October 12, 2009

Been a long time since posting. Essentially, training the last two weeks took up all of my time and energy, culminating in my first two days of solo teaching. Day one went better than expected; day two not so much. Day three is today…cross your fingers! Giving a test to some older students, too – ay carumba.

Saturday I picked up a keyboard for about $40, an old Casio 210 sound Tone Bank with great ‘80s aquamarine and blue stylings. A steal! And Jacob got a real nice looking record player for $50. Both came from this used goods store called Hard Off (hee hee), where Japanese people unload their old stuff simply because it’s old, and thrifty Americans can pick them up for super cheap. Apparently the same mentality doesn’t work for clothes though, since we checked out a different thrift store and they were pretty expensive. Still, I picked up a blue and red plaid shirt for seven bucks, and a black pseudo-biker jacket for nine. Being a little bit bigger than most Japanese is a blessing—finally, I can reap the rewards of passed-over clothing!

That night we went back over to Kyle’s and ordered pizza with Joanna and Michael and Kyle (of course) and his wife. Pizza’s expensive here! Like 30 bucks a large. Beer too, though I found an 8% beer that goes for about 6 bucks a 6-pack, so—though it tastes pretty rank—at least it’s a good bang for your buck. And we all got drunk playing Circle of Death, which was probably silly considering we all had to get up early Sunday to partake in the legendary Ogaki Festival.

Sunday Morning. Jacob, Michael and I meet up here at the apartments at 10:30, to get to Ogaki Castle by 11. But Jacob needs gloves—he swears Kyle said we should bring gloves. Michael and I heard nothing of the sort, so while we debate the validity of this statement Jacob runs off to the grocery store. We follow him a little ways, then, short on time, we ditch him and head to the castle ourselves.
Jacob quickly caught up, so we all biked over, arriving just about 11 on the nose. We’re introduced to Dave, Joanna’s brother-in-law, who’s been in Japan for two days but has been sucked into participating. Kyle shows us all where to get our traditional garb.

Our uniform consists of a faded navy tunic with white circles on the back; a white bandanna with the circle design in blue; a sash with a maroon rectangular pattern on it; white Puma short-shorts (I’m pretty sure they didn’t wear Puma in ancient times!); and shin-high white traditional Japanese boot/shoes, with the split between the big toe and the other toes.

We all got fitted—30cm. shoes here—and, in our new stylish duds, began throwing back mini cans of Kirin Ichiban, which tastes much better here, where it’s not bottled by Anheuser Busch. We’re also treated to o-nigiri (little rice balls wrapped in seaweed, with sour plum or tuna and mayonnaise (yech) or other meats inside) and what looks and tastes curiously like deep fried hash browns.

We can see other groups mulling around, in different uniforms. We apparently represent the group that maintains the shrine that we’ll be foisting on our shoulders and parading around the town with. Most other groups represent local companies; you can tell them apart because they wear sneakers and T-shirts underneath their tunics. We objectively look the best.

After what feels like forever (and two trips to the porta-john, which houses a Japanese-style squatter in one half, and a urinal in an open side on the left, so everyone can watch you pee), we are finally summoned before the priests, which begin holding the opening ceremony, which we in the back can neither see nor hear. But we try to keep up with occasional clapping, and respect the moments of silence. Then we get in line for a bowl of sake and a piece of squid jerky, and it’s time to start the parade!

It’s not so bad at first. We swap places, so the tallest guys are arranged in the front and the shortest in the back, so we all feel the weight on our shoulders. Jacob is still too short, but it’s not his fault: the gaijin float (or foreigners’ float, as we’re commonly known as, filled with Americans and Canadians with the exception of Hiro, a Japanese friend of ours) has some of the biggest men around: Peter, who looks like a surfing teacher (and Russell Crowe, as Dave kept pointing out); Jerry, a big kindergarten teacher with a huge red beard; Deryk, another big kindergarten teacher, sans beard; and a few others. Dave’s bigger than most of the Shimon people, too, with the exception of Matt. Michael, Kyle and I are tall, but scrawny. But what we lack in strength, we make up for in spirit and alcohol consumption.

Parading in the streets is fun. We shout “Washoi!” over and over the entire time, a phrase that apparently means nothing. I pump my fist in rhythm, and occasionally get the Japanese to join in on the terrorist fist jabbing. They all come out on the main streets to watch, taking pictures and video. TV guys are there. We raise our shrine up and shake it, shouting and cheering—we get so into it that the mystical golden birds atop it begin falling off. By the end, our shrine would be in pretty lousy condition; bells missing, the hanging golden plates coming off their hooks, mystical birds coming loose. It seems to be expected of us though, and nobody seems upset.

The first couple stops held no beer, which riled us a little bit and led to fears that the alcoholic component of the festival had been shelved. Usually, we stop outside little shops who provide us with treats and drinks, later to be reimbursed by the city. The same took place this year, though the route was changed, so we didn’t hit them up until later in the journey.

Among the better foods provided was squid jerky, which was much better than the stuff we ate at the beginning of the ceremony. We were also given ice cream, and weird hollow tubes of fish that looked like rubbery old bones with the marrow sucked out.

We finished the parade a little before 5—five hours. After dropping the shrines off at their starting places, we gathered around what looked like jousting platforms arranged by Ogaki Castle (alas, there was no jousting, much to my dismay). Instead, men atop began throwing motchi balls, creating a frenzy among the peoples below. Apparently, getting one is lucky. They seemed to throw a ton, but I only caught one—and by “caught” I mean scraped off the ground. Thankfully, they were wrapped in plastic, protected from the sandstorm that the people kicked up. It was a strange sight to see, like peasants scrambling for handouts from their wealthy overlords. Maybe in days of future passed…

The banquet was to start at 6—or so we thought. To pass the time, we bought some more beer (which we could drink outside, thanks to Japan’s nonexistent open container laws) and waited. Dave had gone home to shower, and never returned—Joanna informed us that he’d passed out. The rest of us made our way to the banquet hall at 6, only to find everyone already inside! It had started at 5.

No big though—lots of food still to be had. Tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), tomatoes, rice balls, assorted fish stuffs. Lots of beer. Older, dignified-looking Japanese men would try to speak to me, but we couldn’t really understand each other. Maybe they got my name, though apparently “Shon” in Japanese means taking a piss, so who knows. They understood the kanpeis though (The word “kanpei” is said during toasts). And when they showed me a piece of paper saying “Thank you for your help, I hope you will join again next year” in English, I vigorously nodded my head and smiled. Hai!

Apparently when the Japanese drink, they drink. I hadn’t really witnessed this yet, and even at the banquet, they seemed a little looser than usual, but there weren’t much crazy drunken antics, with the exception of Kyle’s wife’s boss, who stood up and showed off his junk for some reason. And in the presence of women! A strange society, indeed.

By 8ish, we were all pretty drunk and tired. We rolled out and biked home, and I immediately passed out and slept for the next 12 hours.