Great Teacher A-Chan

The excursion today was a delightfully exhausting one. First to a local kindergarten, which was of course adorable in all the ways you expect plus several others, not the least of which was being allowed to watch a group of forty 3-5 year olds performing a synchronised dance to the Totoro theme.

After our juice and joyful goodbyes however, we were moving on to far greater horrors. We were visiting the elementary school.

I should mention at this point that the AET for this elementary school is far better equipped to deal with hyperactive children than I am, being that he's a towering african man who can scare them just by looking at them.

After some initial introductions, I landed myself in a classroom of 8-year-olds for lunch - curry and bread. The most important thing to remember when eating lunch at a elementary school is that the kids are expected to eat everything on their plate, and thus, so are you. Teachers must set an example. As someone nursing a stomach ulcer that's particularly sensitive to spicy foods like curry, I knew I was in for trouble, but not as much trouble as if I tried to weasel out of eating. So with much enthusiasm and charading, down it all went.

The kids loved having such a novelty in their classroom, and thus bombarded me with questions. Unfortunately, my japanese is still extremely poor, so I couldn't answer many of them, and the teacher wasn't exactly jumping in to help. No dramas. When in doubt, use physical comedy. It never fails in Japan. I put on my sunglasses, leapt up majestically, declared to the world that I was Razor Ramon HG and did my very best 'FUUUUUUU!!'. It brought the house down, and within seconds the kids were madly shouting for more impressions. 'Do Superman!' 'Do Anpanman!' 'Do Doraemon!' ... I kept up pretty well, but could only get through one or two at a time before the rest of the class would start trying to get me to put my sunnies back on for a HardGay encore. I think I must've left a good dozen 'Fuuu's' (and an insane amount of manic laughter) behind when I left.

After lunch comes playtime (I was hoping for a nap myself), and so, crippled with unfathomable pain from my now-seething stomach, I put on my best A-chan smile and skipped out into the schoolyard. I very quickly accumulated a small posse of girls who followed me about as I introduced myself to all the students. At one point a rogue soccer ball came our way and, undeterred by my skirt and platform boots, I gave it an almighty kick that sent it flying back across the courtyard. The girls looked up at me in amazement and then asked me rather accusingly if I was a boy. The problem was, they kept using a word for 'boy' that I hadn't heard before, so I couldn't figure out quite what they were asking. Refusing to give up, one girl made a grand gesture towards her 9-year-old crotch and asked if I had a penis. I told her I did not. I should've known it wouldn't be that simple. The other girls repeated the question, so that I was now faced with 3 adorable japanese elementary school students pointing their crotches at me and demanding 'penis desu ka?'. And no matter what I said, they consulted with each other and reached the conclusion that yes, surely I must have a penis, stated the fact with final convinction, and logged it into their little 9-year-old brains for future reference: gaijin ladies have penises.

The rest of the day passed without major incident. I'd had approximately 5 hours sleep in the last two days, and was thus overly-genki in that glassy-eyed sort of way. Some students were delighted to interview me, while others were too frightened because I wouldn't stop dancing. Really, I was just trying to stay awake. 20 students made me origami, which I attached to my clothes and head in a variety of ways, declaring myself the origami princess. This scored even more novelty points when I got back to my homeschool and greeted all my Junior High Students. My coworkers are gradually becoming less surprised by my antics.

Posted by a-chan at 9:52 PM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

Ok, so I should probably explain the situation regarding my being regarded as a man by the authorities of Kyoto city.

Upon arrival, gaijin working in Japan require an alien registration card to prove their residency. This is necessary for things such as booking flights, getting a phone, opening a bank account, getting a library card... you get the idea. I discovered there was a fault with my registration when I attempted to apply for a keitai, and my Japanese friend halted me as I passed over my ID. 'M?' he asked quizzically, 'Why M?'. I followed his eyes to my form and sure enough, there it was in blaring print: a neatly circled 'M' juxtaposed with the kanji for 'man'. Somehow the registration clerk at the town office had declared me a man. Even though I was standing two feet in front of her at the time. In a skirt.

The alien registration card usually takes 2 weeks to acquire. 2 Months in Japan later, and I finally received my card, owing to the tremendous efforts required to make me a woman again. In the meantime, my nickname at the Board of Education was changed from 'Amy-chan' to 'Amy-o' (the suffix -chan denotes 'little' in an affectionate sense, while the suffix -o implies that the subject is male). Furthermore, when I eventually received some ID in the form of my insurance card, it had to be immediately returned as my name had been mispelled. Up until 3 days ago, I was still carrying my passport around like a tourist, because Kyoto has some major silent grudge against me and refuses to give me any respectable ID. I know they just want me to get arrested, I know it.

When I asked a simple question like 'can I get my bank card soon?' I'd still be getting told it would take a little time. 'Eto...' (O-san would stutter apologetically) '...sumimasen... because you are man...'

Posted by a-chan at 9:23 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

Today was the annual school sports festival.

