so to mess about in the dirt with my little hand trowel. Carrie thinks we should plant a fruit tree, a tree that would be meant to serve some lucky JET of the far future. Personally, I’m just happy to wait until the persimmons (kaki, 柿) and tangerines (mikan, 蜜柑) ripen on the trees of the local farmers.
There are just 10 weeks now until the Fukuoka Marathon and I still haven’t heard from them about my entry status. The legs have been getting kind of beaten up with all of the hill running, but I also realized over the weekend that my current shoes which I’ve been wearing since before the July 4 marathon had around 1,100 miles in them. I put on a fresh pair yesterday and perhaps I’m ready to go again, trying to get back to 80/week again and training as if Fukuoka were a definite. There is no shortage of half-marathons and 10kms around, but one way or another I need goals here — running goals, garden goals, language goals, and the goal that the Indians win the series for the first time since the middle ages.
We spent Saturday in the town of Kushimoto, Wakayama-ken. A quick train ride of 50 minutes and we were off to adventures in a new place. I just posted new photos here.
