Where the Gods go to gossip

Moving away from the theme of fish for a while, this is a post I've been wanting to do for months. Only now do I realise that it's quite fitting that I have delayed writing it until October.

This post is about the biggest and oldest shrine in Japan -Izumo Taisha- located in Shimane prefecture. As you start traveling around Japan, the one temple/shrine/castle begins to look like the previous one, and the next one.. But Izumo Taisha is the kind of shrine that will appear in dreams, that people will do pilgrimages to, that can change lives.



The most most significant things about this temple is that it's the official gathering place for the Gods, and a source of love.
Legend goes that, every October, the 8 million Shinto Gods of Japan gather inside this temple to catch up on the year's happenings, and discuss the potential matches of their yet unmarried worshippers. The old Japanese calendar even referred to October as "kannazuki" or "the month with no Gods". This name was used in 46 of the 47 prefectures - but in Shimane prefecture, home to Izumo Taisha - October was known as "kamiarizuki": The month of Gods.



The current Izumo Taisha, the one I visited, has been in exsistence since 1744. About 500 years before that, it looked different, but had the same basic shape as the "modern" temple. Before 1248 though, the temple stood 48 meters into the air, connected to the ground by an enormous flight of stairs, giant logs tied together in clumps of threes serving as pillars, and surely providing breakthtaking views over the forest sunrises and seaside sunsets.

Today, people go to Izumo Taisha to pray for finding love and keeping love. The prayers tied onto the trees repeated messages such as "suteki na hito aitai" - I want to meet a nice guy/girl. I swallowed my pride and clapped my hands together, wishing for the same. A newly wed couple posed for photos - probably the most prosperous location for wedding reception. Love was all around us, in the crunch of the hot, white gravel and in the mossy shade of the forests. There is some magic at Izumo.

Tsuri

So, the majority of my Japanese friends might share their birthdates with my parents, but they sure know how to take you out for a totally satisfying day. Those kind of days seem few and far between once you start working. As a kid, a Saturday would be.. - rise early, meet your friends, climb trees, spend a few hours splashing in a pool, eat watermelon and hotdogs for lunch, mission around the back streets poking things with sticks, ride around on bikes, and before you know it, the sun is setting and you have to go home, because darkness is your natural curfew. And you return grudingly, but with the full satisfaction of having had A DAY.









Saturday was like that. I woke up after yet again not having slept enough. Hiro picked us up in his big, white, legendary van and we made the 2-hour drive to Yonago with fishing rods in the back, me chattering away with the mindlessness of the sleep-deprived. We stopped in Yonago for an early lunch at a fish market, where I ate a plate of the most amazing raw sea creatures - raw octopus, squid, three kinds of fish, sazae (turban shell) and a vicious-looking soup with half a pregnant crab clawing it's way out. We washed it down with one-cup sake from Kyoto, while being pleasantly harrased by a strange little man with tiny hands and long, yellow nails who was telling us about Jusco stores and Korean massages in toothless, incomprehensible Japanese. And stalked us all the way to the toilet to give us a complimentary bag of tiny mikans (citrus fruit).


A beautiful drive up a typical Japanese mountain road (as wide as one small car and winding madly between bamboo forests and moss-covered trees), and we reached our destination - a tiny seaside town with 20 houses, a deserted pier, and tiny squid fishing boats with names in kanji characters written on the sides. Hiro started setting up the three fishing rods, which I looked at incredulously, but after trying it for myself, I was squealing in delight and talking to the fish I caught, apologising as I ripped the hooks out of their bony mouths.


There was this game we played at birthday parties as a kid, right after vroteier and before pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. I forget the intricacies of the game, but it involved a makeshift fishing rod with a magnet at the end, and a school of paper fish on the floor with paperclips attached. Fishing for aji (spanish mackerel) was like that - you literally dip your six-hook fishing line with shrimp-bait-bag at the end into the water, and pull it up seconds later with a tiny fish (or two or three or four) hooked and struggling. Hippies, don't fret - as Kurt Cobain said: "it's okay to eat fish, cause they don't have any feelings".



We did this, struggling against a wind that reminded me of Cape Town's fiercest south-east, laughing like children, and packed up as the sun started its descent. We stopped at the peninsula and had coffee at a lighthouse, watching clouds over the grey water (which would influence my dreams later on, as I dreamt an apocalypse where the clouds came crashing down into the ocean).

We arrived in Niimi in the dark, where Hiro sliced our catch into sashimi (raw fish slices) and decapitated and de-gutted the rest, fried it in batter, and served with rice and miso soup (thanks Tara). Nothing quite beats eating something that you caught yourself.

Satisfied in so many ways, I walked down to my apartment, feeling that I had.. A Day.

Bachelor dinner, Japan style

After wearing a cartoon cloud over my head the entire day, and franctically researching articles about crime in SA the entire day, I decided to give in it a rest. If life in Paranoia Land makes you old before your time, I wil start my own fight by eating all the fish I can in Japan. Even from a can. And so starts a new chapter of arbitrary blog topics. Amen, and itadakimasu.

Dwindling patriotism

It is only after I moved out of South Africa, that I started having issues with my beautiful disastrous country. It's about getting perspective - you can't see the forest while walking next to the trees. But once you remove yourself from your daily situation, you unconsciously start creating an alternate viewpoint.

Fun Fact about South Africa: Per capita, it has the most rapes, assults and murders with firearms. Crime has become a business, and it's supported by the government.
http://www.nationmaster.com/country/sf-south-africa/cri-crime

This is the most over-discussed topic in the country, I don't want to go off an a tangent about it. I just want to show you this article by David Bullard. I read it somewhere during this week, and was hit by a real depression afterwards. And since, my doubt in SA has been growing by the day. I realise that a country is not it's political system, but do I really want to live somewhere where paranoia and tragedy is so common that it just becomes the norm?

Anyways. Read.

Earlier this year, a few weeks before I was shot, I wrote in this column that the ANC had ‘‘effectively become the largest organised crime syndicate in the country”.




At the time of my shooting I dismissed suggestions that it could have had anything to do with the content of this column over the years. Now I am not so sure.

Thabo Mbeki’s complex web of evil is gradually being exposed by a fearless media, and I now believe anything is possible. Reading respected commentators such as Xolela Mangcu in The Weekender, I cannot avoid the conclusion that if we don’t do something soon, South Africa will self-destruct and go the way of other basket cases.

In the past I have flippantly accused the government of state-sponsored anarchy, but suddenly things are beginning to make sense. Our violent crime figures make us one of the most dangerous places to live in the world, including countries at war. The mere act of daily survival distracts us from the monstrous scale of theft and incompetence that has occurred under Mbeki’s presidency.

It helps explain his affection for Mad Bob Mugabe, and it maybe even gives some credence to a conspiracy theory currently doing the rounds: that the ludicrous level of violent crime is of no real concern to the government because the people dying are regarded as dispensable. A few weeks ago I would have snorted with cynical derision at this. Now I find it believable.

Mangcu wrote last week that “I have never been as depressed by this country’s politics as I am this point. Not even under apartheid was I ever this depressed.”

