Novel's End? (Daniel)

    I have lived in Japan ten months now and at this point I no longer feel as if the world around me is a foreign one. For a long time I thought and talked of everyone else as "a Japanese man" or "a Japanese woman", seeing most of the population as distinguishable from myself. Now, when I talk about some guy I met who wanted to drink highballs and talk in English I call him "some guy I met who wanted to drink highballs and talk in English."
    One day this summer in my local train station bathroom I exchanged "good afternoon" with the old cleaning granny as she mopped around the urinal I had been employing. It wasn't until I finished washing my hands and saying "good-bye" that I realized, for the first time, nothing about this had struck me as peculiar. Hitherto the old lady's presence had made me so sheepish that my flow came to a standstill as her mop passed my vicinity.
    These days, aside from a customary greeting, I don't even notice her unless I'm moving my feet to give way to her mop. Besides, I'm often more focused on the man at the adjacent urinal, trying to peek over from his urinal to either confirm or debunk the stereotypes he's heard.
    This brings me to the heart of the issue - though I'm growing more familiar with Japan, because I live in a country in which nearly 99% of the population is considered ethnically Japanese, I am still as peculiar to others as I was when I took my first step out of Kansai International Airport.
    When I ride the subways I always catch people staring at me. All I need to do is look up from my phone, or turn my head suddenly to read a sign, or look in the reflection of a window and suddenly multiple pairs of eyes frantically avert.
    And these are adults. As we look at younger ages we will find an increasingly more pronounced reaction to foreign novelty.
    High-schoolers and middle-schoolers stare more than adults. On the other hand, they are predictably too shy and self-conscious to speak to you, usually. There is a glaring exception. Field trips. Something about it just makes them bolder.
    Visiting a historically significant temple or shrine on a weekday guarantees an onslaught of at least several classes, and sometimes multiple school districts. This, in turn, guarantees gaggles of preteen girls egging each other on to ask you for a picture. Inevitably this leads to affiliated gaggles taking notice and getting in line to take the same picture. I've made chit-chat with field-trip chaperones and, once, the school principal while we waited for the surge to subside.
    As we get to the youngest age groups we begin to deal with children who have never seen a white person before. This is especially common in the countryside. These interactions are my least favorite. They are decidedly unpredictable. Sometimes you get comical eye-rubbing and double-taking. Other times you get this:

    In autumn, Sarah and I went hiking through a rural, national park called "Forty-eight Waterfalls".
It's naming was non-imaginative, but accurate.

Only 46 more to go...

 












    We stopped at their one-story aquarium before starting our hike. I made friends with a baby Giant Salamander. After that I was determined to find his wild kin among the waterfalls.

    As we walked, Sarah would stop at each waterfall to take pictures. I would use the opportunity to search the streams and pools for Giant Salamander. While I never would find the elusive, wild Giant Salamander, Sarah found numerous, unique photo opportunities.
    At the second major waterfall, Sarah decided she needed a long distance shot. The waterfall could be seen from far away, but directly in front of it ran a wooden bridge. In truth, it was more of a walkway as it had no side rails. Many of the waterfall's rocks also jutted in front of the walkway, so that from where we were standing only a small segment of the walkway, and the people on it, were visible.
    "You run ahead," Sarah told me, "I'll wait here until you get to the visible part of the walkway."
I ran ahead several minutes, up the side of the waterfall until I reached the walkway. Right by the opposite end was where the rocks briefly parted. I noticed further, just beyond the end of the walkway, there was a small perch that had been burrowed out of the mountain's side. On this perch were two parents, resting. Then I noticed their four year old daughter standing at the opposite end of the bridge from me, right in view of the gap in the rocks. She was staring at me like I was going to mash her bones to make my bread.
    I took several steps toward her to test the water. With every step forward she went back, her eyes never breaking from me. Finally, as I drew into the photo position between the rocks she fully retreated to her parents. They sat her on the bench next to her while she began to cry and wail and point accusingly at me. The parents blushed and tried to soothe her.
    I pretended not to notice and strolled into view between the rocks shaking my head from side to side looking at no one in particular. My mouth was an innocuous smile, peacefully commenting "quite a nice waterfall, this one. Which number is this? Seven perhaps?"
    When I was sure I was in Sarah's view I froze for five seconds, trying to ignore the crying girl not twenty feet away.

Not Pictured: Crying child, stage right.

    I saw the small ant that was Sarah scamper away towards the trail to join me. That's when the stand-off began.  
    The parents were more than ready to take their daughter and leave. But they'd have to go around me. Little girl was having none of that. She went rigid against the bench.
    At the same time, I wasn't willing to backtrack five minutes of trail time so that she could be sheltered from ever having to pass within five feet of a white person.
    There we stayed. I continued making my stand on the bridge, forcing myself to fixate on the waterfall, while she continued crying, her head nestled in her father's arms occasionally peeking up in horrible confirmation that I was still there. Perhaps I simply should have moved to one side of the bridge. She still would have had to pass me, but one could argue that the situation would have been less tense if she didn't have to pass me on a narrow wooden walkway with no side rail, dangling a hundred feet over jagged rocks. I'd call that hindsight bias.
    Right on cue, Sarah showed up to save the day. I whispered to her, "I think that she thinks that I am sort of bridge troll".
    Sarah walked up to the little girl, kneeled to her level, and cooed "konichiwa!" The little girl relaxed her body, she stopped rubbing her eyes, her cry turned to choked-down sniffles,  and she managed back a meager "konichiwa."
    "Konichiwa," I said from the end of the bridge.
    Her parents smiled at us and her father scooped her up. As they walked off across the bridge, little girl watched over her dad's shoulder, silent and spellbound.
    "That kid was terrified of me, right?"
    "She sure was, whitey" Sarah confirmed.

A potty humor post (Sarah)

I’ve decided to start documenting the things to which we have become habituated. Things which we used to marvel at, but which have become old hat. I plan on writing about men’s fashion, 100 yen stores and the like. This is the first of said posts:

I think nearly everyone has heard of the technologically advanced and vaguely magical Japanese toilets. What you aren’t told about the Japanese toilets is that they are not by any means always so magical.

