"Pure Imagination "

How being creative gives you the perfect 'in' to enjoying the history of Oita.

In Tsurusaki, a modest suburb to the north east of Oita station, there lies an old school. The wooden, two-storey remains of an old Boarding School, to be exact.

Stumbling upon the place last year with my friend and the three elderly Japanese members of her English conversation circle, we marched straight to the museum, like proper tourists. It boasted many interesting relics such as writings, pottery, and photos of the formidable headmaster. But, missing from its collection, unfortunately for me, were any in-depth explanations in English beyond “Rice Bowl (1798)”. Unperturbed by this however, and pestering our Japanese companions for extra details, we approached the school building.

On the lower floor (with a ceiling that even an averagely tall foreigner would have to duck to avoid) was a tatami room with a dual-purpose as dining room and bedroom. Drafty and candlelit, furnished with low tables for mealtimes, it was joined by a rickety ladder, up which these same tables would be hefted to serve as desks, which led to the second floor “classroom”.

It was this striking notion, of the young charges, from the age of 8 years old, eating, sleeping and learning together in this monastic building that first captured my interest so strongly. Boarding schools, after all, have found their way into countless pieces of English Literature throughout history; just look at Harry Potter.

The interesting practical uses of the building aside, something was still not clear. Why devote a museum to it? What made it special, and, crucially, why we the helpful guides leading us around with such gleeful trepidation and excitement?

Well, what made it special was this. This was a school for the sons of SAMURAI: the sword wielding, Camelot-esque, noble warriors of Japan’s much romanticised pre-industrial period.

Now my impression of samurai is as romantic as they come. But my impression on that day was also uninformed. I understood that the samurai defending Kyushu were more than just warriors: they were noblemen and loyal servants to their local Shogun. I also had the strong impressions that warring factions constantly overthrew each other, and that being a samurai was dangerous and violent work.  And armed thus with my guesswork, I began to ponder. Perhaps this danger was the reason that samurai sent their sons to this safe haven, or perhaps they didn't trust their wives, or… or, perhaps I was letting my imagination run away with me…

But wait one second! What was this? Upon entering the third on-site building, the schoolmaster’s house, our guide told us to wait a moment and promptly scuttled away. A moment later, a near-imperceptible scuffing sound, and there he was, hanging out gargoyle-like from a previously invisible partition above our heads. 'I am ninja!' he exclaimed with glee, 'now I can jump and kill you, if you like?'

A window for ninjas! Quite the bold and surprising claim! But apparently the schoolmaster would regularly offer invitations to tea for those people who he thought were trying to assassinate him (happens to me all the time). These potential assassins would of course say yes, either because they were assassins, or because they just thought he was being neighbourly. Ultimately, as they entered the back door, the secret ninja would pounce and it would be curtains.

But, perhaps there's as much truth in these stories as if I were to say that it was the ghosts of schoolboys who took me on the tour. Perhaps, for example, the boys were the sons of samurai, but not as I would have them. A little research has taught me that during the Edo Period, samurai increasingly became courtiers, bureaucrats, and administrators, rather than warriors.

So maybe the ninja window was just a laundry cupboard, and our Japanese guides were embellishing. But why shouldn't they? At every sight in every other city in the world, enthusiastic tour guides are boldly leaping and dancing down the streets in front of groups of visitors, spouting their glorious half-truths. This is exactly the style of marketing that Kyoto has made phenomenally good use of for years. The 'Philosopher's' Walk, 'Spectacles' Bridge, the 'pleasure' quarters of Gion all ignite an irresistible imagery which transports the tourist back in time. Few counties trade so strongly on the glamour and mystery of their past as Japan and my native England, and perhaps that's why I have never before been such an enthusiastic sight-seer. If you do get a chance, I urge you to visit all of the unlikeliest places in Oita, but please take my advice: ignore the official rubric, close your eyes, and get lost in your own story.

