Category Archives: Living Abroad

Handily Divine

As the shinkansen flashes by on the parallel bridge, a bullet blur humming and thumping like a taiko drum as it bursts forth from the tunnel I take a deep breath and smile, soak it all in. A clear night’s sky, a cool breeze whipping over the bridge and across the rice paddies below, drifting presumably upwards and towards the heaven like burst of light on the hillside that is otherwise known as the Gorilla Golf Centre. That bright beacon of Japanese culture nestled in small valleys and hillsides around Japan. A porch light to a nation of golfing moths.

After the first experience I had with it, I never expected that so shortly after I’d find myself feeling thankful towards it, even impressed by its speed, efficiency and ability.

Oh Japanese health system, who knew you had it in you to be those things?

Thanks to you I get to enjoy a part of Japan that had eluded me before. The beauty of the countryside and the city as I jog, amble, stumble and sweat up and down hills, across bridges and beside rice fields. Occasionally scaring the bejesus out of poor folks as a sweaty foreigner rounds the corner at the exact same instant. Getting them a second time by declaring my surprise in Japanese.

In stark contrast to my first experience of medical treatment going to get my knee fixed couldn’t have been simpler. After a few weeks where my lifelong dodgy knee, a family trait, had begun to play up far more than usual, (walking and driving, two things that had never affected me before made my old man knee flare up all of a sudden) I decided it was about time I got it properly checked out, rather than accepting the family defect for what it was.

So after strolling into the appropriate local hospital (Japan’s smaller establishments are separated by discipline so to some extent you have to diagnose yourself) ostensibly just to make an appointment, I was passing and it’d be easier than doing it by phone with my middling Japanese, I soon found myself snuck into the one gap in the day’s appointment list.

An hour later I found myself in the first doctors office where he recommended an X-ray to check this troublesome knee as well my back. I sighed. This story occured during my last job, one where free time was at a premium. Getting to this local hospital was a logistical nightmare that minus a car involved an hour and a half hour of travel by train and foot. The thought of trekking back and forth for tests didn’t appeal.

The doctor looked puzzled.

“Nah, we’ll do it now. Down the hall on the left.”

Outside an accident and emergency room in the UK this almost never happens.

So… two scans later.

“Your knee is fine.”

“Huh!”

“Your back however… this X-ray shows a normal spine, this is yours. It’s very straight and tight. It’s the source of your pain.”

Two minutes of massage later and my pain magically disappeared.

I asked, “What’s magic in Japanese?”

“Noooo.” He replied, “God hands!”

Love, Hate, Coffee, Kanji and Repeat

I was struck when listening recently to a Radiolab podcast interview with Malcolm Gladwell about his book Outliers that Gladwell and many others attribute a large proportion of genius, or lower down the scale for the rest of us a talent or ability at any given thing to be based on love. A love of the subject that allows an individual to devote endless hours to the pursuit of a goal and in the process put in that magic 10,000 hours that seems to be part and parcel of those world defining successes.

He spoke in particular of the example of Bill Gates, who aside from being the beneficiary of a great deal of luck in regards to his personal circumstances had the unusual desire to log in that 10,000 hours of programming time in the wee hours of the morning simply because it was there, he could and more than anything he simply loved doing it.

When I hear that example I’m envious. Not because I’ve never experienced it, literature as an undergrad felt to me much the same. It came easy and I could never quite understand how the passion I felt for it, the joy of discovering how the engine works, so to speak, could keep me tied to a desk with such ease and yet send others fleeing from the library before a page had even been turned.

Japanese isn’t like that for me. There’s enjoyment there but nothing close to what was hinted at in the interview with Gladwell. It’s not love like the movies. It’s not romantic. I don’t strive on endlessly for love of the brush strokes in a new kanji (Chinese character) or the discovery of some fascinating etymology. I do it because I hate it and love it in equal measure. In truth, the line is rather more fuzzy than all that.

It feels to me like an unhealthy pursuit. This love, because in some fashion it must be something I feel for me to keep on going back to it, isn’t so much unrequited as manipulative, even cruel. It lets me in a little bit at a time, gives me a sense of elation upon understanding even a tiny fraction of it only to swiftly turn its cheek to me and ‘hmmmph’ like a girl in a Ghibli movie.