It’s difficult to understand how significant that very statement is without being here and experiencing it for yourself. This kids has been training since school started. For the last week, almost all classes were canceled in favour of rehearsals; practicing the parades, the ceremonies, the warm-ups, the contests – I don’t know how the kids could still be so excited by this seeing as they’d already done the entire festival four or five times before the actual day rolled around. But these are Japanese Junior Highschool students, who have some secret well of untapped enthusiasm reserved for insane school traditions, and when they meet you in the supermarket.

Being a major school event, everyone was there – the students, staff, parents, the PTA, representatives from the Board of Education, and the Mayor. I saw this as a great chance to gain some insight into what goes into making these kids so messed up. Most of the parents were the typical polite, conservative mother figures, but of course, there have to be exceptions, otherwise it just wouldn’t uphold the ongoing anime stereotype I seem to be living in.

One of the more popular sannensei bad girls is hanging out with her parental – Gothic Aristocrat Mum. This woman is wearing an elaborately ruffled lace-lined blouse, cravat, slim black dress-slacks, elegant pointed boots, black embroidered evening gloves, her long hair pulled gracefully atop her head and held with a pearl hat-pin, while she shelters under a black lace parasol. Of course, she’s carrying the same basket of tea, bento boxes and snacks that all the parents have prepared, but she’s doing it with style.

Queen Yamamba’s mum is rearranging the bonnet on her daschund. I’m sure you can guess the rest. Then I spot the yankee boy from my ninensei class. I’m really interested to see what deranged lunatics spawned that kid. But he hasn’t brought his parents. He’s brought his posse. Five bleach-haired yankee adolescents, donning their Sunday best (no long coats this time), loitering about making trouble while rooting for their little bro on the side. Their very presence was clearly making the other parents uneasy. Towards the end of the day I actually watched them being escorted off the grounds for some mysterious (though I’m sure entirely justified) reason.

But enough with the stereotypes for now. As I already stated, this was an important event for the whole school. In Japan, that can only mean one thing – speeches. Long, dry, agonizing speeches. The kids stand in the blistering sun and listen to the same message from 6 different people, while I look on and wonder how this nation ever gets anything done when the people spend 80% of their lives delivering and listening to speeches. We then watch as the Japanese flag is raised, and listen to 2 more speeches, just in case anyone was threatening to stay awake. Finally, the festival starts.

The whole event is arranged into sections, all pitting Red Team against Blue Team. Every club has jumped on board to set this up. The band club plays music for the opening ceremonies. The art club have made banners and billboards of majestic birds violently killing each other. The sports club captains have choreographed a series of complicated chants and dances that the whole team must execute on demand. There are sprints, relays, tug-of-wars, jump-rope-rallies, three- five- or seven-legged races and other assorted challenges designed to humiliate the students and entertain the crowd. Unfortunately, I didn’t see most of it, because I couldn’t stay awake. Something about my constant lack of sleep and having watched it all 4 times already, combined with the 30°C heat just conked me out over and over.

That is, of course, until it was time for the teacher’s baton relay. This involved a team of 6 teachers, competing against two teams of students. This was a chance for the pupils to sit back and laugh at us for a change.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and everyone that knows me said the exact same thing when I told them I’d be running.

You’re going to trip.

But I didn’t want to trip. A group of us had even trained beforehand to prevent any such mishaps. It was only 100 metres. No matter what, I was not going to trip in front of the whole school.

You know how some people exaggerate stories to make them more interesting? That’s not necessary at Kumiyama Junior High. Ever.

I’m ready for this relay. I watch each member make their dash, then, heart pounding, I line up for my own 15 seconds of fame. I can see my teammate looming up behind me. The pass is the most difficult moment. But I can do this. I’ve practiced.

Running sideways, I feel the baton thud soundly into the centre of my palm. I wrench my body around and extend my legs into a mighty leap to open my sprint. I’ve done it. I’ve got the baton, and there’s nothing before me but open track.

Then I trip. No wait, I don’t trip. I get tripped.

This was just one of those beautiful, tragic, pure-anime-esque moments. You know when some people finish a race, they’re so spent they literally throw themselves over the line? This is what my young, bespectacled teammate did. Exhausted and having finally relieved himself of the great burden of the baton, he threw himself forward onto the track. Unfortunately, at that particular point in time, the track was full of little Australian AET. This clumsy maneuver caught me mid-turn, knocking me down onto my side while he fell on top of me, hands planted either side of my face, in true manga there’s-no-way-they’d-fall-like-that style. Aaaah, my life, the stereotype.

My flustered coworker began apologizing immediately, but I didn’t have time for the patented anime-girl blush. THIS WAS A RACE. I scrambled out from beneath him, grabbed for the baton and belted down the track, leaving him behind in a cloud of panicked ‘Sumimasen!’s.