That’s quite a statement, particularly for one who suffered under apartheid. Fortunately, I don’t feel quite as despondent as Mangcu, but maybe my sunny optimism is misplaced. I believe there is still hope, precisely because of people like Mangcu, Financial Mail editor Barney Mthombothi, The Times columnist Justice Malala, Mail & Guardian editor Ferial Haffajee and this newspaper’s gutsy editorial staff. I’m a white boy who never suffered under apartheid and my criticism can easily be dismissed as post-colonial whining; not so for the aforementioned, who all have genuine struggle credentials and integrity measured by the ton.

I also desperately want to believe that not everyone in the ANC has been sucked into Mbeki’s web of evil. I really hope that there are some senior politicians who are reeling in shock at the daily revelations.

It’s a pity they haven’t the guts to speak out, but the ANC is run along the lines of a charismatic religion, and independence of thought is not encouraged. That doesn’t necessarily make those who remain silent guilty, but it is still disappointing. Several articles have asked rhetorically what Nelson Mandela makes of this sacrifice of the South African dream. Well, why doesn’t somebody ask him — or is he, too, not allowed to break the sacred law of omert€?

Under Mbeki this country has become a quagmire of corruption and vice. The media is often accused by politicians of stooping to offensive racist stereotypes, but when your country is run by offensive stereotypes, what choice do you have? If the allegations against Mbeki are even half true, then the word “impeachment“ should be in common usage before too long.

News at eight

Since about two weeks ago, I've been getting daily updates on what's happening in the Japanese news. It's rather shocking that I went 10 months in Japan without knowing more than the local weather report, but from living in SA, I know that your quality of life can be higher if you do not keep yourself updated with the news.

The news in Japan is different though -

The sad side is the suicides. Almost every day, there is news of family suicides, teenage suicides, group suicides. It's a popular way out. And in Japanese fashion, they seem to be on a mission to perfect the act. In this week's news, a 47-year old man killed his mother, then himself. Another bulletin featured a JR (Japan Rail) worker who left his suicide note on the platform before jumping in front of a bullet train in Osaka, screwing up the system for about 4 hours. The honorary award for creativity though, goes to a 50-year old man in Nagoya. He tied a rope around a tree, strung it through the back window of his car, tied it around his neck and hit the accelerator. Kinda like pulling a tooth, only bloodier.

That's the creepy side.

In other news, people have been giving away money.
In April, a man trew 57 10,000Yen bills from a bridge, in order to "vent frustration about work" (you get'em, tiger). Three months later, the man who did this strange crime was identified, and the police publicly requested the return of his money. So far, 47 of the 57 bills have been returned. The others probably haven't heard the request yet.

More recently, someone has been wrapping 10,000 Yen bills in white paper, and leaving it in municipal buildings. A few months ago, free money was popping up in cemetaries in Osaka and Hyogo. No one knows who is doing this, or why, but the money carries the message: "Please make use of this as a provision for ascetic practices".
So far, 545 bills have been found. And by that I mean returned to the police.

'Tis a strange country, this.

The 17th Space Children Gathering

Every golden week, as hordes of omiyage-seeking Japanese families chase their way around Japan in search of the perfect picture and the local delicacies, a small handful of people find their way to Kyushu and go off the beaten track. In a small town called Akamizu-cho, the train line from Kumamoto-shi ends. Only few kilometers from this final train station, a steep windy road snakes through trees, past a golf course and shrines, and opens up to a natural reserve. And that's where you'll find the Niji no misaki matsuri, a just-add-rain community, a small piece of paradise.

After a long, exhausting drive from Okayama-ken, we finally made it to the festival. We paid our entrance fee and chose the gemstones we wanted our entrance necklaces to be made from. Cars and tents created a little village, with teepees, stalls and festival-goers keeping it all together. I could see the stage from afar – a small, intimate stage, with the longest pieces of bamboo I've ever seen tied together at the top to form a roof. Next to it, a koinobori was flapping in the wind, a sign that kodomo no hi was just around the corner.

The van was parked, the beers opened, and the camping chairs broken in. Night was falling though, so grudgingly we put up our tents while the boys tried to get a fire going. With only a lighter and some coal it proved to be tricky, but within a few minutes our new neighbors were huddled around the barbeque, contributing all sorts of flammable materials. And so started a continuous theme through the weekend – without asking for anything in return, random strangers shared their food, their drinks, their ganja, drums, camping equipment, ideas.. they pushed cars out of the mud, looked after each others' kids, provided shelter from the rain, organized lifts for those traveling on luck, passed on their knowledge and skills.. and everyone smiled when you looked at them.

But a festival is not a festival without some good tunes. By the second day, with a light but persistent rain, the area in front of the stage had virtually turned into mud pit. Not that this deterred the party people from stomping hard onto the ground. Some donned gumboots, others just gave up on shoes and let the rich volcanic mud paint their feet black up to the ankles. I remember looking down and thinking: "I haven't been this dirty since I was 6 years old." And just after that, someone gave me free ice cream. It was beautiful.

Music for the festival was provided by an array of diverse artists, including a 7-man "let's-jam" outfit who rocked the stage with 60's sounding beats that led to spontaneous dancing while grinning, a rock trio with a front man who looked more like a front girl, a gaijin hippy lady wearing a patchwork dress crooning with her guitar, beautiful belly dancers who hypnotized the crowd with their liquid hip movements (and then gave a crash course from the stage), ギター　パンダ who later transformed into Elvis, more jembe drums than you could shake a bamboo at and an outfit called "seikatsu circus".

Truthfully, I can say that it was one of the best weekends I've had in Japan, if not in my life. It's a side of Japan that not everyone gets to see, where there are no foreigner/Japanese barriers, where people treat you like an old friend, and where you can join the fundoshi revolution if you are so inclined. With Mount Aso in the background, surrounded by bamboo forests and the smell of food and fire, you can be, just be. Without prejudice, worries or shoes.

The original document

What will follow is the original story I wrote for the Okayama JET publication, The Fuzzy Peach. Not that it's in any way a literary achievement.. it's like a community newspaper. Hey, it keeps up the illusion that I get mail.

So yesterday while cleaning, I picked up the Fuzzy which featured my memories of Golden Week. I never read my article in the magazine cause, well, I knew what it was about. However, yesterday I read it for the first time, to notice to my horror that the article was mangled beyond recognition, and dumbass spelling mistakes appeared where I never would have left them. Would I ever spell "tent" as "tenet"? I don't think so.

After being silently offended all on my own, I got to school this morning to hear my JTE say: "Oh, I found your evaluation sheet but, Marilu, you made a spelling mistake. Memorisation is spelled with a z."

I'm done with arguing about "MY WAY" vs "The American Way", so, what the hell, let's spell it with a z.

I digress.

Next post to follow will be the article of the last bestest time on earth I had.

peace out.

The big question

Will I ever update my blog again?

Stay tuned to find out.

Golden Weekend

Because I just wrote a little blurb on it (which I'll post later) and I had to say "ahh, tanoshikatta" six thousand times, I'm sick of talking about what I did for golden week. So I will let these badly recorded videos do the talking.

Ree Reply.

Natuurlik onthou ek.

The soul of Seoul

There is this very nifty law in South Korea that states that every high-rise building has to have a piece of art in front of it. The city being a bit of a concrete jungle, this has led to Seoul being the most extensive outdoor art gallery on earth. Without exaggerating. It actually seems like people have taken this law into their own hands, and it is hard to walk one block without seeing a sculpture of some kind. There is a park in Seoul playing host to 200 bizarre sculptures from all over the world.

