A Family Trip, and I Get a New Name

Last week Japan celebrated one of its most important annual holidays, Obon, or the Festival of the Dead. Most families gather to remember their ancestors, and there are a great many festivals. One of my English conversation class students (Oikawa-san, who always comes with her 4yr grand daughter Haruna) invited me to join her family at the Nishi Monai Bon Odori festival in Akita prefecture. As most of my JET friends were travelling and my Japanese friends were busy with their families, I was happy for the invite.

The family (grandfather, grandmother, two daughters, and grand daughter) picked me up in their minivan and we began the 2 hour drive north along a curvy, mountain road. We stopped briefly at a convenience store for a bathroom break and to pick up Japanese fast-food, more specifically three kinds of sushi, Japanese pickles, fruit, and cold bottles of green tea. Snacking comfortably in the very backseat, I had distinct memories of family trips as a kid in the same minivan backseat , but with burgers, fries and large, sweating paper cups of Coke as nourishment instead. The family peppered me with questions, mostly in Japanese but using some English when they could. The spry grandfather,a lacquer artist, was especially keen to talk, and we conversed about a wide range of topics such as the population of North Carolina, the situation in Israel/Lebanon, the Japanese military, my recent vacation to the Philippines, the family's lacquerware shop, NASA space shuttles, and the possibility of a MLB World Series Champion vs. Japan League Champion match-up. The unbelievably cute 4yr-old entertained me with 4yr-old antics, slipped me a few gummi-bears and caramels from her candy stash, and asked the grandfather to lighten up when the conversation became too serious for her liking. I chatted too with with oldest daughter, who lives in Tokyo and speaks English quite well, but she passed me endless containers of sushi and other delights so our conversation was well interrupted by my noshing (After a primary refusal, I find it impossible to say "no" to 2nd and 3rd offerings of food...).

The festival, which centers around its Bon Odori (Dance of Obon) was quite interesting, though my ignorance of its 400yr old origins made it not nearly as special as my inclusion in the Oikawa family's attendance. A long line of people dressed in patchwork kimonos, all with their faces completely masked by black shrouds or peculiar shaped rice straw hats (the name in Japanese is "kasa", which means umbrella), marched and danced slowly and repetitively around fires in the street while old traditional songs blared from loud speakers. Merely standing and watching with the Oikawa family gave me a brief yet refreshing sense of inclusion, something I had not felt in some time.

As the rather unvaried dancing came to a close and the 4yr-old's cotton-candy high wore off, we returned to the car sweating and fanning ourselves in the stifling August night. Again we made a pit-stop at a market before beginning the long drive home. The grandfather returned with two bottles of sake, one as a gift for me, and the other to be drunk on the return trip.

In the back seat again, he liberally poured into little plastic cups, and told me of his love for rice wine. With each sip, his English became better and he at one point declared "If there was no sake, I would die!". Too, he expressed his gratitude for sharing the wine with him. Living in a house full of women, he claimed to be constantly henpecked, and even went so far as to call me his new son. Upon hearing this, the grandmother turned around from the front seat and in a manner that was both polite and curt, told me: "You are NOT our son, but you are welcome in our home anytime. Please come soon". The grandfather mostly ignored her and then began to consider a combination of kanji characters to represent my name . I told him of the serveral I had already received from other Japanese folks, but he seemed to dislike them. After some deliberation and more tiny cups of sake, he wrote down three characters of my new name (the Japanese pronunciation of my name has four syllables: Ma-i-ke-ru), though apologizing for his indecision on the fourth and final character. He explained the first three and why he felt they represented me. Though he had known me for several hours only, he believed me to be a powerful person and thus had selected "horse" for the first character. Not just a horse, but a grand horse--thus the second character means "great". He also believed me to be a fast learner, and and showed me a third kanji which means as such. He then put his hand on my shoulder and declared in English "You are a great person, a great horse, your mind is clever, you are....a thoroughbred!" He again apologized for the lack of the 4th kanji, but preferred to wait until his mind was clear to choose the final piece. I told him I was pretty happy with thoroughbred. He promised, "when you come to my house, I will make you a hanko" (a personal seal with one's kanji, which is used in place of signatures in Japan).

The 2hr journey home ended too quickly. Though it was nearly 1a.m. when we arrived at my apartment, I begrudgingly climbed out of the comfortable and familiar backseat. I had not enough words to thank them properly for all their kindness, and yet they replied with open invitations to visit their home and lacquer painting lessons. How could I say no?

Afternoon in Tokyo

Nearly forgot to recount the interesting day I had in Tokyo just before leaving for the Philippines.

Spent the afternoon with a friend who I met during JET orientations, and who now lives not far from Shinjuku, one of the busiest sections of Tokyo. Took a walk through a park in Koenji to people watch, and was not disappointed. A large number of people were out walking/carrying their dogs, some half of which were what I call "accessory dogs" and were wearing some kind of outfit. In fact, on the edge of the park, we passed a dog salon/dog boutique, offering hair colorings, cuts, clothing, and accessories.

