life on a stratovolcano ^{oshima edition}

(Tyler’s note: I can’t find my camera charger, so no pictures until I do.)

Sorry if I haven’t been posting much recently, it’s just that very little that I do seems post-worthy to me anymore. Every time I step back and look at the little things, however, I realize they’re pretty insanely different from my life back home. Six months ago, I would have had tons of stuff to write about, but now having my car parked for me without my knowledge or consent after a crappy parking job (read: any deviation from perfect) is the norm, as is paying $10 for lunch, or encounters with insects that are too big to notice you, or, as I did on Thanksgiving, paying $20 for a melon.

That’s right, $20 for a melon. Japan is infamous for it’s expensive fruit prices, and $20 really isn’t that bad for a “Gift Melon”. In Tokyo, I’ve seen these things run upwards of $150, and prize-winning ones can go many times beyond that.

The reasoning behind my purchase is justified: I was invited by the super-nice and wonderfully congenial Hiromi to dinner at Mrs. Tanaka’s house. You see, in order to foster good relations (and because it’s against my contract to be paid), I’ve decided to take up a volunteer eikaiwa (private teaching lesson) in my apartment building for children. Mrs. Tanaka thought that was wonderful, and arrainged for a huge sushi dinner for me with all of the fixin’s — sake, kusaya, and lord knows what else. This was a big event, and everyone was extremely excited about it.

Then, in a culmination of tradition of every stereotype of the stupid gaijin, I got the week wrong, and due in large part to my crappy cell phone, completely missed the party that they had gone through such great pains to set up for me.

So I bought a melon as an apology. When I delivered it, she seemed truly overwhelmed by my kindness. I still think that she probably wouldn’t mind if I committed seppuku, but at least now I look a little better.

In a complete ADD-style change of topic, about three weeks ago was Machiko’s birthday. Alex and I promised to throw her a party, but due to Bunkasai (she ran the thing), she was always too busy for it. I also completely forgot to get her a present,even though she was the only person at the school to bother getting one for my birthday. So I called her to see if she wanted to hang out. I figured that I could pay for a night out and we’d be even.

I decided to walk to her apartment (drinking isn’t exactly condusive to my driving abilities), making sure to stop by the vending machine to pick up a couple of beers on the way. She answered the door, bundled up in a scarf, sweater, and hoodie, and asked me to come in. Machiko and I are kind of funny to watch interact, because we each know about the same level of each other’s language (with Machiko being way better at applying it). All conversation has been translated into English for your convenience:

Machiko: “Hi Tyler! Welcome!”
Tyler: “Hey Machiko, how’s it going?”
M: “I’m freezing. Please come in and shut the door.”

When I stepped across the threshold of her house, a wave of heat blasted me in the face.

T: “Jeez, it’s a little hot in here.”
M: “Ehhhhhh?!”

Machiko looked at me with the astounded look reserved for when you inform people that it can be considered rude to remove your shoes in an American home. I started taking off my jacket, and I got the same response.

M: “Tyler, you’re crazy! You’re going to freeze!”
T: “If I don’t take off this jacket, I’m going to get heat stroke.”

Oshimars can’t seem to wrap their heads around the idea that anything cooler than 80 degrees could possibly be comfortable. Crazy bastards. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the two tall boys that I bought at the vending machine, and tried to give one to Machiko.

Machiko: “I don’t drink beer, remember?”

Strike one.

I told her that there was no problem, we were going to go out for her birthday, and, in a momentary lapse of sanity, mentioned that I would pick up the tab. This, as anyone who has gone out drinking in Japan before can attest, is a very bad idea.

But what the hell; I was already buzzed, and I was feeling bad from a combination of forgetting the party and completely ignoring her birthday earlier in the month. I could stand to take a hit on the wallet.

Machiko somehow managed to roll even more clothes onto her body, until she resembled something pretty close to the Michelin Man.

T: “Haha, You look like the Michelin Man.”
M (offended): “You think I look like a man?”
T: “No, I mean you look like a cartoon character… Errr… Nevermind.”

Strike two.