She’s a stubborn little thing the Japanese language.

She’s not always like that though; sometimes she relaxes and smiles upon me. The hate, the frustration at having mastery of a language below that of a toddler from time to time subsides. I forget, for just an evening how many long hours it has taken to get here. The conversation with non-English speaking friends flows like wine (often alcohol flows in a concurrent stream), jokes pass back and forth and all seems well with the world.This mountain of a task before me feels like it has been at least partially scaled. The base seems far away and the peak is actually in sight. For once the summit is not hidden behind clouds and wisps of fog. It’s a target as clear and crisp as morning air. I can almost touch it.

Inevitably though, the thought always returns. I was foolish to feel competent for even a moment because as soon as I feel that way she turns and drops me on my arse again, surrounded by myriad forms and compounds, a gaggle of laughing school kids rolling around, sides split from the sheer hilarity of my efforts.

And just when I think it can’t possibly be worth it anymore more, that some mountains are too painful, too perilous to climb, she hands me a coffee and leads me back to my text book. She tells me one day it’ll be better, I’ll understand her moods, how she likes to play, how she acts in times of sorrow and stress, the subtleties at play when she’s conflicted. When that day comes she might even introduce me to her parents.

When I meet them maybe I’ll finally understand why she’s such a jumbled, beautiful and infuriating mess.

I still won’t understand why I keep going back to her though.

Sentimental Sake:The Perils of a Late Night Beer Run

Every time I buy beer at precisely 9:55 in the evening I feel nostalgic, almost wistful. I begin to think about all the things I’ve done with my life, the myriad of things I’ve dreamt about that I haven’t even begun to get close to.

I start to plan and plot the months and years ahead. I make promises to myself. I challenge myself to do more with my time here in Japan, to take risks, travel and throw myself into the culture, to spend my money on something innately Japanese, to save more money for the day I eventually go back to England.

All these things pile up around my head as I make my way to the checkout, hand over my points card (it’s the second Japanese economy), exchange pleasantries with the staff who now know my face well enough to smile and bow from three tills away, hand over my cash, drop the six pack of Japanese lager into my reusable shopping bag and make my way to do the door wondering why all Japanese supermarkets have to play the tune of ‘Old Lang Syne’ at closing time.

Then I open my first can and forget every single resolution I just made in the ten minutes it took me to walk to the supermarket and back for a few beers after work.

Until the next time I’m greeted by an alcohol free fridge at least…

Nyaaaa-go: a Tale of Mice and Capital Punishment

“Nyaaa-go!” Screamed the slightly portly, middle-aged man dressed as a cat, his brightly coloured t-shirt somewhat detracting from his fearsome countenance. “Nyaa-go,” repeated the three women dressed as mice in a slightly higher pitched tone who then promptly collapsed into well-rehearsed giggles.

This was the opening act in the auditorium at the local International Friendship Fair.

The moral of said story, at first glance, appeared to be quite simple; if you’re a mouse and you meet a cat that says, “Nyaaa-go,” start running as fast as your wee little mouse legs can carry you.

Evidently, having missed this advice from the mouse teacher earlier in the play this performance wasn’t about to be about the savage mauling and devouring of three little mice as a hundred or so children looked on in terror as prop blood squirted from the stage, tiny mice bodies twitching in the spotlight.

No this was much lighter Japanese fare. The motto essentially being, if you overload your unknown foe with kindness, in this case more fruit than he can possible carry, you will have successfully prevented them through your excess of gift giving from snapping your tiny mouse bones. Saved from your ignorance by sweetness. I took it to mean, if a stranger offers you sweeties, offer them a whole advent calendar and there’s no way they’ll do anything untoward to you, that’d just be rude.

As the tale of the practical, moral-phobic mice drew to a close it was time for the high school debate teams to take the stage. Obviously, with this being the International Friendship Fair, one cute event would just roll into the next.

So the ‘The Death Penalty in Japan’ it was.

Actually, this was why I was in the audience. Specifically the front row, feeling probably about half as nervous as the eight teenagers on stage who were about to take to their feet one by one to debate for and against a moral quandary that would no doubt send there heads spinning in circles. Not because of the ethical aspect but rather the fact that it was all to be delivered in English. Hence my presence as a judge. Not an especially well titled one mind you.

