life on a stratovolcano ^{oshima edition}

When I was in Vietnam a month or so ago, I made the mistake of trying to ride a 100cc motorcycle for my first try. With a manual transmission. With Katie on the back. While wearing flip-flops.

Needless to say, I got pretty messed up when I turned the bike over while going about two miles an hour. Katie was fine because she jumped off, but I wanted to save the bike, so I slammed my foot down on the ground to stabilize myself. Of course, my toe got caught on some rocks, and then I burned the hell out of my leg (I only noticed it when I started smelling the sweet smell of barbecue). But that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, the toe that got caught on some rocks got messed up really badly, and I ended up in pretty severe pain for a while — pain that was amplified by all the nasty things it was being exposed to in Saigon (the blame of which I focus squarely on Whitney). I didn’t want to go to a Vietnamese hospital, though, and my work took away my insurance card. So I waited until I got back to Oshima and my injury was turning a certain alluring shade of black. I used this opportunity to leave work and go to the hospital (yes, I really was that bored). I went home and picked up Daniel, my friend who’s in from Tottori-ken, who just so happens to be from the same metropolitan area as me back in the states.

When we arrived at the hospital — what is without a doubt the nicest building on Oshima — I walked through the automatic doors and handed my insurance card to the super-friendly and cute lady at the front desk. She looked at it, then looked back up at me, then glanced back down and furrowed her brow. She looked back up at me again, confused.

Receptionist: “It says here you live in Oshima.”
Me: “Yep, I’m the English teacher at the high schools.”
Receptionist: “OH! Welcome! Okay, I’ll get you right in!”

So thankfully I got the islander treatment and got pushed in front of all the tourists with all sorts of weird island maladies. I stepped into the checkup room, and a young doctor with a goatee and long hair came in. He actually spoke English really well, and since I didn’t much feel like explaining my condition and the circumstances around it in Japanese, his presence was extremely welcome.

Doctor: “So, what happened?”
Me: “I crashed a motorcycle.”
Doctor: “How long ago?”
Me: “About three weeks.”
Doctor: “Why did you wait so long? This looks really painful.”
Me: “Uh, I was in Vietnam.”
Doctor: “Oh, yes, they may have taken your toe.”

I love third-world health care.

Anyway, he told me that it looked a little infected, and gave me some antibiotics, some painkillers, and some probiotics, and told me to take my bill up to the cashier.

Her: “That will be $10.00, please.”
Me (dumbfounded): “Really?”
Her: “Sorry, that’s the new patient charge.”
Me: “But that’s all? $10? That’s so cheap!”
Her (staring incredulously at me): “How much would that have been in America?”
Me: “Several hundred dollars.”
Everyone in the room: “EEEEEHHHHHHHHH?”

Thank you, socialized health care. You see, Japan really gets socialized health care right — it’s like regular health insurance — I pay a ~$200 month premium, and I get free health care and ridiculously cheap drugs. The only thing is, the health insurance is mandatory if you’re employed. Everyone wins!

So he told me to come back after a few days and he’d do some cutting. I promptly forgot these instructions, and did the cutting myself at home.

Last night, however, I went out with some of my fellow teachers to play tennis at the school. I landed at a really bizarre angle, and felt an incredibly sharp pain run through that toe. When I got home, I took a look at it, and it was all swollen and red, with a big swollen white area in the middle. I realized that I had to go to the hospital again, so I did. After waiting for about five minutes, they ushered me in, and my good friend Kumiko was my nurse. After some small talk, the goatee-clad doctor came in and said, “Ah, looks like we’re gonna need to cut that open.” Fine by me. It hurt too damn much to do nothing about it.

Doctor pulls out a huge needle, and proceeds to poke and prod at it (without gloves on, of course. Japanese people are about the least cautious people in the world when it comes to blood). All the while, I’m chewing my fingernails off.

