Let's go for a walk. . .or should we?

It's lovely spring weather (though the rainy season looms). The azaleas and the wisteria are in bloom. Rather than playing Cops and Robbers, I suggested to Koharu that we take the three girls on a walk. Koharu looked a bit hesitant.

"I'd love to go on a walk, but. . ." she cocked her head slightly, as if pondering some difficult puzzle.

"It's okay," I said hastily, "Let's play another round of Cops and Robbers instead."

It seemed likely to me that Koharu's mother had instructed her not to leave the area immediately by the Center. Of course, that makes sense. The valley is hardly a safe place for little girls to play. It's occupied by the army and the police; it's occupied by trucks installing new electric poles (I heard that several electricians have died trying to hook up the mass of tangled wires and fallen poles). Not only that, but were we to go on a walk, what would be our destination? Certainly not the lower part of the village, which is a desert of rubble. Fortunately, one can't see the lower town from the Center, so the girls can run around and even pretend things are normal. Obviously, I should not take them down the hill to see a scene that could only bring back bad memories. I can't really ask them what those memories are, so I must tread carefully. I must interact with Koharu in a small, limited mental space, like the small yard of the Center. Within this space things are relatively normal and calm, and it is my responsibility not to invite her out of it.

But there's precious little to do in the Center yard-- hence Cops and Robbers, yet again!

Too Many Cooks

With seven cooks in a modestly-sized kitchen, there are bound to be differences. Two completely different styles of cooking emerged and promptly clashed. The first weekend I worked, an older man (a former fireman) was in charge. He ran the operation just like we were cooking at the firehouse: He gave the orders, and we followed. If he was missing, we sat and waited for him to appear. Some of the experienced female cooks appeared to chafe at this modis operendi, in particular Mrs. Masuda.

Fast forward one week to my second trip to Tono. I arrived at the same shelter, again with the purpose of cooking. But this week there had been a shake-down (shake-up?) in the power structure. The fire chief had been replaced by Mrs. Masuda. Mrs. Masuda was very pleased with the change. "He was always barking out orders," she told me in a confidential voice. "And as it turns out, the residents could hear him through the closed door, and it made them very uncomfortable."

"Oh." I could see where she was coming from, because The Chief was the one who'd insisted on re-grinding my seseme and re-chopping my salad greens. . .

"A woman is better, you know," Mrs. Masuda whispered. "With a man, the residents didn't feel like they could express their opinion. He was always saying, do this! do that! chop this!, chop that! But now that he's gone, the residents are really warming up to us. They come in the kitchen! They give their opinion about the cooking! It's 180 degrees different."

Seeing the situation at the shelter for myself, I couldn't help agreeing. Due to the passage of time, and doubtless to the ousting of The Chief, the atmosphere was much more friendly.

I feel like I learned a lesson from this, but being me, I'm not sure exactly what it is. Perhaps one lesson is that all human activities revolve around human relationships. The Chief was a very capable person who wanted to help, and he did it efficiently. . .and yet, he failed to please.

Next weekend, I'll go to the same refugee center again. Luckily, I'm just a minor cog-- the success or failure of human collaboration at the center doesn't ride on me. My job is to steel myself to play Cops and Robbers-- many more times than I could normally be induced to play!

Cooking!

In the beginning, I came to Tono ready to help people dig out their houses. I expected to be raking mud, hauling rubbish in wheelbarrows, and hosing off family photos. I never really expected to spend my time cooking. However, due to my schedule, I've ended up mainly doing cooking. The problem is that the clean-up crew gets on the busses for work at 7:45 in the morning. No matter how much a rush, I am at the mercy of the train schedule and cannot get to Tono on Friday before 8:00. That puts me in the 8:30 "Wakachiai Squad," or the "Sharing Squad." (Sharing basically means cooking for people at the shelters.)