FACTS

The Mori Kusou Memorial Hall

Born in 1797 and active in both the Edo period and the later Meiji Era, Mori was a Confucian Scholar and educator. The school was home to between 481- 890 pupils during its lifespan. The present-day facility was established to commemorate the great achievements of this local hero.

毛利空想記念館

大分市鶴崎３８１番地の１

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This article originally appeared in the Oita International Plaza 'Tombo' Newsletter, Dec 2011

Blog 3: The Big Annual Meeting.

It’s the end of another academic year, but the closing of one door heralds the coming of a rare event, the school’s AGM.

This is a chance for us ALT wunderkind to witness the sports teachers dressing like Premier League football managers (in that they wear tracksuits every day, so when they wear suits it's as though they're on trial for match-fixing) and to give a context for the important work that we do.

I say chance. It’s worth pointing out that we are not invited to attend this meeting, and that we are faintly discouraged from doing so. But as anyone can attest, I am very contrary, and 150 teachers playing hard to get makes me salivate even more than just the 15 I work with directly doing it.

We arrive. There are no chairs left. Not just for us: a couple of other teachers are also standing forlornly at the back, waiting for someone to tell them how to deal with this horror. I put some chairs out, loudly. No-one turns to look. Damn.

So, who’s here? Well, it’s clear that the part-time teachers are conspicuously absent. If we are, in fact, in the same category as them, then they should give us 3 days off a week too! Ha ha! However, there is some rare wildlife. The orchestra leader has been roused from his usual nap-spot behind the timpani, and the small hairy teacher in the Aran Island knit sweaters (I have NO idea what he does) is cutting his nails at the back. All present and correct, let’s begin.

08:50

I’m offered a white form. “It’s ok” I say, graciously (I hope) “読めません” This is either “I can’t read it” as I intend, or perhaps “Piss off, I’m not going to read that”. “そうかな？” says the puzzled Jimushou lady, so I’m still none the wiser as to which answer I gave her.

The general gist of the various speeches that make up the meeting is to go through your list of achievements in as hurried a way as possible, illustrated by dry graphs printed onto brown recycled paper, the visual equivalent of an oat biscuit. Staff meetings in my life have been few and far between, mainly because of my past six jobs, three have been in theatres. At my last, we used to sit in comfy chairs in the bar whenever the mood took us, trying to out-humour each other and eating many many shortbread fingers.

09.15

Maybe we should be less critical of the way kids murmur and fuss during assemblies in both Japan and the UK, and I’m sure in the rest of the world (except perhaps China, eek.) There is not a single physical sign of life amongst these teachers. This is, sure, in part, politeness, but also, tiredness. We should be jealous that the kids still have the energy to fidget.

It’s at this point that I realise that the only teachers sitting in the chairs at the back are ‘outsiders’. Myself, my esteemed Canadian colleague, the much-fancied and highly-revered soccer coach, who is Korean (and plays on his i-pad for the duration, mainly you-tube videos of his own saxophone concerts, with the volume on...) and one of the 事務賞, who is very lovely but essentially a secretary who wants to go back to her cosy office with the sofas and the Nespresso machine, and who does just that 30 minutes in. There is also a senior member of staff- the school’s head of marketing and PR, who is always too busy to stay in one place for long and needs to be near the door in case one of his smarphones rings.

09.32

Hold the phones! I just understood several sentences in sequence! There is a 2,800円 retainer that all the kids are meant to pay, but only 30% do. “I know it’s stressful,” this teacher says, his perfect bald head gleaming, “but of course do your best to collect it.” Are they kidding? It’s a private school! The fees are astronomical, if they added it on, no-one would even notice.

09.41

Now the hot, young, ball-breaker teacher is talking. She mispronounces some word or misremembers some fact and is corrected. Male teachers at the back, where they are safely out of view, smirk. They definitely fancy her; she even gets a little clap at the end of her speech about figures.

