Spring in Tokyo, as most places, is a time of renewal. The gray skies begin to give way to a softer, more inviting blue. Trees that once offered only charcoal skeletons now nearly glow with blossoms. The hemlines of skirts climb in increments best measured in feet. Offices of the bigger, more traditional firms nearly bubble over with newly graduated recruits. And the event known as hanami greets them all.
A celebration of spring, hanami (literally flower viewing) is the official harbinger of spring. The government launches an official website to track and forecast the blooming of the cherry trees. Schedules are made and changed according to variations in the weather forecast.
On the days when the weather is warm and the trees are in their prime (which usually lasts about an hour), space in a park is at a premium. During the week the spaces are rigorously defended, often by a recent graduate embarking on his exciting career in business. Whether they are also responsible for lining up Peach Girls (escorts specifically engaged to provide company for hanami parties) may depend on the company’s culture. Each company or hanami party may even be so bold as to mark off their territory days in advance. The ingenious may pay a few of the homeless in booze and food to reserve a spot. Availability is on a first come, first served basis.
To properly enjoy the season, one must be prepared, and observe the traditions of hanami:
A blue tarp – preferably large enough to shelter a small nomadic tribe, spread on the ground for claiming territory and later seating; remember to remove your shoes before stepping onto it
Cardboard boxes – for use as tables for the buffet
Food – any assortment of snacks – dried fish and squid, seaweed, chicken skewers, fried noodles, octopus balls, meat on a stick, peanuts, etc. – in large quantities, lest you have to later order pizza from the delivery guys wandering the park
Alcohol – more important than food, one must be prepared to drink until the flowers which you are ostensibly viewing no longer come into focus. Beer and rice wine are the staples, but don’t be afraid to bring the entire bar with you – you will not be looked up with scorn, but rather with envy
Remember also to carry a camera (easily done in Japan, where every phone has a camera and everyone and their dog has a phone), for if you have done the above, you will need some evidence of having seen a flower.
Those who are ill prepared are forced to pay inflated prices for snacks and beer from the myriad of vendors set up around each park, and scrounge newspaper and the dismantled buffet boxes to use as seats.
But as quickly as the hanami season begins, it ends, and one is left to wait for hanabi (fireworks) to start before indulging so conspicuously in the park again.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Recommended reading
Nothing new from me, but others are keeping busy. Check out "the hard drinker" by Court Merrigan.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Olympic glory
I can now say that I've boarded down an Olympic run. Two actually. Over the weekend the company took a trip to Shiga Kogen, Nagano Prefecture, which was the site of some of the '98 Winter Olympic competition. After struggling through a 30km (18.6 mile) traffic jam leaving Tokyo, we arrived just before 1:00 p.m. Skipping lunch, we strapped on the boards and headed up the gondola. Snow was falling lightly, and occasional patches of sun poked through. The snow could have been better, but was not horrible. The half-inch of new stuff was not bad, but the base was fairly solid and icy. (One co-worker sustained a broken wrist in a bad fall on a steep run.) After the skiing came a huge meal, and the onsen (hot springs). The bath, referred to as a rotenburo, was situated outside at the back of one of the hotels, at the base of a forest slope. Ringing the bath area was a moat of snowmelt. Very cold snowmelt. The night was capped by a mediocre display of fireworks launched from the top of the mountain, but still managed to draw the applause of the guests assembled in the large-windowed restaurant to watch. The next day was a beautiful spring day, with clear skies and a view from the top of the Southern Japanese Alps. As the day warmed (and the slopes crowded) the snow softened and became slushy, but remained hard and icy in spots. The two Olympic runs, by the way, had been for the Giant Slalom and Super Giant Slalom and are well marked.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Four Days of Board-ome on the North Island
Days 3 & 4
The last two days were pretty much the same. Dinner the final evening was a huge feast - a buffet covered in snow crab, grilled king crab, mountains of raw shrimp, grilled squid, a bucket of salmon roe and a variety of other things. The snow remained good, and it was snowing hard as the bus pulled out for the airport.
The last two days were pretty much the same. Dinner the final evening was a huge feast - a buffet covered in snow crab, grilled king crab, mountains of raw shrimp, grilled squid, a bucket of salmon roe and a variety of other things. The snow remained good, and it was snowing hard as the bus pulled out for the airport.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Four Days of Board-ome on the North Island
Day 2
From deep slumber to painful aches, the day began much as the previous had ended – light, fluffy snow drifting down around the hotel. On the ground lay a new, if not especially deep, layer of powder. Breakfast in the traditional Japanese style – rice, a small cut of salmon, natto (fermented soybeans) and crisp nori (dry seaweed).
At the summit of the smaller of the two peaks, just above 1000 meters, the sun was shining and the wind was whipping. Near and in the trees, the snow remained soft and light for the first few runs, turning heavier as the day went on and the temperature rose. A fine spring day ensued.
From mid-afternoon the onsen (hot springs) beckoned, cutting the day short in avoidance of the icy conditions that would begin to form. The water steamed in a large room with baths of different description. The largest in one corner near a window looking out to a forested hill was shallow and mostly mild. A small bath waited at 20C (68F) to greet those emerging from the sauna. Nearby, a shallow bath held reclining bathers as air pulsed and massaged from below.
The most enjoyable of the baths, however, was found out a sliding glass door. A small, round bath deeper than those inside sat in the corner below a roof. It looked out, unobstructed, over a wooded hill. Had it been snowing at the time, it would have been picture-postcard perfect.
The dinner that followed was not the grand feast of the first night. Owing to financial considerations, an izakaya (a Japanese style bar) was found to be quite suitable. The fare varied, but mostly consisted of rice topped with sashimi and, being Hokkaido, salmon roe.
With muscles relaxed from the baths, and stomachs full, sleep came swiftly.
From deep slumber to painful aches, the day began much as the previous had ended – light, fluffy snow drifting down around the hotel. On the ground lay a new, if not especially deep, layer of powder. Breakfast in the traditional Japanese style – rice, a small cut of salmon, natto (fermented soybeans) and crisp nori (dry seaweed).
At the summit of the smaller of the two peaks, just above 1000 meters, the sun was shining and the wind was whipping. Near and in the trees, the snow remained soft and light for the first few runs, turning heavier as the day went on and the temperature rose. A fine spring day ensued.
From mid-afternoon the onsen (hot springs) beckoned, cutting the day short in avoidance of the icy conditions that would begin to form. The water steamed in a large room with baths of different description. The largest in one corner near a window looking out to a forested hill was shallow and mostly mild. A small bath waited at 20C (68F) to greet those emerging from the sauna. Nearby, a shallow bath held reclining bathers as air pulsed and massaged from below.
The most enjoyable of the baths, however, was found out a sliding glass door. A small, round bath deeper than those inside sat in the corner below a roof. It looked out, unobstructed, over a wooded hill. Had it been snowing at the time, it would have been picture-postcard perfect.
The dinner that followed was not the grand feast of the first night. Owing to financial considerations, an izakaya (a Japanese style bar) was found to be quite suitable. The fare varied, but mostly consisted of rice topped with sashimi and, being Hokkaido, salmon roe.
With muscles relaxed from the baths, and stomachs full, sleep came swiftly.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Four Days of Board-ome on the North Island
Day One:
The alarm started its usual noises at 5:00 a.m., far earlier than most rational people would have preferred. The city was still dark and still, only a few dedicated workers making their way toward the city center. The train to the airport showed only a little more liveliness.
The terminal building at Haneda International was buzzing with activity, travelers in suites carried black briefcases and overnight bags, others in jeans and ski jackets sat next to their boards and skis, sipping coffee and looking both tired and excited. The plane, a Boeing 747-300 was full for the hour-and-a-half flight to New Chitose Airport.
Outside the warm confines of Chitose’s airport, the sun reflected brightly off the snow. The bus wound its way out of the airport and onto the highway, headed toward the mountains to the south and west. Rising up into the foothills, the sun was masked in cloud and a thick snow was falling. It would continue to fall in waves for the next few days.
By one o’clock the gondola reached the summit of the Kiroro resort, 1,200 meters (3937 feet). Visibility at the summit was no more than 20 feet, the snow and wind combining at times in complete whiteout. The temperature was –15C (5F). The snow was thick, light and dry.
With no crowds on the slopes, the conditions did not deteriorate, and being Japan, not many are inclined to be the first into the trees or even onto the edges of the runs. Throughout the day and until the lights came on there was fresh snow to be explored. The runs were peaceful by Japanese resort standards – no J-pop, gansta rap, or other music pumping constantly from the lift speakers, only the droning repetition of announcements for the ski and snowboard school.