We left the apartment into the not-terribly-cold 55 degree weather, and all Machiko could do was shiver and say “Samui!” (cold!) over and over again. We eventually made it to the bar, where we ascended an outdoor set of stairs that ran paralell to the face of the building. I opened the first door for her, and she walked in as if she was going to open the second door for me, but instead stood against the wall, not moving. Awkwardly, I opened the door, which kind of pushed into her face a little bit, and stepped through.

The bar was really neat; it has an aquatic theme, with soft blue light radiating from under the bar, and the same light coming from behind the metal silhouettes of manta rays decorating the walls. We recieved a friendly “Irasshimase!” as we walked through the door, and took a seat at the bar.

We started ordering drinks, the most remarkable of which was a margarita. There was nothing especially good about this margarita, as it was really tiny (think a small martini glass full), but it was the first time that Machiko had tequila. About this time I noticed that the soundtrack playing in the bar was from the movie “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.”

Eventually, an older lady of about 60 — which, due to the “Roy Asian-Aging Hypothesis,” appeared to be about forty — walked in, and took a seat near us. A few moments later, the opening guitar part to “Sweet Home Alabama” started twanging out over the speakers. I, being the extremely obnoxious gaijin that I am, started belting out the lyrics. Machiko looked a little bit embarassed, but the two bartenders and the old lady were really into it. They started clapping along, and eventually Machiko did as well. Score one for international relations.

After the song, some slower music came on.

Me: “Come on Machiko, let’s dance!”

Unfortunately, dancing has some sort of negative stigma in Japan, and she threw up her arms into an “X”.

Machiko: “Nonononono, I’m not dancer.”
Tyler: “Come on, it’ll be great!”
Machiko: “Nonononono!”
Old Lady (from behind me): “Let’s dance!”

So, being the sport that I am, I jumped up. She stood a full two feet shorter than me, but I went ahead and twirled her around for a while. Everyone was laughing and having a great time, especially Machiko, who was beginning to lighten up a bit more.

I sat down, and whenever an English song came on, everybody would repeatedly demand that I sing it, even if I didn’t know the words. Good times.

The night went on like this for a while, and eventually, we decided it was about time to go. I asked for the bill, and the not-so-little number inspired the exact same feeling that staring at a terrible report card does.

$126.

Strike three.

Fuck.

Today I had the distinct pleasure of doing the exact same thing that I do every single working day of my life: come to a job that I love, with kids that are insane, and experience the riotously hilarious soap opera that is Oshima High School. I feel like I’m the center of all the drama that happens here, and the cool part is that I don’t even have to take part in it; I just watch it unfold around me. It certainly satiates the histrionic in me, even if it sometimes works to my detriment. In this sense, Japan is like one big movie. Unfortunately, it’s a really long foreign film with a very unsettling lack of subtitles.

The kids here are all constantly competing for my attention, and the adults are giving me gifts and inviting me out for dinners on a daily basis. Evidently I’ve made quite a splash here on this little rock in the Pacific. The students keep on trying to get me to date every female teacher in the school. A typical conversation goes like this:

Student: 伊原先生が好きですか (Do you like Ihara-sensei?)
Me: What do you mean?
Student: Do you want marry her?
Me: Huh? What the hell gave you that idea?
Student: You should. She nice lady.
Me: I have a girlfriend.
Student: But she in America. Ihara-sensei is here.
Me: She’s thirty-five years old.
Student: So you should marry her. Do you like her?
Me (sighing): No. I don’t want to marry her.
Student: Well, you should.

This conversation happens, at bare minimum, several times a month, about several different teachers.

Now, however, it has come to surface that I have a group of stalkers that keep leaving me presents on my desk, with progressively creepier notes on them. They’re female students, and they go by the anonynomers A-ko and B-ko (Personal note to Greg: I’m not kidding). I’ve asked the teachers around my desk about this every time it happens, but they never seem to see it occur.

For posterity’s sake, (and the sake of your entertainment), I’ll post two latest notes, word for word (I would post earlier notes, but I have no clue where they are). Both of these, however, were on the same bag of cookies that mysteriously appeared on my desk. Evidently A-ko and B-ko have started working together (since each has very different handwriting).