09.45

Time is whizzing by! The gruff baseball coach is speaking. I’m starting to get chilly, and am glad that I ate breakfast, but still keep fantasising about a dish that I ate at an enkai on Friday. Crunchy fish eggs. Not cod, maybe dried salmon roe, sliced in lumps, dyed bright green, and flavoured with wasabi. Mmmmm. I ate the whole thing thinking it was just tasty cucumber, but that’s neither here nor there.

In this room there is not a single mixed-gender desk. Wait! 間違った, there are two. One, with two nondescript male teachers and the school nurse (but let’s face it, she’s seen it all before) and, nearby, two female teachers sitting with an effeminate male teacher, who the other teachers won’t play with because he’s a fan of hugging. Constant hugging. Never bloody hugs me though! I should get in there, definitely not enough hugs in my Japanese life.

10:25

League table time. A sore point. It transpires that we are now behind Hofu, Fuzoku, and Iwate.

Hang on, IwatA. IwatE was one of the places hit by the tsunami.

They’ve turned the heating on! It’s having more effect that an chemical cosh! I wonder if this is how MPs feel during the budget? They’re on more comfortable seats though, squishy leather benches, though I don’t envy whoever has to be squeezed next to Ed Balls and his massive bum.

10:30

Unlike the rest of world, my school is shutting the stable door BEFORE the horse has bolted and saying that Chuggakou students shouldn’t be on Facebook during I.T. lessons, so they’re going to block it. Only 15 kids in the whole school even know what Facebook is! Although I'm sure that that number is going to rise exponentially very soon. They’re still introducing the teachers to the concept. The school has a page, and even the Head’s on now… jeez, I’d better check I’m not friends with him.

10:35

Yeah, definitely must check that.

10:37

At this point, I slipped into oblivion and started drawing cockatoos on my jotter. My godmother used to have one. So sleepy…

The meeting ended at 11.30. Here endeth the reading.

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!" - Poe

I don’t blog.

I have never blogged.

But this is a macabre story that must be retold, with no detail spared, and hence, I’m committing it to print (sort of).

I call it ‘The Tell-Tale Fish’.

Sushi-Meijin is a restaurant very near my house in Japan. I go there between two and three times a week when I have no food, am too exhausted to wash up if I were to cook, or, ultimately, want to be healthy.

Every night that I am in my house, I manage to eat anything that might resemble chocolate – kitkats, chocolate almonds, chocolate cereal (getting desperate), or, the lowest of the low, cocoa powder made into a paste with milk. It’s a sorry sight, and not restricted to chocolate, but bread too (first the bread, then the bran flakes, then dry crackers, until the larder is bare). Therefore, the firmest stance I can take with myself is to leave very little food in the house, and go to treat myself to filling and nutritious sushi as often as I can. At 700 yen a go (around a fiver), where’s the harm.

Tonight was such a night, and, with a spring in my step, having finished my ようじ(chores) by 6.30pm, I arrived.

Now, I have fallen into a rut recently regarding my choices. I can’t read the food kanji on the touch-screen menu, so I’m limited to fish that looks palatable in the photograph, or that has hiragana that I can look up in my dictionary. Usually, the menu will go like this: Maguro Harami (Raw tuna from near the ribs); Tempura Ebi Sushi (something akin to Scampi); Inari (rice wrapped in sweet tofu); something tasty looking from the belt, maybe trout; Saumon Sarada (salmon salad) and then Karaage (fried chicken), and ice-cream, and I’m good to go, feeling pretty virtuous.

However, tonight, the seeds of discontent were stirring, revolution was coming. I felt, with some trepidation (was I really going to do this?) my finger beginning to hover over the ‘おすすめ’(recommendations) button. This was the land of the weird and wonderful, I was going through the bloody looking glass now. Buckle up.