A lot of practicing musicians as well, including two young guys jamming Robert Johnson's "Sweet Home Chicago" and my favorite, an old guy in running garb belting out blues tunes with his steel guitar and harmonica.



Afterwards, jumped on a train down to one of the city's amusement parks. [Trains are excellent spots for people-watching as well, I tried not to stare at the 6 year-olds riding solo, and the 50-something suits reading manga/comics and pornography on their way home]. At the amusement park, we had a short, but exhilirating ride on Thunder Dolphin, a rollercoaster that races past Tokyo Dome and seemingly twists and turns between the skyscrapers of Tokyo (and actually passes through hole in one building). Other riders in the line carried "Jet-coaster Stamp Books" and checked another one off in their quest to ride all the coasters in Japan. When we finally made it to the front of the queue, we unsuccessfully pleaded with the ride operators to allow us to wait for the next train so we could ride in the front car. Absolutely not. Stay in line, gaijin.

In the evening we had a beer at a "Standing Bar", a joint with no visible seating options and built almost completely out of bright, white plastic. The narrow room looked more like a spaceship corridor than a pub. We later found out there was some couches upstairs, but we were denied access--"Ladies only" said the employee. Moments later,we watched a group of four Japanese men walk upstairs, unimpeded. Japanese only, perhaps.

Scuba

I hadn't been scuba diving since seven years ago in Australia, but the the 37 dive shops on Boracay Island enticed me to try again. I was a little nervous to be honest, but some young guys from the Blue Mango dive center promised to give me a free refresher course so I signed up. The first day I was the only customer so Mike the dive master was able to check me out thoroughly on the deck of the Jack Nelson. My first breaths underwater were deep and rapid, and for the first minute no matter how much air I sucked, it wasnt enough. Almost returned to the surface. But then, I started seeing fishes and corals and soon forgot all about breathing. Seconds later, I was so engrossed with life under the sea that I forgot completely about the surface world as well. Suddenly, there weren't any people or phones or birds or books or trees or tricycles. There was only ocean water, sunlight streaming through it, and plethora of things I couldn't believe I never realized existed.



The first day Mike and I did two nearly hour-long dives in shallow water (5-8 meters) in La Laguna and saw so many things I can' t remember them all. Corals, fishes of all shapes, sizes and colors, starfish, sea cucumbers, and my favorites, a pipe fish and a clouded moray eel.



The second day I did only one dive, but it was spectacular. On a reef called Friday's Rock, great big dog snapper cruised over us while we checked out the reef below. Clownfish (aka Nemo) everywhere, an unbelievable lionfish, a literal garden of dancing garden eels (you have to lie really still on the bottom so they dont retreat into their holes), a mantis shrimp, and again a great many things I've forgotten the names of.



The photos are not mine, but courtesy of the internet.

Pleasure seeker

No shortage of things to do on Boracay, or ways to spend your money. Of course, it's easy enough to do absolutely nothing as well. Down on the boardwalk, the locals are constantly offering their goods and services to any foreigner who walks by:



You want go sailing, sir? We go snorkeling, sir?
You want oil massage, sir?
You want try jet ski, sir? How about banana boat, sir?
You need new sunglasses, sir? I have Rolexes sir.
Please come in for some lunch sir.
Have you tried kite boarding, sir?
Horseback riding, sir? ATV, you try sir?



I wouldn't say the guys are pushy, politely determined perhaps. I noticed no matter how many times I said "yes" (massages, sailing/snorkeling, sunglasses) or "no" (Rolexes, jet skis, ATVs, kite boarding), each day the same guys, though recognizing me, proceeded as if I was a new customer, as if we had no exchange yesterday or the day before. Every single day I was there, one guy offered his jet ski, and every time I told him I would rather go sailing--yet it never phased him, the next day he just came back with "How about today sir? You try jet ski today, sir?"




I got hooked on sailing while I was there, though I didnt learn much about operating the boat. I was content to sit on the webbing between the hull and the outrigger with my feet splashing in the 85 degree water. One afternoon we went to a shallow lagoon with a nice reef an snorkelled for a couple hours. While playing near the boat, a a guy in a small row boat paddled up, hawking ice cream from his on-board cooler. I wasn't really hungry, but was so impressed with his gumption to make a few pesos that I bought a few anyway.

Chicken fight

Filipinos, like Panamanians, love cock-fighting and the gambling that goes with it. After seeing several brutal live bouts in while in Panama, I vowed to never watch again. However, while waiting out the typhoon in my hotel room and flipping channels on the TV, I came across not only live broadcast matches, but a cockfighting sportscenter of sorts, with fight highlights, statistics, and the career earnings for each bird. I didnt watch for long, but later realized they probably dont have a loss column on the stat sheet. You lose, you're dead. The sport seems vicious, but after the "Don't read this." post, how can I criticize?

