People Watching & Challenge Camp

Back in the olden days of Sir Lancelot and Gwenivere when a man saved a woman’s life it was believed that he was ‘responsible’ for her from then on after. I suppose such a concept falls into the realm of some kind of chivalry. In Japan it seems like everyone follows a form of this custom. I’m not saying I have 80 fishermen at my beck and call willing to do my bidding, far from it sadly. But people seem to notice when you need something.

Whenever I get onto a train in Japan I immediately scan the crowds around me and look for someone whom I can bother with questions thus shirking from the responsibility of taking care of myself. The main question I need answered is, “Does this train stop at X?” Each and every time I have done this so far the helpful passenger has always made sure that I’m made aware of my stop and that I get off. This is most definitely more helpful than the average New Yorker who will grunt either yes or no, then turn up his i-Pod and go back to staring at the advertisements up on the wall, pretending you never existed. In many ways I find this custom of ‘responsibility’ to be wonderful. It has been incredibly helpful to me as I have yet to miss my stop or get lost on the trains. Once I’m feeling more rash and overconfident perhaps I’ll ask someone if the train stops at X, then fall into a deep sleep and then see what happens. I wonder if the kindness continues when the lost traveler is unconscious. Or does this form of politeness only exist under the lost, curious, inquisitive gaijin eye. If the former then cool, I’ll have my own mortal alarm clock.

I went to a JHS English Camp at a Sports Center this past weekend. On the train ride there I encountered my first potentially crazy Japanese person. At first I thought he was speaking an unusual, stilted dialect but then it became clear that it was just a different form of the language, quite possibly one that he had made up himself. He walked on his toes, each step a joyful bounce and looked extremely happy to be riding the trails. It is possible that he could have been inflicted with turrets syndrome as he would spurt forth various levels of (what sounded to me like) gibberish in a high-pitched squeal that would make a dog’s ears tingle; suitable for a Japanese schoolgirl maybe, but odd coming from a full-grown man. He was definitely one of the more interesting people to observe on the train.

The seats on the slow local trains are these big, plush, purple pillow things that look as though Barney had been tracked, hunted, killed, skinned and stuffed, but royal looking nonetheless as all Japanese people are descendents from the Sun Goddess and thus deserve thrones, right? People regularly space themselves out so as not to intrude on other peoples’ personal space which is a custom I find to be lovely. This particular train was not all that crowded, yet when one man got on he chose to squat in the rear of the train despite the fact there were ample plush, Barney-purple seats to choose from. He wore white thonged cork-bottomed slippers that looked like they had been borrowed from Madonna in her “Music” video where she’s dressed as a pimp. The style here continues to astound me.

Now while asking for directions is often a very good idea whilst riding trains, occasionally I end up picking the wrong person. In this case I approached an old man. It is a bad idea to ask old people for directions. They answer kindly however their response always makes it sound as though their mouth is full of marbles (even though ironically they have no teeth) and without fail they end up spitting on you a bit. The Ehime dialect is truly strong. Even a simple “hai/yes” comes out sounding like a muffled “mghthghthnaaaaa.”

On the train I enjoyed an educational and delightful snack called doobutsukko no yume bisuketto – or, adorable little animal crackers where the animals are dressed in the garb of various professionals. Obviously they are an attempt to get Japan’s youth to aspire to be something when they grow up. Apparently a growing problem with Japan’s youth is the increasing trend of apathetic lethargy that is taking over young people. They are so worked to the bone in high school that when asked what they want to be in the future, a good number of them say, “NOTHING NOTHING LEAVE ME ALONE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,” and truly mean it. I encountered this at camp when one of the boys said exactly that. Meanwhile, the girl after him replied, “a bride.” I hope she realizes that only lasts a day, if that and doesn’t exactly pay well.

Perhaps I am reading too much into these animal crackers, but regardless, they let me brush-up on some vocabulary and cured hunger pangs.