I’ve experienced the great toilets of my life here, and also perhaps the worst. This is a land of contradictions and paradoxes in many ways. – They say Japanese venerate the elderly, but when an elderly person gets on the train every seated 20 to30 something suddenly gets the most important text of their lives. They  become  totally unaware of the geriatric woman standing inches from them, so riddled with arthritis that her upper body is literally perpendicular to the ground.  There is also the national pride that many of my students have expressed for being a country that takes recycling seriously. Yet everytime I go to any store I come home with at least 3 new plastic bags. We have a collection, which numbers in the hundreds, but there is NO plastic bag recycling in this country and so my plastic mountain grows. Another lovely paradox is the case of the salary man. He works crazy hours and is more devoted to his job than he is to his family. He is 100% serious and hopes to die surrounded by his coworkers’ cubicles as he punches in the latest sales data. But this resolute man with the stern face becomes a wild party animal each night after working an 11 hour shift. He goes out drinking with his coworkers and at the end of the night, he stumbles home or passes out on the side of the street. Sometimes on his way home, he cannot stop his bodily functions and just whips out his dick and pees wherever he is. One at least one occasion (that I’ve been privy to at least), his problem is a heavier load—but his solution is the same. Drop the pants, and let it happen on the sidewalk (10 feet from a convenience store with a toilet). And so with my great digression, I have brought us back to toilets:

The worst: traditional style Japanese toilets.

Ewwww.....Even the clean ones look gross.

A helpful how-to for those of you who may be confused.

Those who have traveled a fair amount will have already encountered this style of toilet—the good ol’ hole in the ground, also known as the “squatty potty.” Now, I’m no stranger to this type of toilet-in fact when I saw one in the bathroom on my first day of training, I felt like I had been reunited with an old friend,  one who occasionally causes me to get pee on my feet—but an old friend all the same. And the average “Japanese style” toilet doesn’t bug me. But I have encountered many that go well beyond average.

In order to fully grasp how gross the worst toilet I’ve encountered in Japan was, you probably ought to hear my story about toilets in rural Egypt, for comparative purposes. Six years ago during my spring break in Italy, s and I decided to travel to Egypt. About half way through our trip we ended up taking a 2 day ride up the Nile on a felucca.  This is just a flat boat and nothing else. On a felucca, you sit or lie down as the wind slowly moves the boat. You sit where you eat, which is also where you sleep. And there are no toilets. Pit stops on the bank of the Nile and squatting behind a bush are done for number ones.

As Cosi and I prepared ourselves for our first night, we realized were in need of more than a bush.  We told the captain and he brought the boat in at the nearest town. This town consisted of only a few huts and from what we could tell, only one toilet in the entire town. This toilet was a literal hole in the ground. No flushing, no running water, no seat, no easy way to aim, and as we were told, “no tossing the toilet paper in the hole”. There was a large waste basket to help out with that last one. After a vague effort and the experiencing the lovely sight and smells of the toilet, I decided I could wait another day.

And so, when I encountered the grossest toilet in Japan, I was as prepared as I probably ever could be. I encountered it during Daniel’s and my visit to Okinawa. During our trip there we decided to go snorkeling and I encountered this toilet at one of the island’s top snorkeling spots. This toilet was in a bathroom with a number of similar looking toilets, all of which were “Japanese style.” There was no toilet paper in sight, but there were feces just about everywhere. Evidently people had had difficulty getting it into the hole and then when they had realized there was no toilet paper, had come up with creative ways to wipe: against the walls, on the flusher, and on the far side of the toilet. Needless to say, I just peed in the ocean.

The Best: Western style toilets with all the modern convenience. 

Oh the options!

...And a helpful guide for a Western style toilet. These posters are all over the stalls at the airports.

Growing up I knew a family who had an imported  fancy Japanese toilet so I’d already been aware of the special spray options. In fact, most toilets have at least two spray options( with adjustable water pressure of course), a bidet option (any all over spray to clean up your whole down stairs mix-up) and an Oshiri (a little spray right in the anus).  You can imagine how helpful these sprays can be when things get a bit messy….

But besides the spray options, Japanese toilets have other, and in my opinion, far more magical options. Many have heated toilet seats. You can adjust the temperature to choose just how comfy you want your booty to be. This is especially nice on cold days when you may just decide to hang out on the toilet cos it’s warmer than outside. Some even have drying options so that if you use the spray you don’t have to leave the stall with a lil’ wet butt. Another favorite is the “imagined privacy” option as I like to think of it. Usually it’s activated by waving your hand in front of a sensor, but sometimes there are buttons on the control panel. After activating the imagined privacy option you will hear rushing water, or chirping birds, or a lovely mixture of the two.  The whole idea is you activate it to cover up any sounds you may be making, giving you a false sense of modesty and privacy.  Every Japanese person uses this option when it comes time for a number two and many even use it for a number one. Once again, the contradiction is that as soon as you activate that button, everyone knows exactly what you are doing. There’s really no such thing as a sly poo in Japan.

When dealing with a literal shit-face. (Daniel-This post is about one particular demon student I have. I changed the name of the people in the story. Also, all of the lesson content is changed to be fictional, though the lesson structure is not).

Every other week I have a private lesson with an eight year old boy named Ryusuke. This April, at the start of the Japanese school year, Ryusuke began regular classes with another teacher.

In early May I came to work to find a typed letter in my box. It was one paragraph long. It informed that I would begin weekly lessons with Ryusuke. He had come from another class with seven other children. And apparently after only several weeks his parents had been all but forced to move him to a private lesson. This was done for the interests of the other seven children. Also, the first lesson was today and in ten minutes.

There was no signature or letter heading. I showed it to the children's classes coordinator, Yukiko. She'd been sitting five feet away from me since I had arrived at work.

"Did you write this letter?"

"Yes. You understand OK?"

"So, I'm teaching him a lesson soon?"

"Yes. He is here." Sure enough at the school's front desk was some new critter hanging off his Mom's arm. He hadn't noticed me anymore than I had noticed him. His mom was urgently watching the clock, like she was willing it towards a finish line.

"Yukiko. Why did he have to leave his old class?"

"Not good situation with other student." Whether Rico actually meant one student or the whole class I couldn't know. Japanese doesn't use plurals and many Japanese people never get the hang of it when using English.

"Yes, but I have openings in regular classes with students he's never met. Why his own private lesson?"

"Ryusuke .... he is very.... genki." I learned quickly just what this new facet of "genki" meant.