“We have ______ san, the Principal of _________ school, then ___________ a undergrad at___________ studying English and finally… Matt!’

My nerves and embarrassment of that particularly stunning introduction aside, I should relay something to you just to give a sense of how nerve-wrackingly difficult this event would be for the kids.

One day, having spent the past three hours studying Japanese in a coffee shop in town I strode into my local bar feeling far too pleased with myself for the short lived burst of effort and energy in a more studious direction. Immediately I was met by the following sentence from a non-English speaking Japanese friend, “Masshu, Masshu, according to this Russian newspaper aliens are coming to Japan next year!”

Awww bollocks.

I hadn’t the faintest idea how to even begin discuss a subject like this in Japanese. I know the words for Alien, UFO and space but I certainly can’t discuss the finer points of alien abduction or conspiracy theories in Japanese.

So now think about these kids. Yes, if they are taking part in a National English Debate Competition it’s fair to say they’ve been born into a certain amount of privilege. Yet that doesn’t lessen my sympathy for the task they faced. Some of these kids were still clearly streets ahead of their fellow teammates; due to time spent abroad or international parents some kids could run linguistic rings around the others. Though inevitably it would all boil down to their own hard work, as our judgement was to be based largely on the strength of their arguments, not linguistic merit.

Now even if one or two teenagers particularly stood out due to their linguistic prowess I was thoroughly impressed with them all. The argument alone is hard enough but finding the words to express oneself eloquently in another language is incredibly tough. To do so in front of a crowd is brave and admirable.

If I had been similarly confronted by this situation as a teenager or even now I think my response would be the same.

Just shout, “Nyaaa-go” and make a dash for stage left.

Eikaiwa: The Art of Teaching off the Menu aka Fast Food English

Mine is a funny old business. I am and have been for the last two years an English teacher in Japan. Specifically a teacher in the permanently gaffe filled, artfully mismanaged land of English Conversation schools otherwise known in Japan as Eikaiwa. It can be and often is a wonderful job yet inevitably as all jobs do, it has its downside.

That downside is a problem that the industry as a whole has struggled to solve. Coincidently it’s also a problem that Japan as a whole has struggled to solve. You see, while Japan is filled with people with a passion for travel, foreign cuisine and all things Lady Gaga; not that many people actually want to speak English.

Well it’s not that they don’t want to speak the language, it’s that they don’t want to study it. You see, the Japanese system of teaching English in schools is so utterly old fashioned and in many cases remarkably dull (the approach, not the teachers themselves. Like anywhere there’s inspirational ones and ones that ought to have been wheeled into retirement long ago) that the sight of anything that looks vaguely challenging on a whiteboard elicits whines of, “muzukashii” (difficult) or, “muri” (impossible, can’t do it, argggh!). More often than not this terror is followed by understanding all of two minutes later.

However, the initial fear is what most students tend to remember. Not the success that followed but the thought of failure that preceded it. Years of endless grammar study, direct translations and filling in the gaps has led to generation after generation of Japanese who believe that anything that might resemble a classroom approach is simply beyond them and certainly not enjoyable nor necessarily effective.

Japanese schools most notably achieve this utter lack of confidence by focusing the bare minimum on conversation. Which in turn leads many people in Japan to the English Conversation School, where we do our best to pick up the pieces.

The problem however then becomes something different altogether. Simply put, we’re not an academic institution or a school in any normal sense of the word. In fact when one considers the ubiquitous nature of Eikaiwas in Japan our business probably has more in common with a mismanaged fast food chain than anything else.  This is because while we all promise the same product, we go about preparing it in a variety of ways.

The reason for this isn’t entirely the fault of the industry itself (admittedly a fair chunk is), but rather the demands which students place upon it. For example, particularly older students wish to study in the same class as their friends regardless of the vast differences in the English ability. Much the same happens with children and while in some cases that age difference or ability gap makes not one jot of difference, if you’re using a text book of any kind then you’re going to be spending your time flitting from student to student trying to help them with their individual problems as opposed to teaching a whole class together.

To make use of the fast food analogy again, it’s like people walking into a McDonalds only to order a family chicken bucket, a flame grilled whopper and a side of hors d’oeuvres. We’re continually demanded to teach off the menu.

