And Now You're Going to Die

“We can’t experience tsunami, but we can make you experience a terrifying simulated earthquake,” the Earthquake instructor politely explains.

Standing outside the earthquake truck, it’s hard to take the natural world seriously. I mean, there are cartoon characters on the side of the truck, and Earthquake Man glares out at us while first graders giggle uproariously as they ride the rocking dinner table. . 

But it really is no laughing matter.

After the March 2011 earthquake in Sendai, Japan has been busily ruffling its feathers and fur over the next BIG ONE, which will undoubtedly lay waste to all civilization, and possibly sink the island. If you live on the coast, you had best get your ass to confession and make a clean breast of your many sins to God. 

And don't think that just because you live away from the ocean you might live to see your great-grandchildren butcher "r" and "l". If you're lucky enough to escape the seashore rising out of its prehistoric bed to invade our woodsy shores, you will no doubt perish when Fuji-san blows its top and melts your eyeballs out with a roar of hot ash-filled mustard gas.

Or so they tell me. 

The news these days is filled with dire predictions of Our Imminent Demise(s). Scientifically-speaking, the Eurasian Plate, the Pacific Plate andthe Philippine Plate are having a three-way, and Japan rides the resulting tectonic chaos like a stuffed tanuki rolling over the bedclothes. One day, as in so many three-ways, somebody's going to decide they're not getting enough of the action and consequently go bat-$#!+-insane. 

And we all know which mail-order-bride will be the first to crack.

The Philippine Plate is being incrementally sucked ("totally sucked, Sir!") under the Eurasian Plate, where Japan has made its happy home, and eventually it's going to get tired of that bull and turn around and bitch-slap the Eurasian Plate until it lets go, allowing the Philippine Plate to spring back at the force of a GAJILLION-BAZILLION torque. Thus the Philippines wreaks dynamic revenge on the Japanese oppressors, thereby championing the rest of Asia.  

There must be a lot of money in fear-mongering, because research facilities all over Japan have made it their business. The most recent studies say that 73 prefectures will be heavily affected by the magnitude eleven earthquake when it finally thrusts itself upon us, which will probably happen within the next three to five seconds. The government must save up an extra 300 gazillion yen (about 150 million dollars) to be ready to face the apocalyptic destruction that will immediately follow the disaster. The army - err, I mean the defense force that was created at extraordinary cost for the sole purpose of keeping the Chinese off the island - is at the ready. 

I’m all for informing the public, but I draw the line at fear-mongering.

According to the newspapers, who cannot lie, our little island is a red-as-the-rising-sun ducky unsteadily bobbing in God’s bathtub. If anyone steps in or out of the tub too quickly, we capsize and the beach-dwellers, being deprived of lifeboats, freeze to death in their ugly yellow jackets. (I finally saw Titanic. I wasn't missing much….) 

And if you thought you might be safe, moving inland and northward, think again.

Always supposing you live in one of the three prefectures that might not drown, you will be at the mercy of the dormant-as-a-futskayoku-groomsman-on-wedding-day Mount Fuji. This perfectly symmetrical and beautiful natural formation, which has been nominated for an Oscar from UNESCO, has been suppressing all of its natural impulses for the past three hundred years and is expected to go ballistic at any moment.

It’s very Japanese, in that respect. 

But in other respects, I'm all for being a boy scout. Be prepared. Get your survival pack together and sleep with your shoes at the ready. There's no telling when the crap will hit the fan and what the actual effects will be. The fact is you can only be as prepared as possible. And that really is about having your pack and a pair of sturdy shoes.

And riding the earthquake truck.

The guys from the office pose in front of the earthquake truck. 

The Three Strike Law

Oka Goten - the historical building with flags. 

“That’s strike one,” said Junpei, when I knocked my coffee cup over, spilling all over the little tray and

a bit on the floor of the five-hundred year old historical landmark house. 

It was his idea to begin with. 

Junpei, who organizes events in town, suggested I come see the decorations put up for Golden Week, a series of invidual holidays strung together in order to get people to go to the movies during post-WWII Japan. (Says my English teacher.)

Shibahara-san, an older fellow with twinkling Tony Curtis eyes and a child-like frame, was there, manning the desk, and was so happy to see people, he jumped up and made coffee for me, which was nice. I tried to drink it, but he was also very intent on showing me everything that had been put up for the holiday, including a bunch of hand-painted flags from time out of mind, and a number of antique trinkets pulled out of the closet for the occasion.

“And this is a helmet! And this is an old-fashioned ice cream machine! And this is a cigarette box!”

A cigarette box, a button, a top, and a broken sword hilt.
It's like a treasure trove for a homeless man, from the Edo period.

At some point, the historical society had also acquired an accordian, an old-bed warmer, and a plastic crocodile (donated by Junpei).

In 1765, southern Japan was simply crawlin' with these guys.