Unfortunately, there Just Wasn’t Enough Time to go see it. We also didn’t have time to visit any museums, and I was itching to stop at the Warhol exhibition, the museum of contemporary art, modern art, folk museums..

We did have time to stop at an intersection on the way to The Next Stop, where we played on the sculptures for a while before dragging our sleep-deprived bodies to whoknowswhere. And looked through many gallery windows for artworks that challenged every available media previously used to create something.
(My favourite one was a 2m tall picture of the Alice in Wonderland rabbit, using different shades of 2cm zip units as “pixels”)

Aside from the bazillion sculptures and museums, the theatre and film industry also seems to be pumping with life. Walls are littered with poster upon poster of the latest Korean musical, ballet, film or whatever stage production. And such variety! Seoul alone has 47 universities, a few of them directed at the arts, and I’m sure students creativity is limited only by their imagination.

On our first night, despite honorable intentions to get to bed early (having been awake since 5am that morning, and traveling around quite a bit), we ended up at a Live Jazz Bar after dinner. We saw a three-man-band called J-Story, who played the most irregular jazz I’ve ever seen. At times I was convinced that each of the musicians were just jamming to their own tunes (piano, double bass and drums), but then they’d come together in a perfect off-beat, grin at each other, and rock on.

Luckily, they stopped playing just after midnight, so we caught the subway home to Euljiro-4-ga, exit 4, right turn by the light blue sign, down the alley that smelt of decaying organic matter and into the unmarked side of Traveler’s A guesthouse, where late-night debates in Japanese would be the sound to which I’d fall asleep.

It's a big, big world.

I have tons to write about: Weekends in Okayama, Fukuyama and my first trip to Hiroshima; graduations, birthday celebrations and getting off at wrong train stations. But I will leave that for now, let it grow hazy, with only blurry photos to remind me of those times. And while it is still fresh in my mind and whispered in the dark circles under my eyes, I will write about Korea.

With no spring holiday to look forward to and no desire to give in to Japan's National Rip-off (golden week 400% increase in plane ticket prices), Vicky and I decided to go on a short holiday to Seoul in South Korea, a mere hour in the air from Hiroshima airport. Now, in this new life of mine, holiday does not equal “a period of rest”. Closer to the truth would be “long days, late nights, sensory overdose and rushing from one spot to the next”. As with my weekends, I return from my holidays even more exhausted than I was at the start. Is this the live fast, die young thing I’ve been reading about? It’s the symptom of the problem that there just isn’t enough time on earth.

Now that I’ve justified that sleeping is waste of time, it’s time to reporto on Korea.

After 8-9 months in Japan, I can finally walk down a street and make out a word or two on posters, banners and advertisements. I can ask basic questions if I get lost, or if I don’t understand. It’s not quite swimming, but it’s definitely treading water.
Then I went to Korea, and I was back to square one.

Wait. Time out. Stop... the boat, Mr. Wonka. I need to retrace my steps. As I was walking down the empty stone roads in the Jongmyo Royal Shrine, I started mentally composing my blog entry. I only just now remembered that stroll of thought. So here goes.. it went something like this:

While I was living in Pretoria, I was completely fascinated with the outside of a certain fruit & veg shop, which soon became my favourite. The green glass panes were covered in strange scribbles which I thought of as alien hieroglyphs. It became my favorite alphabet to look at, and still is. Little did I know that, less that a year later, I’d be walking down the streets of the country that uses that alphabet, assaulted by its lines and circles, drowned in neon miscomprehension.

(Insert photo)

That’s how far I got. But really, the language is even more impenetrable than Japanese. Even if you have a Korean street name or local dish written out in roman letters.. your pronunciation is so far off, you just confuse them even more. Japanese also helped a bit, as we found out just after we booked into the hostel and the Russian owner could not speak a word of English or Korean, but managed alright in broken Japanese. In fact, the Japanese influence is visible everywhere. More than half of the kids in our hostel were from Japan, shopfronts had signs like ようこそいらっしゃいませ！ and taxis boasted 日本語O.K. It did make me feel a little bit more at home. Even with Japan being the major source of tourism and influence, there is still an underlying bitterness towards Japan, stemming from Japan’s annexation of Korea from 1910-1945, and the harsh rule that ensued. In fact, there are many fights still going on today, such as what the name of the sea between Japan and Korea should be, which country owns the Takeshima islands (or Dokdo Islands, according to S.Korea) and Japan refusing to extend warcrime compensation or apologies to the South Korean comfort women that were obviously scarred during the colonial rule. (Even today, they still protest once a week on front of the Japanese Embassy in S.K, but are skillfully ignored).

I’m digressing, but it was really interesting to see another thriving Asian country while having Japan as a reference. If you take fashion as an example, it was a breath of fresh air to not see bags adorned with stuffed animals, keitais without 1kg of dangly pink things, no cartoon characters on everything from trucks to tampons, to see boys dressed like boys (as opposed to the furry jackets and hairclips the Japanese androgenous sport). Who knows why Japan cannot grow up, and even adults are caught up in the “kawaii” (cute) culture. SK seems more mature, sensible and level-headed than Japan.

In fact, if I have to sum up my impression of South Korea (wait, who am I kidding, I don’t know shit about South Korea. Spent 4 days in one city.) Okay, my impression of Seoul is.. an intelligent fusion of art and technology. This is dynamic Korea.

Moenie Huh se nie.

Ek wens nogsteeds ek kan kappies maak. Maar nie op hierdie keyboards nie.

Anyways. Dis sneeu vandag en dit freak my uit. Wou net vir iemand vertel. Ek het gedog dis as van die fabrieke of 'n moerse trop duiwe wat deur 'n vliegtuig enjin gevlieg het. Maar nee, dis sneeu. En dis warm. Weird.

Dangerous Individual Training

When the PE teacher changed his purple raincoat and ski-goggles for a black suit jacket, I knew that something was going to happen at school.
Then, Kyoto Sensei turned off al the lights, and told me I could go home at 4:00, because they will be having a meeting.
Half an hour later, all the teachers walked out of the teacher's room, video cameras and long sticks in their hands. My JTE must have noticed my amused looks, because he came over and explained: "These people are here for.. dangerous individual training."

They re-enacted an entire scene. Half an hour ago, I was sniggering and snorting at the articles on watkykjy, and now I had a live re-enactment of dangerous individual threats. A good day.

Someone rang the buzzer. The Kyoto Sensei walked slowly to go open it. As if he didn't know what was waiting for him. Everyone pretended to be busy for 20 seconds, and then.. the whistle blew.
The jacket-clad PE teacher and the short teacher both grabbed their holding sticks (think of a metal halfmoon attached to a long stick - ideal for pinning bad guys onto walls - but still big enough for them to slip out of, haha, didn't think about that now did you!) and ran into the hallway. The JTE ran after, holding the camera.

There were a few sounds of commotion.. and they returned to the staffroom bearing triumphant smiles.

This training was not only exciting, but also practical. Now we are just waiting for a dangerous individual to come to Japan, trek through the mountains, make it to this small town, climb up the long hill to my school, make it past the video cameras outside, get through the video camera'ed front door (maybe disguised as a lady selling apples) and disturb the general peace.
Or maybe one of the townsfolk will go crazy.
We can only hope.

