At five in the morning, the house was bitter cold. Shivering, I'd turn on the gas bar heater in the kitchen to full (all three rings, a scandalous luxury) and eat a quick breakfast, throw the beetroot and cheddar sandwiches my mother had made the night before in my canvas schoolbag, the one that advertised the bands I thought were cool or would make me look cool, drag the bike out of the back shed and head off at pace up the road of the estate.
Some days it was still dark. Others the sun had just risen and the sky was autumn clear. Either way the milkman had already done his round. Some days the neighbours didn't get their milk. We lived on the north edge of Dublin City. It was as if our house lay on the border between town and country, new and old. Ten minutes on the bike one way and we were in Coolock or Ballymun—dangerous suburbs of concrete and high-rise towers, symbols of modern urban poverty. Ten minutes the other way brought us to a lush world of green fields, cabbage, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, wheat, and potatoes. But mostly potatoes.
I was 14 and it was the eighties. It was hard to find work and nobody around my way had much money. The pocket money you were given was never enough for all the things you wanted, like new football gear, new clothes, new music, and new computer games. I was too young to work in a bar. I had to take whatever was on offer.
I did a string of jobs. I sold lines door-to-door for the Irish Epilepsy Association. "Hello, I'm from the Irish Epilepsy Association, and I was wondering if you'd like to buy a line," I'd say, trying to sound professional. I was not professional. More often than not, they thought I had epilepsy, felt sorry for me, and bought a line. I was only ever in it for the commission—and the laugh. You met some characters going door-to-door, and had some funny moments. In one, a fellow Irish Epilepsy Association associate was bursting to go, couldn't hold it any longer, and started to find release against the wall of the house we were visiting. I'd rung the bell and nobody had answered. It seemed all clear. And then suddenly the door opened. All parties to the transaction were shocked. We did a legger, laughing hysterically—kids again, no longer sales representatives of a major non-profit organization. The Irish Epilepsy Association didn't know the calibre of their associates.
In what could have been the start of a budding career in health care, I graduated from epilepsy and moved on to work in polio. Again I made a packet. I was a killer salesman, and remain so to this day. I'm not so proud of this ability. To be a good salesman, you need to be a good liar. And I am scarily good. Pathologically so. Between you and me, I had no morals whatsoever if there was something in it for me. In those days it was side-splitting how far I'd go to sell a polio lottery ticket, and just what shite I'd come out with next. In essence, I'm a talented, ruthless conman. I learnt that then. But it just wasn't for me. Even then, the sales jobs of the urban world felt like whoring.
And so, we went north. We left the estate and took the back road past the Grove, over the motorway, up by Jolly's Hill and around into the Baskin, or we went up to the Coachmans or on towards Swords. We were on our way to whatever potato field was being picked that morning. The potato pickers were a motley crew of local men supplementing their dole income and kids on their school holidays or weekends. Some days the dole inspectors would show up and a whole field of potato pickers would scarper like startled birds.
Payment was 25 pence a bag—if they'd let you pick. Some days they'd decline the offer of your services: "Fuck off, you little bastard and don't let me see you round here again." Other days you'd be welcome. It was purely random. So even being allowed to pick was a victory.
Once there, if you picked a ton of spuds, 40 bags, it was a tenner. The good pickers with good backs, like Fago, could pick up to four tons. For a kid like me, forty quid for a morning's work was out of reach. The mark of success was to pick a ton. And I was lucky: I had an elastic back.
But picking the bags was no guarantee of getting paid for them. First we had to get them by our nemeses, the checkers. The checkers examined your bags to see if you were picking the right size of potatoes, the right kind of potatoes, and if you'd filled the bag to the right level. No green ones, no seeds, no rotten ones and no muck. Not too little and certainly not too much. If they didn't like your work, they'd empty the bag out there and then and you'd have to pick it again. Picking spuds is a numbers game, so there's nothing more demoralizing than having your bags emptied. You knew you had the all clear when you heard the distinctive squeaking sound of the bags being tied. I still remember some of the ones who did that job. One was Cowboy, who wore a cowboy hat, and affected that he was American. In reality, he was from Swords. He was a mildish man, and more than mildly alcoholic. He wasn't ruthless enough in his checking for the farmer's liking, and seemed only to be counting down the hours before returning to the pub. But he pretended to be strict whenever the farmer was around.