Me: “Kumiko-san, do you have a pencil?”
Kumiko: “Why?”
Me: “So I can bite down on it.”
Kumiko: “Hahaha, you’re so funny Tairaa!”

I wasn’t joking. Not even in the slightest bit. This fucking hurt.

Meanwhile, a large crowd of nurses had gathered around to watch him. One of the nurses suggested something, and he thought it was a good idea. He pulls out a needle full of clear liquid, and injects it right into my toe where the white part is. I squeal like a little girl, much to the delight of the onlookers, and suddenly, my toe went blissfully numb. He went ahead and continued to cut holes in my toe, but no pus was coming out. Only blood. And a lot of it. Because he wasn’t wearing gloves, it went all over his hands, but he didn’t seem to mind. Pretty scary, eh? Reminds me of when I gave blood in Tokyo — no gloves there either. Suddenly, I remembered that I had my video camera in my pocket — alas, it was too late, as he had finished. I only went so far as to get a picture, which I’ll post when I figure out what’s wrong with my camera.

Doctor: “Well, there was no infection, it was only the blood pooling. Do you want some painkillers?”
My Brain: “You asshole, you cut my foot open and didn’t need to? I hate you right now.”
My Mouth: “Yes, please. Domo arigatoo gozaimasu!”

So is Japan.

He wrote me the prescription, and I bid farewell to the doctor and Kumiko, hoping that I’d never have to see either again in that setting, and I proceeded to the front desk. I tried doing the thing with my card to where I’d pay again, and it kept rejecting it. Eventually the receptionist came up and told me that it was completely free. Evidently their National Health Insurance program is so streamlined that everything can be instantly approved and paid for… Amazing!

I went and threw down 500 yen (5.00) for another round of the three-drug-cocktail, and zoomed on back to the school on my bike.

Beautiful as it is, and friendly as the staff are, I hope I never have to go there again.

When I first arrived on Oshima and turned on the radio, I realized two things: firstly, my radio is a piece of steaming crap that produces more static than music, and secondly, that everything that managed to come through the static is Japanese.

I tuned in to Japanese talk shows for a few weeks while driving to work, frantically hoping that my Japanese would improve by some kind of magical osmosis (hint: it doesn’t). Fortunately, like so many other times, Derek came to the rescue. Derek was the only other foreigner on the island when I first arrived, and he was bored out of his skull with Japanese people. One night during the summer, while driving to Obon, he flipped on his radio, and English started coming out.

Me: “Dude, what the hell is that?”
Derek: “Huh?”
Me: “The radio… It’s in English!”
Derek: “Oh yeah, that’s the American propaganda radio from the military base.”

Forgetting to ask him what channel I was supposed to tune into, I frantically started pushing buttons on the radio, going through every single radio station at least five times listening for a sweet, sweet snippet of English. Unfortunately, hard as I tried, I couldn’t manage to find it. I made a mental note to ask Derek next time I saw him.

As it turns out, the radio station was on the AM band. After work, as the sun was setting, I drove onto the beach where I could get reception, and fumbled with the radio buttons until, as if on cue, there was the sound of a screetching eagle, and a deep, booming voice:

“You’re listening to EAGLE 810, on the ARMED FORCES RADIO NETWORK. We’re running at TEN MEGAWATTS. Because SIZE. DOES. MATTER.” (cue eagle screetching again)

I think this is the image they are trying to convey:

Anyway, Eagle 810 is the source of much amusement for me. It helps keep me updated on whatever music is popular, which celebrities are screwing each other, and what Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity think of liberals (hint: I’m not sure they like them very much).

I also get clued in to a lot of things happening on the base. They talk about having barbeques, intramural sports teams, big parties, free movies, and all around fun events. Whenever I’m driving home on a rainy day, I crane my neck forward and struggle to hear what fun things are happening on the other side of the sea. I’ve even heard that they have a Taco Bell there.