This week I use "de".

Booty Call

Time for a new post. Reading about other peoples' "charming students" is like having to listen to someone's dream they had last night, or having to look at pictures of someone's kids. It's only that exciting, so you smile and nod, and make the appropriate sounds at the expected times.
So, to make up for the "oh my kids are so adorable" post, the next one will be about something we all like:


Ass.


The 17th of February brought the Hadaka Matsuri ("naked man festival") to the prefecture of peaches. (Peaches.. naked ass.. uhm..) A bunch of gaijin from prefectures all around met up in Okayama City and got soaked to the bone by the persistent rain (and chilled to the bone by the leftover winter). The running boys left an hour before us, and used their extra time to get nekkid and nappied by some old Japanese men.


(I like this photo, because it reminds me of Church festivals I used to go to as a child. Only difference is: all the old ladies are Japanese. They are selling oden and sake instead of jaffels and pancakes. And there's a freezing foreigner wearing a tiny piece of white cloth instead of his Sunday Best)




So, we met up with the dripping, shivering, semi-naked guys, laughed at them, took photos of their skinny white butts, laughed at them some more, and then made our way to the viewing deck from where we'd have a Class-A view on the men running through the holy pool of spiritual disinfection.

On the bus we were told that umbrellas are unacceptable, and by the time we made it to the viewing deck, it wasn't funny anymore. I was cold, wet, and I would have been miserable, was it not for the energy in the air and the chu-hai in my bag.



After one, two, maybe three dips in the ice cold pool while chanting "Washoi! Washoi!" , the fleshy mass of guys headed to the temple where they waited for the lights to be killed at midnight. Two sticks were dropped, a lot of movement took place, one guy was trampled to death in the madness, many injuries sutained, and in the end the Yakuza (Jap mafia) won the game, as tradition holds it.



We were too far from the temple to really witness the madness - all we saw was a sea of skin-coloured movement, people falling down the stairs like lemmings, and disgruntled participants moving away from the chaos after a while. Some friendly Japanese people gave us their umbrella and made small talk, and we returned when the sticks were (probably) found. We bought chocolate just as an excuse to stand in the shop for a while, and moved on when we realised we are equally wet, indoors or out. Dame'ed by the police, we had to wait for the participants to walk back, giving us a wonderful close-up view as a take-home memory of the festival.
I only returned from Okayama City at 11 or so the next morning, and channel-hopped mindlessly while running a bath.
I was lucky enough to catch the last few minutes of a news bulletin about the Hadaka Matsuri. On it, they showed a fat dude running toward the barrier like mad with the magic stick in his hand. Unfortunately, he made quite a scene of having the stick, and before he made it to the end, he was ruthlessly tackled by a team of 5 guys in black fundoshi (the g-strings). They started beating the crap out of him, got the stick, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you win in the Hadaka Matsuri.

Individual Seconds that Make all the Difference

Although I still question the wisdom of spending another year of my life in Japan, there are definitely moments that make it worthwhile.
I wanted to say "for example, sitting outside a combini between the can bin and the PET bottle bin, drinking combini chu-hai at 8 on a Friday morning, looking like crap but not caring, no idea where your hotel is, watching the school kids walking past in their mini skirts and bags weighed down by stuffed animal kyarakutaasu (read: characters) and sniggering at everything like an idiot cause you haven't slept in two days."

But that's not what this post is about.

I'm doing this koukan nikki a.k.a. diary exchange with some students at my one school, and ALL ichi- and ni-nenseis at my other school. This means that there are now roundabout 25 diaries that I have to write original replies to, think of a reply to "I like green", and draw pictures in. I love it but.. well, I made work for myself.

So, quoting from Misa (the soupy girl)'s diary.. we're in a slo-mo convo about candy.

Hi Maliru!
I maked cookie, chocolate cake and namachoco last weekend.
Cookie umakudekita. (note: I think it means "I'm good at making it"... Nihongophiles confirm?)
chocolate cake... appearance... soso. surface burnt.
But teist is good.
Namachoco is simply rcipe.

And.. then she writes me the recipe for Namachoco (unbaked chocolate)! I'm almost clapping my hands in delight. Takes very little to make my day, these days.

Then, Megu writes:

Because I have not been to a foreign country, I am envious of you. (My selling point for English at this stage is "If you can't speak it, you cannot go outside Japan". It seems to work for some kids)
The country which I want to go is Germany now. The reason is because it studies a dog.
In addition, I want to eat a delicious dish in... Europe. Delicious chocolate wants to eat in France in particular.

Man, I adore this class. I could swoop them up and hug em, but.. I don't.

Then, last week I asked Nana, the 13-year old with the biggest dimples this side of the equator:
In Japan, where is the most beautiful place?
Her answer? It is... sky!

Can't wait for next week's installment...

Osaka I daisuki you

I fell in love with Japan all over again.

It is a misguided love, that's true. It's falling in love with the biker boy with tattoos and a facial piercing. But while it lasts, it's a true love. I could have cried as I saw the concrete jungle disappear behind me and I once again made my way to the concrete-covered mountains of the countryside.

The weekend started with a Tool concert. Well, we can retrace a bit and say the weekend started in a tiny little tatami room for 1000yen a night, changing into party clothes (2 shirts and 7 pairs of socks for 5 days in the city.. will I never learn to pack properly) and cracking open one-cup sake. Trainrides to Cosmo Square, giggling in anticipation and walking the road to Zepp Osaka with dreary looking people dressed in black. Three tall South Africans reunited, plus some new friends from Hiroshima and Kyuushu.

The Tool concert was bizarre. Tool: Japan style. For a subculture that is based on anger and rebellion, it was mind-boggling to see the fans line up in perfect ques to go inside. By number. Guys with loudspeakers calling seat numbers for standing places, and the Japanese sheep lining up to take their assigned spot on the floor. Weird. My token line from the evening is "I got shusshed at a Tool concert". And when I didn't stop talking, someone flicked me against the ear. Library, dark rock concert, same thing yo.

Long story. Grand evening.

That feels like it happened 3 months ago. Only having limited time in Osaka, we made sure to fill the hours maximally by only sleeping around 2 to 3 hours per day. For 4 days. After that, we were worn-out enough to sit in bed and watch a movie on my Mac to start off our last night in Osaka.

Maybe I'll do a more structured post later. Day by day, or so. What it comes down to is the following:

1) I love Osaka. I might be in love with Osaka. The highest concentration of freaks in Japan. Take me home, Willy Wonka. Walking in the streets around Namba is like walking into a fantasy toystore where dolls have pulse and they speak Japanese and they ignore your foreign existance. I want to collect them: One hip-hop b-boy. One goateed-hottie with guitar on back. One goth chick with smeared black lipstick. One industrial raver. One manga-like waif. One iro-iro no iro multicoloured explosion of psychedelic colour with big hat. One mountain witch eating bananas. One Little Bo Peep. One pimp with funky hair. One psuedo-schoolgirl. One salaryman. And then I want to keep them on a shelf, look at them, and take them out to have tea with, one by one.

2) The art teacher who wears the same navy blue suit Every Single Day wanted to use the broken pc next to me, so I gave him this one. And forgot what my rant was.

