Small Faces, Russians, Redefining Fun, Kyushu Folk, and the Truth About Kimonos

The verse in the Bible, "one cannot serve two masters" does not apply in this context.  Here's why.  I juggle two bosses just fine.  I have a boss-boss who allows me legal status here in Japan by serving as my work sponsor, giving enough money to pay my rent and bills.  I also have my mayor-boss whom I report to in Rikuzentakata.  I'm a libra.  Balance is my middle name.  This arrangement works for all.

I'm not dumb.  When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no".  That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life.  I don't actually drive those beasts.  I ride on the back.

I've known my boss-boss for over three years.  I like him.  I trust him.  I appreciate him.  This week it all clicked.  Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.

My boss-boss works hard and plays hard.  As in, works really hard and plays really hard.  This is my new mantra.  It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard.  I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks.  I don't play.  In fact, I almost don't play at all.  This must stop.

Why?  It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics.  Jerry is an excellent rider.  I trusted him completely.  His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him.  Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act.  She trusted me, I trusted him.  I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.

We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies.   We climbed and descended.  The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high.  I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011.  The good news is I've seen the light.  The bad news is it's taken way too long.  I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard.  My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.

I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent.  I was in a good mood.  It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me.  (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated.  I was in a good zone.

I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say.  Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed.  Today he's all smiles.

"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What?  I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is.  After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right?  Is that possible?  Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you.  Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice.  Let's be clear.

Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body.  I want to be just like her at that age.  To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes.  She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine.  I enter room 210 and say hello.  She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple.  "This is for you," she says.  I'm confused.  This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro.  I have to change.  You have to leave.  This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.

Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe. 
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do."  And then, "Hmmm.  You're fat," and there's another tug.  I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest.  "Your face is so small."

I feel like a sausage.  I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk.  I can't breathe.  How am I supposed to eat?  Sit down?  Walk?

And there it is.  I'm not.  Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono?  Have I just solved a cultural mystery?  I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe.  Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling.  Soon she's done.
"There," she says.  "Go look at yourself in the mirror.  You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait.  What?  That's a compliment.  Right?

Small faces are a big deal here in Japan.  When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven.  Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces.  I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it.  Or so I'm told.  That I evidently have a small face is less the point.  It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.

Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu.  He is my height and weighs twice as much.  His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball.  The paint color eggshell might describe its hue.  He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth.  During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine.  We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.

Mr. K is 1/32 Russian.  As is Mr. T, another big guy here.  They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip.  Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.

I find this fascinating.  In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed.  Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently.  Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't?  I ask this out loud.

A discussion ensues.

"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective.  We speak our minds," I'm told.  "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"

Do they?  Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts?  I contemplate this and find myself stuck.  Certainly some do.  But, collectively? 

The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it.  We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is.  We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they?  They didn't ask for help.  Neighbor didn't help neighbor.  Am I right?"

Holy shit.  He is.  I open my mouth.  He holds up his hand.  I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another.  You clean my house, I'll clean yours.  We wouldn't suffer in silence."

Suffering in silence.  How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality?  This sentence could go on a poster.  Tohoku:  Proud to Suffer in Silence.

Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating.  I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level.  "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand.  Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to:  what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable.  Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.

What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have.  You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick.  Let the excitement continue.

The 2,000 Kilometer Trek Across Japan For Tohoku

For those not used to the metric system, 2,000 kilometers is around 1,200 miles.  That's how far my husband and I drove in a 1956 Ford F-100 last week.  Cart before the horse--again.  Let me back way up.

When I first came back to Japan in late March 2011 to volunteer with post-disaster relief work I didn't know of this man who would play such an important role in my life.  Fast forward six months, an ex-boyfriend living in Tokyo tells me, "Got someone I want you to meet."  I'm not thrilled by these meetings he springs on me, mostly because my ex and I are just learning to get along again after a 20 year "we're not speaking to each other" phase and I'm not convinced I can read him.  Born gambler that I am, I agree to go meet mystery man and my life is forever changed.

It's September 2011 and I need a visa sponsor in order to stay in Japan to continue my work.  It's not supposed to be this hard to find a sponsor, is it?  Offers fall through, people who swore they would move mountains for me don't, and I'm annoyed and angry and confused.  Mostly angry, though.  When my ex tells me "this is the guy" I mentally roll my eyes.  But, (exhale) I'm desperate.  So, on this fateful day I plunk myself down in front of this man and start talking.

I'm not six sentences into my request and he says it.  "You need a visa sponsor?  You want to keep working up in Tohoku?  Sure.  No problem."

That's it?  Yes.  That's it.  We became fast friends.  I think the world of this man.  Truly.

And, it's precisely because I think so highly of this man that when he tells me he's loaning me his 1956 Ford F-100 for me to continue my PR work in Rikuzentakata I don't dare say no.  We go over details, me making sure, twice and three times, "You're really okay giving up this truck?" and getting the same answer every time.  "You won't blend up there in this thing.  Not that you do now," and here he guffaws.  "The truck itself is PR.  People will know it's you, and people will know what you're doing, and this thing alone will get reporters up there."  He's right about the part this truck will not blend.  Reporters?  I'm not convinced.  "I'll put a giant sticker on the doors with a saying....something about Rikuzentakata.  That should make it doubly hard to miss."

At the end of this conversation, I have agreed to drive this truck from Kyushu, the southern island of Japan, all the way up to Rikuzentakata, some 2,000 kilometers away.  By myself.

Which doesn't happen.  I don't dare drive this thing alone.  Too many men cried foul, or more specifically, "You're a girl!  You can't drive that thing all by yourself!" not mincing words.  I want to spat, "Don't be an ass" but don't because I've just been told by my visa sponsor that this truck should "probably not be driven over 80 kilometers (50 miles) per hour."  You've got to be kidding me.  "And, don't break down on the road because we don't have any spare parts."  Right.  This is going to be a very long drive.