I greeted Ryusuke at the door with a cushion and a big English "Hello. My name's Daniel. What's your name?" This is all part of a standardized routine every teacher is taught to start their classes. Ryusuke stared at me, one eyebrow raised. Perhaps a look of confusion. This is quite common. Nearly all our students know "hello" and "how are you?" before ever setting foot in our classrooms, but they usually learned it from their parents. Hearing the authentic accent and fluid speech for the first time can discombobulate the little ones.

I tried again.

"Hell-looo. My - name - is - Daniel. Daaan - yuuuule. What - is - your - name?"

He turned around to look at his mother. I hadn't noticed her before because she'd been peeking around the corner. To the mother, her son was like a rescued lion being reintroduced to the Savannah for the first time. She gazed onward, waiting to see if he'd take to his new environment. Her stare was earnest and she was unconsciously bobbing her head back and forth.

Ryusuke turned back to look at me. He arched his eyebrow even further and his mouth fell open. Poor kid looked he was hearing tongues.

I waited the duration of an obligatory awkward silence, but he never answered. I moved on to the next part of the script.

"Good job Ryusuke," you gotta say it no matter what, "would - you - like - a - cushion?" I held out a cushion to him.

Apparently he very much so wanted a cushion: he cocked his head and looked past me and into the room, dropped his eyebrows, smirked at me, and ran all catawampus through the room, flinging himself onto the stack of a dozen cushions in the corner.

I tossed the cushion I held onto the floor. "Ryusuke, please sit..." I gave him my most demonstrative pointer finger and thrust it toward the cushion "...here!"

He looked at the cushion on the floor and nodded. At last Ryusuke spoke: "cu-shin". I was pleased to get an acknowledgement. Bonus points for being in English.

I smiled at Ryusuke. Ryusuke smiled at me. Ryusuke then tilted the stack of cushions onto the ground in a horizontal row and relaxed into them like he was on a damned folding beach chair.

Ryusuke's mother smiled as she left her corner to come close the door behind me.

"OK, Ryusuke. Homework please."

"No book," he replied, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his chest.

I opened his school bag and pulled out his workbook. He shrugged. Our schools have standardized schedules so I knew what his homework had been. I opened to the correct page. He smirked.

"Please look at number one, Ryusuke. I will ask the question, please answer: 'What do you want for your birthday?'"

Ryusuke looked at the answer for number one. "Wan a bassetball an many bideo game."

"Excellent job, Ryusuke!" His mistakes with the "v" sound and the plural of "video game" are common ones. In addition to no plural nouns, Japanese has no "v" sound. "That was really good. But one more time, please repeat: 'I want a basketball and many VIH-deo gameSSS."

"Wena buh-ball mahwa deedee do gooz." He said it quickly.

"Errr on more time Ryusuke." I coached him again, slowing everything down.

"Bwabwa moomoo weebeeweebee gura papoo." He contiuned to make nonsense words for some time. I decided to move on to the second question.

"Who's your favorite grandma?"

Once again his initial answer was pretty good, but after any critique he would give up and make baby noises.

"Great job, Ryusuke, I can see you've really worked on integrating the many unique sounds of English into your phonological range. And, might I add, It's certainly paid off."

Sometimes I like to say things that I know none of my students will understand. It lets me feel like I'm a sitcom protagonist. Sometimes I even turn away and narrate my thoughts to an imaginary camera. Just like in the sitcoms, none of the other characters ever seem to be aware of these scathing retorts.

"Why don't we stop the homework there. There's so much to cover today and I know we're both determined that you get your parents' money's worth."

Ryusuke looked at me suspiciously.

"So, please put your homework away."

After putting away Ryusuke's homework I prepared for the second segment of the lesson. 

Typically, this segment involves listening to a recording of an unbelievable, canned conversation. After every line of dialogue there is a pause so that students can repeat what was just said. Students have a conversation book with the printed dialogue to help them follow along.

Per usual, I went fishing through Ryusuke's bag to find his conversation book for him. When I looked up, he'd slidden onto his side and struck up a classic model's pose; his head perched atop the hand of a crooked arm, the other arm cast across his legs and torso.

I slid his book forward. Perhaps he's too lazy to move his eyeballs, I realized, so I nudged the book in the direct line of his gaze.

He picked a cushion from his throne. I waited. I hoped he would come sit with me like a not-awful child. Instead, he laid the cushion over his face like it was a spa mask.

My frustration was obvious, but seeing Ryusuke smear himself with one of those cushions also gave me a feeling of disgust deep in my gut. I would include a photo of one of these horrid stink pouches, but they all have our company's logo printed on them, ass-chafed though still somewhat visible. It's hard to convey how old and sad and floppy and how deeply imprinted with people's buns these cushions truly are.

I wonder ... How many hands have they changed? How many butts? Did the company fish them out of the garbage dump? If so, did their original owner dump them because the chair was invented in Japan? They smell like ass. Generations of ass.  Fathers and mothers have sat their sons and daughters on the same cushions they likely failed their potty-training on in decades past. Yes its true, I had heard stories of both pants-pissing and pants-pooing on these cushions. And as of now I have witnessed both. Personally.

But here was Ryusuke, acting like he was exfoliating his skin with one of those fart sponges. I realized I didn't have the language to explain pink-eye to him. Or how it might keep him out of school for nearly two weeks, if I was lucky. Thus, it seemed to me like a good time ignore his bad behavior and reward him no further attention. For a solid thirty seconds minimum. I needed to catch my breath anyways.

So as I waited until Ryusuke was done unsanitizing his face I began to set up the CD so we could follow along the canned conversation.

When he was done I hit play. I smiled at him, "OK, please listen and repeat."

The syrupy-sweet voice of chanting children began:

"I like cheese sandwiches!"

"......................................", Ryusuke was silent.

"Ryusuke! Please listen and repeat! I like chee-"

"Me too! They taste so good!"

“Ryusu-”

“bwa-bi-bu-chu” Rysuke’s grin was all teeth and no smile.

“Can we be friends?”

Ryusuke stared at me, never breaking his grin. I stared back in silence.

“Sure, let’s share my sandwich.”

.............

“Mmmmmm, it tastes so cheesy!”

The track ended and I paused the CD. “That’s fine Ryusuke, we can spend however much time it takes to get this right... well within 40 minutes of course." The last part was for the camera.