Tabun I wanted to say something about.. I spent as much money cruising 5 days in Osaka as I spent 2 weeks in Thailand. So it is probably a good thing that I do not live there. The inaka is my harnass to the real world. ("real world" hahaha.. haha. yeah. hahaha..). But should I lose myself in Japan, I'd like it to be in Osaka.

Kanpai!

Today was the closing date for the JET re-application papers to be filled in and filed away. Seeing as it's been one of the main topics of discussion in the JET family, I took it to be a big, important, almost national day in the Japanese schooling system. Seems not. I took the papers to my JTE so that he could play translator between me and kocho-sensei. I don't know the Japanese words for "recontracting" and "documents" and "official". Unfortunately, my JTE didn't know the English either. I watched his finger as it moved from word to word and he mouthed out the simple English words. And then retraced his finger to the beginning of the sentence.

After much confusion, the vice-principal phoned the Board of Education to hear what exactly this "recontracting" story is all about. They explained, and.. well, I filled out my half of the form, made two copies of it (one for me, one for the school), and I'm hoping that I'll make it onto the paperwork system that is Japan as "inaka JET selling her soul for another 18 months".

One of the main reasons that I'm taking the plunge for another year in this retirement village, is that I decided from the begining that I was going to do two years. So much for following your heart, hey. Well, that and money. If and when I return to SA, I'll have to work for a bag of peanuts per day again, I won't have a state-subsidised car or trustworthy public transport, and I'll be white and jobless. I need to build a little egg out of yen-notes and spit before I can return to the motherland.

The truth is that I'm bored. But you're in Japan, how can life be boring? This is Japan? Oh, the mountain was blocking my view. Wait, wait. I'm starting to sound like a Japanese person. Next I'll be phoning up the local municipalities, asking them to please cut down all the trees cause it's messing leaves onto my stoep.

Tis a strange place, this homogenous triple-wrapped please stamp here island. And I'm still not sure how I feel about living here. It's a love-hate relationship. But all the most important things in my life has been like that.

18 more months to go.. let's see how many trips I can work into that one.
(Currently thinking Korea or Taiwan end March longweekend. We'll see what happens.)

Koh Tao

Although the name Koh Tao means Turtle Island, they might as well rename it to "Diving Island". The cheapest place to do your dives (2500 yen a dive as opposed to Japan's 15000 yen), the shore is lined with one diving school after the other. Naturally, the commercialising of the sport here probably makes it a bit more impersonal, but if you want to get your qualification from people who have over 4000 dives under their weight belts, this is the place to go.

I arrived on Koh Tao early in the afternoon, and zombied my way to Crystal Diving resort, where I had a bed to sleep in. Not having slept for 2 days, my general vocabulary dropped to the retarded phase, and I booked myself in saying: "Uhh, I think I'm here for scuba. Or summin'."
The guy at the counter gave me one look and said: "You just came from Koh Pan Gnan, right?"
I didn't have the energy to be funny, so I took my room key and made my way to my home for the next 4 days. Too tired to sleep, I missioned off in search of an internet cafe, and to my surprise I ran into Chris on the beach. I wanted to have with her and the other Okayamans on Koh Tao for dinner, so we set a time to meet, and I slept right through it. What a good sleep though.

Somewhere during my first day on the Turtle Island, I fell in love with it. I lost count of how many times since leaving Koh Tao I said: "I want to go back to Koh Tao". It could be because I met some amazing people there who became instant friends. It could be because it's where I had my first taste of breathing underwater for 40 minutes. It could be because I found myself lazing about on a deserted white beach, shaded from the sun by huge overhanging palm trees (okay, it was only deserted for an hour just because I got there early). Ag, I don't know. I just lost my heart there. And I need to return to pick it up. It's without the raven crowds of Koh Pan Gang. Everyone just leaves you be. Nice and quiet. I would have breakfast in restaurants reading my book and now and again having a bite of food, while looking out at the wooden, hand-painted taxi boats anchored on the shore, or watching a sun-bleached CocaCola umbrella lazily move in the breeze. Koh Tao is my idea of paradise.

Through my diving class of seven people, I met Monika and Diana, two amazing girls from Mexico and Brazil currently on a 4 month journey of the planet. Even though our roads only briefly crossed, I feel that they taught me something (thank you). Then Lee aka Hege, a beautiful Korean girl who grew up in Norway.. Actually, every conversation seemed like the beginning of an international joke: "A Brit, a South African, 2 Danish dudes, some Dutch people, a Norwegian couple, some Australians, a Japanese, an Austrian boy, a Mexican and a Brasilian were sitting on this island one January evening...". I'm serious. That was our dinner group. Now, THAT is what I call internationalisation. Thank you, JET Program, for making moments like that possible with your misdirected financing. So, the kids will never be able to speak English, but one out of three isn't bad.

I loved the last part of my holiday (note: not journey but holiday. I was still a tourist. Which is not good enough) so much that I decided to skip meeting J&D in Bangkok, and got a room for one more night with Paula, the English girl, at Mr. J's. Mr. J is a funny man who puts random posters up all over town advertising things like "Hand Made Condoms - Buy 10 get 1 free". He also has graphs of nationalities up all over town, saying what percentage of his guests are from which countries. South Africans were supposedly 4% of the bunch, but not having met any other Saffers, I had my doubts. Each nationality had a one-word description next to them, and SA'cans were labeled as "handsome". Shot, Mr. J! Anyways, Paula kicked ass because she had Christmas lights and big paper stars in her backpack, so the room looked like home.

Our days were spent getting into the finer details of diving (plus 4 getting down to the ocean bottom dives), and the nights were spent kuiering in bars that spilled over onto the beach. Every night, new star systems were created by orange paper lanterns that were floated into the sky to hang in orange constellations that never existed before and will never exist again. People talked about the world under the sea and the differences in languages and compared motorcycle accident wounds. Conversations mingled with misunderstanding due to heavy accents and English not being anyone's mother tongue. We watched toned, tattooed Thai guys play fire as if they were brushing their teeth (perfection, precision, but with no passion), and walked up and down the beach with our feet in warm water.

And, as if KT didn't give me enough by just existing, it also gave me free food the one night.

Some of the crew went to an Italian restaurant, and I missioned off with Paula and the Dutch dude to find Thai food. We got to a cosy restaurant and walked in to check out the menu.
"Oh, everything is free tonight." the girl at the counter replied.
We "but..but.." gulped air like fish on dry land, trying to understand what exactly she meant by that.
One of the waiters saw us fumbling around in confusion, and explained that it was the owner's birthday and to celebrate, he had a massive table filled with creamy oysters, spicy meat, mountains of pasta and big bowls of punch, all on the house. We filled our plates, giggling like kids in a candy store. It was a feast, and to top it all off, a girl came around dishing out pieces of chocolate cake. Indeed, my idea of paradise.

An environmental note

Having an island to party on does not come without a price. Long before the yearly countdown to midnight began, the beach looked more like a garbage dump than a flyer for paradise. The ocean licked its way through bottles and buckets, and puddles of water were filled with straws and cigarette butts. On the plus side, the beach was cleared up so efficiently the next morning that you could literally see the mess disappearing bit-by-bit like stop-frame photography. It's clear to see that the guys from KP are used to foreigners coming to their beaches to make a horrid mess, bringing money and destruction. It's the perfect situation to prove that tourism is another horseman of the apocalypse. It's a vicious cycle, and it will continue. Just like global warming. So, 10 out of 10 for the guys with the plastic bags the morning after, but
it doesn't end there.