Everyone is making different demands of the industry and requiring it to cater to their particular needs, but continue to treat learning English as if it is a passive act, one in which they themselves will place all the work on the teacher’s shoulders to individually prepare.

Now most of us are happy to do that. I’m not saying that we’re perfect, like any industry we have our stars and our not so shining examples. But by and large we’ll do our best to cater to the students’ various (and they are various) whims, wishes, desires and dreams.

Yet, the one thing that makes all the difference is rarely addressed; the ingredients we work with. One visit a week to an English conversation school is never going to bring you to fluency unless you put in the hours and hours of self-study required.  We don’t care how you do it, watch movies, listen to the abundant free lessons provided by NHK, pick up a dirt cheap copy of any number of text books, use the internet, watch TV shows (my fastest progressing student is a twelve year old Hannah Montana fan) make twitter friends or listen to music, just show up having done something. Because if you bring us something, anything at all, we can teach you relevant, interesting English, the grammar and language you need to express yourself.

However, if you put all the effort of buying a Big Mac into your study of the English language, don’t be surprised when all you get is indigestion.

Gokiburi: On Madness and Mushi

If only my first sightings of the little buggers had been the last. But alas, the first sighting was to be a sign of things to come. Two of the little blighters in short order. One scurrying across the top of my sink, in broad daylight no less! No sooner do I open the cupboard under said sink that I spot his fifth cousin twice removed, next to the can of bug spray designed to kill him. Impudent little git. Yes, yes, your kind may be able to survive a nuclear apocalypse but to set up camp next to the one thing that can kill you, aside from the bottom of my shoe that is, screams of an audacity that must soon be corrected. You may not long lay in the cracks and corners of my home, amidst the damp and the dark, sipping Kirin and smoking Peace or Hope brand cigarettes like some long fermented salary man propping up the snack bar near my house (I bet you’re friends with the guy who sings Enka every Thursday!). No, this can mean only one thing… a trip to the supermarket… oh yes, the horror!

Indeed, they knew you were coming. With the thick, viscous humidity descending on the town as summer approached you knew your time was at hand and so did the lowly shelf stacker at my local supermarket. He had already brought forth the munitions, placed them in an aisle by the door, handily signposted it and offered weapons for all tastes. There’s the roach hotels for those with patience and those who underestimate your wit. There’s air fresheners designed to lure you to your death and those to repel you. It is possible I bought both. Then finally there is the giant, whopping can of bug spray with a nozzle of death just for you dear Gokiburi-san. For you are no western cockroach dear foe. No, you live freely in these lands. One can keep a clean kitchen (as hard as that is in the land of endless recycling) and still you will crawl through the gaps of my ageing a-pa-to (apartment)!

Then you struck again, a different variety somehow. Not the small and brown kind that exist in their multitudes in the Izu Peninsula’s hazy August but a big, black beast; a true adversary. Yet, you were lazy in your hiding place, concealed beneath the plastic picture rail in my living room. Perhaps you were mocking me, letting a single long leg dangle into sight while at first unawares I continued to talk on the phone. But see you I did and speechifying like a deceased crocodile hunter I soon was, my grammar and syntax slowly evolving into something more green and alien from a galaxy far, far away. Confusing it was. So I chased you with phone still at my ear, a listener to our duel believing me suddenly (perhaps not so suddenly) mad, while in my left hand I held the can of aerosolized death.  You scurried down my wall after the initial strike. I caught you in my sights as you dashed beneath my desk. For a brief moment I feared I had lost you but soon enough I had you cornered… in the corner. One blast of spray was not enough, still you limped on weighed down by your impending doom. A second blast of poison proved insufficient still but with the third and final impact you were done for.

Still it was not enough for me, remaining in the throes of the hunt but lacking the taxidermy skills to stuff and mount your head to my wall I settled for the modern equivalent. Instagram.

You were a worthy opponent so I shall afford you due respect, you were here first after all. Yet, I am American born and British raised and I shall bring to bear all my worst colonial instincts upon your kind.

You have been warned.

And no amount of nineteen-eighties propaganda movies shall quell my wrath!

The fine artwork towards the top of this post was created by Max Joseph, he blogs here and tweets here. Check him out!

Also, for those who are curious, ‘mushi’ is Japanese for insect.