The first note (not so creepy):

===========================
Dear Tyler!!

ふあいと！！！ (I think that says “fight,” even though it’s not in Katakana)

I <3 you <3

B-ko (squiggly face drawn here)

===========================

The second one was a bit weirder, including such necessary information as her blood type.

===========================

Dear Tyler (squiggly face here too)
Hello!!
I am A-ko.
But blood type たいぷ B. Hahaha.
I l<3ve sweets <3

bye!!!
pen Thankyou.

===========================

I’m wondering if these are the same girls that tried to get my home address and phone number at the beginning of the year.

It’s Sunday, and I just spent the entire day at school.

You: “But Tyler, why the hell would you go to that place on a weekend?”

I’m glad you asked!

This weekend was Bunkasai, or culture day, at Oshima High School. Students transform their classrooms into cafes, haunted houses, art galleries, and other stuff, and the entire community comes together for a day of food, fun, and music. For me, bunkasai is the best day of the year — I love the carnival atmosphere and the total lack of formality involved. Bunkasai is the only day that outsiders — that is people in the community not directly related to the students — can experience the school from the inside.

The first day was some intensely snore-inducing traditional dance. The thing is, each first and second year class has to do a traditional dance. That makes for not one, not two, but EIGHT different traditional Japanese dances. That may sound interesting, but if you’ve ever seen Kabuki, you know that Japanese performing arts are a bit lacking in the “grab you by the throat” excitement area. To their credit, they did have taiko during a couple of these. I first saw a taiko performance during my dad’s visit to Japan, when we went to Akihabara to a festival. It’s like Stomp, but way more cultural and bad ass.

Before all of that, however, the band played, and your’s truly was on the tuba. Somehow, by not playing in over four years, I managed to improve my skill doubly when I picked it back up. Go figure. Funnily enough, all of the kids think the band kids are SOOOO cool. Talk about a departure from American culture!

The second day went much more swimmingly. THIS was the bunkasai I knew and loved. The school was decorated up with balloons, paintings, manga characters, and cute kids running around everywhere.

See? Aren’t they cute?

Awesome decorations abound.

Hilariously enough, there was a room where you could shoot an actual airgun at plastic bottles and stuff. In America you’d probably get tasered for this (me no like the pepper spray). Curiously, I didn’t see anyone hit even one bottle. These guys are terrible shots.

By far the most hilarious moment of the day was the drag show that the kids decided to put on. It wasn’t so much funny as in “Ha ha, that’s really funny!” but more of an “oh my, that’s quite terribly awkward” funny. At normal drag shows in America, people crossdress and do funny things like lip syncing and dancing to music. Not so in a Japanese drag show. In fact, I only recall one piece of music being played, and I’ll get to that later.

Evidently it was required that each class send one representative. That makes nine total crossdressers. Unfortunately, in Japanese Society, it is extremely frowned upon to stick out like a sore thumb, so these kids probably had to draw the really, really short straw to have to do this. Whenever a student would go up there dressed like a girl, they looked so horribly embarrassed that I wanted to pull a fire alarm to end the awkwardness. First, they stood up there in stunned silence, eyes wide. This was a big problem, because they were on the stage in the gym, with the entire student body and staff and faculty of the school watching. About half the students were standing at the very edge of the stage, camera-phones-a-clicking. As soon as the announcer allowed them to, they ran offstage.

This pattern continued four more times, each one being just as embarrassed as the last. Suddenly, there was a surprise.

There was music! Bizarrely enough, it was the wedding march. On cue, two second-years dressed as a bride and groom emerged from stage left. The bride was wearing a real, full wedding dress. It was glorious. Everyone was cracking up, and these two seemed to actually be having a good time with it. All of the sudden, however, the crowd started chanting something. Being highly deficient in the linguistic part of the Japanese culture, I assumed it was innocuous. The events that transpired next blew my mind. The groom turned to the bride, lifted the veil, and… Well, I’ll let the picture do the talking.

Whoa. Notice the camera phones.