To me, cooking is purgatory. I'm not horrible at American cooking-- I'm acceptable. But I am horrible at Japanese cooking. Not only do I not know the recipies, I don't even know how to follow directions. Sometimes, I don't even know what the ingrediants look like! So, although I do my best to follow directions and do manage to chop things acceptably, I end up spending a lot of time hanging around. Since the squad has seven volunteers cooking for about 30 people, there tends to be free time for everyone. Volunteers hang around empty-handed, and when a simple job comes up like dish washing or vegetable chopping, everyone pounces.

Naturally, the first ones to notice the fact that there were spare hands in the kitchen were the children at the shelter. Specifically, three elementary age girls. They soon appeared, peeking through the sliding door into the kitchen and clamoring for "Big Brother," the handsome 20-something volunteer, to play for them. As I was low on the totem-pole in the kitchen, I was also conscripted.

First, we had to play tag. When the adults became sweaty and balked at continuing the game of tag, the three girls agreed to change the game. . .to guess what. . .Cops and Robbers, which is basically a different kind of tag!

This left the adults (including me, first and foremost) in a fix. On one hand, we were there to help out residents as much as, and in any way, possible. And yet, adults are well known for their stubborn resistance to playing running games. To give us credit, the adults rose to the challenge and played an impressive number of turns of Cops and Robbers. Later, I was successful in getting Koharu, the most outgoing girl, to do some sketching with me instead!

There is no picture of Koharu and friends yet--but Mr. Kanamori did get them to pose, and he promises to send me a copy of the photo.

The Lowest Form of Hotel

The lowest form of hotel is the what I call the Internet Booth (pictured above). Internet Booths are to be found in internet clubs like Kaikatsu Club, a 24 hour club for "net nanmin," or "net refugees." Net refugees are young men and women who do not wish to spend time at home. Instead, they become a member of clubs such as Kaikatsu Club. The Club is always open, always welcoming! It provides drinks and simple foods such as fried pork, hamburgers, noodles. It provides DVDs of your favorite movies and copies of your favorite manga and magazines. You get free internet access, and I believe they even have a shower.

On entering, you can choose from three types of booth: business type (with a work station), massage-chair type, or "lie down and rest" type. The booths are about as big as a handicapped toilet stall, and they are just that: booths. It's like a cubicle where the wall doesn't go all the way down to the floor. There's no ceiling, and they don't turn the lights off at night.

I mention all of this because, due to my own stupidity, I ended up in Morioka with no hotel reservation. Fate is generally kind to me, so I trustingly approached a hotel desk expecting to be given a room.

No luck! All hotels in the city were booked! Shaken, I remembered that last summer Carrie (my Japanese friend from Nagoya) had gotten me a membership at Kaikatsu Club. Not only that, I had seen a Kaikatsu Club from the train. I took a taxi to the Club, where I easily checked in and prepared to spend the night. After paying the equivalent of $15, I was shown to a booth and left to my own devices. Lying down, I threw my jacket over my head to hide from the overhead lights, stuffed my earplugs in (although net refugees are notoriously quiet-- they just lurk in their booths), and prepared for a night of restless sleep.

I have now experienced the lowest of the low!

Why are Tono Kappas Pink?

Several people I met who know something about folklore told me that Tono Kappas are not really Kappas-- they are unwanted babies who were sent down the river, an euphamism for killed, of course. It's called "mabiki," and was once an accepted way of life in the far north. The land was poor, and famine frequent. Birth control was unknown, and large families impossible to maintain. Extra children had to be sent down the river, but in order not to talk about this fact, the kappa was created. There are little hints about the truth, for instance the fact that Tono kappa are "red" like babies, who are called "little red ones." (In my opinion, babies are pink. Therefore, so are kappas.)

Today, life in the north country is still tough, but mabiki (abortion aside) is a thing of the past. Nowadays, you can buy kappa stationery, kappa keychains, and kappa stuffed animals. There's even a Hello Kitty in a kappa costume.

What can I say. . ."You've come a long way, baby!" (Sorry!)

Spring!