Nothing but that same grin.

“Let’s try again, here we go: ‘I like cheese sandwiches!’” I motioned towards him.

“Ski-poose-dududududu-YAW!”

“No. No. You’re still off the mark I'm afraid. Listen and repeat...” With my frustration growing I began to slap my palm of the floor as I spoke the lines, creating a driving march to my words: “...I-LIKE-CHEESE-SAND-WICH-ES.”

Unexpectedly, Ryusuke began beat-boxing. He was recreating the same rhythm I’d made with my palm. Then, much like an eight-year old Japanese Dr. Dre might, he rapped about how his enjoyment for cheese sandwiches. 

He was nowhere near perfect, but at least he was saying something akin to the intended dialogue. Yes, he was doing the rapping thing because he thought it would irk me, but it still felt like catching a hail mary as time ran off the clock. Pleased as I was, I even kept the beat going for him.

Normally we do the conversation several times and switch between the two roles. However we ended after one because, towards the end of his rap debut he had suddenly started trying to sit on his own head. I decided not to push my luck and I prepared the materials for the next portion of our lesson.

This portion always involves new vocabulary and speaking structures taught through interactive games. As I got out flashcards and baskets and balls I watched with passing interest as Rysuke, with his head dug into the carpet, futilely tried to swivel his own butt on top of his head.

“Remember Ryusuke, you can do it if you put matter over mind.” I chuckled to my imaginary audience and saw Ryusuke’s mother watching. She was not chuckling.

I tried to review the new vocabulary quickly. Ryusuke’s tomfoolery had wasted so much of our time. Surprisingly he did say some of the words, but when he did, it was as a velociraptor would say them.

Once he even snarled before lunging towards me and growling “Is your mother at the food court?” His grammar was perfect.

He really enjoyed the ball toss game I set up for him. His job was simple; when I called out a vocabulary word he was to throw his pile of balls into the basket placed next to the corresponding flashcard. Unfortunately, he had some trouble hitting the different baskets. The first ball was errant and sailed dangerously near my cup of pens and markers. The second errant throw nearly clipped the cup. I realized then that he was actually being quite accurate with his throws.

“The game is over if you won’t try to hit the baskets,” This is what I was saying to Ryusuke when he started pelting me with balls.

In retrospect it was foolish to supply a velociraptor with throwing objects. At the time I thought we’d hit a turning point. Instead most of the room was turned upside down.

If his mom was upset by how the lesson had gone, I had no way of knowing. Her face was a blank canvas and she gave me a polite smile when they left. I don’t know what happened when they reviewed at home that night. I’m guessing when asked what English he learned, Ryusuke said “No Ryusuke. Stop. Uhhhhh.” And he probably sounded like a rapping dinosaur.

Regardless, Ryusuke’s mom brought him back the next week. And the week after that. And every week since.  

Mostly, I think she’s glad to taste freedom for forty minutes once a week. Though I will say, over the months our lessons have improved. It wasn't easy. But I held fast to that old bit of wisdom that it is better to let the river carry you than to try and fight it's currents.

Week by week I made small adjustments. And over the months my lessons have taken new form to play to Ryusuke's genki-ness.

Now when Ryusuke enters the room he finds me lying across the pile of cushions. Except for one, unoccupied cushion sitting in front of me.

When we have to practice reciting our sentences and dialogue, I let the boy rap away. I even bring him a toy microphone and lay down new fresh, funky beats for him every week. His English still needs some work, but his rhyme scheme is tight.

I've modified our ball toss game, as well, with the help of some of our school's favorite toys and stuffed critters. There are still baskets with corresponding vocabulary flash cards, but Ryusuke is no longer trying to sink a ball into them. Instead I turn over the baskets and atop them I place Max the dog, his old, decommissioned replacements, and this one creepy, fragile witch doll that no one on staff remembers coming into the school. Then when I say a vocabulary word, Ryusuke rains down balls in wrath upon the corresponding victim.

Recently while Ryusuke was digging through the classroom cupboard, obviously against my wishes, he found a hidden stash of heavy bean bags. Once he knew where they were there was no turning back. He can really pack a lot more velocity into his throws now, so I mostly stay out of the way.

His mom smiles and thanks me after every lesson, but she has the apprehension of someone returning to the office after a spa date.

Of course, every now and then Ryusuke still decides to rub a soiled cushion all over his face and as of now, I'll allow it. You have to pick your battles, and I've already come so far with Ryusuke.

The Young Folk - Daniel

(A certain brother asked what it's like actually working in the school and teaching the kids. There are so many different schools and types of classes that I found it hard to summarize. So I started off by just writing about the classes for our youngest age range, 2-3 year olds. These events are taken from a number of different schools over the course of several months. Some of what I describe is from my regular weekly classes, some is from days when I am substituting for another teacher.)

    Some lessons you work with toddlers. They don't make for the best verbal producers. They hardly speak any Japanese, let alone English.

    "With kids this young, don't worry about whether they're speaking or not, just expose them to English." This was my advice during training.  "And make sure no one gets hurt. Oh, and make sure you use Max the dog!"

    Max the dog is a hand-puppet that every classroom comes equipped with.  He's cute and he wears a little sewn on shirt with the company name. You can move his arms with your thumb and pinky finger. Max exists so that we English teachers can use him to redirect our young students' attention away from our strange and upsetting foreign faces.

    I didn't remember much from my two-week training crash course. But I did remember that I must use Max. On my first day, I didn't even let my kids see my face for fear that they'd get scared. I found my Max in the closet, though he looked worse for wear from years of abuse by toddlers. My Max the dog was missing his nose and one eyeball and his shirt had simply vanished.

    I hope you have one more school year left in you, Max, there's some scared kids coming in today who could sure use you.

    Just as my students were arriving, I put Max on my hand and crouched down below the window of my classroom's sliding door. When the kids lined up outside the door, my room looked completely empty. When it sounded like they were all ready, I sprung into action. Max the dog shot up right in front of them hollering "WELCOME KIDS!" and "HOW DO YA DO?!" in a new, exciting language.

    When the tears were finally over a staff member translated for me that the children were scared of Max. As if I couldn't tell from the hysterics. I was not to use him on this day or any other for the rest of the year. Suddenly my hairy, white face didn't look so bad.