Anyway, I was totally shocked — and so was the rest of the school. Chaos broke out in the gymnasium. Everyone was laughing so hard, myself included, that I completely forgot that the Vice Principal was sitting on my left, the Principal was two seats to the left of him, and my supervisor was on the right. The realization dawned on me that sidesplitting laughter might not be such a good idea in the face of certain scandal for the administration. With great trepidation, I turned my head to the VP, only to see him cracking up as well. I spun around, and the principal was giggling like a schoolgirl. This struck me as odd, because in America, this could only be construed as a violation of the “sanctity of marriage” (I hate that phrase — I think I just threw up in my mouth a little).

Anyway, they departed to great applause, and the next drag contestants came out, and the exact same thing happened each time. And we’re not talking about short pecks here; we’re talking about long, slow, deep kisses. And everyone just thought that it was hilarious.

A society without homophobia? How foreign. I’m starting to realize the wonders of living in a country that is completely free from the constraints of religion. A quick Google on the “least religious countries in the world” came up with these results:

1. Sweden
2. Vietnam
3. Denmark
4. Norway
5. Japan

Funnily enough, all of these countries except Vietnam also make it on the “highest quality of life” list. Coincidence? Maybe.

Anyway, I’m leaving for Tokyo tomorrow, so I probably won’t write again for at least another five days (unless something really, really cool happens in the meantime.) Much love.

Last night I realized how much I love Japan, and I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s the students — they certainly are a huge reason (a few in particular come to mind). It could be the instant squid noodles that I love so much. Maybe it’s because I live a mere hour and a half away from the largest city in the world, and I have a really well-paying job, yet my lifestyle is like that of a retired person.

Japan is definitely something that you can take in either small or large doses, but never medium-sized. The past two months I’ve been going through some pretty nasty culture shock (I never thought it would actually HAPPEN!), but now I’ve finally really settled in. I love it here, and I’m starting to re-notice the things that I’ve been taking for granted - it’s safe, clean, and everyone is responsible for each other. I can walk right down the street and get a beer out of the vending machine. The grocery store has really cheap sashimi and nigiri. The sunsets here are still the best in the entire world. I even like the spiders, as long as they aren’t attacking my eyeballs.

It’s difficult to comprehend island life unless you’ve actually lived on an island. The world of Oshima (and believe me, it’s a world,) is 26.2 miles in circumfrence, and the few thousand other people around you are the only ones you ever see, with the exception of the occasional visitor. As far as we Oshimars (I made that up) are concerned, the world is a tiny place, and our home is very much like our own miniature planet. If you start walking in one direction along the coast, you’ll end up exactly where you started. It’s all very surreal.

It is, however, very easy to lose perspective of the world here. Due to the mind-boggling amount of pollution of Tokyo, the mainland is usually surrounded by a dense smog, making it impossible to see the Izu peninsula. Occasionally, the other islands will pop into view, along with the peninsula. Sometimes, we’re even fortunate enough to see Mount Fuji. This is a mixed blessing, however, as I am forced to remember that there is a world outside of my own. Your suspension of disbelief is… Well… Suspended.

Whenever I need a perspective shift, I climb to the highest point of the volcano — Mt. Mihara — and look out all the way around my world. The island always comes full-circle.

Japan shares the title of “The Safest Country on Earth” with only one other: Singapore (but Japan does it without Draconian laws). If Japan is the safest country on earth, then I truly believe that Oshima is the safest place on earth. I asked a police officer how the crime was here. A car has never been stolen, nobody’s house has been broken into in the last five years (a jealous ex broke the previous 15-year-streak), and this in a place where nobody locks their doors. I don’t think twice about leaving my car unlocked, with the keys in it, windows down, with my iPod sitting in the passenger’s seat. The first day I got here, I lost my wallet with 150,000 yen in it ($1,300), and within an hour, someone had found it and called my school. All the money was still there. One time, I had to park in the street because the restaurant that I wanted to go to had a full parking lot. When I came back outside, my car had been moved into the parking lot by someone who evidently thought that my car would be safer there. This has happened twice, in two different places. Amazing.

It’s perfectly fine to drink a beer while walking down the street. Hell, it’s okay to drink a beer in the passenger’s seat of a car! When you see a police officer here, you know that they aren’t looking for ways to get you in trouble. They’re friendly, they constantly smile and wave, and their sole purpose on the island seems to be to ensure people that they are safe.