Oh, the cultural significance of it all.

Shibahara-san was very excited about the tour. After we had covered both rooms, he sat me down to explain the stories on the various flags.

"Once upon a time, there was a man who went fishing. While he was fishing he came across a turtle. He met a turtle, or maybe he rescued a turtle from a net, or something. And the turtle took him down to a something something – a place where princes and princesses live,” he paused and look around.

“A castle.”

“RIGHT! A castle under the sea.”

Excitement is infectious. “I know this story, that’s the guy riding the –“ I exclaimed.

Crash, splash.

I turned around to point at the flag and knocked my china teacup right over. It poured the rest of my coffee out, over my hand, over the tray (mostly collecting there, happily enough), and splattering the floor.

Does coffee tint hardwood floors? Yikes.

Junpei chose this moment to explain about strikes and how I was now collecting.

“Now you have one. And do you know what happens when you get to three?’

nooo.

Shibahara-san and I mopped up the mess, and I am happy to say, he did not seem at all distressed.

(By the by, at the end of the story, the man returns to dry land after receiving a small box from the turtle, and wanders around his village where no one recognizes him. On learning that his father died of grief at his son’s disappearance, hundreds of years ago, the turtle-rescuer opens the box, out of which spring his lost years, and he shrivels up into an old old man and dies.)

It’s a Japanese fairy tale. What did you think was going to happen?

In an effort to make me feel totally at home, Shibahara-san reminded me to sign the guest-book. And old ojiichan (grandpa) who was wandering around the house at the same time added, “be sure to take a little flying helicopter.”

“Can you do this?” Shibahara-san picked up this cue and showed me how he could make it fly by twisting it together between his palms.

Little flying helicopters.

I tried and failed. The ojiichan came to my rescue as Shibahara-san scurried off to finish something else.

“No, no!” Ojii-chan chided me. “Like this. More power!” And with a vicious twist of his wrists, his helicopter went flying up to the roof.

“Like that, Mary. Do it like that,” Junpei egged me on.

I put more power into it. My little helicopter spun away and up into the air with fervor.

Whoosh whoosh, thwack!

Oh. My. Gah.

My helicopter had just popped a hole in the rice paper covering the lattice work on the top of the room.

If you look closely, you can see the hole. 

“Mary!” Junpei stared at me in shock. “We’re going to pencil in that you’re the one who did that.”

“Wait, I, what, the old dude said more power.” I looked around wildly, but  the ojichan absolutely deserted me here. I never even saw him leave, he was that quick. Guess you figure out who your friends are in times like these.

“That’s strike two,” J-kun warned me.

I sat down in the middle of the room with my hands folded on my lap. Junpei and Shibahara-san finished cleaning up and moving the temporary boards in place around the building.

When it was time to go, Junpei came to collect me, like an errant child, from my time-out.

“Say thank you,” he admonished.

“Thank you, Shibahara-san.” (I was going to do that anyway.)

“Say, ‘sorry’,” he added.

“Sorry, Shibahara-san.”

“Don’t mention it!” Twinkling eyes, laugh lines and all, Shibahara-san scurried off.

Junpei pulled the last sliding door into place. He turned the corner and grabbed the “open, come on in” sign out from in front of the house.

Crrrrrrk, chunk.

“Shimata!” (Oh, crap.)

Junpei had managed to knock the actual sign right off the signpost as he put it away.

“That’s strike one,” I told him.

Legit Travel Blog Part 4

Wednesday – Head home by 4 PM

Wake up. Check out. Head to Itsukushima Shrine.

Sneak in ahead of Japanese tour groups. Curse and mutter at tourists intent on same experience at simultaneous moment.

Watch part of a buddhist mass. Or a shintoist mass. Not quite sure.

Avoid deer.

Climb pagoda and shrine. Confound locals by skirting provided slippers. Insist not too cold, until after thirty minutes or so when weather turned to sprinkles and clouds. .

Head back to the ferry. Stop for souvenirs. Chat with shop lady and astound Sister and Mom by purchasing many gifts for Office, Junior High, Elementary School, and English conversation class members. Nihonjinpoi. (I am Japanese-like)

Ferry to Miyajimaguchi and train to Hiroshima. Shinkansen to Okayama. Delayed thirty minutes. Yikes. Coffee in Okayama and train to Gomen. Delayed ten minutes. Local train home.

Annoy recently graduated students by trying to secure seats for Mom and Sister which had been eyeballed by previously mentioned students for many stops.  Upon securing seats, find that mother and sister prefer to remain standing. Happily, however, succeeded in irritating kids, so not a total loss.

Make it home.

Try to assure mother that apartment is not as dilapidated as it appears after jet-lag and three hundred mile, five hour train ride. It's not the Ritz, but it's not a hole in the ground, despite the holes in the walls. I promise.

Eat dinner.

Drink.

Pictures to follow.