Spring has come to the North! Only minutes away from the disaster site, the spring planting continues as always. Farmers who once bent over double planting rice shoots one by one now use rice planting machines. The seedlings, loaded from trays onto racks on the machine, look like squares of green shag carpet.
Once, twenty years ago, Curt had a memorable incident on a railway platform. As he stepped forward to board the train he ran right into an elderly woman. She was so stooped over from a life working in the rice fields that he didn't even see her! Back in the '90s, you could see many such elderly people in the streets. Permanently bent into a tipped-over "L" shape, they went about their errands while pushing little carts. With rice planting machines and rice combines becoming ever more common, this miserable variety of old age may someday disappear altogether.
Like tiny mice nibbling away at the misery of traditional agricultural life, humans inch forward.

The End of the World, The Beginning of the World

While the world was ending, due to the prediction of some crazed (and wealthy) religious pundit, the world was also beginning again. The debris begins to form a pattern: first, the army comes in and clears away large items, such as trees and cars, from a certain section. They also check for bodies. (New bodies are "coming up" out of the debris still every day.) Once the okay is given, volunteer groups come in and clear up the small debris, including much glass and large chunks of asphalt. Small squares of bulldozed land appear; rice fields are cleared for planting (although they are full of salt water; real return to their natural state will take years). Like a mouse nibbling around the edges of a giant cheese chunk, humans eat away at the chaos and create order.

Meanwhile, this stuffed bear sits by the side of the road and watches the process. He wonders what his fate will be. Will his owner return to pick him up?

Nobori-saka, Kudari-saka, Masaka

Volunteers assemble at 7:30 in the morning and hear a talk by the guy in the picture. The talk was the same all three days I was there. It's mostly about the pitfalls of volunteering. First, we are warned not to take pictures when working in the disaster area. The influx of volunteers can be irritating for disaster victims. When volunteers snap casual pictures of their devistated homes it is obviously extremely callous. I decided not to even bring my camera, because picture-taking is a basic travelers' instinct that is hard to resist. Better not to have the option.



Next, the lecture on boots, which begins "Safety boots are not safe." Of course they're not- when you're walking on large nails scattered at random angles. The solution is metal inserts, but even these can't prevent attacks from the side!

After that, he talks about the three slopes of life: the downward slope when life is going fine (kudari saka), the upward slope when life gets hard (nobori-saka), and the "ma-saka", the "Impossible!" Well, these people just ran into the "Impossible!" Volunteers blundering around in the wreckage, trying to do good, should keep that in mind.

The Rainbow Man

On Sunday evening a remarkable rainbow man arrived to cheer on the volunteers. Naturally, I had my picture taken with him. Later I learned that he is an author who has won the Naoki prize for literature, one of Japan's two greatest prizes. I hope he is not aspiring to a fashion prize. . .

Men's Room, Ladies Room

The perks of being a Lady! Ladies get to sleep in the big tatami room. It's not exactly comfortable, about one body per two square yards, but it's better than. . .




The Men's Room, which is the gym. Boy, I bet that floor feels cold at night!

An Average Housewife and others. . .

To the left is a self-styled "average housewife" who was in Tono as a volunteer. "In the morning I do two hours of Zazen meditation and then a little exercise." "Oh, you mean a half hour or so?" "Well, about six hours. Then I cook lunch." (Why do I always feel like the bar is raised higher here in Japan?)

Next to her is a nurse from Florida (who is a native Japanese). "I didn't know what to do with my life, so I decided to become an R.N. in the States." "But wasn't it difficult to read all those medical textbooks in English?" "Yeah, it was a little difficult."




Below, more "totally average people", a mountain climber and a nursing home worker, both probably in their sixties, who dashed to northern Japan to the rescue. That night the nursing home worker awakened all fifty-or-so women voluteers (including me), who were sleeping in one room, by screaming in her sleep. According to her testimony the next morning, after sorting diapers in the warehouse (where disaster victims can come for supplies) all day, she dreamed she was being attacked by a giant diaper monster. Just try and visualize that!