When I did my first dive a few days after, I was trying to establish buoyancy in the fantasy environment of the underwater world. I was completely enamored by the utter alienness of it.. until I spotted a nice, fat green beer bottle 12 meters under the surface. Thank you, human race. No worries- that bottle is sure to disappear in, let's see, about 5000 years or so. No harm done.

Koh Pan Gnan

Against all odds, at the last minute, and once again after chasing down a bus on a motorbike, I caught the last ferry to Koh Pa Ngan on the 30th of December. I was ecstatic to run into Dimple, Jen, Rich and Faye. A nice Okayama crew on a party boat going to a party island. We swopped sordid stories and titilating tales of our holidays thus far, and docked with a bunch of other young party-seekers around 10 in the evening. We phoned for our "complimentary taxi" to come pick us up, but the ringing phone mysteriously turned into an answering machine and none of the taxi drivers knew where our booked bungalow was. A travel agent lady helped us out, and we sat around for about half an hour, listening to people stressing out because they came to the island without pre-booking a place to sleep, waiting for a taxi. Taxis on Koh Pa Ngan means bush-beating trucks with narrow benches built into the back. We got to our accomodation, skipped dinner because the closest open restaurant was miles away, and promptly passed out.

The next day we had pancakes for breakfast, and headed through to Hat Rin, the main party beach in the early morning. There we hung around, eating, drinking, sunning ourselves in bikinis and swimming in the motionless turquoise ocean until night fell. New Year's eve was a mad mass of people, buckets, milkshakes, dancing, getting lost, getting found, true talks on the beach, playing fire (oh how my fingers itched to play again). Dodgy Thai guys that moved in packs, wading into the ocean with my camera (nice one), Tigerbalm Tommy and the plumber, taking photos of some dude's back with a flag painted on it, the Scottish-Nigerian dude who spilled our bucket (promplty getting a punch from me for that one), an SA dude with a tongue ring sitting on a rock, a zillion dudes pissing into the sea, Jen doing eyeliner for me in a nice bathroom, bumguns and memoryloss. Jen and I spent a great deal of the evening looking for Dimple, who we lost at about ten in the evening. We found her the next day around 11am, sitting under a palm tree with some guy who looked after her for the last part of the evening. It was mad, it was brilliant. The sun was high into the sky, and I was still dancing my heart out on top of a speaker with a mad grin on my face, fueled by Thai Red Bull and a lust for life.

We returned to our bungalow with torn clothes and dirty bodies at 11:30 on the first day of 2007, really looking forward to a good sleep. Upon our arrival, we were informed of the 12:00 checkout time, so we managed to squeeze in a shower, packed in a rushed flurry, and went back to nani-nani port for a breakfast, exhausted but smiling. I caught the next ferry to Koh Tao, and Jen and Dimple waited a few hours more to head to Koh Samui.

Kuala Lumpur

My mental image of KL is "Islam meets the future". Home of the still-standing Twin Towers, the Petronas Towers. It used to be the tallest building on earth, until Taiwan went and built a higher one. The quest for Babel.

As with Singapore, the thing that fascinated me was the diversity of people. Coming from a completely homogenous Japan, it was a breath of fresh air to see a mix of cultures. And by this I mean local cultures, not the crazy global mix of foreigners that prevailed in Thailand. The major races represented in both Singapore and KL are Malays, Chinese and Indians. It's like South Africa, except that there are no whites, blacks (should I be writing these with capitals?) or coloureds. Same same but different.

From the Lonely Planet, I copied down some addresses of cheap backpackers in Chinatown. After a very uncomfortable 11 hour overnight journey on a train (I'm too cheap to take the sleepers), I walked around drenched in sweat, my discomfort enhanced by the stench of drains and durians. I couldn't find any of the backpackers in my notebook, so booked my exhausted ass into one above a Rasta bar. I took a cold shower in the shared bathrooms, and headed down to the rasta bar for a beer and lunch that I bought from the street. As delicious as the food looked, it also looked like a carrier for food poisoning, but I took my chances and I ended up having 2 huge plates of unidentifiable meatstuffs for next to nothing. The bartender invited himself to my table, showed me videos on his cellphone of all the girls he's slept with (he was without his shirt in all of them) and asked where I'm from. Turns out he lived in both Japan and SA at some time in his life, and then mentioned that he partied in Cape Town with the guys from African Dope, my ichiban favourite record label from the Fairest Cape. He didn't have any African Dope to play over the sound system, but he owned more Lucky Dube (ancient South African reggae) than I knew existed. So there I was in Chinatown of an Islamic Futuristic city, listening to Lucky Dube at a bar which sported the exact same tablecloths as Cool Runnings Cafe in South Africa. How bizarre.

A great part of my time there was spent trying to organise transport to Koh Pan Gnan in time to use the accomodation I'd already payed for. Turns out that, over New Years, there is some huge Muslim festival, and KL being the mosque of a city that it is, all the busses and trains to anywhere were fully booked until after New Years. All the travel agents told me "sorry ne." I was about to give up hope and crawl into a readily-available gutter, when a strange Indian guy with a smudge of Hindu worship paint on his forehead invited me for a drink. We went to a place filled with old men, and sat on plastic chairs by a sticky table, talking about gemstones and drinking Coke. I told him of my dilemma, and he told me where the locals buy their bus tickets. We finished our drinks, and he took me to this incredibly noisy, dirty madhouse of transportation bookings. It's basically a room with one ticket booth after the other, with hundreds of locals pushing and kicking to get to the front. I went from window to window, and at the 14th booth, I found a bus company with an open seat to Hat Yai. I payed for the ticket that would lead me to The Dodgiest Busride Ever, made a breakfast date with my outta-the-blue saviour, and continued ambling my way through the city.

The next morning I met up with my 1-day friend, Murugon. He was sitting on the steps in front of the temple near the backpackers, this time sans the worship paint on his forehead. Instead, he was looking a bit pale for an Indian guy. I enquired about it, and he said that he bought something from the street the night before that didn't agree with his chemical composition. Food poisoning: You win some, you lose some. He didn't feel up to facing food, but still wanted to take me to his friend's restaurant. So we boarded the train and made our way to KL Sentral. With an S.

Throughout the 7 minute journey, he was hanging onto the pole, face pressed against the cold windows like a Japanese School kid that had too much to drink in the city. A mere 20 seconds before the train came to a halt, he started coughing, and then proceeded to paint the carriage floor yellow with last night's dodgy dinner. The doors opened and people flooded out, gasping for fresh air. I guided him to the nearest bin, where he did a few more heaves while I patted him on the back. There, there. Get it all out. He wiped his mouth, and with bits of carrot still clinging to his face he grinned at me and said: "Good, I can eat breakfast now."
Never in my life had I met anyone so nonchalant about public puking. His attitude was both refreshing and disturbing.

In the end, I ditched him after the roti & watermelon juice breakfast (that he payed for) because he wanted to feed me my breakfast. What!? I told him that I knew how to use a fork (you should see me use chopsticks! haha!) and when he sneaked his hand onto my knee, I considered using the fork to skewer more than just my roti. Gochisoooo sama deshita, sayonara!