    For the most part, I've kept to my promise of not using Max the dog anymore. The only time I use him is for a game I devised in which I teach the children the English names for the actions "throw, drop, punch, and kick." This seems to be a very popular game. No wonder the poor pooch ended up losing an eye and a nose.

    Another unique feature of these lessons is that, because the children are so young, one parent comes into the room with each child.

    On weekdays, "one parent" means "mom". The moms are usually pretty positive. They encourage their young ones to speak words in English. They help them focus when the kids start acting like critters. They know where the kids' books and materials are. And most importantly, they do the silly song and dance numbers along with the children and me. It is impossible to describe my appreciation and relief when the other parents dance and sing along with me.

    On weekends, though, dads will actually make their cameo appearances. These salarymen-turned-dad-for-the-day rarely seem pleased about showing up early on a Saturday morning for their weekly act of parenting. Hungover Dad is the worst. Little kids, at any moment, may decide that right now is a good time for a nap and I work hard to generate an enthusiastic environment where everyone is too energized for nap time. Hungover Dad routinely makes a mockery of my efforts by slouching on the kiddie cushions and dropping his eyelids to half-mast.

    There is not much dad participation to the song and dance routines, either. This is not for a lack of trying on my part.

    "It's time to sing 'SIX DUCKS'", I trumpet like we all just won the lottery, "sooooo, EVERYONE, please stand up." As most of the kids are already standing or climbing on things, Hungover Dad and the rest should know who I'm really referring to. Suddenly the dad, who just last week explained to me what he does for a living, mutters the words across his lips and shakes his heads like its all too much to process. Meanwhile, his three year old girl was standing ready on her cushion by the time I said "SIX DUCKS". 

    The dads may look around at the other adults to see what they're doing. Thank God for the one dad in my class who actually participates, we'll call him Good Dad. Once Good Dad is standing up and loosening up his arms for flapping, a sense of shame finally finds its way through the hangovers and neglect of other dads.

    Unfortunately, Good Dad and his wife alternate and he is only there every other week. On his off weeks I suffer the unique humiliation of being the only adult in room who is skipping in a circle and flapping his arms while "ruling the other ducks with his 'quack! quack! quack!'".

    I try to keep my eyes on the kids. Inevitably I betray myself and glance up at the dads, standing still as a rock, watching me jig and reel while I wave my hands and crack my voice in goofy sounds. I feel like Big Bird stumbling through the set of a Charlie Rose interview. Also, I'm wearing a suit and sweating through it at an alarming rate. I try to remind myself not to use my tie as a wipe. 

    While the dads seem to be worse on the whole, the worst parent I've ever had happened to be a mom. Cell Phone Mom. I only had misfortune of meeting her and her little stinker once as it was a substitute day.

    She made it clear from the first moment that her cell phone was her top priority. Whatever she was doing on it was obviously far more engrossing then her daughter. There were no other children in the lesson so I darted around the room with her daughter, pointing to colors and letters on the walls. The little girl was laughing and enjoying herself, I was laughing and enjoying myself, Mom was enjoying her phone. Then, amidst the frolic and fun, the little girl shit herself. Loudly. So loud that I expected a staff member to rush in with diapers and wipes at any moment. The little girl stopped and looked at Mom. I looked at Mom. She immediately looked down at her phone, trying to pretend the sound of soiling hadn't caught her attention.

    I tried talking to Mom, who I hadn't heard use a word of English so far. I didn't know what English word was most familiar to Japanese people.

    "Uhmmmm, poop." I pointed at the daughter. Mom shrugged at my gibberish. For a second I almost believed her feigned ignorance. But within seconds the truth became so smelly and undeniable that I knew I was being played. So the lesson went on.

    Despite these incidents, these are usually my favorite classes. The kids are adorable and sweet. And unlike some older students, they are too young to have developed their sass mouths. Despite a handful of Salary-Dads there is a core of engaged parents, even dads!

    But when you're working not only with the kids, but a rotating set of parents, you get very unpredictable results from week to week. Maybe the dad who was pretending to read posters on the wall last week is inspired by an awesome mom who showed up this week and he decides to help get his kid involved. Maybe the two girls who were best friends because they both wear pink have decided to cry all lesson long because one of them got a better sticker and now they aren't friends. Some days you get energy and full participation and sheer cuteness. Some days you get poop.

Fujisan Part 2 - In which climbing of Mt. Fuji happens (Daniel)

(Here is the second half to the Mt. Fuji trip, though its longer than the first half. The first half of the trip is the previous post, so read that before reading this post, if you haven't already.).

  

     It was impossible to tell if our bus was climbing the mountain yet. The steeped gradient suggested yes. Through the fog, though, I could barely see the edge of the road.

Every now and then I'd catch a glimpse of trees. I wondered if we were passing by Aokigahara, otherwise known as "Suicide Forest".

     Aokigahara, seated on the feet of Fujisan, has been infamous long before its modern nicknaming. Japanese mythology tells of the forest as haunted grounds. It certainly has the look and feel. The trees, fueled by Fuji's volcanic nutrients, grow so thick that Aokigahara stands in near darkness and silence.

     Aokihara's legend says that it is the eternal home of the spirits who were victims of ubasute during the dark days of Japan's fuedal era. Perhaps more myth than truth, ubasute was the practice of bringing the elderly and infirm to Fujisan and leaving them for dead. Sons would carry their mother or father towards the mountain, passing through Aokigahara. The sons would tire, and leave their parent in the forest and let nature take its course.

     It is the ghosts of the abandoned family members who stalk the forest, and torment those who pass through to end their own lives. Aokigahara is among the most popular suicide locations in the world, but this is more likely to do with Japanese literature glorifying "Suicide Forest" and the pressures of Japanese work culture - (suicide rates peak in March at the end of Japanese fiscal year).

      As I read the above information on my phone, I passed the story along to Sarah in the wavering spooky voice.

     "Wait a second," she stopped me, "we get phone reception here?"

     "This modern world!" I screeched in my best 'Eureka!' voice.

     The bus driver gave his lone passengers a furrowed glance in through the rear-view mirror. He pulled to a stop, pointed through the fog and announced, "Station 2, bathroom, store. Ten minutes."