Boracay Overview

A bumpy 1 hour flight from Manila in a prop plane landed me in Caticlan, the closest airport to Boracay. From the tiny airport, a short ride in a "tricycle" took me to the boat station. The tricycles are actually motorbikes with makeshift, covered sidecars attached--the local taxi. They can oft be seen carrying as many as 6 passengers...



From the boat station, its just a 40 cent/15 minute ride to Boracay, where I took another trike and finally arrived at Frendz Resort, one of the hundreds of lodging options on the island.



Boracay is quite small actually, I think about 7km long--you can sail around it in less than an hour. It is affected by a strange dynamic in that the huge influx of foreign wealth has little physical separation from the local poverty. Mere meters from the poshest resorts and condos, are locals living in shacks and homes made out of anything they can find. A minute's stroll from the main boardwalk (really just a sandy path between the palms/beach and the long, long row of hotels, restaurants, shops, and bars), will find you in a dilapidated neighborhood or next to a swamped basketball court filled with garbage.



The locals are not really locals, but came from other surrounding islands for employment when the money started to roll in. The original inhabitants, for unknown-to-me reasons, were pushed out, or to the inner depths of the island. The few I saw (easily distinguished by their much darker skin) were frail mothers who came down to the boardwalk at night with their infants to sit in front of the nice resorts and beg for money. The locals who do have tourism jobs (cooks, shop managers, bartenders, maids, sailboat captains, sunglass and wristwatch vendors, etc) work for a couple dollars a day which supports their families on Boracay, or on their home islands.



The island is developed, with more resorts and condos and golf courses being built, but it seems only on its edges. The few trips I took across the island reminded me of the countryside in Panama, with people living in relative poverty. Cows, pigs, goats, and chickens are everywhere, a lot of people seem to be doing a whole lot of nothing, and the infrastructure seems rather improvised. No doubt the situation is much more complex than was visible to me, especially as I spent most of my time in the ocean or in the more prosperous margin.




I was there in the low season (read: typhoons), but the resorts and restaurants had a fair number of people anyway. There seemed to be two kinds of locals: those who were polite because they wanted your money but couldnt manage a smile and those who were genuinely friendly. Either way, I have never been called "sir" so many times in my life.

Don't read this.

I'm serious. It was gross when I did it, and its gross now to think about it. You've been warned.

During happy hour one evening, a Filipino-American girl approaches me and asked if had ever tried "balot", a Filipino delicacy of sorts. I said "no, but I always like to try new things". She says great, and she immediately produces a fertilized duck egg, with a nearly-developed embryo inside. I cringe, but know I cant back down from the challenge. The bartender gives me a shot of something for courage, and then peels off the top third of the eggshell for me. First step, shake a little salt on the top and suck the black, vile juice from the shell. Not vomiting, I proceed to remove more of the shell, revealing a small alien inside. The girl beside me is munching away on hers so I dont have time to decide against it. Take the first bite and surprisingly, it tastes just like chicken. The texture is a little weird and the smell is less than enticing, but except for the partially formed foot which is pretty tough and the awful thought of the whole thing, its not so terrible. Upon finishing, a big round of applause, especially from the Filipinos, though one Australian just looked at me digustingly and said "Dude, you just ate an abortion". Great, I though I was just offending the animal-rights folks but apparently the pro-lifers aren't to keen on the practice either.

Not so thrilla in Manila

I spent my first and last nights in Manila, but was mostly unimpressed. Reminiscent of Panama City, it seemed large, polluted, seedy, the unfriendly taxi drivers never had change (even for small bills), and there was an abundance of people on the street doing nothing. Granted I spent less than 48 hours there, and much of that in a hotel room while a typhoon raged outside, so I cant give a fair assesment, but I found it dilapidated and awfully dirty. I actually saw a drowned rat on the street. Marked contrast from super-sanitary Japan.


I did meet a few nice people there, but the police officer who offered me a prostitute, the horse cab driver who offered to let me shoot his AK-47, the money changer who cheated me out of $60, and the leering street folk made me uncomfortable and spoiled any charm the city might have had.

Calypso-ed

My original plan was to island hop through the Philippines, and to see as much as possible. I made to exactly one island where I was trapped, not by a sea-nymph like Odysseus, but by the spirit of the place itself. Actually, I did meet a lovely Filipina, but it was the island of Boracay, rather than the young lady, which seemed to offer immortality.

Too many happenings for one post, so I will write them in parts this week as the pleasant memories come flooding back. However, in brief, my vacation was this:

Sun, sea, sudden squalls, swimming, sand, scuba, snorkeling, sailing, secret beach caves, San Miguel beer, shorts and sandals everyday, shakes (mango), super fun loving international crowd, seven-dollar massages, sidecars (both a mode of transport and tasty happy hour cocktail), sidestepping the sunglass and wristwatch vendors, and savoring the slow pace of life. A surfeit of pleasures to be sure.