Then there was the one that looked like he had tropical fish swimming around in his bloated lips. He was as nasty as he was retarded, as was his son. People used to give him a really hard time. It didn't help that he couldn't speak properly and foamed at the mouth when he gave his orders. Or that he was a first-grade prick. Looking back, I suppose his hiring was the attempt of the farmer—a cruel, ignorant man—to serve his community. He wasn't a foreman based on his ability, that's for sure. He once threw my jacket in a tree, and I can't, for the life of me, remember why. But I, or one of us, must have laughed at him about something.
Loading the spuds at the end of the day was a pain—and another test of a young boy's manhood. If you couldn't load your bags onto the trailer, you wouldn't be paid for picking them. Even more worryingly, if you couldn't lift a four-stone bag of spuds, the other kids would say you were a wuss. In this macho culture, I was more conman than strongman.
Each evening, we'd come home starving and exhausted, to mothers who would fuss over us, their hard-working young lads. The tiredness and the hunger was something noble, the full chip-pan of chips a reward that went down well.
And then, on Friday afternoon, the farmer would return from the bank and we'd be paid. In cash. It was all perfectly below board. All the pickers would gather around the farmer as he stood atop a trailer doling out the money, full of jokes and fake camaraderie. It was the happiest moment of the week. Then, as the men adjourned to Kealy's pub, the young hunter-gatherers would return home, a bag of spuds on each of our crossbars, proud of the work done.
On Saturday morning, we'd get up early and take the 41 bus into town, farm labourers turned city shoppers. In my father's time, it was still pretty much all rural, but I grew up on the border of two worlds.
Did this route yesterday. Here are the details for anyone wanting to try it.
To Narita:
Airport Limousine bus from any of the main hotels (3,000 yen). Airport buses will take bicycles for no extra charge if they are in Rinko bags. Go from a hotel because they are much less crowded than say a bus from Shinjuku.
Exiting the Airport:
Not as difficult as some suggested. Just follow the signs for Narita Town.
Which Route?
On the map, Route 296 (from Shisui to Funabashi) seems like a lovely short-cut that allows you to avoid Chiba City. In reality, Route 296 is longer, and it's the narrowest road in Japan, and it's crowded with Sunday shoppers travelling 4k by car to buy things they don't need. I'd suggest taking Route 51 all the way down to Chiba City and up along the coast until you reach Route 14. That way you could even stop at Inage Beach. I took Route 296.
Lunch:
Try to find a Choushi Maru restaurant (銚子丸). Choushi Maru is a revolving Sushi place. Choushi is a port town on Chiba's Pacific coast, and all Sushi served at this Chiba-based chain is transported directly from there. Don't be put off by the farmers-dressed-up-for-Sunday-dinner atmosphere of the fashionable clientele: the Sushi is first-class.
Photo Opportunities:
The Welcome to Japan sign as you come out of Narita Airport? Farmers working in rice fields around Sakura? The narrowest road in the world? The combination of souped-up cars, gaudy colours, and brilliant mullets? Nah. Not a good trip for the discerning camera.
Length and Time:
The sign on Route 51 just outside Narita says: Tokyo 67k. Maybe this is true if you take Route 51. I took the "short-cut." And cycled for 94k. Pedalling time was 4h15m. A longish daytrip.
Nostalgia Value:
Strong for East Tokyo emigres like me. Without nostalgia, though, it would be just ugliness. Saitama may be the worst place in Japan, but urban Chiba runs it close.