     We walked through the fog, stumbling upon Station 2. It was a simple log cabin, and there were no lights on inside. We found an unlocked door and let ourselves in. There were some hiking and camping supplies that were set up, as if on display, but they looked dusty and there was no one around to sell them.

     Sarah pointed out the walking sticks they sold. They were simple, shaved, wooden staffs. She'd read that each station had a unique stamp that they'd brand into the stick to mark how high up Fuji you made it.

     I wanted one.

     As it would turn out, not only were the upper stations not open, but they were devoid of any inhabitants to brand my stick. And yet, the walking staff would prove itself to be a useful buy, being a life-saver.

     I picked a sturdy looking staff and stamped it into the ground. Much like Gandalf's, my staff seemed to have summoning powers. A nervous looking man appeared from some hidden backroom and sold us the staff and some water. He never made eye contact.

     Later, upon further reading I realized we were not passing through Aokigahara. We were driving up the Southeast side of Mt. Fuji, Aokigahara is on the Northwest. I did not tell Sarah this.

Instead I began to haunt her with the tale of Fuji's mythological birdmen - Tengu.

     "Hikers of Fuji tell tale of creatures .... half-bird, half-man, all demon! The Tengu ride the winds, attacking hikers unaware, leaving them near death and making them eat animal dung-"

     "Wait," Sarah interrupted, "did you say Tengu? Like 'Tengu' brand beef jerkey, that has that mascot on their bags who has a penis for a nose?"

     "Yeah, I guess the name is the same," I conceded, quickly using my 4G to find terrifying images of the Tengu, "but these are terrible bird-demons, I don't think they have penises for - no, no, you're right, they definitely have penises for noses."

Definitely...

     The weather had gone from bad to worse by the time the bus came to our final stop, Station 5. We stepped out into an even thicker mist. Violent gusts of wind blew through, making the mist feel like it was stuffed with ice shards, cutting as they swept over.

    It was the middle of the afternoon, yet the sun was imperceptible. Through mists and cloud, light came through like a flashlight sunken in a murky lake.

    The ground was loose pumice stone, red and brown. The ground shifted with every step, but it never changed. There were no trees, and only a rare shrub of hardy plant. Even the rocks looked the same.

     Up there, at 8,000 feet, the world felt less like Earth and more like Mars.

Look there! A Martian!

    

    In Station 5 we were able to change into our warm clothes. I'd neglected to bring long underwear. Sarah generously, but with a smirk, gave me an extra pair of her leggings to wear under my pants. They had frilly flowers on the cuff.

     We were also able to get a stamp on my wooden staff from a member of their skeleton crew. We also ascertained that there was an even smaller skeleton crew at Station 6, but after that, the mountain was abandoned.

Onward Christian Soldiers!

     On the trail to Station 6 we came across a group of two dozen hikers. Even from afar, it was clear few of them were in any shape to be hiking. A few were children, but most of the adults looked as though they'd be exhausted climbing an escalator. A third of them were standing, hunched forward, hands on knees, gasping for air. The rest barely moved faster than stand-still.

     We watched a girl fall to her hands and knees. She was young and loud and wanted to hide the obvious fact that she was suffering altitude sickness. Instead of turning back or resting, she continued onward, crawling. When people encouraged her to stop and rest she went "pffffft" and laughed as if this was a big joke and she crawled places all the time for shits and giggles.

    When she noticed her group cringing with discomfort she sprung to her feet and started sprinting up the trail, tilting all the time.

     It was a frightening thing to watch.

     Though green in the face and struggling for air, she wasted her breath continuously and maniacally pronouncing : "look, look, I'm fine, really, look!"

     "I bet she's gonna go down real hard."

     Sarah looked concerned. "Ya she is," she agreed. "Let's try and pass her real quick. I don't want to get spewed on".

     We came upon another group several minutes later of equal numbers. This group looked much healthier. There were no children, only teens and adults in good shape. They stood waiting at a bend in the trail.

     Sarah and I stopped to chat, thinking perhaps we'd found a good group to climb with.

     "You folks going to the top?" I asked.

     A slouching teenage boy answered for the group, "nah, we're just here to see the Station 6 crater."

     "Where is it?" I asked looking around, trying to peer through the heavy fog.

     "It's not here," he laughed, "it's up a little ways ahead. We're waiting for the rest of our group."

     "About two dozen?"

     "Yeah, that sounds right".

     "They might be a while," I informed him.

     He, and several other group members nodded knowingly.

     We left them there. They disappeared on the trail behind us, swallowed in heavy fog. They were the last group of hikers we'd see the rest of our climb.

     Soon after, a two-storied shack appeared out of the fog.

     I opened the door, unsure if this was Station 6. There were two empty postcard stands by the door. The rest of the room was bursting with cardboard boxes. They were stacked high upon each other, some taped shut and some were open and packed with dried foods, beer, postcards, gloves, hand warmers, whistles. These same contents could also be found placed in prepared piles around the room.

     Three elderly women appeared from a small kitchen. Using "blunt force English", a combination of basic phrases and desperate gesturing we were able to secure dinner and lodging for the night.

     They corralled us to a raised, wooden platform in the center of the room. They poured us tea and then turned on a TV. They watched soap operas while they went about slowly taking inventory of the pillared boxes. They hardly seemed to notice us.

     Sarah and I were in the same spot several hours later. The only difference was that we had put on every article of clothing we owned. We were still shivering.

     Suddenly the door slid open and a thick, blond man stepped through the fog and into the cabin. He wore only shorts and a t-shirt. He had very nice hiking boots, though. Far superior to the tennis shoes that Sarah and I were wearing.

     The spatial demands of the situation forced us into getting to know each other.

     His name was Jon. He was English, but he'd moved to America several years prior to live with his girlfriend. He worked doing something or other for Reuters.

     Jon hadn't known any better than us that the Southern side of the mountain was closed.

     "I figured it out though. Cause I saw no hikers. And there's lots of snow." He explained briskly.

Jon was friendly enough, but he was distant and he spoke shortly and infrequently. When he did talk, it felt forced.

     The old Japanese women turned off the T.V. at 7:00, at the end of the day's last soap. They finally made eye contact with us and then pointed up the stairs. We followed them into a spacious loft. It had nearly a hundred mattresses, all stuffed together like sardines. Yet the three beds they'd made up for me, Sarah, and Jon were all right next to each other.