Dinner was taken in the ski village surrounding Hotel Piano (Kiroro is owned by Yamaha music, thus the hotels are named for instruments). This hotel serves as the main resort area, and is five minutes by shuttle bus from the mountain base. The hotel itself houses two restaurants – one Italian, one offering the foods of Hokkaido. Surrounding the hotel are other restaurants of various description – Chinese, sushi, izakaya, etc. This first night’s meal was had in a restaurant adorned almost exclusively in Beatles paraphernalia, with the occasional Elvis poster thrown in for variety. The food, however, was distinctly Hokkaido – tender strips of barbequed lamb, accompanied by bowls of rice topped with salmon roe.
Sleep that night came quickly and easily.
The alarm started its usual noises at 5:00 a.m., far earlier than most rational people would have preferred. The city was still dark and still, only a few dedicated workers making their way toward the city center. The train to the airport showed only a little more liveliness.
The terminal building at Haneda International was buzzing with activity, travelers in suites carried black briefcases and overnight bags, others in jeans and ski jackets sat next to their boards and skis, sipping coffee and looking both tired and excited. The plane, a Boeing 747-300 was full for the hour-and-a-half flight to New Chitose Airport.
Outside the warm confines of Chitose’s airport, the sun reflected brightly off the snow. The bus wound its way out of the airport and onto the highway, headed toward the mountains to the south and west. Rising up into the foothills, the sun was masked in cloud and a thick snow was falling. It would continue to fall in waves for the next few days.
By one o’clock the gondola reached the summit of the Kiroro resort, 1,200 meters (3937 feet). Visibility at the summit was no more than 20 feet, the snow and wind combining at times in complete whiteout. The temperature was –15C (5F). The snow was thick, light and dry.
With no crowds on the slopes, the conditions did not deteriorate, and being Japan, not many are inclined to be the first into the trees or even onto the edges of the runs. Throughout the day and until the lights came on there was fresh snow to be explored. The runs were peaceful by Japanese resort standards – no J-pop, gansta rap, or other music pumping constantly from the lift speakers, only the droning repetition of announcements for the ski and snowboard school.
Dinner was taken in the ski village surrounding Hotel Piano (Kiroro is owned by Yamaha music, thus the hotels are named for instruments). This hotel serves as the main resort area, and is five minutes by shuttle bus from the mountain base. The hotel itself houses two restaurants – one Italian, one offering the foods of Hokkaido. Surrounding the hotel are other restaurants of various description – Chinese, sushi, izakaya, etc. This first night’s meal was had in a restaurant adorned almost exclusively in Beatles paraphernalia, with the occasional Elvis poster thrown in for variety. The food, however, was distinctly Hokkaido – tender strips of barbequed lamb, accompanied by bowls of rice topped with salmon roe.
Sleep that night came quickly and easily.
Monday, February 16, 2004
Land of the Setting Sun
The sun has set on what is one of Japan’s proudest cultural institutions, at least to judge from the media coverage.
Following the discovery of BSE in a Washington state cow, the Japanese government imposed a ban on the importation of American beef. This has in turn caused the end of Japanese culture as it is currently known.
As American beef supplies in Japan began to dwindle, and the prices rise, major fast food establishments that rely on the cheap beef to serve as gyudon (beef-topped rice bowls) began to announce the end of an era. Newspapers and television news programs lined up and began feeding the public the dire news.
One by one the major chains removed gyudon from their menus. Finally the most venerable of the gyudon chains removed gyudon from its menu in all except its flagship store in order to preserve the 105-year-old tradition of gyudon at Yoshinoya.
The media reported daily on the fall of gyudon chains and the impending demise of the dish. Extensive reporting was done on what the firms were doing to replace the American beef. Sadly, Australian beef does not lend itself to the dish and costs more. Newspaper and television reported on the final shipment of American beef to Yoshinoya’s outlets. TV crews reported live from the midnight departure and stood in the way of the deliverymen making their final rounds. Newspapers carried full-page articles on the event.
Fed by the reporting on the imminent demise of a cultural staple, consumers lined up outside Yoshinoya’s shops to get one last beef bowl. Reports were full of people who had frequented gyudon shops expressing a sense of loss. Other reporters found some who had never tried one in their 25 years’ of life who had rushed to stand in line to sample one before gyudon was consigned to history.
In interviews, long-time gyudon eaters derided the new menu offerings of spiced pork on rice and Japanese curry. Nothing can replace their beloved beef bowl. This weekend, the beef bowl died in Japan.
From the extensive coverage the demise garnered one would think that gyudon has gone forever, and with it went a piece of Japan. Doubtless the government will eventually accept the steps taken by America in certifying its beef safe and once again allow the importation of beef. However, this is not a possibility that has been raised by the chains’ management or the media. When the government does reopen the market, gyudon will rise up from the ashes like a phoenix and a new dawn of Japanese culture unrivaled since the Meiji restoration will commence.
Following the discovery of BSE in a Washington state cow, the Japanese government imposed a ban on the importation of American beef. This has in turn caused the end of Japanese culture as it is currently known.
As American beef supplies in Japan began to dwindle, and the prices rise, major fast food establishments that rely on the cheap beef to serve as gyudon (beef-topped rice bowls) began to announce the end of an era. Newspapers and television news programs lined up and began feeding the public the dire news.
One by one the major chains removed gyudon from their menus. Finally the most venerable of the gyudon chains removed gyudon from its menu in all except its flagship store in order to preserve the 105-year-old tradition of gyudon at Yoshinoya.
The media reported daily on the fall of gyudon chains and the impending demise of the dish. Extensive reporting was done on what the firms were doing to replace the American beef. Sadly, Australian beef does not lend itself to the dish and costs more. Newspaper and television reported on the final shipment of American beef to Yoshinoya’s outlets. TV crews reported live from the midnight departure and stood in the way of the deliverymen making their final rounds. Newspapers carried full-page articles on the event.
Fed by the reporting on the imminent demise of a cultural staple, consumers lined up outside Yoshinoya’s shops to get one last beef bowl. Reports were full of people who had frequented gyudon shops expressing a sense of loss. Other reporters found some who had never tried one in their 25 years’ of life who had rushed to stand in line to sample one before gyudon was consigned to history.
In interviews, long-time gyudon eaters derided the new menu offerings of spiced pork on rice and Japanese curry. Nothing can replace their beloved beef bowl. This weekend, the beef bowl died in Japan.
From the extensive coverage the demise garnered one would think that gyudon has gone forever, and with it went a piece of Japan. Doubtless the government will eventually accept the steps taken by America in certifying its beef safe and once again allow the importation of beef. However, this is not a possibility that has been raised by the chains’ management or the media. When the government does reopen the market, gyudon will rise up from the ashes like a phoenix and a new dawn of Japanese culture unrivaled since the Meiji restoration will commence.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
I ate a horse
Well, part of one anyway. It happened very naturally on the return leg of an extended snowboarding weekend to Nagano prefecture, Japan. We had left Tokyo about eleven o’clock Friday night and endured the eight-hour (including four stops of various lengths) bus ride to the base of the aptly named Komaruyama (Small Round Mountain).
Upon our arrival a light snow was falling. The air was crisp, but not too cold, and it was pleasantly quiet after the noise and bustle of Tokyo. A few minutes later the quite was shattered by the rumble of a Snow Cat, which was to take us up to the ryokan half way up the hill and past the mid-sun Shinto shrine. Once checked in the rental gear was brought out, with a bit of a wait while one of the staff took a snowmobile down the hill to get boots to fit the Westerners in the group.
Soon we were geared up and the lifts were running. The silence of the morning was long forgotten and not to return. One feature of Japanese ski areas is the extensive systems of loudspeakers which sit atop the lift towers and blare music all day. The selection this day was a mixture of US top 40 and gangsta rap. (It became so unbearable that we asked the ski patrol to change the music – a request that was thankfully granted. Though not that much better musically, it was at least a change of songs.)
There had been some big snows the previous week and there were still a few stashes of untracked powder for us to exploit. And we did, until it was gone and had to move on to more out of the way places. The light snow of the morning came off and on through the day, but did not add up to much.
In the evening the lights kicked on and slopes emptied, making a couple of us late for dinner. (“I think we have time for one more run” becoming a mantra.) Our group was the only in the lodge, which meant when the lifts stopped (along with the music) we had a very peaceful place to ourselves. The staff is quite friendly, efficient and, like all good ski resort employees, there to enjoy themselves. After dinner we were invited to join them in a few glasses of sake and a chat.