An Embarrassment of Riches

Well, I wanted to go to northern Japan and voluteer, and I did, and now I find myself with an embarrassment of riches: I have tons of stuff to write about, but no way to get it down on "paper". I lift my hands to the keyboard and put them down again, because it seems futile to try and explain my experiences. I guess the only way to write about complex experiences is ineffectively, little by little.

Above is the Hamayuri, which some of you may have seen on the news. I didn't actually see it- it's long been taken down off the building, because it was unstable, but it does give the idea of the chaos present at the disaster site. One of the voluteer jobs is to dig through all of this rubble and separate out important objects like photos, documents and other valuable items. This requires human hands and judgement, even though considering the scale of the devistation only bulldozers are large enough to make any headway. The ground is like a big fruitcake, with everything in the world mixed together in total randomness: shoes, blankets, rotten fish, cars, rope, power cords, baby bottles, computer mice.

Kappas, here I come!

Well, here I go! I should arrive at this station (Tono Station) before lunch on Friday. I'll be staying at the local civic center and undertaking whatever volunteer work they think I'm fit for! Please look for my next entry sometime on Tuesday, American time.

Nuclear Pets

Poor pets! Stray pets have been on their own for two months, ever since people fled from the area. Today relief workers for the first time rounded up a number of pets and brought them out. These pets will be returned to their owners or adopted.

But where did those cows go??

Keeping the stable doors open

So he spent his time cleaning up the stable and setting out food so that they could come home any time, if they were around.

Where have the cows gone?

This elderly man was worried about his cows. He returned to the stable, but no cows were there.

Fukushima: Back home for 2 hours

Residents from the area nearest Fukushima were allowed to go home today-- for two hours, clothed from head to toe in crinkly radiation suits. They could bring some possessions back with them, but only enough to fill a plastic garbage bag. This woman was searching for family pictures.

Sensible Shoes

Today's shopping list: Volunteer Insurance, Helmet, Sensible Shoes.

Volunteer Insurance: Tono Magokoro, the relief organization I joined, requires volunteers to get volunteer insurance, so I set out to Sakasegawa Station. After blundering into an old folks home (which actually did have the correct form, but now the official stamp to put on the form), I was directed to the Welfare Center. Clutching my form, I managed to take the wrong turn not once, not twice, but three times as I searched for the well-concealed, small building. Since I hastened down each incorrect street with great confidence (after all, I can read the street signs!), each wrong turn cost me about a half hour. When I finally did reach the center, the process was pretty simple, although the woman at the desk was rather surprised to see me.

Helmet: My colleague at Kobe College leant me her motorcycle helmet. This is going to look real dumb, since everyone I see on the news is wearing matching white hard hats. Oh, well-- I gave up trying to look cool in this country soon after my first arrival.

Sensible Shoes: My dad would be proud; I've purchased a pair of sturdy shoes with thick, hard soles. Let's see a stray nail puncture its way through these soles! I found this pair at a recycle shop near my apartment. Naturally, they are men's shoes. I also picked up some really cheap men's shirts. I made sure that they are all pink, but I doubt anyone will be fooled into thinking that they are women's clothes.

There's room at the inn, but. . .

Well, I haven't even gotten to Northeastern Japan yet, but already I find it challenging to "do the right thing." Initially, I intended to stay at a local shelter for volunteers, but my sensei in Tokyo insisted that I reserve a spot at an inn instead, to be more safe and comfortable. Which I did, but immediately my conscience began to nag me. I was made aware by a Minnesota Japanese acquaintance that were I to book lodging in the earthquake-smitten areas, I might be taking a room away from a refugee who needed to stay there. "People in those areas say stay away," she wrote. "Don't come. Don't use up electricity. Don't take up lodging. Just send money."