    "Heh," Jon murmured Britishly, "I guess we'll be cozy tonight."

    

                *                                                                 *                                                    *

     I wouldn't have been able to sleep at 7 anyways. But my awakeness was aggravated by a certain hulking Englishman who snored constantly and farted every ten minutes like clockwork.

     I gave up on sleep and decided to pass the time playing games on my phone. I discovered that I still had 4G.

    "This modern world!" I whispered.

     I researched the records of deaths on Mt. Fuji. Twelve people had died in the last year. All male.        Mostly foreigners. All had climbed in the off-season. My anxiety grew in the silent darkness, only to be offset by my hushed giggles when Jon farted.

     Sarah and I planned to start climbing just before midnight, which left me hours to myself as she and Jon slept. We'd asked Jon if he wanted to climb with us. Jon had asked us when, and when we told him, he said he'd planned to climb a little later than that. I don't think he wanted to climb with us and I must say that Sarah and I were discretely pleased.

     I watched out the window as the fog roll by. Once while I watched, and only briefly, the fog cleared. Far off and far below I saw the lights of town. It looked like no more than a child's glow-in-the-dark pegboard. As I watched the fog roll off the mountain and far over that town I realized it was not fog at all, but clouds.

     At an hour to midnight I shook Sarah awake. We packed our bags, silently, letting Jon slumber.

     Outside the night was frigid and cut through my insufficient layers.

     I followed the trail with my head lamp, Sarah with her flashlight. Only forty yards up the mountain we came to an impasse. A tall gate stood before us. It was covered in brightly colored signs which presumably begged us to reconsider our off-season climb. I wandered off trail until my headlamp spotted the end of the fence.

     "Shoulda built a bigger fence," We scampered around. The trail quickly steepened.

     After half an hour of climbing, the inevitable happened. I saw a distant head lamp coming up the trail.

     "Jon's coming!" I proclaimed. Sarah halted, looked down the mountain, and began bolting up the mountain.

     No one likes awkward social situations. Especially when they involve full day, or night, hikes with a total stranger. I'm no exception. But Sarah lives her life making a concerted, fearful effort to avoid these situations in the same way small children take a running jump from their bed when they get up to avoid their toes being eaten by the fanged monster waiting underneath.

     Moving quickly was a problem. With all the rubble of pumice, traction was a difficult issue and our legs tired quickly. Jon, with his fancy hiking boots, was gaining on us.

     We played this game of pursuit for nearly an hour before our grueling drive came to a halt. The trail had disappeared. In its place was a massive bed of ice and snow, sweeping down the mountain like a frozen river. It was wide and steep and we stood on one side of its shore and the trail continued on the other side.

     We shone our lights up and down the frozen river, but it seemed to go up and down indefinitely. There was no way to go around.

     Along the steepest parts of the trail there had been a rope, strung between waist-high wooden posts, to hold onto. Here the rope and posts were being swallowed by the torrent of snow. Only twenty feet out, they were so buried that they'd only be of use to someone crawling. Which is exactly what we decided to do.

     We took off our bags and put on our rain pants over our blue jeans. Sarah had bought our rain gear at the 100 yen store - (Japan's equivalent of the 99 cent store). I have little confidence in 100 yen store products. Sarah once bought a sleeping mask from the 100 yen store and the next morning her eyes were swollen from a mask-shaped rash. She also bought a ribbon of flypaper from the 100 yen store. I watched, one time, as a fly landed on the trap's "sticky" surface and proceeded to crawl up and down the length of the ribbon several times before losing interest and flying away. After one month there was a single fly on the ribbon. I believe that it likely died of natural causes, in a peaceful slumber.

     By the time I'd gotten both feet through the legs of my rain paints there was already a tear running from calf to groin. Somewhere in the back of my mind there was a boyscout's voice reciting the dangers of wet clothing in frigid weather. 

     More immediately, I was absolutely terrified of crossing the frozen torrent. As steep as it was, a single slip would likely send us sweeping down the side of the mountain. As icy as it was, there'd be no way to slow the momentum of the fall except with violent, repeated contact with the ice.

     I led first. I kept the rope uphill of me, firmly grasped in my left hand. I held the walking staff in my right hand and used it for additional support on my downhill side. Sarah just clung, hands and torso to the rope. 

     Less than a quarter of the way through our crossing we dropped to our butts to stay level with the increasingly buried rope. We inched across on our behinds.

     It didn't take long to realize that the increase body contact with the slope was melting the snowfall and slickening the icy incline. Even sitting still I could feel myself losing the grip of the mountain.

     At this point, panicking, we strongly considered turning around. Sarah was the main proponent of this idea. I, on the other hand, for whatever reasons the gods deemed necessary, was never equipped with any sense of self preservation and was quite fine pressing ahead. However, for my love of Sarah I was open to turning back.

    We debated the right course of action as we slid forward, off the spots melted by our body heat. And by the time we agreed a retreat was the wisest course of action we realized we'd already crossed the midway point.

During the worst parts of crossing, I used my walking staff to smash the ice and snow into little footholds for Sarah and myself. This process was slow and laborous, but it helped us to eventually reach the other side.

     We continued on, happy to be on the shifty volcanic rubble once again. We had about fifteen minutes of celebrating our fording of the ice river before the trail began to double back. Five minutes later we were staring again, across that same steep, slick, ice river.

     "Fuuuuuuuuuuck," Sarah droned.

     "Ya," I added.

     Up here, the mountain face was steeper, the ice bed was wider, and there was not a post or rope in sight.

     "Shiiiiiiiiiit," Sarah continued.

     "Shit," I agreed.

     "Boy, I'll say," Jon said.

     We spun around to find the Englishman not arms reach behind us. Sneaky, that one.

     "Hello, again," Jon added.

     We stood agape.

     I managed to ask, "how'd you like crossing the ice the first time?"

     "Not much," he said. Then he nodded in confirmation. And with that he began stamping footholds with his fancy boots and making his way across.

     I followed behind and used my stick and shoes to widen the ledges for Sarah behind me.

Jon seemed to have a hard time, as well. But whereas Sarah and I were huffing and grunting, Jon, ever the Englishman, kept a stiff and silent upperlip.