Fun fact: there is one police officer on the island whose sole job is to stand on the main road, in the same place every day, in uniform, and smile and wave at passing motorists. I never thought I would say this, but I like the police here.

Honestly, the wonders of living on an essentially empty island have never ceased to amaze me. One of my favorite pasttimes here is to just explore. There’s probably been at least ten instances when I’ve ran into the ruins of ancient shrines in the woods.

At the same time, however, I notice the people around me going about their lives in a way that seems, in a word, disingenuine. I never see anyone that is very sad, or angry, or jealous, and conversely I don’t see passion, or extreme excitement, or over-the-top happiness. I feel a bit like I’m in the movie Equillibrium.

Japanese people, as a society, repress their emotions publically. They have two selves, public, and private, and do not allow their private self out in the open. This struck me hardest when I found my good friend, Yohei, in Osaka. Everyone who knew Yohei when he was studying abroad in America remembers him as the most outgoing, over-the-top, passionate, loving person that they had ever met. I fully expected him to be the same when I arrived at his apartment, but he was… Different. Reserved. Almost unhappy. He definitely wasn’t the same super-genki guy that I knew before. I asked him about it, and he replied, sadly, “I can’t be myself here. I miss my home, Boone.”

The next day I was absolutely determined to ressurect him, so we went absolutely nuts, the video results of which I’ll post after November 18th (wouldn’t you like to know why?! Muahahaha!!!). We had an incredible time, and he was completely out of his shell again. I thought, for an instant, that maybe he would stay this way. I literally prayed for it.

As I was leaving for Tokyo through the gates of the train station, however, I saw his face return to the solemn, unemotional stereotype that Japanese society has embraced. I worry about myself turning into this sometimes — the unoffensive, bored, unemotional and numb fascade covering up an undying and adventurous passionate excitement.

But I like it here. I think I’ll wear a funny hat to school tomorrow.

So, per the norm, a funny thing happened today. What started out as a valiant effort to bond with my co-workers and get into the best shape of my life ended up as a dry-heaving reminder that I am not an athlete. In order to understand why I subjected myself to this insanity, you must understand that I went into my training trying really hard. My intentions were great, but nature’s were not, as what began as a daily run after school right before sunset ended up edging closer and closer to a nighttime run. The funny thing about Japan is that there is no daylight savings time, and they claim to be in the wrong time zone. By like 2 hours. At 4:30 in the morning the sun rises, and at 4:45 in the afternoon, the sun sets. Evidently someone took “The Land of the Rising Sun” a bit too seriously when deciding which time zone to claim, and as a result I was left with a difficult decision: to run at night, or not to run. At first, I was very amiable to the idea of running at night; it was much cooler, and therefore not as heatstroke-inducing. Later in the year, however, it started to rapidly cool down at night. This was okay, because I told myself that I could always put on more clothes.

So I began running right at sunset every day, admiring the beauty of the blood-red orb slinking down behind the distant Izu Mountains. Here’s my routine: I would first run to the beach, watch the sunset, and then run back. Simple, right? Harmless, right? Wrong. You see, to say that Oshima has a “spider problem” is sort of like saying that Michael Jackson is “interesting looking.” To really comprehend the spider infestation of this island, you have to see it, so I took the liberty of taking a picture of one of these bad boys for you.

This spider is actual size at 1440 x 900 resolution:

I swear, this is all relevant to running. As I was returning from a run to the beach one night, I ran smack-dab into one of these things webs. Face covered. Picture yourself in my situation: the last thing you see before the vicious swatting and tearing at your face is the Largest Spider in the Universe, exactly one inch from your eyeball.

So, needless to say, I do not run at night anymore. In fact, I don’t do much of anything outside my apartment at night anymore. Call it paranoia, but what the hell.

Consequentially, I stopped running at night, therefore I stopped running almost entirely. Very occasionally, about once a week, Iwase would let me leave school early in order to take a run. Besides that, however, I was running today’s race completely untrained.