My favorite part of Eagle 810, however, isn’t Jay Leno’s daily monologue, or David Letterman’s top ten list for the day. Heck, it isn’t even the Top 40. It’s the commercials. The God-awful, terrible commercials that are obviously written and acted in by the soldiers on the base and their families.

In fact, it was one of these commercials that inspired me to make this entry. I was just on my way back from picking up some lunch, when I heard a little girl’s voice on the radio. It really speaks for itself, so I’ll just paraphrase a transcription:

Little Girl: “Daddy, are you deploying soon?”
Father: “Yes, baby, I’ll be gone for a while, but I’ll be back.”
Girl: “But who will be here to read me stories?”
Voiceover: “We know it’s rough on your children when you’re deployed. That’s why we’ve created ‘Dial-a-Story’! Simply call 262-2262 from any phone on the base to hear a story read, just like all the favorites from Daddy.”
Deep, Creepy, Gruff, Pedophile-like Voice: “HELLO. I AM GOING TO READ YOU RUMPLESTILTSKIN.”

*shudders*

While we’re on the topic of radio stations, I’d like to point out that the AM band on my radio is really strange. Every time an electronic function of my car is used, such as the blinker, power brakes, or windows, the sound of it is amplified exponentially through the speakers. I’ll be sitting there listening to a reporter talking about how we’re winning the War on (insert whatever’s popular), and I’ll throw on my blinker and hear gunshots coming out of my speakers with every tick of the light. The volume knob is sadistic, too. Usually it doesn’t do anything. Sometimes it will only turn down, and it will turn down faster if you turn it up. About 25% of the time, if I touch it, the volume will max out, jumping from 10 to 30, blasting every electronic sound that my car makes. Those are days where the radio is “off”. I seriously have no idea what causes this, and it differs every time I turn the car on.

Anyway, God Bless Eagle 810. I love it, despite it’s pundits, bad commercials, and 1:5 radio to static ratio. I should send them a Christmas card.

So I bought a motorcycle. It’s a Honda Super Cub, and it’s about the least sexy thing in the world, but now all the guys in my apartment complex are jealous and have started looking at bikes themselves. The VP’s assistant at the north school, AY, even borrowed MK’s bike and has been riding it around, much to the chagrin of his wife. Actually, everyone who’s looking at the bikes are married. 1/3rd life crisis, anyone? Anyway, I think I’ve started a trend here.

All this bike buying got me thinking about one of the weirder aspects of Japanese culture: the bosozoku. Bosozoku are biker gangs that cause havoc throughout mainland Japan — they’re usually younger than 20 — the age of adulthood — so they are quite literally above the law. They do everything from street racing at insane speeds to bashing people with lead pipes. Unfortunately, their ageist legal status makes them immune, but they do have quite a bit of entertainment value when they pimp their scooters out.

Or these girls. They wear the “allergy masks” because it keeps them from being identified by the police when they’re causing mayhem.

Maybe we’ll start up a high school teachers’ bosozoku. You know, without the lead pipes. Or the modifications. Or the gang warfare.

I just got back from what is quite probably the most masochistic of all Japanese ordeals (and that’s saying a hell of a lot): the tea ceremony. I have a friend in her 60’s that is the island’s leading tea ceremony expert — people pay up to forty dollars per class to learn from her. She speaks quite literally no English, only speaks incredibly rapid Japanese, and doesn’t dumb her language down for me, so it’s usually extremely difficult for me to understand her. She does cook me awesome dinners every time I come over, though, and she’s incredibly nice, so I do so about once a month.

Last time I went over there was with Katie and Sarah; unfortunately, the intricacies of the tea ceremony were lost on our buffoon gaijin asses, so we spent the entire time bored out of our skulls with our feet asleep sitting in seiza (legs folded under you). Afterwards, she invited us over the next day for dinner and to take pictures in the traditional Oshima costume: the Anko-san. They ended up being terribly cute.