The talk turned to the abandoned building just up the hill, at the top of the first lift. The old hotel had been abandoned for the past decade, maybe more, and was reputed to be inhabited now by a family of ghosts. Whether they were friendly or not was a matter of some debate, but they seemed to keep mostly to themselves. In contrast to the deceased dog of one of the long-time ryokan employees, which was said to follow its former master around the place.
Defying logic we mounted a snowmobile and drove the thirty meters up the hill, flashlights in hand and half moon above. We pulled open the door and stepped inside. We looked from where we were standing and then exited the building. Hotels abandoned for decades, we finally decided, were not going to present the best places to be wandering around after sake and dark, particularly those that house ghosts. Nothing approached us before we made our exit, but simply looking in the window from the outside proved odd enough. The room we could see into was littered with old futons, blankets, single ski gloves, other scraps of rags and a few unidentifiables.
We hopped back on the snowmobile, whipped under the snow machines and, once back at the ryokan, headed for the bath. Typical of ryokans the bath was a common one for the hotel and the water in the bath hot enough to cook king crab, but felt great after a day of boarding.
The next day the skies cleared, the sun came out and it was like spring skiing – everything was wet and heavy (including our heads). Having tracked all the good snow the day before we made our way around the mountain sticking ever closer to the trails’ edges for the little bit of fresh snow there was.
Our final day was started with rain. This was a first for me – snowboarding in the rain in February. But we made the best of it and ensured that we would be as soar as possible by attempting the newly opened half pipe and rail. We stopped in early afternoon, returned our rental gear and mounted the Snow Cat for the ride back down. From there it was back on the bus.
Our bus made fewer stops and made much better time on the way back. It was this first stop where it happened. At this particular rest-stop/gift shop/restaurant there was a somewhat limited menu. They offered the typical ramen noodles, tempura, udon (another type of noodle) and Japanese curry (which will never be confused with the Indian original it is rumored to be based on). In addition, they had Sakura.
There is a tendency in Japan to call foods with the pinkish hue of the sakura (cherry blossom) Sakura. Thus, with its pinkish color, horsemeat is called Sakura. It was served as sushi, cut in thin strips, raw and laid over balls of rice. The taste and texture is that of high quality beef. And so it was that I ate a horse.
Upon our arrival a light snow was falling. The air was crisp, but not too cold, and it was pleasantly quiet after the noise and bustle of Tokyo. A few minutes later the quite was shattered by the rumble of a Snow Cat, which was to take us up to the ryokan half way up the hill and past the mid-sun Shinto shrine. Once checked in the rental gear was brought out, with a bit of a wait while one of the staff took a snowmobile down the hill to get boots to fit the Westerners in the group.
Soon we were geared up and the lifts were running. The silence of the morning was long forgotten and not to return. One feature of Japanese ski areas is the extensive systems of loudspeakers which sit atop the lift towers and blare music all day. The selection this day was a mixture of US top 40 and gangsta rap. (It became so unbearable that we asked the ski patrol to change the music – a request that was thankfully granted. Though not that much better musically, it was at least a change of songs.)
There had been some big snows the previous week and there were still a few stashes of untracked powder for us to exploit. And we did, until it was gone and had to move on to more out of the way places. The light snow of the morning came off and on through the day, but did not add up to much.
In the evening the lights kicked on and slopes emptied, making a couple of us late for dinner. (“I think we have time for one more run” becoming a mantra.) Our group was the only in the lodge, which meant when the lifts stopped (along with the music) we had a very peaceful place to ourselves. The staff is quite friendly, efficient and, like all good ski resort employees, there to enjoy themselves. After dinner we were invited to join them in a few glasses of sake and a chat.
The talk turned to the abandoned building just up the hill, at the top of the first lift. The old hotel had been abandoned for the past decade, maybe more, and was reputed to be inhabited now by a family of ghosts. Whether they were friendly or not was a matter of some debate, but they seemed to keep mostly to themselves. In contrast to the deceased dog of one of the long-time ryokan employees, which was said to follow its former master around the place.
Defying logic we mounted a snowmobile and drove the thirty meters up the hill, flashlights in hand and half moon above. We pulled open the door and stepped inside. We looked from where we were standing and then exited the building. Hotels abandoned for decades, we finally decided, were not going to present the best places to be wandering around after sake and dark, particularly those that house ghosts. Nothing approached us before we made our exit, but simply looking in the window from the outside proved odd enough. The room we could see into was littered with old futons, blankets, single ski gloves, other scraps of rags and a few unidentifiables.
We hopped back on the snowmobile, whipped under the snow machines and, once back at the ryokan, headed for the bath. Typical of ryokans the bath was a common one for the hotel and the water in the bath hot enough to cook king crab, but felt great after a day of boarding.
The next day the skies cleared, the sun came out and it was like spring skiing – everything was wet and heavy (including our heads). Having tracked all the good snow the day before we made our way around the mountain sticking ever closer to the trails’ edges for the little bit of fresh snow there was.
Our final day was started with rain. This was a first for me – snowboarding in the rain in February. But we made the best of it and ensured that we would be as soar as possible by attempting the newly opened half pipe and rail. We stopped in early afternoon, returned our rental gear and mounted the Snow Cat for the ride back down. From there it was back on the bus.
Our bus made fewer stops and made much better time on the way back. It was this first stop where it happened. At this particular rest-stop/gift shop/restaurant there was a somewhat limited menu. They offered the typical ramen noodles, tempura, udon (another type of noodle) and Japanese curry (which will never be confused with the Indian original it is rumored to be based on). In addition, they had Sakura.
There is a tendency in Japan to call foods with the pinkish hue of the sakura (cherry blossom) Sakura. Thus, with its pinkish color, horsemeat is called Sakura. It was served as sushi, cut in thin strips, raw and laid over balls of rice. The taste and texture is that of high quality beef. And so it was that I ate a horse.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Excuses, excuses
It was nearly noon by the time I managed to find my way out of my apartment. The air was already thick with the sticky heat that daily grips this little island. The night before had been nothing short of restless; mosquitoes kept up a ceaseless raid on exposed skin and the damp stench of the hovel I was held up in would have allowed no rest anyway.
Now tired, hungry and entirely agitated by the swelling red bites that covered me, I found myself stuck in traffic because of a giant whale. The beast was laid out on the back of a truck, being taken somewhere for something. At this point, however, it was only succeeding in slowing traffic and drawing gawkers from the stores, cafes and dirty alleyways. They, in turn, slowed traffic to an unmerciful crawl. A traffic cop was trying in vain to open the lanes of traffic once again.
A stench rose from the drying beast and mingled with the smell of exhaust, roasting chickens and ducks, frying fish and rotting garbage. I was no longer hungry. I was growing more impatient with each passing second. The little motorbike I was on normally made most traffic problems irrelevant, but then again, I had never encountered a whale in traffic before.
The signal ahead of the truck turned and the cops hurried to push children and their parents from the lane and the whale lurched forward. With a clear line along the curb I hammered down on the throttle and threw myself around the side of the trailer on which the leviathan lay. I found myself coming along the underside of the beast and made my way forward to just about the midpoint. My progression along the beast was halted by another motorcyclist and his camera-toting passenger who seemed intent on taking every inch of the whale’s underbelly in close detail.
Already angered by my own tardiness I found this an unnecessary annoyance. I blew my meager horn, but to no avail. I looked for ways around them, but we were once again slowing as the crowds came into the street.
It may have been my eyes, but I nearly swore the whale was growing larger, as though it were drawing in a final breath. The skin looked stretched, taut as a painter’s canvas. As we stopped I heard a creaking noise and thought the truck bed must be splintering beneath the weight. Then a force I cannot describe threw me from my bike and sent me sliding into the storefront to my right.
I found myself unable to rise; not from pain or broken bones, but from slipping on something slick when I tried. I couldn’t see through the visor of my helmet from the same slime in which I sat. As I raised it clear of my eyes I couldn’t believe my eyes. Before me on its bed lay the whale with a gaping hole in its belly, burst like a balloon.
She looked at me in disbelief, as though I were making it up. I had to return home to shower, I protested, she wouldn’t have wanted me arriving a stinking pile of whale blood, guts and half digested tuna! But she would not be convinced by such a flimsy story. She got up from the table, announced she had finished her lunch and left me the bill as she walked away.