Back to today: this morning, I was really into the idea of the race, and despite my mother’s constant warnings that “I’m not too young to have my heart explode,” I was pretty excited. I had a thing of E-Z Mac and a veggie-squirt-goop-thing (if you don’t live here, you wouldn’t understand) for breakfast, and left over an hour and a half early. Mr. Iwase came by to give me my race number last night, and, as I’m somewhat notorious for missing commitments that I haven’t actually committed to (no and yes have very different meanings here), he somewhat worriedly beat the race time into my head over and over again with the linguistic equivalent of a ball-peen hammer.

I decided to warm up by jogging my race path backwards. Easy enough. Everyone at the end was stretching and getting ready, and I realized that I was about 20 minutes early. Unfortunately, nobody there spoke English, so my communication was pretty limited, though I did get to work on some new grammar points. Only twenty minutes left…

Well, twenty minutes was a pretty conservative estimate, as the first runners started arriving about an hour later. Daijobu. There were some really fast runners, as the first two came, and we waited at least five minutes before the third came. Then they started coming more frequently, and, to my complete and utter surprise, Iwase was barreling down the road in fifth place. Everyone started yelling “Ta-i-ra! Ta-i-ra! Go!” I threw my earbuds in, cranked up some Prodigy, and as soon as that sash hit my hands the crowd had worked me into a dead sprint.

Now I’m not sure how familiar anyone here is with running, but it’s hard as hell to run a race if you start hard. I realized the error of my ways almost immediately, as I was winded the entire race, and started feeling woozy about halfway through. There were people all around though, and they were clapping and yelling “Ganbatte!” (Do your best!)

As I approached the last stretch, I felt like my body was going to give out. The final run to the town hall is about a 500 uphill dash, and there were hundreds of people on either side. I threw on my afterburners and went as fast as my body would let me, and about 100 meters from the end I started swallowing my own puke. I felt like I was going to die, but I managed to stretch out my arm and get the sash to Kase-san, who took off smiling. I stumbled over to a side street, holding back puke, and let loose once I got out of sight.

Actually, I only tried to let loose — evidently my body had used up all the breakfast, because nothing came out. I sprawled out on the road, and lay there for about ten minutes. A police officer walked up and asked “Daijobu?” I nodded, he shrugged, and walked away.

Once I didn’t feel like a sore noodle, I hoisted myself up with great effort, and went to the road to watch the race. I was only catching the end of it, and they were all the women’s teams. After talking to a bunch of my teachers and students (the WHOLE community came to this and tons of ‘em ran), I fell asleep in the parking lot. Believe me, I was ROUGH.

I woke up about an hour later, and there was a huge crowd. Evidently the race was over, and the results were being posted. I bounded upstairs to see my time. Searching for the only name in English on the board, I found my tiny little box: “Tyler Roy: 12:13. 8th place.”

“Awesome!” I thought, “Eighth place!”, but my celebrations were cut very, very short when I realized that it was 8th place out of the 9 in my division. Some quick calculations planted me squarely behind the middle school girl’s division. God has a funny sense of humor.

Here’s our team. This is officially the worst picture of me ever.

Anyway, after the epic (read: boring) awards ceremony, we all headed to the onsen, and after much relaxation, went into the party room and proceeded to eat our hearts out. Seriously, there was so much food and beer that I almost felt worse after this than I did after the race.

In typical Japanese fashion, everyone (myself included) ended up giving a speech, and at about 4:00 I decided I had stayed awake as long as I could. I left the room to go home and take a nap.

When I walked out of the feasting hall, I saw Mr. Tanaka sitting on a bench with a bunch of plastic in front of him. I asked him what he was doing, and he pointed to the vending machines. They were full of toys! In Japan, it’s completely socially acceptable to be obsessed with your favorite childhood cartoons, and it’s just as acceptable to play with those toys! In the USA you actually have to have a child in order to do that, and preferably one. Unfortunately, having a kid in order to play with toys is a bit like buying a 747 for the peanuts. Japan definitely scores cool points in the “cultural relevance of toys” department. USA: 0, Japan: 150

Isn’t he cute?

Like a little kid at Christmas.