A few days ago, I recieved a note on my desk saying “Call (name) for pictures.” I didn’t really know what this meant, so I waited until I was at the town hall with the other English teachers before I made the call. It turned out it was Tea Ceremony Lady. I stumbled through the conversation in Japanese, and when I hung up and turned around, all of the English teachers were laughing.

Me: “What the hell, guys?”
Iwakura: “I think you are very skilled at Japanese.”

More laughter. Bastards.

Anyway, she invited me over. I arrived, with a vague feeling that I was late for something, and found dinner all covered up on the stove. Unfortunately, I missed the part of the conversation where she said “I’ll be serving you enough food to feed the entire island”, and I ate some crappy yakisoba beforehand. I politely stuffed my belly until I quite literally couldn’t eat anymore, and moved on to the tea ceremony room.

Tea ceremonies are extremely formal occasions, where you are expected to sit in the seiza position the entire time. Wikipedia describes seiza best:

“Those unfamiliar with seiza will likely find that maintaining it for more than a minute or two tends to lead to loss of circulation, with the accompanying ‘pins and needles’ feeling, followed by painful burning sensations, and then eventually complete numbness in the legs. However, the physical discomfort lessens with experience as the circulation of the blood improves.”

Unfortunately, I’m unfamiliar with seiza.

So I went into this masochistic position, and was determined to remain in it for the duration of the ceremony. After about ten minutes, however, I completely lost feeling in my feet, and entertained myself by poking them and marvelling at the fact that I was touching skin that didn’t feel like my own. It gets lonely out here.

After the intricacies and ceremony, I proceeded to try and bring life back into my feet by pounding them against the tatami over and over again. Shocked looks came from those around me, but I told them that my feet were dead and it was all good. They were rather surprised that I couldn’t stand up immediately afterward.

Anyway, I’ll pop some photos up when I get home. I gotta find a new FTP server to host them on. Lata.

I’m going to skip the apologies for not having posted in four months, because I’m not really sorry. This site needs a revamp, and possibly a facelift. Keep your eye out for changes. Any suggestions?

I originally arrived in Japan thirteen months ago. To me, this is amazing; it signifies to me the end of my life as once knew it, and the beginning of something much bigger. It’s sort of a scary thought, actually. I’m branching the hell out; exploring is what I love to do, and what better way than by living elsewhere?

I’ve gone through a lot of really good times and just as many bad times. Culture shock is a bitch, especially when you’re all alone out on a rock with nobody that you can relate to. But you know what? I’m starting to feel a lot more settled now. I’m starting to speak Japanese a hell of a lot better, and I know where to go or what to do if I’m bored. Hell, the ship to Niijima is only 500 yen, and the boat to Kozu is only 1500.

I really like the islands a lot. People here have the mentality that “we’re all in this together”. There’s a certain comraderie amongst islanders that I can’t really explain. I see it everyday on Oshima, and whenever I travel to other islands, peoples’ demeanors shift to a huge extent whenever I tell them where I live. They become more relaxed, more friendly, and more open. When Rob came to Oshima, he asked a souvineer shop if they had a “Tomin Waribiki” (islander’s discount) almost as a joke, but when he told them he was from Niijima, they were happy to give him 10% off.

I think this is because people realize that life here is inconvenient at best, and extremely frustrating and depressing at worst. Everyone that has any sense on these islands leaves when they graduate high school. That’s why over 50% of Oshima is over the age of 65. Because of this, Oshima is a dying island. In 2002, Oshima’s population was 10,000. Now it’s 8,800. Combinis (convenience stores), one of the staples of Japanese life, are notably absent from any of the Izu Islands. We can’t get affordable clothing, shoes, gasoline, or food (all of which are around 30-40% higher in price here). Also, with over 50% of Oshima being over the age of 65, it’s a dying island (the population decreased by about 200 each year). Two years ago, we went from five to four elementary schools. This year, they cut that number down to three. Next year, there will only be two. There just aren’t enough young people here. Tokyo has been trying to solve this problem by sending teachers out here to work in the schools with three-year obligations, hoping that they’ll stay. Unfortunately, I overhear people talking about how much they want to leave more often than not. The turnover rate of teachers here — and on all of the islands — is so high that there’s really no sense of permenance. Without some kind of intervention, Oshima, which has been continually inhabited for the past seven thousand years (with the exception of volcanic eruptions), really has no future.