Two tiny pictures immediately attracted my attention. One, a plate with what looked like around 10 pieces of sashimi on it, but costing 780 yen – too much for a Wednesday night, and another. This was similar, a small wooden bowl with what seemed to be 5 pieces of sashimi on it, and a fish head.

Ok, I thought. I can handle a head. And, at 500 yen, it wasn’t going to be much of a waste if it was awful. New experiences, ne?

I pressed the button, and sat back.

Not long after, the first seeds of doubt begun to appear. I heard a waitress whisper to a colleague “something something ni juu san ban sama something something…”. I looked up the shelf above my seat. I was indeed ni juu san ban sama something something. Number 23. Hmmm. What was going to happen?

Then, a meek and teeny Japanese Lady crept over, knelt down, and said something in Japanese. “I’m really sorry,” I said, “I don’t understand”. But of course I DID understand. I KNEW it was going to be about the mystery fish. She pressed the touchscreen lightly, and said something akin to ‘you’ve ordered this, but are you sure?’ Too apprehensive and sleepy to argue, I took the easy option, and said ‘yes’. ‘No’, might, in fact, constant reader, seem like the easy option in this situation, but bearing in mind I don’t know how to say ‘look, I’ve changed my mind, I think this has been a terrible mistake, and I just want to cancel it and forget the whole thing,’, my hands were tied.

A few minutes passed. Another waitress, who was obviously deemed by her friends the ‘English-speaking waitress’, as she knew ‘Excuse me’ and ‘thank you’. Her approach was more subtle. In Japanese  - ‘Ah, hello, umm, we’re just checking something, it’s like a survey, nothing to worry about. Just let me just take a look here… ah, yes, you’ve ordered one of these… umm, just one was it… that you wanted?’

Me: “… umm…Yes, just the one… thank you”

Waitress: (overly cheery) “GREAT! That’s great! It’ll be right out for you. Sank you.”

She rushed back to her friends, who practically sang ‘for she’s a jolly good fellow’, in complete awe of her grasp of the English Language.

It’s at these moments, when people have stopped eating to stare at you, and the chefs have lined up at the counter, shaking their heads vehemently, that you start to think of the worst. But this is a family restaurant, part of a national chain, selling French Fries and Coca-Cola, not a backstreet stall in the Tokyo Fish Market. I honestly couldn’t have envisaged what was coming.

It was a huge bucket, around 40cm in diameter, filled with ice. On top of the ice, rested a small wooden board, with three pieces of delicious-looking sushi on them, delicately decorated with nettle leaf and wasabi. Resting in the ice above this, was the piece de resistance, a large fish. Perfect in every way, except for it’s body, which had been stripped of all flesh with the skill of a surgeon. Where it’s chest had once been, now there was salad, and the sashimi from this carefully filleted creature, rested on top.

Silence. Shock. But not complete horror. The fish body had been elegantly arranged, with a bamboo skewer joining tail to head, that it might sit above the rest of the arrangement. The sashimi looked wonderful, I’ve eaten it plenty of times before, and even in England you’re readily exposed to head-and-tail-on salmon at wedding buffets, or complete grilled sardines in country pubs.

I tucked in. Ignoring the small flecks of blood, it really was fantastic. I reached out for my cup of green tea, when, from the corner of my eye-

a movement. Little more than a flicker.

Had I jogged the bucket with my wrist? I must have.

As I brought the cup to my lips, there it was again, more pronounced this time.

The tail was moving. The tail was bloody moving. The fish who’s choicest cuts I had just devoured, was still alive.

What could I do? I’d said I’d wanted it. Was I now going to cry, shriek, jump up, in short, be a complete f***ing girl about it? Confirm everything that the staff were probably expecting of a foreigner? It was dead (or at least, the prognosis was not good for this particular patient), but it is difficult for me to explain here the sheer horror and nausea that swept over me as I thought of the notion that was being played out. To prove how fresh the fish was, it would be caught, cut up, and served to you within a manner of minutes, where it could watch its own demise.  Can you imagine cutting open a pig, and eating it while it watched you? I was in the middle of my own black, black, black comedy.