Thanks to that little episode, the teachers lost the relay, but I didn’t stick around to hear the kids jeering and asking if we wanted to kiss now (actually, most of them were polite enough to give me a thumbs up and a ‘Good run!’). I jogged back to the teachers tent, where clumsy-sensei was apologizing to everyone for his shameful display – the other teachers, the principal, the PTA, the mayor, the Emperor… ok well not the Emperor, but I swear this guy was two seconds away from committing seppuku. Thankfully, Kumiyama Chugakko doesn’t keep swords handy. I’m sure if he was desperate he could have asked one of the yankee posse, who were no doubt sporting some kind of weapons, but he settled on limping to the school nurse to have his wounds treated. Yes, wounds, apparently. He must have pulled a muscle when he was ramming his knee into my thigh.

Some PTA members spotted me and started madly brushing down my dusty form, then freaking out at the bloody grazes on my wrist, arms and waist. I assured them it was fine. She’ll be right mate. I’m OSTRAYAN. Poor little clumsy-sensei went white as a sheet when he saw me, springing to his feet to apologise and bow some more. I insisted that it was fine. Really. I’m ok. Sure, we lost the race and brought shame to Kumiyama, the Emperor and all of Japan, but it’s no big deal. Please stop bowing. 48 times is enough. Seriously.

Posted by a-chan at 5:39 PM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

Well the template is 90% done now and should be working as intended! Just a few little bits and pieces to tweak.

The feed for this blog is now available, so you can subscribe to it and recieve notification when there's a new message. You'll never have to miss out on your fix of A-chan. Don't know what a "feed" is? Look at the bottom of the column to the right and click the "What is this?" link for an explanation.

My feed reader of choice is Google Reader: http://reader.google.com

My next project will be building a glossary for GTA. I'll keep you informed.

Posted by Neil at 11:24 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

Hi, Admin here.

I'm currently working on the template for GTA, so if things change appearance, or seem to move about, please pay no attention. Hopefully this won't take too long, and I apologise for any inconvenience! Thanks for your patience!

Posted by Neil at 12:17 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

7th Sep, 2006

Japanese schools always struck me as rather rigid. That was before I came to Kumiyama, where everything is as free-flowing as a river under a bursting dam.

The staffroom has a front desk for students to wait at while they politely call a teacher over. And by ‘politely’ I of course mean pounding the desk with both hands while droning the name of the desired teacher in that grating nasal tone that only the Japanese can produce. My desk is situated directly in front of this gathering point, allowing me the privilege of conversing with every student that ventures so far. Some students drop by daily just to check out what I’m wearing. Others are determined to demonstrate the single new English word they’ve learned – happy, hungry, sleepy, boxing, highschool, irresponsible. Still others simply want attention. For the girls, this translates to a lot of ridiculous chatter and boisterous singing. For the boys, it tends to lean more towards physical comedy.

One lad discovered he could mimic a gondola using a bicycle pump, and would thus float back and forth past my desk, singing ‘Pom Pom Pooooooooooooom’. The older teachers were not impressed. I couldn’t stop laughing. I guess I’m asking for it because I laugh a lot – both at, and with – the students. Another sannensei boy threw himself bodily over the front desk, waving a broom and calling ‘I can see Kyoto Tower!’ until one of the more mature teachers calmly dragged him out by the collar and deposited him in the hallway.

The yamambas come in regularly just to chat and slack off. Yes, my school has its very own ganguro. On my first sighting, I was so excited I gasped, but refrained from pointing and shouting ‘Ganguro!’ so as to prevent offence. Of course, once the girls introduced themselves (‘I’m yamamba!’, ‘Me too!’) I realised that political correctness has no place in Japan.

I think we're expected to have a love-hate relationship with the students. Last week, the school nurse and I were discussing how painfully cute the ichinensei were, being so tiny and shy. She proceeded to offer kindly: 'Would you like one as a pet? You can have a pet ichinensei for your apartment'. It's not every day that I'm given the chance to adopt a small asian boy to be a part of my home decor. I should write IKEA to suggest this for their next catalogue. But compare that to this week, when Miss O, one of my English teachers, told me it was perfectly ok to bring a car to school and drive around the hallways running over students.

Hopefully before long I'll be able to find the correct equilibrium between making pets of the students, or roadkill.

Posted by a-chan at 9:23 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

3rd Sep, 2006

Japan is a country of collectors, anyone can gather that from the endless shelves of trading cards in the toystores, boxed figurines in the supermarket and gapshapon machines lining every convenience store. Everyone collects something.

The members of my eikaiwa collect manners.

These middle-aged community members are hell-bent on learning the most well-mannered ways to conduct themselves in English. They collect and trade new phrases like baseball cards, constantly challenging each other and showing off the most incredibly respectful, over-the-top polite English they can find, to deem who holds the rarest and most valuable cards. Sometimes they come up with terms that are so ridiculously polite no one would ever use them. No one except the Japanese that is.

When I gave one student a special card – ‘courtesy of’ – during my doyo lesson, her immediate response (after calming her own excitement) was “I must tell Z-san!”. Z-san is, of course, Madame’s best friend – and my class’ most zealous collector. Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff that comes out of this woman’s mouth. “Excuse me Amy, may I trouble you with a small question? In your opinion, is it perhaps appropriate that we consider the need to explain the full meaning of the term 'Waltzing Matilda' for the benefit of the class?” is a good example.