A return to Nishi-Funabashi, Moto-Yawata, Ichikawa, the Ichikawa Bridge (police presence still there), the Ichikawa Fire Station, Koiwa, and Route 14. Back to the land of Ito Yokado.
Overall:
An easily executed Rinko, and a good day of exercise, but dangerous-ish manoeuvring in constant backed-up traffic. Not for the easily stressed or those suffering from road rage.
What Drivers Suddenly Said:
"I saw you on the road. You're fast." -- Local farmer parked outside 7-11 in Narita Town.
"Where are you going? Really?? Wow, great. I myself went to Enoshima once." -- Man on delivery moped stopped at traffic lights, Funabashi.
"Fix my fucking mirror. Bikes are not supposed to be on the road." -- Young gentleman with mullet hairstyle and metallic blue sportscar, Route 14, Shin-Koiwa
If you're reading this blog, chances are the government of Japan think you're a criminal.
As Japanese public opinion moves ever further to the populist, isolationist right, as Japan brashly alienates itself even further in Asia, as the bellowing black vans with their tin-pot thugs become noisier and more frequent, the official xenophobia continues at its accelerated, reactionary post-September 11 pace. Small past victories are being erased as the liberal voices huddle in corners, hoping only that the deluge will pass.
There's a real feeling of dark clouds descending over this country these days, a sense of an ugly impending storm. It's a bad time to be a minority anywhere in the world, but is it any wonder long-term expats in Japan feel uneasy, certainly not protected, and often end up hating the place? Life here would become all but impossible for a foreigner if ever a terrorist attack, or the long-overdue big earthquake, does take place.
My feeling is that nothing is changing here. Japan is just reverting back to past, never-lost insecurities. The corridors of power are filled with the same old dinosaurs. They articulate the same old insecurities felt deeply by most of the population. The young are learning from the old. The newer generation is more reactionary than the ones that came before. Japan is a nation that doesn't really trust anyone else. It's a nation with a profound identity crisis. And so it swings, like the stages of salaryman drunkenness, from belligerence to self-pity, politeness to ignorance, nice words to harsh acts, strong rhetoric to nervous laughter. All the while, it clings uneasily for protection, like the favoured child, to the coattails of a country it both admires and despises. It looks back at the past and feels defiant and aggrieved, a victim, at the very least of double standards. Not much has changed since the first black boats of foreign barbarians disturbed paradise all those years ago. Japan remains suspicious of the rest of the world, wondering how does it fit in and why it's not getting the respect it innately deserves.
And its expats, who once had, and even still have, so much love for the place, continue to feel barely tolerated, routinely degraded. Things stop becoming surprising in the Groundhog Day world of the Japanese cocoon, until you slap your cheeks to wake yourself and think.
I may be being overdramatic here. I may be being unnecessary gloomy. I may be blowing things well out of proportion. I may be unfairly generalizing. I may be blurring the borders between the personal and political. I may even be projecting. But whatever the case, the feelings behind this rant are honest and without agenda, and I make no apologies. I rarely write about politics anymore, but I feel like doing so today.
The real danger to the psyche of thinking long-term expats in Japan comes when they let these constant, steady drops of age-old distrust erode the rocks of their perspective, to the point where they succumb to biased hatred, disconnected cynicism, or watery shou ga nai.
via Cosmic Buddha
Here's a little computer tip I've learned from experience this week.
I've just bought a new computer, one of those where you choose all the specs yourself from the manufacturer's website. I know pretty much what I need and don't need from a computer.
The only thing I was unsure about (considering my budget) was whether to get good speakers and a cheap sound card or a good sound card and cheap speakers.
I chose the first option and luckily I was right.
You don't need to worry too much about the sound card for just listening to your iTunes. The quality of your speakers is much more important.
I'm currently stressed at work: I'm using freelancers.
Anybody who has ever outsourced anything, or given a set of detailed instructions, knows most people are stupid, especially freelance people.