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction: http://www.etaiwannews.com/Taiwan/2004/01/27/1075168255.htm
Now tired, hungry and entirely agitated by the swelling red bites that covered me, I found myself stuck in traffic because of a giant whale. The beast was laid out on the back of a truck, being taken somewhere for something. At this point, however, it was only succeeding in slowing traffic and drawing gawkers from the stores, cafes and dirty alleyways. They, in turn, slowed traffic to an unmerciful crawl. A traffic cop was trying in vain to open the lanes of traffic once again.
A stench rose from the drying beast and mingled with the smell of exhaust, roasting chickens and ducks, frying fish and rotting garbage. I was no longer hungry. I was growing more impatient with each passing second. The little motorbike I was on normally made most traffic problems irrelevant, but then again, I had never encountered a whale in traffic before.
The signal ahead of the truck turned and the cops hurried to push children and their parents from the lane and the whale lurched forward. With a clear line along the curb I hammered down on the throttle and threw myself around the side of the trailer on which the leviathan lay. I found myself coming along the underside of the beast and made my way forward to just about the midpoint. My progression along the beast was halted by another motorcyclist and his camera-toting passenger who seemed intent on taking every inch of the whale’s underbelly in close detail.
Already angered by my own tardiness I found this an unnecessary annoyance. I blew my meager horn, but to no avail. I looked for ways around them, but we were once again slowing as the crowds came into the street.
It may have been my eyes, but I nearly swore the whale was growing larger, as though it were drawing in a final breath. The skin looked stretched, taut as a painter’s canvas. As we stopped I heard a creaking noise and thought the truck bed must be splintering beneath the weight. Then a force I cannot describe threw me from my bike and sent me sliding into the storefront to my right.
I found myself unable to rise; not from pain or broken bones, but from slipping on something slick when I tried. I couldn’t see through the visor of my helmet from the same slime in which I sat. As I raised it clear of my eyes I couldn’t believe my eyes. Before me on its bed lay the whale with a gaping hole in its belly, burst like a balloon.
She looked at me in disbelief, as though I were making it up. I had to return home to shower, I protested, she wouldn’t have wanted me arriving a stinking pile of whale blood, guts and half digested tuna! But she would not be convinced by such a flimsy story. She got up from the table, announced she had finished her lunch and left me the bill as she walked away.
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction: http://www.etaiwannews.com/Taiwan/2004/01/27/1075168255.htm
Monday, January 26, 2004
The sky is falling!
Snow began falling again in Tokyo Sunday afternoon causing area residents to panic and repeated tell one another that ‘it’s cold!’ The snow clouds gathered over the western horizon early in the day, but left the city untouched until later afternoon. The arrival of the clouds would have been nearly entirely unnoticed had it not been accompanied by a frigid wind of about 5km/hr. With the ensuing draft came the exclamations of cold and eventually some spots of moisture resembling snow were spotted. These melted quickly, but conversations about the cold lingered well into the night.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Commuter Comfort
Good news for those venturing into the heart of Tokyo’s concrete jungle by subway. The Teito Rapid Transit Authority, the operators of about half of Tokyo’s subways, have announced that from the early part of this year they will once again provide toilet paper in station toilets.
Toilet paper has long been absent from these public facilities. Though readily available in the stations from the reconstruction following World War II, the paper distribution was discontinued during the oil crisis of the 1970’s.
Teito officials point to the hording of the precious paper that gripped the city at that time, and what some described as plain wastefulness on the part of subway users.
The new distribution of toilet paper throughout the system will commence by the latter part of January. At first the paper will only be available at a handful of the larger stations in the metro area. By June or July officials hope to have the paper available in all of their facilities.
There was no word as to a similar action being taken by the other main subway or train operators in the city.
Toilet paper has long been absent from these public facilities. Though readily available in the stations from the reconstruction following World War II, the paper distribution was discontinued during the oil crisis of the 1970’s.
Teito officials point to the hording of the precious paper that gripped the city at that time, and what some described as plain wastefulness on the part of subway users.
The new distribution of toilet paper throughout the system will commence by the latter part of January. At first the paper will only be available at a handful of the larger stations in the metro area. By June or July officials hope to have the paper available in all of their facilities.
There was no word as to a similar action being taken by the other main subway or train operators in the city.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Warming Whines
With the second largest economy in the world, and some of the most advanced technology in the world, it is somewhat surprising to find that most houses in Japan do not offer the comforts of central heating. As the weather has gone from fall to winter, the foreign residents of Japan unite in ceasing their denunciation of everything else Japan, with the exception of the bank machines, and focus their complaining skills.
The intensity of complaint is in direct inverse proportion to the air temperature. This is a defensive mechanism which foreigners possess to keep the body warm, according to a theory proposed by Dr. Ken Hashimoto. Dr. Hashimoto’s research team, comprised mainly of students seeking to improve their English skills without having to pay money for it, surveyed a number of foreign residents as they went about their own business.
Eavesdropping on and entering into conversations in which they were not particularly welcomed, the researchers compiled a list of the most common complaints they heard. The team then went through and calculated the rate that the complaints were issued, and what time of year the complaints were most frequent. Using what he termed a ‘complicated formula involving big numbers’ Dr. Hashimoto found that there was a significant decrease in the number of complaints about most aspects of Japanese life when the weather cooled and that in the place of many general complaints central heating was then the target.
In a giant leap of logical thought, Dr. Hashimoto’s team came to the conclusion that this switch in complaints allowed foreigners to channel their ire into heat, thus keeping the foreigner warm without central heating.
The report also noted that complaints about ATMs remained fairly steady, but peaked around the time of national holidays. Asked for a reason for this, Dr. Hashimoto’s spokesman replied only that ‘it is very difficult'.
The intensity of complaint is in direct inverse proportion to the air temperature. This is a defensive mechanism which foreigners possess to keep the body warm, according to a theory proposed by Dr. Ken Hashimoto. Dr. Hashimoto’s research team, comprised mainly of students seeking to improve their English skills without having to pay money for it, surveyed a number of foreign residents as they went about their own business.
Eavesdropping on and entering into conversations in which they were not particularly welcomed, the researchers compiled a list of the most common complaints they heard. The team then went through and calculated the rate that the complaints were issued, and what time of year the complaints were most frequent. Using what he termed a ‘complicated formula involving big numbers’ Dr. Hashimoto found that there was a significant decrease in the number of complaints about most aspects of Japanese life when the weather cooled and that in the place of many general complaints central heating was then the target.
In a giant leap of logical thought, Dr. Hashimoto’s team came to the conclusion that this switch in complaints allowed foreigners to channel their ire into heat, thus keeping the foreigner warm without central heating.
The report also noted that complaints about ATMs remained fairly steady, but peaked around the time of national holidays. Asked for a reason for this, Dr. Hashimoto’s spokesman replied only that ‘it is very difficult'.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Dangerous foreign foe
The cabinet of Japan’s Prime Minister Junichiro Koizuimi has announced that it will be formulating a plan to give the title of World’s Safest Country to Japan. Taking notice of the rising crime rate and opinion polls citing the worry of citizens, the cabinet approved a plan to lessen incidents of crime, an presumably their impact on public thinking.
Although the plan announced included steps to be taken in various ministries in Japan, the media, or at least the English language media, latched onto the aspect of the plan dealing with foreigners. The government now plans to reduce by at least half the number of illegal immigrants now in Japan. As is widely known here, foreigners cause problems, and so need to be removed from the country. This will doubtless leave the country much safer.
For evidence of this, one need only look to today’s headlines to see that the pesky foreign-born are blighting Japanese society. Take for example the man who recently walked into an elementary school and whacked a girl in the forehead with a stick, or the man accused of kidnapping and holding a high school student for three days before she escaped, or the drunken newspaper man who punched a fish monger waiting for the stumbling man to finish crossing the street, or five men arrested for firing bullets into banks and teachers’ unions, or the organizers of a giant orgy in China on the eve of the anniversary of Japan’s invasion, or…But perhaps these would offer more support of the government’s position if they had not been all perpetrated by Japanese. One mentioned in today’s Japan times is the Indonesian flight attendant just released after being held without communication to family or embassy on the charge of possessing a forged 500 yen coin. She was released after it was determined that she had not knowingly come into possession of fake coins.
Yet progress is being made in the fight against illegal resident villains. A major raid last month removed from the Tokyo streets a vicious gang of illegal hairdressers. Residents may now rest easier, knowing these dangerous people are safely locked up.
Although the plan announced included steps to be taken in various ministries in Japan, the media, or at least the English language media, latched onto the aspect of the plan dealing with foreigners. The government now plans to reduce by at least half the number of illegal immigrants now in Japan. As is widely known here, foreigners cause problems, and so need to be removed from the country. This will doubtless leave the country much safer.