I walked around the city like a madwoman, trying to see as much as I could in my final hours. At sunset, I went up the KL Tower, Menara Kuala Lumpur (at 421m, it's 4th highest in the world) and watched the city flicker into yet another night with a breathtaking 360 degree view of the surroundings. As I stood there watching a sea of lights, I came to the conclusion that the more you see, the more you realise that you ain't seen nothing yet. One life just is not enough. But we make do with what we have.

My bus left at 23h00 that evening, and I wasn't sure how I'd kill the final 3 hours. With all my belongings on my back, I didn't feel like taking any trains or walking excessive distances. As I walked through the vibrant nightmarket in Chinatown, I heard someone call my name, and there sat yet another random stranger that I had met earlier that day. An Arabic guy named Ebrahim who runs a guesthouse in Langkawi, one of the Malyasian islands, with his Japanese wife. I had met him earlier that day while buying a refreshing coconut beverage from a vendor, and for some arb reason I knew I was going to run into him again. He was having dinner with a Japanese girl who was not his wife, and they asked me to join them. He told me amazing tales from India, though I could only understand 40% of what he was saying (the story of my holiday), while his Japanese uhm friend kept refilling my glass with Tiger beer and putting food in my plate. Just before 23h00 I had to stop him mid-story, and bade them farewell. I made my way to the bus depot, an underground room filled with Thais, Malays, busses and carbon monoxide, and found my bus after being showed to the wrong one about 4 times. I showed my ticket to the busdriver, who looked at me blankly, then to 4 passengers who looked at me blankly. Silently I took an empty seat, hoped for the best, and passed out as soon as the bus started moving.

After the bus nearly popped a tire driving through a pothole/off the road, I woke up to find another hand on my knee that I did not remember putting there. And on the same trip, the bus driver disappeared with my passport somewhere between Malay and Thai No Man's Land, but those are different stories for a different day. All was well and therefore all ended well. Hakuna matata.

Losgatgeid (a moment of dread)

After a 5 hour journey from who-knows-where to Hat Yai in a tiny minibus, the funny Osaka-jin and I are dropped off at yet another busstop to catch our next connecting vehicles. We wave our 12 Thai fellow passengers goodbye, and my new 5-hour friend heads off to find a better deal at a different bus station. My bus is supposed to arrive in a few minutes, and I desperately need to check my e-mail. I have no idea where I'm going in Singapore; no phone number or address. Just a city. I ask the Thai girl manning the phone where I can find the closest computer. She chases me back to my seat: "No email! You bus come now!"
Fine.
I check my money belt, and find that I only have 20 Baht on me. The rest is all USD and Yen. That'll get you nowhere fast in Thailand inaka. I wait until my bus is 15 minutes late, and then decide to rush over to the bank opposite me to change some money. I run up the stairs. Good, I can see the busstop from the window. At the counter, I open my bag to take out my Black Book Of Very Important Things. And in that moment, I realise that I left everything on the minibus which I waved goodbye 20 minutes ago. With everything I mean:
All my Yen.
All my USD.
My plane tickets back to Japan.
My bus tickets back to Niimi.
Everything.
On a minibus filled with Thai, somewhere.
Wakatta?

I walk back to the busstop taking inventory of my situation: I'm alone in the middle of nowhere in Thailand and all I have is my clothes, my passport, a set of poi, and 20 Baht which is about 70 Yen which is about R3.56. And a busticket to Singapore. Nice one.

Get back to the girl by the telephone who doesn't speak English. "Listen. Very Important. I.. lost.. something. Minibus. Black book. Very Important."
She looks at me and says: "You bus come now!"
"No," I reply, shaking just a little bit. "No bus. First - black book. Minibus. Can you help me?"
She consults a friend, and they phone another friend who speaks broken English, who speaks to them in fluent Thai, and all this is going on in Thai-go around me and I have no clue what's happening. Fianlly, they call over a dude on a motorbike and motions for me to get on. The bus is now 30 minutes late. He tells me it'll be 40 Baht, and I say 20 now, 20 later. I hook my backpack onto my shoulders, get on the motorbike and we zip through the mad traffic of pedestrians and cyclists and tuk-tuks and busses. And he stops at another busstop.

From the start, I decided to just go with whatever the moment brings, so in incomprehension I sit on the corner of a street, looking slightly distressed, not knowing what the hell is happening. The motorcycle guy is happily chatting to his buddies, and I stare at them, hoping to pick up a positive English word. But nai. An old Thai man with a long grey beard breaks away form the group, come over to me and tells me "No worry. You get everything back. Mae pen rai."
Not even 4 minutes into my most distraught diary entry, the motorcycle man calls to me, "This you minibus?"
And it is.
The driver steps out, and in his hands he has the most beautiful black document book I have ever seen in my whole life. Mine. He asks me to check inside, and everything is just as I left it, still warm from the floor where I sat close to the engine. I feel like hugging them, but I have a bus to catch, and we get back onto the motorbike. I'm not even holding on, as I'm using my hands to pray thankyous to the deities that are always saving me from myself.

At the original busstop, the girl is still sitting by her telephone.
"You bus come, you bus leave!" she shouts over the noises of traffic. "No next bus!"
Saying something in Thai, the motorbike guy motions for me to get on again, so I do, and we are back in the street again. He pushes through cars and skips orange lights, until he spots a big bus further on in the street. At the next traffic light, he drives next to the bus and repeatedly smacks it on the side with his palm. The bus stops in the middle of traffic, the driver gets out, words are exchanged and my backpack is loaded into the luggage compartment. I am kwah-pun-kaah'ing in a bow so low the Japanese would have applauded me. I give the guy U$D20, climb the stairs onto the bus, find my seat, and sit down for the next chapter in My Winter Holiday. On my way to Singapore.

And now for something completely different

I'm typing this at home, my fingers covered in chocolate cake that I was planning to take to school, but I wasuremashita'ed it in my kitchen. Now, all for me.
After having owned this useless laptop for 4 months, I finally hooked it up to someone else's internet and made it useful. This means that, for the first time since August 06, I've been able to access all the music I burned into some obscure format back in SA. Currently, I'm listening to the deep, smooth voice of Laurika Rauch. Ek dink ek het hierdie cd nog van Eric af gebum een aand in Witbank. As jy die lees, thanks dude, dit beteken waar ek nou is vir my soveel. En so ook Koos Kombuis. Lisa se klavier was nog nooit so mooi nie.

I'd just like to quote the following, because it's so damn beautiful. A song about a girl in Cape Town that plays the piano so beautifully that people just stop in the streets at night to listen to the sounds floating down from her window:

haar vingers ken die pad
opgesluit in wit en swart
die klavier se grootste vreugde, hartseer en verlange
verstaan die hart se diepste smart

(her fingers know the way
locked up in black and white
the piano's greatest joy, sadness and longing
understands the deepest pain of the heart)

(not that much lost in translation)

Kao San Road

This part could have been titled "Bangkok", but it all honesty, we didn't see much of the city. There are a lot of tourist things to do, buddhas to be seen, boats in which you can ride, but for 3 days we became stuck in the magical tourist carnival that is Kao San Road. In a Lonely Planet somewhere, there is a mention that KS Rd gained fame/notoriety after the release of The Beach, but only having read the book (twice, years ago) I cannot recall any mention of this road in literature. We just went there because it was a definite that we would find accomodation without booking beforehand.