     At one point, Sarah stepped into a foothold which suddenly collapsed. She quickly balanced herself on her back foothold to avoid being swept down the sheer face of Fujisan. She gripped her body weight to the side of the mountain, but the foothold in front of her was gone and she had no way to turn her body and reverse direction the way she came. The snow and ice beneath her was loosening.

     I stamped my feet several times, compacting the snow and ice of my footholds to strengthen them. I hunched to my knees and I stuck my ass back into the mountain as far as I could to counter the weight the weight of my arms and torso as I lurched forward. I reached my left arm towards Sarah as far as it would go and then extended my walking staff until it could just reach her.

     She grabbed on.

     "Here we go," and I swung her over to the safe footholds next to me.

     Now we can never know for sure if the foothold upon which she'd stood collapsed mere milliseconds after I pulled her away, but I like to think it did when I replay it in my head. Also I'm a young Harrison Ford.

     We found Jon waiting for us on the other side. His back was turned and his headlamp shone forward. In the light I could see that somehow we'd crossed onto the roof of a building. Below my feet were tile shingles.

     "I think we made it to Station 7," Sarah noted.

     "I think we made it on Station 7," I corrected.

     Jon nodded.

     Our flashlights pieced together our situation: Station 7 was two stories tall, plus an elevated base and the building was positioned so that the roof slanted uphill and downhill on respective sides. The trail was downhill of Station 7 and over a story below us. Station 7 was also nestled into the steep mountain-side which meant there was no way to hike up-hill to reconnect with the path. And because the glacial river, itself raised off the mountain face, was encroaching right up to Station 7, the only way to hike downhill to the path would to be to try and slide down the icy, sheer slope.

     I shared my observations with Sarah and Jon, "We can either try and slide on our asses down that icy waterfall to get back to the trail or we can try and jump onto it from here."

    We peered over the roof again to confirm what a bad idea jumping would be. Even at the lowest point of the roof, the ground was about a story down. Furthermore, the trail below was so narrow that a little too much momentum from the fall might cause a roll that could take you right off the trail's edge and down the mountain face.

     "I didn't like the snow much." Jon remarked. We all agreed.

     Then Jon crept to the edge of the roof and let himself drop.

     "OK!" He hollered from below. "There's a trash bin here to break the fall."

     We located it with our head lamp and then I followed suit. I hit the trash can with too much momentum, rolling off it and onto the ground. Luckily, the deep pumice slowed me down. Jon helped me up. I helped up Sarah.

This picture was taken at this same spot, on our descent. You can see Station 7, the trail, and the icy slope.

     From there on we hiked faster. We'd fallen behind schedule during the ice crossing.

     Often, Jon would take a lead and then wait for us at a comfy rock or a rest station. We'd drink water and share dried fruit and Tengu-brand beef jerky. Then Jon would head out again, while we finished catching our breath. But we always stayed close enough that we could see each other's lights and call out if need be. After the earlier perils, I think we all took comfort in this.

     As we approached Station 8, the sea of clouds abruptly parted. All at once, the night sky was there. Constellations stretched vastly above us, untouched by any light except ours and their own. The Milky Way really did look fluid. The stars did, too, and suddenly it was as if they were all blurring together, melting across my vision, and then everything went far away. Even my body. The ground seemed to be shifting and jumping up at me and I slumped over onto a large rock. All I could hear was the throbbing of my head and shallow, rapid gasps for air.

     Sarah recognized my altitude sickness and stayed behind with me. Unfortunately, the only remedy we had available was more water, dried fruit, and Tengu-brand beef jerky. The rest of the climb is as blurry in my memory as was my vision of the night-sky.

     There were long long flat passes of rubble and red, chalky dust. There was a steep climb up a titanic mountain staircase. Each stair was a boulder, knee or waist high. During the worst of this climb I'd stop after every rock to gulp air.

     I remember Sarah looking after me. I remember Jon telling a story about a week he'd spent climbing in the Himalayas. He'd had to spend three days in Kathmandu confined to a hotel room while acclimated. Everything he'd eaten had to be brought to him as he'd been unable to even go up or down a few flights of stairs.

     I remember approaching the last station, Station 9.5. I remember wondering why they didn't just call it Station 10. And I remember that things were becoming less dark. 

     A warm glow crested over the mountain and there, finally, we could see the summit. Our pace quickened. We were energized by the light and the race to see catch the sunrise.

     Then I remember seeing the final slope. It was nearly vertical. It was all snow and ice. Unlike before, we weren't crossing from one side to another. Rather, it was a straight climb from bottom to top.

     We dragged ourselves vertically for a hundred feet or so, when suddenly and unexpectedly found ourselves standing on evened rubble with tread marks running through it. The dawn light showed it to be a long path, circling around the summit. In the distance we could see it trailed off toward what appeared to be a small station on the summit with meteorological instruments on its roof, while still in front of us, the vertical ascent continued over snow and ice for several hundred more feet.

     "I think we found a vehicle access road," Sarah said. "It's probably private, but -"

     "Well," Jon interrupted, "I don't like the snow so much, so-"

     "Uhhhhhrrrrrrhhhhhh" I added, forgetting to focus on my breathing.

     And so it was decided. Our final ascent to the summit would be a scamper along a soft, gradual vehicle access road.

Jon and Daniel. Not pictured: Pride.

     Though I was still sick and disoriented, the terrain became so much easier that it felt like we were skipping the closing distance. As the sun came up I felt kissed by angels and could hear gentle, welcoming greetings. When I asked Sarah who was talking to us, she looked concerned and said "no one".

     Despite hallucinating, gasping for air, and being all around miserable, I was happy. I was happy just to have made it. The sun had already been up for fifteen minutes, but it didn't matter.

     Far below us the clouds swirled around us like calm waves lapping at the mountain and ebbing back toward the horizon. It was only clouds as far as the eye could see.

     Sarah took out her camera to capture the stunning view, I took out my phone.

     I took a photo. Then I noticed, "it looks like we get internet up here," I told Sarah. "But it's only 3G, but still, this modern world..."

     We stood atop Fujisan, 12,388 feet, the highest point in Japan, and I finally did what I'd felt I needed to do for a long time through that night. I peed. A lot. All over the world below.

     "You are a fool to not climb Mt. Fuji once, and you are a fool to climb Mt. Fuji twice, but if you do climb, you are very wise to take vehicle access roads when available." -Japanese proverb, addendum (2014).