But Oshima has a lot of wonderful characteristics, not the least of which is the unyieldingly friendly attitude that 99% of the people here posesses. I love going down to Habu Harbor and playing the Habu song on the steel pipes with the wooden mallet. It’s worth noting that in my year here, it’s been the same wooden mallet, and nobody’s stolen it. I love being able to walk down the Row of Houses, a completely traditional Japanese fishing villiage, and stop into the hole-in-the-wall-best-damn-sushi-restaurant-in-the-universe, Nishikawa. On my lunch break, I might pop into the tiny snack shop and pick up some fresh curried karouke.

Whenever I walk into a restaurant or bar, I’m invariably greeted with “Ah, Tyler! Irasshaimase! (welcome)” or “Ah, sensei!” Going to Mag, my favorite bar, is like walking into “Cheers”. The other night I walked in with Daniel, and everyone, even the other patrons, stopped what they were doing to welcome us. One of the guys even shoved everyone down the bar to make room for us. From the most advanced super-toilets on Oshima, to the passing-out-in-the-women’s-bathroom bartender, to extreme streaking, to free drinks and Love Jenga, I could honestly write a book on Mag. Which I very well may do.

Recently, I bought a motorcycle for 30,000 yen (40,200 with registration, insurance and helmet). It’s given me a breath of fresh air that I really needed — something new and exciting. It also gets 340 miles per gallons. Suck it, hybrid drivers. With this bike, I know I’ll be able to access places and see things I’ve never seen before.

Yesterday, we got a new international student. His name is Cameron, and he’s from Washington. He seems pretty cool so far — I think he’ll get on with the students here a lot better than Stein did. Yesterday, I drove to Okata port on the far north side of the island to meet him. Unfortunately, the one percent chance that the ship would not be there won out, and I had to haul ass back to Motomachi port to the south. I was late, so I caught them leaving, and I met up with them at the town office.

Unfortuantely, the last few days have been rather chilly, and the weather has been absolutely horrendous. After we arrived at the office, we began the process of trying to get his gaijin card. Mr. Tanaka, Mr. Iwakura, and Mr. Yoshimura, all of the 1 year + English teachers from Minami were there.

Mr. Iwakura: “So, what do you think of Oshima?”
Cameron: “Oh, I like it very much.”

Mind you, this is about twenty minutes after he got here, on a day with shit weather, and all he’s seen is the run-down port and the old town office.

Me (obviously jokingly): “I hate it here.”

All of the English teachers’ jaws dropped.

Yoshimura: “Really? You hate Oshima?”
Me: “No! It was a joke, really!”
Yoshimura (not convinced): “Hmm… American humor.”

Everyone looked extremely disappointed. I guess being around another American brought out the sarcastic bastard in me. I gotta keep that thing under wraps!

But hey, because my written word is unable to even remotely convey how friendly and interesting Oshima is, I’m going to start putting videos up. I spoke with Paulette last night, and she suggested that I direct my energies towards doing something huge this year. Making films is one of my true loves, so expect to start seeing some episodes of “Sushi and Brimstone” popping up this year. I’m going to try and do about one per week, which should give me enough time to do all the editing and stuff that I need to do. I’ll need to get a wider-angle camera first, so it may be a couple of weeks before I can get to Tokyo and start on this.

I’m really, really glad I’m still here. If I start to fall behind on posting again, start harassing me. Seriously. I love you all.