For evidence of this, one need only look to today’s headlines to see that the pesky foreign-born are blighting Japanese society. Take for example the man who recently walked into an elementary school and whacked a girl in the forehead with a stick, or the man accused of kidnapping and holding a high school student for three days before she escaped, or the drunken newspaper man who punched a fish monger waiting for the stumbling man to finish crossing the street, or five men arrested for firing bullets into banks and teachers’ unions, or the organizers of a giant orgy in China on the eve of the anniversary of Japan’s invasion, or…But perhaps these would offer more support of the government’s position if they had not been all perpetrated by Japanese. One mentioned in today’s Japan times is the Indonesian flight attendant just released after being held without communication to family or embassy on the charge of possessing a forged 500 yen coin. She was released after it was determined that she had not knowingly come into possession of fake coins.
Yet progress is being made in the fight against illegal resident villains. A major raid last month removed from the Tokyo streets a vicious gang of illegal hairdressers. Residents may now rest easier, knowing these dangerous people are safely locked up.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Yes, sir.
There is a commercial aired frequently on Japanese television which shows at first a complement being passed down the chain of command from the white haired chairman, through six layers of management, in descending age, before reaching the young worker. The second scene shows a somewhat angry rebuke following the same route, and the third permission for some essential task going the same way. The commercial depicts the higher levels stacked on the back the young employee. The final scene shows all except the highest level calling a placement service, the CEO trying hard to see what is going on below him in obvious futility. It is amazing how accurate the depiction of the command structure of a Japanese company is. Even in “non-traditional” companies, levels of pseudo-responsibility and authority crop up.
Applying these command structures in a company in which most of the employees are not Japanese looks as though it will prove tricky, to say the least. Particularly difficult will be the implementation of a new layer where none existed before. While newer employees may get a sense of authority from the middle layer, longer term employees, in this case those that have been with the company more than a couple of months, will most likely continue to go directly to the hire levels and primarily circumvent the new layer, in a diplomatic way. There is a danger in angering the new level, though no real power resides there, it is quickly becoming obvious that this layer has the ear of the upper management and could probably turn into a rather potent adversary if not handled properly. So far the modus operandi appears to pay lip service to the new layer and arrange direct contact with the upper layer soon after, resolving the issues more satisfactorily.
It will perhaps be interesting to see how long this dynamic lasts before the person in this new layer begins to take actions to protect the position, and try to assert punitive authority to essentially justify the need for the position’s existence.
Applying these command structures in a company in which most of the employees are not Japanese looks as though it will prove tricky, to say the least. Particularly difficult will be the implementation of a new layer where none existed before. While newer employees may get a sense of authority from the middle layer, longer term employees, in this case those that have been with the company more than a couple of months, will most likely continue to go directly to the hire levels and primarily circumvent the new layer, in a diplomatic way. There is a danger in angering the new level, though no real power resides there, it is quickly becoming obvious that this layer has the ear of the upper management and could probably turn into a rather potent adversary if not handled properly. So far the modus operandi appears to pay lip service to the new layer and arrange direct contact with the upper layer soon after, resolving the issues more satisfactorily.
It will perhaps be interesting to see how long this dynamic lasts before the person in this new layer begins to take actions to protect the position, and try to assert punitive authority to essentially justify the need for the position’s existence.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Tax, but don't touch
We’ll bring prostitution into the legal economy, but keep your hands to yourselves, seems to be the message coming from Thailand’s ruling party, Thai Rak Thai (Thais love Thais).
Over the past couple of weeks Justice Minister Pongthep Thepkanchana has publicly voiced the idea of legalizing the sex industry in Thailand. The move would allow the government to begin taxing what is estimated to be 3% or Thailand’s economy and improve working conditions for the estimated 200,000 people employed in the trade. Proponents are also hopeful that the legalization of the sex industry would lead to lower incidences of police corruption.
However, even if prostitution were to be brought up from the underground economy, members of Thaksin’s party would still be barred from indulging. Under a new proposal any Thai Rak Thai members found to be cheating on their wives, either by taking a mistress or visiting a brothel, could be barred from running in subsequent elections. Perhaps needless to say, some party members find this to be a bit intrusive. Some members feel that it is no one’s business if they decide to take mistresses, even claiming it as “an individual’s right”. Party officials, on the other hand, stated that politicians must be held to a higher standard regarding their responsibilities to their families.
To read more, visit:
http://edition.cnn.com/2003/WORLD/asiapcf/southeast/11/27/thailand.sex.ap/ (legalizing prostitution)
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?click_id=126&art_id=qw107035308570B234&set_id=1 (banning cheating politicians)
Over the past couple of weeks Justice Minister Pongthep Thepkanchana has publicly voiced the idea of legalizing the sex industry in Thailand. The move would allow the government to begin taxing what is estimated to be 3% or Thailand’s economy and improve working conditions for the estimated 200,000 people employed in the trade. Proponents are also hopeful that the legalization of the sex industry would lead to lower incidences of police corruption.
However, even if prostitution were to be brought up from the underground economy, members of Thaksin’s party would still be barred from indulging. Under a new proposal any Thai Rak Thai members found to be cheating on their wives, either by taking a mistress or visiting a brothel, could be barred from running in subsequent elections. Perhaps needless to say, some party members find this to be a bit intrusive. Some members feel that it is no one’s business if they decide to take mistresses, even claiming it as “an individual’s right”. Party officials, on the other hand, stated that politicians must be held to a higher standard regarding their responsibilities to their families.
To read more, visit:
http://edition.cnn.com/2003/WORLD/asiapcf/southeast/11/27/thailand.sex.ap/ (legalizing prostitution)
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?click_id=126&art_id=qw107035308570B234&set_id=1 (banning cheating politicians)
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
The meaning of Christmas
A cold wind is blowing through the concrete canyons of Tokyo and bringing with it the spirit of Christmas. Ignore for a moment any notions you may have that Christmas should be, at least in theory, related to anything other than the religion of commerce. The first creeping signs of Christmas made their debut over the weekend with little notice, save perhaps for a few handfuls or schoolgirls giggling and squealing kawaii!! (Cute!!) as they admired the twinkling lights in the trees and the store displays.
The store displays tend to be slightly different here from what one might find in the West. There are the typical reindeer pulling sleighs, artificial trees with small, colored lights, and cotton spread across everything to mimic snow, or a tarantula’s web depending on how much care was taken to replace the Halloween décor. Other stores, in keeping with their pattern of minimalist furnishings, erect (fake) trees worthy of Charlie Brown. Then there are some displays of the season that may strike some as out of place, even odd. Standing tall and proud outside each Kentucky Fried Chicken is a Santa-suit-clad Colonel Sanders. One department store went so far as to crucify Santa, mounting Father Christmas upon a cross.
Not all that surprising, really, given certain events in the history of Christianity in Japan. Upon the religion’s introduction to the archipelago converts were killed. The authorities of the day took pains to establish the religion of the person before sentencing, employing a test referred to as fumie. Literally translated it means “step picture” and involved placing an image of Jesus on the floor and asking the suspected Christian to step on the picture, and by their response determining the accused’s true religion.
The atmosphere is far more tolerant today, and religions are mostly left to themselves. So is the case with Christmas in Japan – it has little to do with religion (though, in all fairness, much the same could be said in the West). Like Valentine’s Day, it is a day to spend on lovers rather than family or spirit. As one businessman explained, “I buy gifts for my girlfriend. Not my wife, but my girlfriend.”
And so the stores stock their shelves with gifts more appropriate for unwrapping under the mistletoe than the tree, for the retailers have figured out as much as they care to about the meaning of Christmas.
The store displays tend to be slightly different here from what one might find in the West. There are the typical reindeer pulling sleighs, artificial trees with small, colored lights, and cotton spread across everything to mimic snow, or a tarantula’s web depending on how much care was taken to replace the Halloween décor. Other stores, in keeping with their pattern of minimalist furnishings, erect (fake) trees worthy of Charlie Brown. Then there are some displays of the season that may strike some as out of place, even odd. Standing tall and proud outside each Kentucky Fried Chicken is a Santa-suit-clad Colonel Sanders. One department store went so far as to crucify Santa, mounting Father Christmas upon a cross.
Not all that surprising, really, given certain events in the history of Christianity in Japan. Upon the religion’s introduction to the archipelago converts were killed. The authorities of the day took pains to establish the religion of the person before sentencing, employing a test referred to as fumie. Literally translated it means “step picture” and involved placing an image of Jesus on the floor and asking the suspected Christian to step on the picture, and by their response determining the accused’s true religion.