Riding the train is a great chance to people watch. Sitting nearby me were two polar opposites. This little old man got onto the train looking as though he had let his three year-old grandchild dress him in the dark. He was decked out in brown pants with vertical narrow pin stripes of varying shades of orange, brown and black. His oversized shirt was blue and white with stripes going both vertically and horizontally. A zebra would have a hard time looking at this mismatched scarecrow without getting dizzy. His tanned face was drawn with a closely pinched mouth yet he managed to look perfectly content sitting there watching the countryside go by backwards whilst clutching his bottle of green tea no doubt purchased from one of those numerous vending machines that inhabit every block of Japan. He was marvelously accessorized with black Velcro sneakers and a straw knit hat with navy blue trim. He would untie the bow under his chin every so often to take the hat off, remove the towel layer that sat on his head, wipe his brow and rearrange the whole thing once more so that the towel would absorb the maximum amount of sweat.

Directly across from him was one of the typical Japanese girls that some guys dream about: tiny, petite, wearing a skirt that left little to the imagination and passionately on her pink, fuzzy keitai for most of the trip. She was decked out in pretty much everything I had been told not to wear to school: gold stiletto strappy heels, black sparkly nail polish, a short mini jean skirt, a tight yellow lacey tank top and a huge belt with a buckle that could be lethal if used as a weapon. I do believe she and the little old man weighed about the same.

Upon arrival to the camp we endured yet another monotonous welcome ceremony where we were given detailed instructions as to the ONLY proper way to fold our disgustingly itchy blankets, our ‘mattress’ that was flatter than a prepubescent boy, and dirty sheets after we were done using them the upcoming night. If I hadn’t encountered this bizarre obsession with folding dirty sheets before I would have thought the caretaker had a severe case of OCD. But this is a common occurrence and only makes me titter to myself as I sit there watching him whip out his collapsible ruler and demonstrate over and over how to place the pillow directly in the EXACT MIDDLE of the anally folded bedding. He spent a good ten minutes on the placement of the pillow causing me to desperately want to leave my pillow in the upper right hand corner of my bedding like a stamp on an envelope just to see what might happen. Perhaps it has never been done before in the land of OCD.

After the bedding lecture we were given time to change and then headed down to the beach.

I have never been much of a beach go-er, however this beach was gorgeous. The sand was actual sand, not the gravel that goes by the misnomer of sand in New York. The water was a lovely green color, tasted of salt and felt clean. The fact that I never learned how to swim properly leads me to believe I have a valid reason for water frightening me slightly. After all, I COULD DIE. Usually at beaches the tide comes in awfully quickly, causing the sand to suddenly disappear from under my feet, leaving me scrambling for a firm footing, screaming in consternation and sputtering water in every direction. There was a series of breakers around this beach that weakened the tide causing it to be much, much less worry-worthy.

The kids were a lot of fun. These two second-year girls I instantly took a liking to invited me to

mount this happy looking inflatable beluga whale that they had brought. I couldn’t possibly refuse and so had my own personal water chariot as they pulled me through the Inland Sea until I toppled over.

The following day we took part in a few more English oriented activities. These camps have given me an opportunity to see what kind of English skills both junior high school and high school students have. Despite the fact that some of these kids were 3 or so years apart, many of them appeared to have EXACTLY the same amount of English under their belt. Without a doubt I think that a lot of these kids know more than they’re willing to admit and just feel shy about using it, which I understand.

I probably shouldn’t be breaking out my crap-Japanese during an English camp, but sometimes in the dire need to communicate I can’t help myself. I get tired of seeing blank faces stare back at me in befuddlement.

There were some really great kids at this camp and part of me almost wishes it had been a bit longer. There were these two boys who were hilarious. We were given the assignment to play this board game where each player has to roll an oversized die, move that number of spaces on the board and then do whatever the square said; an incredibly simple concept. The only catch was that after responding to the question in English they had to add on one sentence in English. It was the “Plus One” rule.

This one incredibly clever, sassy boy (see far left) would add on “I like takoyaki” as his Plus One every. Single. Time. So his response to a question such as, “How did you get to school today?” would go something like, “I came to school by bike. Iliketakoyaki.” Or “How many sisters do you have?” “I have one sister. I don’t like sister. Iliketacoyaki.” The third time around I turned on him and lifted one eyebrow and then started adapting his nonsequitoric (not a word) responses much to his amusement. I think I developed a bit of a crush those two days. I know. He’s thirteen. There are rules about things like that even in Japan.

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Published:
8.22.06 / 5pm
Category:
classroom antics, amusing incidents, what i call life, culture