The dilemma that presented itself was not easy, and I was feeling desperately ashamed. But, in the moment, the only choice seemed to be what I finally settled on - eat the remainder of the fish as quickly as possible, a small amount of the salad, decide what was done was done, and to move the bowl to my left, just out of eye’s view.

The fish’s tail was really starting to wiggle around now. I was heartbroken, but was also starting to reason, were these my own human emotions I was projecting onto this being? My initial reaction of ‘oh god, it’s trying to free itself’, was based on, I suppose, how I would feel in that situation. It had now been out of the water for 30 minutes, could it still be ‘conscious’? And are fish sentient in the way that we would define it in, say, mammals, or was this movement the mere result of excess motor-neurons misfiring down a dying spinal cord. Having investigated further, I find that most reports of diners eating live fish, particularly in China, refer to its ‘breathing’, whereas this fish was not breathing at all, its head remaining completely still throughout.

I moved it, and continued with my Japanese study, and tea. It would be time to leave soon, and no-one would have paid much attention to my shock. After all, it’s on the menu- Japanese people must eat it. I’ve seen the chefs prepare fish in Meijin before, and was aware that ‘killing’ them before starting to chop them up, was not high on their priorities. I’m not trying to temper what I felt was my own cruelty by passing the blame (‘they did it first!’), but I’m from a different type of culture, one where certain types of fishing are now banned, and where the RSPCA can arrest you if you mistreat your goldfish, and I should know better.

For the next 10 minutes, much as I tried to ignore it, my eyes were continuously dragged to the flickering tail, the almost imperceptible movement seemed to scream out to every patron, my very own Tell-Tale Heart. Perhaps a braver person that myself, would have cut off its head, or made some other steps to end its ‘suffering’, if that’s what it was. However, I felt we were now inextricably bound together, and it was the least I could do to face up to what I’d done, not send it away into the night (or kitchen).

Unfortunately, I was not to be left in peace. A polite ‘sumimasen’ from behind my shoulder. A pretty middle-aged woman, who spoke perfect English, bearing a California roll on a plate. The innocuous combination of avocado, rice, and fish stick, was in stark contrast with my guilt. “Excuse me, where do you come from? Are you travelling alone? Would you like any help using the menu? I see you started with this”, she said, gesturing at the now-stilled remnants. “Yes”, I said, in a small voice, and proceeded to answer her questions with a polite but genuine smile and return-questions of my own about her family, as I have become accustomed to doing while wearing my permanent Gaijin Hat. “Well”, she said kindly, “I’m here with my parents”. I glanced behind her, and they waved enthusiastically. “My mother”, she ventured, “thought you might like this. Our treat”. I accepted the plate with excesses of gratitude and more smiles. “You’re welcome," she said. "My sister is married to a Swiss Man, you see?”

I didn’t see, but I really appreciated the gesture. And the evidence that I was not going to be pilloried by the local community.

In conclusion, perhaps it would be glib, or simply false, to say that these events are going to have me seriously questioning my ardent carnivorism. Neither do I purport that I am the first ‘stranger in a strange land’ to have experienced such things. I might mention the ex-ALT at London Orientation, who, having been forced to swallow live fish at a festival, vomited onto his supervisor’s shoes later in the evening, only to find his prey still very much alive. Then there was my father, who ate pig’s head in Moscow; my mother, who ate live sea-urchin in Greece; the BBC correspondent who ate Shark’s Fin soup in China so as not to offend her Ambassadorial host; the monkey brain stories of legend, and finally the countless ‘I’m A Celebrity’ contestants on British Television who eat live grubs and cockroaches.

But, I am reminded of The Grinch:

And what happened then?

Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.

Perhaps, my conscience has been, for a long time, ‘two sizes too small’.