The atmosphere is far more tolerant today, and religions are mostly left to themselves. So is the case with Christmas in Japan – it has little to do with religion (though, in all fairness, much the same could be said in the West). Like Valentine’s Day, it is a day to spend on lovers rather than family or spirit. As one businessman explained, “I buy gifts for my girlfriend. Not my wife, but my girlfriend.”
And so the stores stock their shelves with gifts more appropriate for unwrapping under the mistletoe than the tree, for the retailers have figured out as much as they care to about the meaning of Christmas.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
It wasn't me.
Playboy is celebrating its 50th year of publication with all the great fan fare one would expect from such a venerable institution. Improving on much admired themes like Women of the Big 12, they have embarked on an effort to solicit the poses of the Women of Wal-mart. The question then becomes: Are they legal?
There is little doubt that Playboy will dutifully check the ages of the women of Wal-mart who offer themselves up for their 15 minutes of fame. But has Wal-mart checked their legal status? Do they care?
It doesn’t really appear they do. As the investigation continues into Wal-mart’s involvement, or at least condoning, of the hiring of illegal immigrants (mostly) by contractors to clean nearly a third of their stores in North America, the corporate legal geniuses have come up with a nearly impenetrable defense: We didn’t know.
This suggests two things immediately. First, that the world’s largest retailer by sales is run by a group of ignoramuses, or second, that the legal team and top brass have concluded this constitutes a solid legal position, which exonerates them of responsibility or duty.
While recent developments in a number of global companies have shown that ignoramuses do rise to the top, it is hard to fathom that they could all stumble their way to the top of the same company. Somewhere along the line somebody has to be doing something right and have intended it.
Simply saying “We didn’t know” also seems improbable as an adequate defense. Yet, that is exactly what they are saying. The historical record of this defense, and indeed its daily use, does not bode well for the Wal-mart defense team. In addition to its poor record as a way of proving innocence, or at least disproving guilt, there is little chance they will ever find 12 people who believe it. Unless they get the same jury from the Durst trial (http://edition.cnn.com/2003/LAW/11/11/fugitive.heir.ap/index.html). The idea that Wal-mart executives didn’t know that their dirt-cheap cleaners were using illegal labor is incomprehensible. On previous occasions Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) has raided Wal-mart stores and found their contractors to be using illegal labor. Yet, they didn’t see it coming this time, either?
Much vaunted in business schools as a model of how to operate, Wal-mart has again shown its faults. It is long past due that the retailer look just over the bottom line and take on its responsibilities to all of its stakeholders, and not just those with a stock price to watch.
There is little doubt that Playboy will dutifully check the ages of the women of Wal-mart who offer themselves up for their 15 minutes of fame. But has Wal-mart checked their legal status? Do they care?
It doesn’t really appear they do. As the investigation continues into Wal-mart’s involvement, or at least condoning, of the hiring of illegal immigrants (mostly) by contractors to clean nearly a third of their stores in North America, the corporate legal geniuses have come up with a nearly impenetrable defense: We didn’t know.
This suggests two things immediately. First, that the world’s largest retailer by sales is run by a group of ignoramuses, or second, that the legal team and top brass have concluded this constitutes a solid legal position, which exonerates them of responsibility or duty.
While recent developments in a number of global companies have shown that ignoramuses do rise to the top, it is hard to fathom that they could all stumble their way to the top of the same company. Somewhere along the line somebody has to be doing something right and have intended it.
Simply saying “We didn’t know” also seems improbable as an adequate defense. Yet, that is exactly what they are saying. The historical record of this defense, and indeed its daily use, does not bode well for the Wal-mart defense team. In addition to its poor record as a way of proving innocence, or at least disproving guilt, there is little chance they will ever find 12 people who believe it. Unless they get the same jury from the Durst trial (http://edition.cnn.com/2003/LAW/11/11/fugitive.heir.ap/index.html). The idea that Wal-mart executives didn’t know that their dirt-cheap cleaners were using illegal labor is incomprehensible. On previous occasions Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) has raided Wal-mart stores and found their contractors to be using illegal labor. Yet, they didn’t see it coming this time, either?
Much vaunted in business schools as a model of how to operate, Wal-mart has again shown its faults. It is long past due that the retailer look just over the bottom line and take on its responsibilities to all of its stakeholders, and not just those with a stock price to watch.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Wedding bells in Jakarta
My first impression of Jakarta, apart from the obvious heat and humidity that is to be expected when one steps from the plane, was the goats. As we pulled from the airport after a seemingly exaggerated wait for our bags, there to welcome us to the capitol were goats grazing on the soft shoulder of the highway. Throughout our stay, anytime we ventured out of the city, goats were there to watch us pass.
Leaving the goats to their coarse tropical grasses we entered the city itself and were greeted with chaotic traffic the likes of which cannot adequately be describe. As we approached our hotel we found ourselves in the center of a major four-way intersection with traffic approaching us from all sides. Another noticeable feature of Jakarta traffic is the enthusiastic use of horns, though given the ostensible lack of traffic regulations this is not all that surprising.
Somehow we managed to get out of the intersection and into our hotel. We stayed in the North area of Jakarta, about 25 minutes by taxi (in light traffic) from downtown. Our hotel was a nice, four star place overlooking a lake on which wake boarding was a daily event. On the lake’s close shore were two restaurants with seating out over the water and sound systems that shook the windows of our 7th floor room. The hotel was what is generally expected of an international standard and the service was prompt and courteous.
Our first night in the city we were treated to homemade Indonesian-Chinese food at the home of a friend. The table, a meter-and-a-half diameter affair with rotating center, was packed with fish curry, chicken curry, steamed dumplings, fried noodles, rice, spicy beef, vegetables and more. After dinner I was asked to be the best man for the ceremony the following day.
Driving through the neighborhoods in Jakarta you cannot help but notice the large iron gates which stand at the major intersections. Within the neighborhoods themselves traffic gates, less stout but effective at diverting traffic, abound. Each of the houses are surrounded by walls and gates of their own, those along the main streets topped with spikes, spiky plants, and in a few cases glass pieces or barbed wire. The gates along the streets are remnants of the 1998 riots in which ethnic Chinese were quite literally hunted by Indonesians in the lower classes. The gates are still closed at night, manned by armed guards in camouflage uniforms.
The day of the wedding the photography crew – a director, still photographer, videographer (with a penchant for swaying angles), two lighting grips, a guy to man the electrical cords – arrived for the shooting of the Jacket Ceremony. This involved the groom’s father (played by his boss) placing white gloves and suit jacket on the groom. The ceremony then proceeded to the hallway where the groom’s father presents the groom to the best man, who escorts him out to the wedding car (in this instance a Mercedes sedan with bouquets adorning the hood and trunk, rose buds on the door handles) pausing repeatedly to be shot and filmed from the appropriate angles.
The church ceremony was Catholic, read almost entirely in Indonesian. (This was a testament to the open-mindedness of the groom, who is a Turkish Muslim.) The role of the best man, it should be noted, here differed significantly from what would normally be done in the West. The parents of the couple stand as witnesses while the best man and maid of honor take seats in the first pew. The photographic crew was an omnipresent force and would have doubtless incurred the wrath of at least one former minister I know.
At the conclusion of the service it was back to the hotel for the shooting of the Tea Ceremony. In this the newly wedded couple present tea to their parents, family, wedding attendants, et al. and receive their gifts (in the case of a Indonesian-Chinese wedding this is a small red envelope containing a sum of money). All, again, carefully directed and photographed.
Upon completion of the Tea Ceremony was a presentation to the family of a soup (again, carefully directed and photographed) and then the family was off for an afternoon at the studio for more photographs.
The reception was held later that evening in a large restaurant, featuring an elaborate stage and a singer accompanied by a man at a keyboard. The reception began with the presentation of the wedding party and then the bride and groom. As the best man I was asked to remain on the stage with the bride’s family, the newly weds and the groom’s father ‘for balance’. The groom made a speech and a carefully directed presentation of the wedding cake was made.
First to receive the cake was the bride, eating from the hand of the groom as would be normally done in the West. They then reversed roles. Then the happy couple presented cake in the same manner to her parents, then his, then the best man ‘for balance’.
The dinner was Chinese, served family style, and quite good. A toast to the couple, read by the emcee, interrupted dinner and the bride’s parents, the happy couple, the groom’s father and the best man ‘for balance’ mounted the stage again to raise a glass of tea in honor of the occasion. At the end of the meal the six were called again to the stage for the receiving line and here the ceremony, but not the photography. At the director’s behest people mounted and dismounted the stage to be photographed and filmed at odd angles with the bride and groom. Eventually, the camera crew ran out of film.