Three beds we found, for less than the price of a beer in Japan. It was our first introduction to the hand-held cold-water showers that would become the norm for the rest of the trip. The rest of the time was spent people-watching, getting our hair dreaded and braided, indulging in pancakes and food that set your lips on fire, buying crap we didn't need, sampling the local beers, meeting random travelers, getting ripped off by TAT (a travel company that gave our individual trips instant structure, but at a price), going for manic drives in wheelying tuk-tuks, a Muay-Thai boxing match, getting familiar with the yellow backgrounds of the King's face, more food, more beer, more backpackers, night markets, day markets, the sound of wooden frog curios and "kwah pun kaah's" echoing through the streets.

The really interesting part was to go to Thailand from Japan. To go from a place where politeness is taken to the point of indifference, and where people would do a 180 degree turn to avoid you, in fear of being greeted in English. A mere 6 hour flight, and suddenly people were making eye contact (what a novelty!) and smiling when they greet you. Also, I felt much more at home in Bangkok because it was so much more like Africa. More real. Dirty, smelly streets, messy hawkers with stalls and garbage that spills over into the streets. Homeless, toothless people sleeping on the streets. Poverty. Need. Desperation. And yet, they smile.

On the second or third night, we touristed our way over to Patpong with our new Thai friend, the dude who sold me my money belt. That red money belt became so much part of my attire that I wore it into the ocean on New Year's and killed my camera, but that's another story. Patpong had been a name in my head since I read about it in Tom Robbins novels, where he proclaimed it to be the one place on earth that you can find any type of sex that you can imagine. We didn't wander that deep into it's seedy alleyways, but stopped short at the first Ping-Pong bar we found, briefly looking at the program. It was like the scene it "From Dusk Till Dawn" where the guy stands outside the Titty Twister bar, rambling off the pussy menu for the night. The shows ran at 15 minute intervals, and all had delightful names such as: "Pussy open water bottle" / "Pussy play ping-pong" / "Pussy shoot darts". We payed our 200 baht, and made our way up the narrow stairs, anticipating the worst but propelled onwards by morbid curiosity.

Now, you can go your whole life without seeing a Ping-Pong show. You might actually be better off not seeing one. But if you should ever find yourself in Bangkok, just go ahead and do it so that you, in turn, can tell others that it's not worth it. It's not that the shows are hardcore or perverse. What I saw in Amsterdam made the Ping Pong show look like a chugakko English class. And that's the main reason why you leave there feeling a bit gritty. They're so.. disinterested. Removed from what they are doing. The girls dancing on poles in skimpy clothes are barely moving their asses. They keep checking their hair in the mirrors behind them. When we walked inside, there was a naked girl squatted over a piece of paper, with a marking pen stuffed up her twat. No, I won't use flowery euphemisms. She removed the pen, picked up the paper, and walked around, chewing gum in a good imitation of a cow "Welcome To Ping Pong Show" it said on the paper. We felt everything but.

They all just go through the motions. Remove top. Remove panties. Chew that hangnail on your middle finger while you flex those cervical muscles. It's sad because it's nothing. We left after our complimentary beers and headed to a club called "Lucifer" to dance their dead eyes out of our minds.

And so we just mucked about for a few days in a tiny percentage of the city. It was good though. There were moments where I felt myself change, where I felt more alive than I had in weeks. Two nights ended and turned into mornings with me sitting around a dented old stainless steel bowl in the middle of a street, getting a smoky fire going with dry bamboo and matches, trading stories and viewpoints with people who survive only from day to day. No, I don't know what it feels like to sit in school with a war going on outside. I don't know what it feels like to not know where my food will come from tomorrow. I don't know what it feels like to not know my brothers,, not know whether they are alive or dead. I can seek experience in other countries. I don't have to seek solace. I am lucky, my life has been so easy and I have been so blessed. And those dudes - Kpebane, Chai and Adam - they reminded me of that.

Kao San road ended for me while struggling my way through the spiciest salad in Bangkok. Someone was supposed to come pick me up from the guesthouse, to take me to the bus headed for Singapore. A shifty-looking boy came inside, and asked where we were going. I said Singapore. He motioned for me to follow him. I took my backpack, hugged Jen and Dimple goodbye (who, at that stage, had no idea whether or not they were going to see me again, ever) and followed him. We headed through restaurants and boxing rings with primary school boys lifting weights, through dodgy alleys and past sleeping dogs. And finally, a busstop. Which is the point from where I sojourned, until I met up with Hernes 42 hours and 2 countries later.

Fuyu Yasumi (finally..)

It's been just over a week since I left the jungles and beaches of South East Asia and returned to the brown mountains of inaka Japan. It's been over a week since I sadly left the summer sun for a mediocre winter where the snow just isn't getting around to falling. On the day of my inevitable return, the winds in Osaka was blowing with such force that the trains had to be cancelled, and the rest of the trip was done in all too familiar bus seats. Of my 15 day holiday, approximately 4 days was spent in transit. Three nights I slept on busses. One night on a train. Despite the slight discomfort of 55 degree reclining seats, nightbusses suited me fine, as it meant one less night I had to pay for accomodation. So much happened in such a short time that it would take an entire day's worth of blogging to type everything down, so I decided to divide the posts into convenient bite-sized portions. These will be arranged according to topic. The things I want to remember. The things that I feel is worth sharing. The things that the Niimi crew have heard seven thousand times already. Enjoy, kudasai.

In all fairness

Today had all the makings of a very bad day. I had to re-set my alarm three times because I just couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to face the cold. In the end, I opted to not bath, and crawled from electric blanket to kerosene heater to school. But my fears were unsupported: Today turned out to be a pretty kickass day.

Here are two highlights:

1) I bought some durian candy in Kuala Lumpur. Now, for those unfamiliar with the natural charms of Durian, it is said to smell like a good dose of vagina, and any respectable train, bus or hotel in Southern SE Asia will have a sign like this one:

Yah. It stinks.

So, rubbing my sweaty palms together in grinning glee, I bought three packs of durian candy and lugged it around for 2 weeks, all for the simple pleasure of seeing my school kids vomit in class.

I was not disappointed.

When I cracked open the bag in the san-nensei class, they ran to open the windows. Half of them dared to eat it, and started gag-reflexes while desperately clawing the air. My team-teaching partner wanted to fold over laughing, but he was too busy trying to get his vision back after taking his first bite of chewy durian. It was like the atom bomb had been dropped again. Only this time it smelled like gasoline (they said) and tasted like green onions. And they call it a fruit.

PS - my team-teacher refrained from eating any more candy during the next 2 classes, and said he wished he had a camera with which to capture the other classes' obvious pain when they too were introduced to Durian.

2) I was trying to explain "New Years Resolutions" to 2 other teachers, failing horribly because I could not remember the English ("voornemens".. what the hell.. English.. uhh..). Trying to corss-reference from a Japanese word that they gave me (houfu), I flipped through my pocket dictionary and

there I spotted my memory card

The memory card that I thought I had crumpled up and threwn into Koh Tao's garbage

The memory card from the dead camera that I fed to the sea on New Years

The memory card that contains all my memory reminders up to 23h39 on the 31st of December 2006.

My trip to Thailand/Malaysia/Singapore has been resurrected. Brilliant.

(photos might possibly follow)