I gave clear instructions. I even gave a 20-page sample. I gave detailed feedback after the first delivery. By the second delivery, one of the two had picked up on about 60%. This is actually pretty good for a human. The other managed a whopping 20%.
Think about that.
Use the metaphor of sending someone to the shop.
"I want you to go to the shop and get me (1) a loaf of brown bread, (2) a bottle of milk, (3) a packet of biscuits, (4) a bar of chocolate, and (5) a can of beer."
"This is a picture of how your shopping basket will look when you have put in the five products you need to buy. Why not take it with you when you go to the shop? It might be useful for you. Now, is everything clear?"
"Yes."
"Okay, off you go."
Shopping Trip 1: Freelance Idiot 2 returns with a loaf of white bread.
"Thanks for the loaf of bread. I wanted brown, though, not white. Anyway, that doesn't matter. You've forgotten some things, namely (1) a bottle of milk, (2) a packet of biscuits, (3) a bar of chocolate, and (4) a can of beer. Could you go again please?"
"Well, okay." (looks disappointed)
Shopping Trip 2: Freelance Idiot 2 returns with a can of beer, having left the bread back at the shop.
This is my life.
Tottenham's Dutch manager Martin Jol is a funny character:
Heres an extract from an interview Jol gave last night. He was talking about
the Bolton game where the linesman ruled out a perfectly good goal by
Defoe.................
"When asked if he should be nastier a la Ferguson when decisions go against
us as they did at Bolton last week and Old Trafford in January and if it
would help us achieve more respect from referees and perhaps make them more
inclined to give us more decisions he explained his policy of behaving one
way for the cameras to keep his dignity and behaving another way when alone
with officials. He then repeated the conversation he had with the linesman
after the game.
Jol: I'm new to this country, am I allowed to call you a prick?
Linesman: No.
Jol: Am I allowed to think you're a prick?
Linesman: It's a free country, I can't tell you what you're allowed to
think.
Jol: If that's the case, I think you're a prick. "
via Mick
By Their Own Hand is a beautiful radio documentary about suicide (in Lithuania and Japan).
On a dark November night in Tokyo, an Irishman slinks sneakily out of work and relocates to the pub. His goal? To support Australia in their attempt to overturn a one-goal deficit against the Uruguayans and qualify for the 2006 World Cup.
And whether they win or lose, there's always Japan to support, although I wish Mr. Zico wasn't at the helm.
Speaking of the decay of Irish football, I don't know what the opinion is in the four green fields on the possible hiring of El Tel to replace Brian Kerr, but from over here he seems like a good, realistic option. Dodgy cockney wide boy though he most definitely is, he's also arguably the best English national team manager of the modern era (him or Mad Sir Bobby).
Since I started reading about Everest, Reinhold Messner has always been in the background, waiting. His books didn't appeal to me initially: there were too many other good Everest books; I'd heard Messner was no writer; and I'd read that his translators were even worse.
Having finished most of the rest of the Everest canon, I tried my first Messner last week: Crystal Horizon, the account of arguably the greatest ever achievement on Everest, the first solo ascent, which Messner did from the Tibet side in August 1980 without supplemental oxygen.
Crystal Horizon is frustrating, but for reasons I didn't expect.
Messner can write reasonably well and his translators are competent.The problems lay more with choice of subject matter.
Messner sees himself as a free spirit living all aspects of his life as part of one cohesive philosophy. As such, he doesn't like to be pidgeonholed as just a mountain climber. End result? Crystal Horizon may ostensibly be about Messner's first solo ascent of Everest, but in reality, that's just one of the themes.
And with due respect to the greatest mountaineer of all time, I'm not so enamoured about reading yet another detailed chronological history of the early expeditions; I don't really want to know Messner's indignant political views on China and Tibet; and though I will admit to finding the story of how he wasn't getting along on with his new Canadian girlfriend some relief after the endless surmising about what happened to Mallory and descriptions of fights with the Chinese, I didn't expect or need that little sub-plot either.