October 27 marked the start of Ramadan in Indonesia. Within the confines of our hotel there was not much that could be seen which would mark it as any significant day. Outside the hotel, however, was quite another matter. During the day most restaurants closed, only to open after sunset when the day of fasting ends, the exceptions appeared to be western fast food establishments. Establishments that would normally serve alcohol did not. The Hard Rock Café even went so far as to cover their external sign in black cloth, making it invisible from the street, and though open, did not serve alcohol or host a band.
Our final day we spent in the cooler mountains near Bogor, about an hour from Jakarta. A tropical haze still hung in the valley, and the peaks would disappear under caps of cloud, but the mid-mountain was mild and pleasant. We walked for a short time among the tea plants, admiring the occasional banana tree growing in their midst. Along the highway as we drove back, between us and the goats, the durian sellers had set themselves on the roads edge. Durian, for the uninitiated, has a spiky brown shell about the size of a soccer ball and such a pungent scent that it is banned in most hotels, subways, buses, malls and aircraft in Southeast Asia.
We took our final meal in Jakarta in a seafood restaurant near the presidential palace. Grilled tiger prawns the size of small lobster, fried fish, a sort of shrimp cake with whole shrimp in them, fresh coconut to drink. As we drove away we passed the presidential palace and then the main mosque in Jakarta. It is a huge building that would easily dwarf the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. Directly across the street stands the largest Catholic church Indonesia. Around a bend and through a park stands a large monolith, topped in a flame of gold reputed to be 36kg of gold, a gift from the government of China, but with no other significance to the population of Jakarta.
We returned to Japan that evening, upgraded again to the upper deck of a 747 (I am beginning to like Garuda’s service), leaving behind the goats and gates of Jakarta.
Leaving the goats to their coarse tropical grasses we entered the city itself and were greeted with chaotic traffic the likes of which cannot adequately be describe. As we approached our hotel we found ourselves in the center of a major four-way intersection with traffic approaching us from all sides. Another noticeable feature of Jakarta traffic is the enthusiastic use of horns, though given the ostensible lack of traffic regulations this is not all that surprising.
Somehow we managed to get out of the intersection and into our hotel. We stayed in the North area of Jakarta, about 25 minutes by taxi (in light traffic) from downtown. Our hotel was a nice, four star place overlooking a lake on which wake boarding was a daily event. On the lake’s close shore were two restaurants with seating out over the water and sound systems that shook the windows of our 7th floor room. The hotel was what is generally expected of an international standard and the service was prompt and courteous.
Our first night in the city we were treated to homemade Indonesian-Chinese food at the home of a friend. The table, a meter-and-a-half diameter affair with rotating center, was packed with fish curry, chicken curry, steamed dumplings, fried noodles, rice, spicy beef, vegetables and more. After dinner I was asked to be the best man for the ceremony the following day.
Driving through the neighborhoods in Jakarta you cannot help but notice the large iron gates which stand at the major intersections. Within the neighborhoods themselves traffic gates, less stout but effective at diverting traffic, abound. Each of the houses are surrounded by walls and gates of their own, those along the main streets topped with spikes, spiky plants, and in a few cases glass pieces or barbed wire. The gates along the streets are remnants of the 1998 riots in which ethnic Chinese were quite literally hunted by Indonesians in the lower classes. The gates are still closed at night, manned by armed guards in camouflage uniforms.
The day of the wedding the photography crew – a director, still photographer, videographer (with a penchant for swaying angles), two lighting grips, a guy to man the electrical cords – arrived for the shooting of the Jacket Ceremony. This involved the groom’s father (played by his boss) placing white gloves and suit jacket on the groom. The ceremony then proceeded to the hallway where the groom’s father presents the groom to the best man, who escorts him out to the wedding car (in this instance a Mercedes sedan with bouquets adorning the hood and trunk, rose buds on the door handles) pausing repeatedly to be shot and filmed from the appropriate angles.
The church ceremony was Catholic, read almost entirely in Indonesian. (This was a testament to the open-mindedness of the groom, who is a Turkish Muslim.) The role of the best man, it should be noted, here differed significantly from what would normally be done in the West. The parents of the couple stand as witnesses while the best man and maid of honor take seats in the first pew. The photographic crew was an omnipresent force and would have doubtless incurred the wrath of at least one former minister I know.
At the conclusion of the service it was back to the hotel for the shooting of the Tea Ceremony. In this the newly wedded couple present tea to their parents, family, wedding attendants, et al. and receive their gifts (in the case of a Indonesian-Chinese wedding this is a small red envelope containing a sum of money). All, again, carefully directed and photographed.
Upon completion of the Tea Ceremony was a presentation to the family of a soup (again, carefully directed and photographed) and then the family was off for an afternoon at the studio for more photographs.
The reception was held later that evening in a large restaurant, featuring an elaborate stage and a singer accompanied by a man at a keyboard. The reception began with the presentation of the wedding party and then the bride and groom. As the best man I was asked to remain on the stage with the bride’s family, the newly weds and the groom’s father ‘for balance’. The groom made a speech and a carefully directed presentation of the wedding cake was made.
First to receive the cake was the bride, eating from the hand of the groom as would be normally done in the West. They then reversed roles. Then the happy couple presented cake in the same manner to her parents, then his, then the best man ‘for balance’.
The dinner was Chinese, served family style, and quite good. A toast to the couple, read by the emcee, interrupted dinner and the bride’s parents, the happy couple, the groom’s father and the best man ‘for balance’ mounted the stage again to raise a glass of tea in honor of the occasion. At the end of the meal the six were called again to the stage for the receiving line and here the ceremony, but not the photography. At the director’s behest people mounted and dismounted the stage to be photographed and filmed at odd angles with the bride and groom. Eventually, the camera crew ran out of film.
October 27 marked the start of Ramadan in Indonesia. Within the confines of our hotel there was not much that could be seen which would mark it as any significant day. Outside the hotel, however, was quite another matter. During the day most restaurants closed, only to open after sunset when the day of fasting ends, the exceptions appeared to be western fast food establishments. Establishments that would normally serve alcohol did not. The Hard Rock Café even went so far as to cover their external sign in black cloth, making it invisible from the street, and though open, did not serve alcohol or host a band.
Our final day we spent in the cooler mountains near Bogor, about an hour from Jakarta. A tropical haze still hung in the valley, and the peaks would disappear under caps of cloud, but the mid-mountain was mild and pleasant. We walked for a short time among the tea plants, admiring the occasional banana tree growing in their midst. Along the highway as we drove back, between us and the goats, the durian sellers had set themselves on the roads edge. Durian, for the uninitiated, has a spiky brown shell about the size of a soccer ball and such a pungent scent that it is banned in most hotels, subways, buses, malls and aircraft in Southeast Asia.
We took our final meal in Jakarta in a seafood restaurant near the presidential palace. Grilled tiger prawns the size of small lobster, fried fish, a sort of shrimp cake with whole shrimp in them, fresh coconut to drink. As we drove away we passed the presidential palace and then the main mosque in Jakarta. It is a huge building that would easily dwarf the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. Directly across the street stands the largest Catholic church Indonesia. Around a bend and through a park stands a large monolith, topped in a flame of gold reputed to be 36kg of gold, a gift from the government of China, but with no other significance to the population of Jakarta.
We returned to Japan that evening, upgraded again to the upper deck of a 747 (I am beginning to like Garuda’s service), leaving behind the goats and gates of Jakarta.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Bali
Going from western Tokyo to Narita International Airport at 7:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning can be interesting. The train, as is typically the case when traveling toward downtown Tokyo, was full and nearly audible groans greet travelers with anything more than a daypack or briefcase. Crammed into the morning rush of suited businesspeople and office workers the thought of the beach you will soon be on is enough to forget that elbow jammed into your kidney.
The flight on Garuda Indonesia (named for the mythical bird that spirited kings and warriors around the archipelago) was pleasant, a fact at least partially attributed to being bumped to business class. The plane touched down seven and a half hours later, just in time to reach the hotel before sunset.
The best dinners can be taken in small open-air restaurants along any of the numerous side streets. All told a dinner for two with beers, curries, rice, sate (grilled meat on a stick served with peanut sauce) runs no more than US$10, and sometimes less. Strolling through the streets after dinner, offers of a number of things were made by the lounging taxi drivers: You want marijuana? cocaine? ecstasy? woman? man? (and as though it were an afterthought) transportation?