So, I recruit my husband to make the drive with me.  He's up for these types of adventures--one of the many reasons I married him, and we embark on this trip, our second honeymoon.  With one remaining request to my sponsor.  "Does the truck have a GPS?" I ask him.  "No.  Why?"  Here, I ponder how forthcoming my answer should be, but decide he will find humor in my honesty decide to come out with it.  "My husband doesn't like the way I give directions."  It's true I have this tendency to say things like, "Oh, you wanted to turn .... there," pointing to the road on the left as we whiz by.  (My husband hates this.)  "I'll get you a GPS," my sponsor is spot on.  "Otherwise you'll fight."  I didn't actually say that we'd fight but I choose to compliment him on his keen skills of observation and graciously accept the free GPS.

And so we drive.
And he's right.  This truck does not blend.  Cars that blitz past us slow down, gawk at the truck, read the sign and wave.  And take photos.  And roll down their windows yelling, "Hang in there!" and "Good luck!" and "We're still thinking of you!"  A guy on a Harley passes us and gives us a thumbs up.  This happened all the time.

At rest stops every hour and a half (because this thing was a beast to drive) we'd inevitably come back to the truck with people snapping photos, looking in the windows.  When we'd walk up, there would be silence at first, and then some brave soul would ask if either of us spoke Japanese.  I had this terrible cold that week so I sounded horrid but covering my mouth squawked out answers to all of their questions.  And listened to their stories.  This too happened over and over.

It took us four whole days to drive from Kyushu to Rikuzentakata.  We didn't fight.  We made it.  I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.  My sponsor is right about how much press this truck will get, and in turn the city I work in.  I'm grateful all over again.

"We are the nicest people in Japan."

Tucked away in the foot hills of Mt. Aso in Kyushu is a village.  Called Yamaga, it's written as "mountain deer."  True to its name, deer pop in and out of the town along with, or so the stories go, boars and monkeys.  Here, you will see the quintessential old Japan.  It's quaint, beautiful, elegant in its simplicity, and according to the 70-plus year old man I met this weekend, here you will find the nicest Japanese anywhere.  I'm fully aware of the impact of that statement.  Them's fightin' words, if you ask me.  Then he tells me the story, and for the umpteenth time this year, I'm speechless all over again.  I can only agree with him.  "Yes, here live the nicest people in Japan."

It all starts with a conversation he and I are having.  Standing next to the 70-plus year old local legend is one of his many "disciples" who happens to be the fourth generation president of an artisan family making Japanese fans. 

The elderly master "we all want to emulate" (the artist-president says) digs through his bag.  I assume he's looking for business cards or something of the sort.  He pulls out his datebook and cell phone, starts skimming through the pages, and evidently finding the number looks over to his disciple and says, "Got to make this call."
"The swallow?" the artist says back.
"Yeah."

I have no idea what this conversation is about and am about to take my leave when the master says to the artist, "Tell her."
"About the swallow?"
"Right," and on cue, he starts talking into the phone.
"What's up with the swallow?" I ask the artist-fanmaker, and this is the story he tells me.

The buildings in Yamaga are old.  Big beams protrude out from under the tiled roofs, and the plaster walls are whitewashed.  Underneath one such roof in the corner between the beam and the wall was a swallow's nest.  Eggs hatched, baby swallows chirped and the locals celebrated.  More life.
"We notice these things," the artist says.
"Not like people in Tokyo."  Ouch.  Enter the master, having recently concluded his "swallow business."
"Right," he says.  "Not like those in Tokyo and Osaka.  They're not human.  Stupid people.  They wouldn't know if their neighbor was dead in the apartment next to them.  You know that, right?"
I do.  I have heard stories and read articles about bill collectors coming to apartments and after repeated visits with no answers finally get the police involved, only to find a skeleton in the bed, having been there clearly for months.  None of the neighbors noticed their neighbor's absence, although many complained of an odd smell.
"Here, see, we notice these things.  I tell you, if a cat died a kilometer from here, we'd all know about it.  Right?"  The master asks the artist.
"Right."
"Did you finish the story?"
"No.  Not yet."
"How far did you get?"
"That we knew there were babies."
"So, see," the master turns to me.  "These babies, right?  We would all watch them with their beaks pointed upwards and making these noises."  He looks up at the sky, puckers his lips and starts making chirping noises.  I try not to grin.  "And then, then, the swallows stop coming to the nest.  We're all assuming the swallow parents died and so we stand around wondering what to do, right?"  I nod.
"Then, the sparrows arrive."
"Sparrows?  Sparrows or swallows?"  I want to make sure I have my birds straight.
"Sparrows."
"But, I thought they were swallow babies."
"See?"  He's pleased I've made the connection.
"They are swallow babies.  Sparrows came out of nowhere and started feeding these swallow babies.  I had to make this call because we're telling everyone we know.  People need to know this."  Period.  End of story.  I don't know that I've ever seen a chest actually swell with pride before.  Standing in front of me, the master's chest expanded.  It's amazing to watch, really.  His chest grew.  I kid you not.
"Even the sparrows are nice here," the artist says.
"Everyone here, everything here is nice."  The master agrees.  "We are the nicest people in Japan."
He starts shaking his finger at me.  "Don't go to Tokyo.  That's not Japan.  You need to be here.  This is real.  This is Japan."  I smile and nod.

The real Japan.  I've been thinking about this story and nodding every since.  Something about this story makes sense.  Strangers helping strangers.  Sparrows adopting swallows.  It's beautiful.  That the townspeople of Yamaga take every opportunity to tell their neighbors of the sparrows' generosity is a whole new kind of beauty.

Pass it on.