I decided to use this as a basis for a lesson – when I promised that next time we’d go over some polite forms of everyday expressions, the look on their faces was one of pure euphoria. This particular class is rather strict at times, and some members hold what I'll call 'influential positions' in my community and their relations to the BOE. You can imagine the position this puts me in as a teacher-come-lapdog. Either way, I'm glad I've finally found the key to their contentedness.

Posted by a-chan at 9:21 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

1st Sep, 2006

Keeping in touch is much easier for me than it is for those back home. While they still have their busy, task-consumed lives, I’ve had the luxury of having mine completely emptied, allowing me to fill it again from scratch. After the job and all those little errands that go with it, correspondence is one of the first eggs into the basket.

Japan Post must love me. I spent $150 on postage during my first month in town, every week turning up with a new handful of letters, postcards or packages to send. On this particular occasion I filled my parcel postage form as usual, presented it at the counter, and paid the ridiculous fee for airmail. I fiddled with my change whilst the staffmember was preparing my mail, only looking up when a senior approached from behind to check on her, and pointed out that in this case, EMS would actually be cheaper than airmail. Well, I wasn’t going to complain. He rang my parcel through again, calculated my new total, and gave me the correct change from the 10,000yen note I’d used to pay. Delighted with the discount, I moved on to my next errand for the day at the BOE. Halfway across the carpark, it clicked. I counted the change in my purse, and there could be no mistake – I’d been overchanged. Severely. Seeing as they’d both given me the change from my ichiman yen, I’d only ended up paying the difference between the airmail and EMS postage rates.

Sometimes doing the right thing is really the most difficult option.

Had this been Australia, I would’ve walked straight back in to correct the mistake. But given that I don’t speak much Japanese, and the staff don’t speak any English, it wouldn’t be so straight-forward. As I carried out my business at the BOE, the whole time I turned the dilemma over in my mind. It really would be easier to keep the money. I couldn’t even guarantee I’d be able to communicate the mistake to the staff. And it would mean walking away with an extra 4000yen, which would’ve been really appreciated right then, seeing as I'd basically sacrificed my weekly grocery money to send a parcel. But I know me, and I know I couldn’t live with myself if I kept cash that was as good as stolen.

Could I ask my supervisor to explain the mistake for me? Given that he doesn’t speak English either, I figured I’ve have just as much chance braving it on my own. I left the BOE, and, armed with a make-shift address pieced together from my phrasebook and a fistful of yen, I marched back into the post office.

Explaining the error wasn’t easy. The staff quickly figured that a mistake had been made, so did their best to pacify me – by trying to give me more change. My protests left them further confused, but several minutes, two diagrams and a lot of charades later, they took my meaning and gratefully accepted the mistaken change, apologizing profusely. It was quite the cross-cultural workout, but I felt better (though poorer) afterwards. Now the more pressing matter on my mind was what exactly my supervisor had meant when he'd asked that we 'Next now... let's only go to beer together'.

Posted by a-chan at 9:16 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

26th August, 2006

Tonight would have to go on the checklist of 'true cultural experiences of Japan'. My kindest eikaiwa member had strongly encouraged me earlier in the week to purchase a yukata, which she then went to great personal effort to teach me how to tie. Her instruction (in limited english) was filled with encouragement, and she enthusiastically implored me to practice back at my apartment so that I'd retain what I'd learned.

The proof of my efforts came tonight when, at her request, I was to wear my self-tied yukata solo to a local community festival. Although she'd arranged for her husband to pick me up, her concern that my gaijin blood would impair my ability to assemble my outfit as I'd been shown led her to turn up on my doorstep 10 minutes early to find me already completely dressed and doing my hair. I think I heard her jaw hit the porch on the next floor down; apparently gaijin aren't actually expected to learn anything, just make a polite show of being interested in the culture.

We soon set off, parting ways as her husband took over and drove me to the local Board of Education. As we pulled into the front carpark, an acquaintance took the chance to strike up a conversation with my escort, leaving me standing about feeling more than a little out of place. As I watched the traffic curling past, I must admit, even someone as rambunctious as myself was embarrassed to be stared at that much.

Even more so when I caused the car accident.

Now, I don't mean to be overly dramatic, but I couldn't resist making a claim like that. A cosy two-seater had been turning the corner, seen me, and slowed to a crawl to take in the freak of nature that was traditionally dressed gaijin. In the meantime, a second car followed suit around the corner, but having inadequate time to stop, ran into the back of the first car, completely losing its front bumper panel and one of its headlights.

I felt a little guilty. Hubby-san assured me that it was fine, and it was their own fault for being shocked by a gaijin in yukata. As we made our way inside, I couldn't help but throw furtive glances over my shoulder as the parties exchanged insurance info.

