April 13th, 2024Kyle’s Rant
Japan is a country of juxtapositions. A Fuji photo booth sitting next to a plethora of vending machines offering porn magazines, smokes and booze in the middle of a rice paddy with a handful of workers and nobody else around sums it up for me.
My first interaction with the Japanese folk was as a wee boy of four out to sea with my dad and we happened upon a box-netting vessel just off the northern coast of New Zealand.
This led to some high seas swapsies with knives, food and ice. And when we arrived home Mum had to try to interpret how to cook a “Boil in the Bag” meal. This technology hadn’t made its way to NZ in the early seventies and we marvelled as she tipped the hot noodles on the plate. I must admit it was probably my first encounter with a noodle.
My next rendezvous with the culture was during the late eighties, this time as skipper selling to the Japanese market, making a killing and entertaining a bunch of Japanese for a weekend.
These fellas came over to see how we caught the fish and instruct us on how they liked to receive the fish. But the lessons were short and we mainly showed them the intricate secrets of the inside of the Houhora Tavern.
When I met Donna, a declared Japanophile, in the nineties, I went to the travel agent to enquire and pique my interest on the Land of the Rising Sun, but they had nothing, not even a brochure to give me.
So, I did my first of 10 or so trips to Japan in 2003 and it was a different country then. I stood head and shoulders above the crowd and one little fella yelled to his mother while pointing at me “nan da are”, which loosely translated means “WTF is that”.
She hurried him away from the foreigner.
At first I was too afraid to go anywhere without Donna as it all looked the same, and in those times they spoke very little English. My language skills were also limited – I spoke enough Japanese to order a beer and then a few pints later, find the toilet.
But the further into the sake we got the more we connected with the locals, coupled with a riveting karaoke rendition of Danny Boy which somehow bought a bit of praise and respect.
In that short amount of time since 2003 things have changed, Google Translate ensures a relatively smooth interaction. Not like when I asked a rather surprised massage therapist to be my wife for an hour. All I wanted was to send my wife down in an hour – for a massage.
The kids have grown a lot taller on average and it seems that half the population of Australia is over there at any one time, so foreigners aren’t such a mystery. But it is still a special place in my heart.
We leave the big cities to the tourists and head to the country where not a lot of foreigners have found our little city of Matsuyama.
The culture certainly hasn’t changed a lot, the bars are still a fabulous way of engaging with the locals. I have even found one bar that only allows one patron in at a time – a fair dinkum cardboard and wood box that the dude sets up every night.
And cherry blossom viewing is amazing. If you were to place 100,000 people into a park, ply them with alcohol for an entire day in Australia there would be trouble.
But over there, no worries. There is no disrespect or fighting and harmony is all around as you look for the perfect blossom.
I am now a Japanophile rant over…
Fun fact. Kara means empty and oke is short for orchestra. So karaoke is empty music, or music without words. Te means hand. Karate. Lesson over.