Especially when they're all tacked together with all the adroitness of a chimpanzee making dress suits with a staple gun. Seamless transitions, my friends, they ain't.
What's more, Messner comes across as a first-rate tool. Granted, this is probably because he doesn't want to sound like a hero. In fact, in eschewing the hero depiction, he goes as far as to structure into the narrative an counterview, allowing another voice (his new girlfriend Nena) whole sections to lambast him and outline his flaws. You have to admire the honesty: Messner publishes a book about himself that describes him as a social misfit and gruff, selfish human being. But much as I respect that and agree with many of his philosophies on life and mountains, I didn't really like him very much. (I did, however, like Nena.)
And that, Messner fans, is where the critic in me stops moaning and the mountain-lover starts pointing out the good.
Because despite being a tough slog at times and often annoying, Crystal Horizon is worth it--if you're interested in high-altitude climbing.
Messner's competitive achievements belie a strong awareness of the spiritual side of mountaineering. His contradictions manage to live and make sense together under a cohesive individual philosophy (whose clearest expression might be "I have no fixed beliefs"). Crystal Horizon also contains perceptive discussions on the positive and destructive nature of human drive and ambition, insightful analysis of the reactions of the human body under extreme strain (brilliant descriptions of hypoxic thought processes), and an honest attempt at answering that most difficult question: Why climb mountains?
Add sophisticated weather talk (this was a rare ascent of Everest during the Monsoon period), hard-earned experience of the Himalaya and life in the Death Zone (the first person to climb all 14 "eight-thousanders"; his brother died when they were climbing Nanga Parbat together), and the chance to virtually climb Everest from the less-used Rongbuk Glacier/North Col/North Ridge route (some chilling descriptions of going through icefalls with no tools except ski poles and an ice-axe), and you've got yourself solid reasons to read. As a bonus, there are hundreds of fascinating mountain and social documentary photographs.
All told, the Crystal Horizon is no masterpiece of mountain literature. But it's not bad, either. It's a bumpy ride, not one to read again, but enjoyable enough to make this reader want to try other Messner offerings.
After talking about doing it for eight years, I finally cycled the Yamanote Line loop today.
It was supposed to be a 34k course but the clock on my bike reckons it was 51k. It took the whole short sunny November day.
Yanaka Cemetery, the huge, sprawling graveyard just after Ueno, caused some navigational problems, as did the section from Osaki to Shinagawa. Akihabara remains out of control. Today it was full of young girls, dressed up as maids, trying to entice the Akiba geeks to "maid coffee shops." As bearded American tourists acquired photographic proof that Japan is a weird and wacky place, I weaved my way through the waves of people and moved on.
Vortexes and navigational difficulties aside, it was a pleasant ride beside the tracks through the many different worlds of the Yamanote Line, from the verve and creativity and affluence of your Harajukus and your Ebisus to the grit and death and decay of your Nipporis and your Tabatas.
No googling. What's the difference between "an organization" and "an institution"?
(Also applicable for Japanese speakers as the difference between 組織 and 機関)
What's the deal with nervous laughter? What's its function?
Do you do it and if so why?
And do some cultures have it more than others?
I'll be honest with you: I hate it. It drives me screaming up the walls. If nothing is funny, why fucking laugh? (Similar note, if you've nothing to apologise for, why apologise? And if you've nothing to say, why talk, especially to yourself?)
Insecurity and arrogance are usually two sides of the same coin. They've also one more thing in common: they're both fucking grating.
A rambling, diary style post about celebration.
On Thursday night, I went over to Shibuya to see the new Shane McGowan documentary produced by the Irish Film Board. Before the screening they had a Japanese traditional Irish band, who were excellent apart from when they decided to inflict on us the sound of bagpipes. (Anybody playing bagpipes should be shot.) They had the right mix of preparation and spontaneity, hard work and enjoyment. By the end I was sitting there tapping my feet and smiling. Young Japanese who learn the words to Dicey Riley are special in my book. I felt like singing with them, but resisted the urge. People were there for a night out.