In the heart of what used to be Bali’s nightlife scene stands a memorial wall to those that lost their lives in the dual bombings on October 12, 2002. The memorial stands with its back to what was once the wall of the Sari club, where the second, more powerful and deadly explosion occurred. Flanking the sides of the white marble wall are flagpoles, enough to represent each country whose citizens were lost. Short sets of stairs lead up to the base of the stone wall etched with the names of the deceased, divided by country of origin. Australia’s list extends for two columns and a half, Indonesia’s, the second longest, rounds out the final column. A handful of tourists and a couple of locals scan the face of the memorial, perhaps recognizing names, perhaps simply paying respect to fellow travelers and lives lost.
A hundred meters on from the memorial, just across the road from the bar targeted in the first bombing, shines a large open-air club, full of western tourists drinking and dancing the night away. Security around the island increased in the wake of the bombings, but is really only most evident at the larger, more expensive hotels. At the club the security was limited to a couple of bouncers at the gate with hand-held metal detectors, who checked only the Indonesians who wished to gain entry.
Further down a darkened alley sits another large open-air club, built to look like a pirate’s ship, the deck open for dancing and a fishpond circling the bottom. A few more bars line the street, but it is obvious that much of the nightlife has left this area, moved on to the next big area a few minutes away, where the recent past is less visible and the way things used to be still reigns.
The Seminyak area, and in particular Jalan Abimanyu, is now the home of Bali’s night. The street is lined with bars and clubs of every imaginable variety – bars that would look more appropriate in New York City than a beach town, with leather seats and modern décor, open-air bars with live bands playing classic rock at one place and Latin-American ballads in another, a bar named for, and serving almost exclusively, Absolute vodka. As the night begins to wane, the party moves toward the beach.
Along most of the beach in Kuta and Legian four and five-star resorts dominate the land, but a bit further up a couple of clubs hold their own. The newly opened Amnesia is a large multi-tiered, open-faced building looking out over the beach. Its opening night party was still going strong at 4:00 a.m., but was not what could be called a grand event. The bars were nearly devoid of bottles, the bartenders completely overwhelmed by the crowd and beers that one suspects had never, since their inception, been near a cooling device. The crowd was up nonetheless, and one might suspect that was a result of the whispered offer of ‘marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy’ by the guys standing by the bar.
Next-door is one of Bali’s better-known institutions, Double 6. Open and facing the beach, the club doesn’t start happening until two or three o’clock and rocks on until dawn. Incorporated into one side of the club grounds is a pool overlooked by a forty-five foot bungee tower for those who need a little adrenaline rush and a video to prove it.
Bali has long been known as a surfers’ paradise, a place of big waves, long beaches. The beaches are clean, the water warm and people trying to sell you something, anything, everything, are an omnipresent force. Lounging under a rented umbrella, on rented beach chairs there is a constant parade of hawkers and the persistent buzz of their pitches. Perhaps, as the hawkers often lament, it is harder for them to make a living now that many tourists have been scared away from Indonesia. They are an aggressive breed of beach vender and will reduce to near begging, or a form of bribery, or try to instill and then prey upon a guilty conscience of the rich, generous tourist.
They will begin subtly, offering a kind ‘hello’ and displaying their wares – fake tattoos, cheap bracelets, necklaces, sarongs, paintings, fruit, offers to drive you to a seafood restaurant down the beach, massages, pedicures, manicures. To ask how much the good or service costs is to enter into negotiation, and eventual purchase. They are skilled bargainers and know the tricks of selling well. They will befriend you, chat with you, and seemingly accept rejection at first, but they will be back. Each time they return a little more persistent, a little more aggressive. And to purchase from one is to purchase from them all. That is to say, you had better purchase from them all or you will be left with the oft repeated phrase ringing in your ears: Remember I talked to you first, you said later, why don’t you like me now? Why you don’t give me good luck? OK, you buy little one from me and I’ll go away.
Eventually the sun sets, the beach clears and becomes peaceful and the tourists head back to their hotels for a shower before the nightlife begins.
The flight on Garuda Indonesia (named for the mythical bird that spirited kings and warriors around the archipelago) was pleasant, a fact at least partially attributed to being bumped to business class. The plane touched down seven and a half hours later, just in time to reach the hotel before sunset.
The best dinners can be taken in small open-air restaurants along any of the numerous side streets. All told a dinner for two with beers, curries, rice, sate (grilled meat on a stick served with peanut sauce) runs no more than US$10, and sometimes less. Strolling through the streets after dinner, offers of a number of things were made by the lounging taxi drivers: You want marijuana? cocaine? ecstasy? woman? man? (and as though it were an afterthought) transportation?
In the heart of what used to be Bali’s nightlife scene stands a memorial wall to those that lost their lives in the dual bombings on October 12, 2002. The memorial stands with its back to what was once the wall of the Sari club, where the second, more powerful and deadly explosion occurred. Flanking the sides of the white marble wall are flagpoles, enough to represent each country whose citizens were lost. Short sets of stairs lead up to the base of the stone wall etched with the names of the deceased, divided by country of origin. Australia’s list extends for two columns and a half, Indonesia’s, the second longest, rounds out the final column. A handful of tourists and a couple of locals scan the face of the memorial, perhaps recognizing names, perhaps simply paying respect to fellow travelers and lives lost.
A hundred meters on from the memorial, just across the road from the bar targeted in the first bombing, shines a large open-air club, full of western tourists drinking and dancing the night away. Security around the island increased in the wake of the bombings, but is really only most evident at the larger, more expensive hotels. At the club the security was limited to a couple of bouncers at the gate with hand-held metal detectors, who checked only the Indonesians who wished to gain entry.
Further down a darkened alley sits another large open-air club, built to look like a pirate’s ship, the deck open for dancing and a fishpond circling the bottom. A few more bars line the street, but it is obvious that much of the nightlife has left this area, moved on to the next big area a few minutes away, where the recent past is less visible and the way things used to be still reigns.
The Seminyak area, and in particular Jalan Abimanyu, is now the home of Bali’s night. The street is lined with bars and clubs of every imaginable variety – bars that would look more appropriate in New York City than a beach town, with leather seats and modern décor, open-air bars with live bands playing classic rock at one place and Latin-American ballads in another, a bar named for, and serving almost exclusively, Absolute vodka. As the night begins to wane, the party moves toward the beach.
Along most of the beach in Kuta and Legian four and five-star resorts dominate the land, but a bit further up a couple of clubs hold their own. The newly opened Amnesia is a large multi-tiered, open-faced building looking out over the beach. Its opening night party was still going strong at 4:00 a.m., but was not what could be called a grand event. The bars were nearly devoid of bottles, the bartenders completely overwhelmed by the crowd and beers that one suspects had never, since their inception, been near a cooling device. The crowd was up nonetheless, and one might suspect that was a result of the whispered offer of ‘marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy’ by the guys standing by the bar.
Next-door is one of Bali’s better-known institutions, Double 6. Open and facing the beach, the club doesn’t start happening until two or three o’clock and rocks on until dawn. Incorporated into one side of the club grounds is a pool overlooked by a forty-five foot bungee tower for those who need a little adrenaline rush and a video to prove it.
Bali has long been known as a surfers’ paradise, a place of big waves, long beaches. The beaches are clean, the water warm and people trying to sell you something, anything, everything, are an omnipresent force. Lounging under a rented umbrella, on rented beach chairs there is a constant parade of hawkers and the persistent buzz of their pitches. Perhaps, as the hawkers often lament, it is harder for them to make a living now that many tourists have been scared away from Indonesia. They are an aggressive breed of beach vender and will reduce to near begging, or a form of bribery, or try to instill and then prey upon a guilty conscience of the rich, generous tourist.
They will begin subtly, offering a kind ‘hello’ and displaying their wares – fake tattoos, cheap bracelets, necklaces, sarongs, paintings, fruit, offers to drive you to a seafood restaurant down the beach, massages, pedicures, manicures. To ask how much the good or service costs is to enter into negotiation, and eventual purchase. They are skilled bargainers and know the tricks of selling well. They will befriend you, chat with you, and seemingly accept rejection at first, but they will be back. Each time they return a little more persistent, a little more aggressive. And to purchase from one is to purchase from them all. That is to say, you had better purchase from them all or you will be left with the oft repeated phrase ringing in your ears: Remember I talked to you first, you said later, why don’t you like me now? Why you don’t give me good luck? OK, you buy little one from me and I’ll go away.
Eventually the sun sets, the beach clears and becomes peaceful and the tourists head back to their hotels for a shower before the nightlife begins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