Well, obviously I didn't take all of her advice, but it did stick in my head. So I called up the inn and canceled the reservation-- and felt much better. There's still lots of room for me to make stupid mistakes and be a nuisance, but at least I didn't take that last room at the inn! (Yeah, a Biblical reference is intended!)

Every 1100 years or so. . .

Above is a graphic from an evening news program investigating the giant tsunami. The colored area is a satellite image of the Fukushima area showing how far inland the big Tsunami came. The same image shows the area inundated by an almost equally great tsunami 1100 years ago. Red is the present-day tsunami, pink is the tsunami of ancient times. (The range of the ancient tsunami was determined by looking for beach sand that had been carried inland in the layer of soil corresponding to that period.)

So, once in about 1100 years there is a tsunami of terrifying magnitude. But 1100 years is PLENTY of time for the memory of even such a monsterous event to be lost. Even if a person lives a hundred years, they have only a very small chance of encountering such an event. (Were I a statistics major, I would do some amazing calculations at this point to show you how small.) Thus humans are lulled into complacence. . .

Life is a mirror

(I didn't take a picture today, so this is a picture of my apartment. Pretty tough life, huh?)

My dad once wrote me that life is like the Mirror of Galadriel (from the Lord of the Rings). The surface is pure, still and perfect. When we reach in and touch it with our finger, we make a ripple in the water. If we are not careful, the ripples of what we do can mar its purity. That is certainly true when we try to "do good" through volunteering. I was talking with my teacher Hico Tanaka today. He was part of a campaign to send children's books to children in northeastern Japan in the days following the earthquake, but even a simple act like that, he told me, can have unintended consequences. For instance, as books flooded in, complaints came from bookstores in the area. The deluge of free books was ruining their business! Not only that, but my teacher pointed out that the type of books sent were those classic children's books that are thought to be good and educational. "Doubtless the kids wanted to read comic books," my teacher said with a wry smile, "But the adults in charge refused to send such trashy reading material." As a result, the area was inundated with wholesome books that no one was really in the mood to read. Think about it-- your village was just destroyed; you're sleeping on a gym floor; you have to amuse yourself while the adults are busy with very important things. Would you reach for a Marvel comic, or a collection of excellent, literarily significant poems about inner city kids and their profound problems?

BTW, my teacher is ultra-cool. His name is Tanaka Hico, but he calls himself Hico Tanaka. "In the West they always write Japanese names backwards. If I write my name backwards here in Japan, then supposing one of my books is made into a movie and my name appears in the credits at the Cannes Film Festival, when the Westerners flip it backwards it will appear in the correct Japanese order."

I'm a Senior Lady, I'm a Senior Lady. . .

Well, I ran into another senior before even reaching the station this morning! She was a very nice lady who actually invited me to come back home with her! She lived in a beautiful house surrounded by rose trees, lilacs and clematis. She was thrilled that we both have a friend in Minnesota, we both like to sketch, we both have a connection to Norway, and we both know lots of flower and tree names. I wowed her by reading her name, Yuzawa, from the nameplate of her house. It's a cheap trick, but never fails to amaze the Japanese, most of whom believe that no foreigner with white skin could possibly read their language.

I agreed to go to Mrs. Yuzawa's art show next week Wednesday-- instant friendship! Seriously, why am I suddenly attracting so much attention among the population over sixty? This never happened before. Maybe there's something written on the back of my shirt that I don't know about.

I'm posting a picture, which is not of Ms. Yuzawa, but of a woman I saw at the station in Nara. This purple hair is strangely elegant; it matches the color of the purple wisteria, which was at its peak on Thursday.

Heroic Elders to the rescue

Choked up a bit when I saw this on the news this morning- a 72 year old engineer from Tokyo is organizing a team of elderly professionals to work cleaning up the Fukushima nuclear plant. Since they are older, they don't fear the radiation. (Although 72 is not that old, and Japanese people are the longest-lived race on the planet. . .) Different professionals from a variety of fields are volunteering, although as one news caster pointed out, no politicians of bureaucrats have joined the force so far. What a surprise!!