The film was awful, infused with the cloying presence of Victoria Clark and full of gossip and bullshit. It didn't meet my expectations. The fact is, I could have made it much better, by focusing on things that matter, like the ease and magical beauty of McGowan's lyrics (Nick Cave said they were unparalleled: "He has never written a bad line"), the hows and whys and mystical, trance-like nature of the creative process, theories of poetry and music, and the Pogues' place in a long, beaufiful line of Irish tradition, not the drink, the drugs, the inner politics and the fallings-out. Anyone can drink themselves to death and fall out with their friends. They were asking the wrong questions.
On Friday night, I took the bike for a night spin around the palace, stopping to take some photos of the Ginza and the moat. As I was setting up the tripod, guards started filing down the steep embankment on the inner side of the moat. You could only make them out by their torchlights. More and more torchlights appeared, moving down purposefully in organised single-file. Then the main palace lights all went out. It was sinister, like a Bond scene. It was a Milk Tray moment. Over there, on the other side of the moat, people had serious business to attend. They were following trails, looking for something important. Maybe a plot had been foiled, like someone trying to break into the palace. Or someone trying to escape. I went home to watch the Preview Show.
On Saturday morning I got up before the sun and took the Odakyu Line to the old tramping ground, Tanzawa. This time I chose to go up Oyama again and back down through Yabitsu Pass. The route up was full of day trippers with noisy kids or well-behaved dogs. Oyama is a famous mountain. Things got better and people fewer on the route less travelled on the way down. The beauty of Tanzawa is in its sasa-covered open ridges. The uniqueness of Tanzawa is contained in the sasa. The first few times, you take its innocuous presence for granted. Eventually, you begin to realize its importance in the scene.
I also saw Tanzawa from a new perspective. From the ridge between Oyama and Yabitsu Pass, you can see the outline of the main Tanzawa traverse clear in the skyline--Tonodake, Tanzawayama, and Hirugatake all standing tall and distinct. I've done it in summer, and now would like to do that traverse in winter this year. It must be beautiful in snow.
On Sunday morning, I cycled 15k across the city at dawn to a football pitch in the east of Tokyo near the bay. Tokyo is so much better when it's empty. It was just me, the morning light and the crows. Rolling along. During the game, I had one of those pure joy moments, when you can feel your body actually releasing its endorphins. I wasn't sure what it was at first, and thought I might be dizzy or something and need to come off. Then I realized what it was—the physical state of happiness. I proceeded to score a volley the Gods of football would only dream about. I'm thinking of sending a copy of the video to Liverpool Football Club, fao Djibril Cisse and Peter Crouch. Morientes doesn't need to watch it. His technique is probably slightly better than mine. On the cycle back, the aggressive bus drivers and wannabe Saitama gangstas in their souped-up yellow Pikachu dream machines made sure I didn't linger in reveries for too long.
And then, on Sunday afternoon, body sated, I entered the wonderful world of the Chinese Dim-Sum restaurant, where I lounged around for hours drinking cup after cup of Puar tea (which enables the eating of lots of greasy food) and ordering dumplings and shrimp pancakes and Chinese cabbage concoctions from the food carts wheeled around the restaurant by young waiters and waitresses in traditional Chinese dress.
It was a celebration of a weekend. If weekends had theme tunes, this one's would be Ode to Joy.
I bought a book* last night for one yen (0.007 euro) on the Japanese version of Amazon Marketplace. Its delivery will cost 340 times its price.
*エベレストを越えて、植村直己 (Surmounting Everest, Naomi Uemura)
Pampas grass lit by the strong Autumn sun. It's been beautiful weather in Japan all week. Today was perfect for walking the sasa and susuki coated ridges of the Tanzawa Range.
Cycled the Imperial Palace loop on Friday night. Stopped to take some night shots of Hibiya and the Ginza beyond. If the Emperor of Japan looks out his window on a Friday night, this is what he sees.