As Hubby-san was part of the staff for the festival, I was able to spend a rather dry hour sitting inside the building fanning myself whilst preparations were made. Outside the weather had begun to threaten the event, but not the vibrant conversations of the dozen men assembling inside to collect their staff happi-coats. I should mention at this point that most people in my town have not yet gathered that while my spoken Japanese is extremely poor, my comprehension is comparatively better. That being said, I wasn't sure how much of an intrusion it would be to pipe up when the men turned their conversation to the weather, joking between cigarettes that if the festival was rained out, they could just hold a drinking party instead, and take the cute gaijin along as a hostess (their words, not mine). For the sake of my own pride, I'll say it was manners rather than cowardice that kept me silent and smiling.

Thankfully, the rain did eventually subside enough for the festival to proceed. I was left to my own devices to soak up the atmosphere and the stares. Not just stares; the elderly women were far more bold and would openly start tugging at my sleeves, hems and obi. Chatting excitedly amongst themselves, of course, not to me... I mean, heck, why would I have anything to say on the matter? One or two did eventually cross the barrier enough to talk with me, find out I had dressed myself (I'm a big girl now!) and shuffle back to relay the news to the secretary of Weekly Housewife Digest.

Being a small town, the festival was nothing particularly grand, but included the standard fare of takoyaki, yakisoba, okonomiyaki and shaved ice, crowded around a central stage playing host to a singer with traditional musical accompaniment. The idea was for festival-goers to follow the lead of the volunteers and dance around the stage in time to the music. It began with a lot of rigidity and few participants... until they started playing the polka, which everyone seemed up for. By far the most entertaining was a kid looking about 9 years old, who felt the need to leap amongst the dancers, ignoring completely the set routine being executed by dozens of happi-coats in unison while he performed his own free-form ballet. He seemed driven by sheer motivation and passion rather than actual skill or training, which made it that much more captivating. When the music changed to an up-beat waltz, he ran back to the audience to retrieve a boy several years his junior – who wanted nothing to do with it, unphased by the polite invitation of a kiss on the hand. Unperturbed, the tiny dancer simply gathered his partner into his arms and twirled back into the fray. I was delighted to see that awkwardness quickly gave way to childish pleasure as the two waltzed their way merrily about the stage, the smaller boy soon forgetting himself and embracing his role with incredible grace for one so young.

I guiltily admit that I was mesmerised by the tiny dancer, whether partnered or solo, for most of the evening. During those painful moments in which he disappeared to run madly about the square giving piggybacks to 3-year-old yukata-clad girls, I explored the stalls and tried my hand at the children's games (you can get away with pretty much anything under the 'foolish gaijin!' label). The kid's raffle landed me a plastic toy Desert Eagle. Not real spectacular, but still kind of cool. Of course, I then returned to my seat and opened the box, to discover that it was, in fact, an air pistol. Thoroughly excited but having no real clue as to how to use it, I began fiddling madly and making offhand comments to myself. This attracted the attention of the 6-year-old boy in front of me, who shot me the patented 'foolish gaijin!' stare usually reserved for disapproving adults. I made a great show of having no idea what I was doing, to his utter amusement, before asking him if he knew how to work an air pistol. Cue absolute euphoria from child. That would have been one for the cover of National Geographic – a Japanese 6-year-old demonstrating to a gaijin in full summer yukata how to load a desert eagle.

I haven't used the gun yet, because I honestly don't know what I could (or would want to, for that matter) use it on without being arrested. And seeing as my Alien Registration still states that I'm a man, I can't afford to cause any major disturbances.

Towards the end of the evening, a raffle was drawn using the free entrance tickets distributed at the beginning of the event. I landed a 'cleaning set' – a totally practical box of washing powder, detergent and soap, gift wrapped fit for Christmas. When Hubby-san collected me afterwards, he first congratulated my win, then expressed his utter surprise at my honesty – apparently some sneaky festival-goers had employed a tactic of presenting their ticket, collecting their prize, then returning several minutes later to show the same ticket, thus carting off a sizeable load of household goods.

Now, I'm an honest person, but even if I wasn't, I can't help but feel it'd be a little optimistic to try to get away with that, being the only gaijin in the town and all. But still, my morality shines through! Plus ten points.

Posted by a-chan at 9:13 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

13th Aug, 2006

Yesterday I attended Summersonic, the Japanese equivalent to Big Day Out. [Just to make my poor sister cry: in order to see the All American Rejects, Fallout Boy, The Kooks, The Arctic Monkeys, MUSE, Fort Minor and Linkin Park (some of these were my companion's choice, not mine, but we divided our schedule as best as possible to allow us both to see our favourites) I had to miss out on My Chemical Romance, Tool, AFI, The Cat Empire, Massive Attack and so on and so forth... not to mention the Sunday lineup, including Hoobastank, the Deftones, Taking Back Sunday, Metallica,MetallicadZebrahead, The Cardigans, The Flaming Lips, Ugly Duckling... you get the idea]. Anyway, it was a music festival, and I can't deny it felt good to be back in that setting.

Japanese music festivals seem to involve a lot less alcohol and a lot more queueing than their Australian counterpart, but the atmosphere was still the same. One thing I have to say about the Japanese – they know how to control human traffic. The thousands of people waiting to get in were arranged into an unbelievably complicated system of lines that marched them up and down pavements, around a courtyard in a whirlpool, between trees and up and down stairs – it seemed like a waste of time to do so much walking, but by continually moving the time seemed to pass much more quickly. A similar system was put into place for the merchandise hall (which sold out of the t-shirts I wanted by the time I got there... 35 minutes after the hall opened. Not just one either, like... 8 designs! STUPID JAPAN, GO HOME!), the stadiums, the walkways – and always directed by dozens of uniformed staff with megaphones. That's something you should know about the Japanese – even if their audience is only 3 feet away, they still need to use a megaphone or a microphone to feel comfortable addressing them. But they're good at what they do. At one point I was on a pedestrian crossing, being directed by no less than 12 staff. In a straight line. Across a regular-sized street. JUST TO MAKE SURE I DIDN'T GET LOST. God Bless Japan.

Our first stop after the merchandise stand was the food hall, which had the usual assortment of overpriced crap. That and alcohol. I've only been here two weeks, so I'm still not over the fact that Japan has no alcohol tax, therefore booze is incredibly cheap here. So when I saw two Japanese girls in bikinis selling Smirnoff Ice and Doubleblacks for 300yen each, I had to grab a couple. Of course, my brain soon caught up with my excitement and recalled that at festivals, they open your drinks for you so you can't hoard it. Whoops. OK, well, I'd just be walking around with a few drinks for a while. No biggie. It of course then came to light that the alcohol had to be consumed IN THE FOOD HALL. Watch A-chan go from 0-tipsy in 8.6 seconds.

NOTE: drinking significant amounts of alcohol with no food and no water, then entering a moshpit for 6 hours on a 35 degree day is not a good idea. DEHYDRATION TO THE EXTREME. Don't worry mumsie, I came out and downed about 5 bottles of water once I realised I was an idiot.

Summersonic also awarded me my first encounter with a species well known to us westerners – the Gaijin Asshole (sorry mumsie, I don't like it either, that's just what they're called). This is a gaijin who, back home, would be easily recognised for the complete tool he is, but being in Japan, he is able to use his Gaijin Charm to further his assholery in new and exciting ways.

This particular GA was, I'm sad to say, Australian. He'd stolen a soccerball-sized block of ice from a vendor (Gaijin Smash) which he was proudly carting around and using to impress Japanese girls, given it was 3million degrees Celsius. Two sugarsweet Japanese girls had asked for some of the green and gold zinc he was wearing, so of course he agreed, and proceeded to draw something incredibly immature on the girls' arms, claiming it was Fuji-san. The girls then offered to write the kanji for Australia on his back, and at my whispering request, returned the Fuji-san favour. I can't really express how adorable it is seeing two Japanese girls consulting an image on their arms so as to accurately draw a penis on a stupid gaijin's back. I didn't spend much longer near this guy, as being Western Woman, I'm immune to the Gaijin Asshole's charm.

It would be hypocritical of me if I didn't admit I'd used the Gaijin Smash myself on occasion. My companion for the day, an English teacher from my school, is quite small, but holds up remarkably well in moshpits. I'd been intermittently using my power to push us ever closer to the front as we waited for her favourite band to start. I apologised for pushing through, concerned she might be embarrassed by my attempts to forge a path to the stage, but she was more than comfortable with it, exclaiming happily 'I think you have gaijin power!'. I raised my eyebrows in return. 'Oh? Would you like me to Gaijin Smash?' 'Yes, please!'. With all the might and power of superman, I grabbed her arm and forced us through the crowd, immune to the native stares and sending small Japanese women flying in the wake of my smash. The result was some pretty nifty viewing space for the next band. I wasn't a fan, so agreed to meet her outside afterwards – passing on the way out, a line of easily a thousand people hoping to get into the same stage area I'd just left.

As after any good concert, I stumbled home at 2am smelling like someone else's feet and collapsed on my futon, sleeping soundly in the knowledge that I had no commitments the following day. Things never work out that simple though, do they?

My slumber was rudely interrupted at 9am by that all too familiar Japanese chyme: PimPom! Who on earth would be ringing my doorbell at 9am on a Sunday morning? I dragged my corpse to the door and poked my bedhead through the crack. My groggy appearance did not deter the well-dressed family assembled on my doorstep. Surely, they couldn't be...

'Hello. We are Japanese Jehovah's Witnesses. Do you know Jehovah's Witnesses?'

You've gotta be kidding me.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a Christian. I have no problem with people of faith. But I do have a problem with being woken at 9am after a day-long moshfest. I'd only been there a week, how could they have possibly found me so fast? That wretched Gaijin-Law-of-Kumiyama had done me in again.

I should probably explain. The Gaijin Law of Kumiyama states that anything a gaijin does, says, wears or eats, will be known by the entire community within 24 hours. Let me illustrate with an example: My first day in town, I arrived in the afternoon and was taken directly to the Board of Education. We came home briefly, then went out to dinner, returning home after midnight. Overall, we outside in the public eye for less than half an hour the entire day. Yet by the following morning, we found not one, but two paper fans in our mailbox advertising an upcoming festival. The junkmail lady already knew there was a second gaijin in the apartment. This is what I call the Gaijin Law of Kumiyama.

Posted by a-chan at 9:11 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

11th Aug, 2006

So I decided to venture out on my own and see the first DeathNote movie. This seemed like a fair choice for an all-Japanese film, as I'd read enough of the manga to be able to bluff my way through the storyline. I'd never been to a film alone before – I can't really tell if that's noteworthy or just sad – so was conscious of this, but given I am ALMIGHTY GAIJIN, it's not as if my solitude is what would get people talking.

When you go to the cinema in Japan, you always request your seat of choice as you purchase your ticket – despite the fact that I'd picked the back area, which was very crowded, I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the clerk had kindly left a two-seat Gaijin Buffer Zone around me so that no one would have to get too close.

Apart from the fact that Japanese people don't seem to laugh during films (hey, I can understand enough to tell when something funny's going on. And if you don't laugh at L stirring his cup of tea with a chupachup, there's something wrong with you), I learned one valuable lesson from this adventure: Japan knows how to use guilt. I'm talking of course, about the video piracy campaign that heads up most films these days.

Shame is essentially the foundation of Japanese morality – punishment for just about anything can be reduced to emphasising dishonour, and will bring about more fear than the death penalty. This is certainly a far cry from what I'm familiar with – back home, if you want a kid to shut up, you're unlikely to get a response until you belt him one. But I digress.

Most of you will be aware of the Australian piracy ad campaign – a crude, 80s style cut and paste set to bad bass, presumably intended to hit our demographic right where it hurts – our desire to be cool! It really misses the mark though, and is just incredibly corny. Japan's campaign on the other hand, is far more arthouse. The gentle face of a beautiful young woman appears. Tears begin silently rolling down her cheeks, while her innocent eyes stare directly into your soul. As the tears fall, they blacken, becoming film fluid that bleeds into a skull and crossbones motif. The message is clear: Piracy makes cute Japanese girls cry. I honestly think the western world should latch onto this concept, and not just for piracy – for shoplifting, recycling, dieting – I know I'd have trouble reaching for that second cookie if I had that haunting image in my mind.

I'm not sure how effective the ads are in Japan, however – a society that seems to not just condone piracy, but actually encourage it – the video rental store sells burnable CDs and DVDs right there at the counter for your convenience. At least they're making a show of being legally responsible. Just like they're making a show of being environmentally conscious. At least, that's how it rolls in the ghetto anyway.

Japan's big on garbage separation, having anywhere from 2 to 15 categories, depending on where you live. One of the inaka JETs has so many garbage divisions that her kitchen is dominated by rubbish bins and she has to store her trash in the freezer to keep it from smelling before collection day rolls around. My little danchi has only three divisions – combustibles, non-combustibles and PET bottles. PET bottles get recycled, apparently. Paper and combustibles, rather than being recycled, are burned (as the name-implies). And I'm told, contrary to the title, non-combustibles are also burned, just at a higher temperature. But with all those different-coloured baggies occupying the dumpster, anyone would think there was some truly noble disposal system in place.

Posted by a-chan at 9:08 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

7th Aug, 2006

Although my predecessor has been kindly introducing me to a plethora of locals and thus ensuring we always have a party to go to, tonight was my first enkai in the traditional sense. The two of us, and four salarymen from the Board of Education.

We were ferried into one of Kyoto's innumerable back alleyways and past the decorative curtains that held cover for a traditional sashimi restaurant. As we took our places, I lost all fear of food as my focus shifted to the seating arrangements – my predecessor (an attractive young blonde) and I were seated opposite each other, each nestled between two men.

Everyone has their role at an enkai – members are seated by honour, ordering is decided based on knowledge and superiority, and everyone is expected to conduct themselves by a strict set of social guidelines. For men, it means sitting about comfortably, plucking food from a score of interesting dishes amidst boisterous chatter and a steady flow of beer. For women, it means hostessing. Sitting on your knees, looking petite, laughing at the men's bad jokes, over-reacting to everything they show and tell you. I'm assured things are more relaxed at school enkai, where the men are all co-workers, but when it comes to affairs of the Board of Education, everyone is your boss, so you don't make waves.

It's difficult to continue to act surprised by magic tricks suitable for children and traditional dishes you've tried plenty of times before, when the entire time your head is filled with the recurring notion that you're behaving like some kind of cultural whore. But luckily, I'm a good actor.

My predecessor and I were finally released into the night, offering our deepest gratitude for what seemed in my mind like a terribly insulting experience. I wonder how long it'll take this country to crush that determined streak of western feminist values. Walking home from the station, we unanimously decided, in true western style, that ice-cream was required to satisfy our (already full) stomachs. After a quick appraisal of the 7-11, I insisted we gaijin-smash our way home – that is, eating as we went.

With the ice-cream already enhancing my mood, I was delighted by the emergence of an eager black cat from the shrine near our apartment block, drawn by the sound of my predecessor dropping something in the garbage shed and keen to investigate if it was edible. I guess I'm just too excited by animals, because no one else seems this keen on strays. Regardless, my excitement doubled when trotting after the first cat came a tiny black kitten. I instinctively fell to my knees and attempted to coax it to me. Presumably it was blinded by my gaijin charm, as it bounced over, mewing curiously, and climbed into my lap.

After a long and draining enkai, comfort from this unassuming animal was precisely what I needed. I lifted it gently into my arms and offered it the remainder of my ice-cream, which it set upon with much vigour. Had I been alone, I'd have happily remained there until its attention was torn by a cicada or old drinking straw or whatever cats find more entertaining than humans, but was conscious of my company, so set the kitten and the ice-cream down to allow the meal to be concluded in good time.

The embarrassment of the evening had been entirely lifted, and rest assured if I see the kitten again, I'll be sure to fetch it something to eat. Being in the ghetto, you need to be on the look out for good signs – thus I consider the black cat that crossed my path to be my local good luck charm.

Posted by a-chan at 9:05 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

8th aug, 2006

It is my great embarrassment to regale the tale of my first attempt to find my way home from the Board of Education alone. My predecessor had been previously escorting me about the town, but on this occasion had other engagements. Regardless, I'd assured everyone I would be fine to make my way back to the apartment – after all, it was a straight line leading directly back to my apartment complex.

After concluding my business I set out in high spirits, merrily peddling along. In fact, I was even feeling adventurous enough to try my hand at seeking out the nearby shopping centre in order to buy a gift for my predecessor. But being a cautious young lass, I thought it prudent to first find my way to familiar territory.

After 10 minutes of high-spirited riding, marvelling at my new-found independence, I found myself at a junction of madly rising highways. This did not look even slightly familiar. I was forced to accept that on my first try, I had gone in the absolute opposite direction to my apartment. After an about-face (and knowing by tomorrow, everyone would know I'd had to double back on the same street. Gaijin-law-of-Kumiyama), I was back at the BOE, but now with only an hour of time of play with. With all confidence in my navigational skills shattered, I parked my bicycle, hung my head in shame and re-entered the office.

My supervisor was appropriately surprised to see me again so soon. We quickly overcame the language barrier to establish that I was lost. Not a particularly dignified admission for a grown woman on her first day as a government employee. My supervisor, however, was delighted that of all people, I had approached him for assistance. This little incident has (unsurprisingly) contributed to my 'adopted' reputation, as the office staff thought it absolutely adorable that they now had a maigo to look after. In true Japanese style, I was given far more assistance than I deserved – my supervisor borrowed one of the BOE trucks to drive me and my bicycle home, taking the route past my school, and very clearly demonstrating the correct landmarks and turns to aid my memory ('Eto... Police box! Left! Left! Left!. Eto... NTT Ground! Right!Right!Right!') My limited Japanese for this conversation involved mostly apologies and gratitude, which my supervisor found cuter still – he's taken quite a shine to me, looking upon me with some kind of fatherly affection. I will never, ever blame any of my co-workers for referring to me as Amy-chan.

Posted by a-chan at 8:58 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

Hi, my name's Neil, and I'm the webmaster for Great Teacher A-Chan. I help A-Chan out with maintaining the site, making sure everything works as it should, and dealing with technical issues. You'll only hear from me when I need to talk about stuff to do with the site itself.

A-Chan has been excited about keeping a blog of her time in Japan for a while now, but her first few weeks have been extraordinarily hectic, so she hasn't had the time to get it all set up with my help till now. However, she has already been keeping a journal on her laptop. I'll be adding all of these entries for her at once, so even though the date shown on the blog will all be today's date, the entries were actually made over the course of the last few weeks. The actual date of the entry will be included in the body text.

A-Chan and I have some great ideas for the place, so look forward to seeing a gallery and glossary, and possibly other features in the future. But now, please enjoy reading Great Teacher A-Chan!

Posted by Neil at 8:43 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post   

This is the blogiwog for A-chan, a first-year participant of the JET program, stationed in Kyoto, Japan. I'm used to telling people stories on a regular, in-person basis, but this newfound distance makes it a tad difficult, so I hope you'll accept my attempt to make up for it through script.

Three things you need to know to keep things in context:
1. My school is based in Kumiyama - the town itself is quite wealthy as it hosts a large industrial district, but the people are dirt poor. Gaijin such as myself call it The Ghetto.
2. As an AET (Assistant English Teacher), my role is to team-teach with native Japanese English teachers in 1st, 2nd and 3rd year junior high classes. Depending on the teacher, this ranges from running an active classroom, to sitting in the corner and playing human tape-recorder.
3. You will never, ever understand the mysterious horrors that go on inside the brain of a japanese junior high student.

Posted by a-chan at 8:39 AM | Permalink | Comments | links to this post