I don't remember the exact words, but the engineer said something interesting. He said something about "being our age, we have possibilities/things to offer that younger people can't supply/understand. Aging should be about opening up new possiblities." That's his quote, with a liberal helping of interpretation by me. I think that in the future we'll see a lot of new offerings from our aging population.

Four Senior Day!

Since everyone else is on vacation, I decided to go on vacation, too. I went to Nara, the ancient capitol of Japan. . .but I'd hardly left the house when I was flagged down by a middle-aged man who cried, "Hello!" His third question was, "Are you married?"

Maybe it was the bright blue shirt I wore today, but I was accosted by no less than four middle-aged men who wanted to speak English with me. Of course, I obliged them, while carefully hiding the fact that I speak Japanese. Chivalry. Women can do it, too!

BTW, the Pink Kappa

Sorry, I'm sure no one knows what a pink kappa is or, more important, why I decided on such an unrelated title. Actually, in my twisted mind it's very related. A kappa is a Japanese turtle-like monster. They lurk in the bottom of lakes and rivers, and in darker versions of the tale they come up from the bottom and rip your insides out! They have a "plate" on their head filled with water. You can defeat them by getting them to bow, thus spilling their water and losing their power. (Yes, I know this is still unrelated to the earthquake. . .)

Anyway, ten years ago I visited Tono City in northern Japan (getting closer!) and was told that while kappa are thought to be green, genuine Tono kappas are red or pink. This summer, I will go back to Tono to volunteer with "Tono Magokoro", a volunteer organization. And I'll be trying to find out how the people up there feel about the earthquake and the world's reaction to it. I'll be trying to divine their real feelings. In order to do that, I will have to pay attention to details that outsiders might not know-- like the fact that local kappas are pink.

So. . .pink kappa. . .Actually, maybe I'm remembering wrong and it was red, not pink at all. Can a person like me really be relied upon to delve into local customs and philosophical questions?

Sigh.

Kowtow

It seems that whenever there's a natural disaster, the powers-that-be are exposed as being a morass of corruption. The Fukushima Nuclear Plant scandal is no exception. Here's a picture of the president and honchos kowtowing to apologize. But the morning news says that at the same time they're urging the government not to require them to pay much compensation for an "act of nature". Residents in the neighborhood of the nuclear plant are using the phrase "act of man" instead.

Kowtowing is very dramatic, but it seems that behind the scenes the gears turn as usual.

Red Cross to the Rescue

Meanwhile, the Red Cross is advertising itself with a hot new image (see above)! This campaign will also raise profound questions about the essence of volunteerism. . .

What is a Pink Kappa?

Dear All, 友達の皆さん、

I arrived in Japan two days ago, so I am very alert now at 5:35 in the morning. Although I am starting a blog, besides being in Japan I don't really have a theme. I'm the kind of person who writes crazy rough drafts and fixes them later, so any blog by me is likely to be just that, a crazy rough draft. Nevertheless, I wanted to blog (never done it before) for a few important reasons. First, I want to make sure Americans (that I know) continue to think about the earthquake in northern Japan, even if it's no longer in the news. Second, I wanted to blog about volunteering for a disaster, which I've never done before. I also wanted to ask myself some big questions about the act of volunteering for a disaster: Is it really useful for a 42 year old woman with no special talents to volunteer? Do the people in the area really want volunteers, or do they just want money? Why do I have this strong impluse to volunteer? Is there such a thing as altruism at all? Is all volunteering selfish from beginning to end?

Anyway, here I am in calm, pastoral Nishinomiya, hundreds of miles from northern Japan, preparing to find out. Meanwhile, I will be indirectly doing a little bit to help out by replacing an English teacher at Kobe College High School who left because of fears of radiation. Unlike the disaster area, Nishinomiya is perfectly calm, flowerful, and on vacation this week. I snapped a picture of an elderly man walking his dog by the river: