Japan Lite Archives

On my planet, the United States, printing up advertising is a simple matter of walking into the nearest print shop, choosing from an array of samples and comparing them to a price list that varies depending on how many postcards you want printed. After you decide what you want, it takes a week to 10 days to have the order filled.

Not Japan. After 10 days, I was still in the throes of "uchiawase." These face-to-face business meetings are the prerequisite to doing any business with the Japanese.

It started with an introduction by a mutual friend. Then I talked to the printer to set up an appointment. "I can stop by your office today," I offered. "Oh no, our office is very hard to find," he said, and suggested meeting at a hotel coffee shop instead.

We met at the hotel, ordered coffee and got straight down to business. I showed him the design I wanted for advertising postcards, handed him a disk with my logo already formatted, and asked him how much it would cost.

Oh, "very cheap," he assured me. But how cheap? I wondered. Cheap cheap or expensive cheap?

A few days later, he called me and said he had a sample of the postcard he wanted to show me. "I can stop by your office in the afternoon," I said. "I found it on the map, so I should have no problem finding it."

"Oh no," he said, "Let's meet somewhere near the station."

Why doesn't he want me to see his office? I wondered.

I agreed to meet him at a coffee shop, all the while resisting the urge to call President Bush on my cell phone to tell him I think I knew where Saddam Hussein was hiding his weapons of mass destruction.

While sipping coffee, I looked over the sample he had prepared. He told me to suggest any changes. Now, it is my opinion that the use of color in Japan borders on abusive. "Um, about this psychedelic cow," I started. "My company logo is indeed a cow, but a black-and-white cow. We make natural products, and that feeling should be reflected in the basic black-and-white colors. The only color on the cow should be pink for the lips and the -- um," I stumbled, realizing I didn't know the word for "udder" in Japanese. Surely I couldn't call them cow breasts!

So I pointed to the udder, careful to avoid any potentially offensive words, and said, "this place where the milk comes out."

"Oh!" he said, "you mean the nipples!" So much for Japanese being a vague language.

"So, how much is it for postcards in black and white with just a smattering of pink for the lips and, um, nipples?" I asked.

He paused while adding up the figures in his head. Perhaps he was charging per nipple. Finally, he said, "Very cheap!"

A few days later, the fax churned out the "O-mitsumorisho" -- the price list. At last I would know the definition of cheap! Cheap is cheap at over 5,000 copies of something. Anything under that is expensive cheap. The quote was only for what I had requested. No other prices or options were given.

I immediately called the printer to ask a few questions about the paper quality. "Oh, let's meet at the station," he said. I was beginning to feel like we were dating.

Two more uchiawase later, we finally finished the postcard. That's five meetings and five coffees to make one postcard!

Today, I'll teach you how to make a small Japanese "karesansui" rock garden. You can see a "dry" garden of this type at Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto. You'll find that with even just a small space, you'll have plenty of room for mountains, islands and water inside your garden. This is because much of the rock garden is left to the imagination. Brilliant, eh? It's kind of like pretending you're Monet.

Here are the tools you'll need to create your masterpiece.

1) Rocks: You'll need lots of rocks, some of the small stone variety. And you'll have to pay for them, because there are probably not enough wild rocks in your neighborhood. You'll need small white ones like gravel, about 3 cm in diameter, which can be bought by the bagful. Lay these on the bottom of the garden. They represent water.

2) More rocks -- big ones: You'll need two or three big rocks. You should have one upright rock, and one or two horizontal rocks that lie on their sides and are flat on top. These rocks give your garden depth and width. Your rocks should look craggy, not smoothed over like the ones in a stream. These rocks represent mountains or islands. Take your pick.

The big rocks should be buried deep enough to give them a look of permanence, as if they have been there for a long time. Set one-third to one-half of the rock in the ground. It should not look as if you just read a newspaper column, decided to have a rock garden and placed the rocks there the same day.

It turns out that rocks prefer to hang out with their own kind, so use only rocks of the same kind and color. Space and balance are extremely important. If rocks are put too close to each other, relations could get a bit rocky. Space rocks apart from each other, yet in a unified group. Don't be surprised if all your rocks do is sit there looking at each other stone-faced. This is good. They should be exuding peace and tranquility.

3) A Rake: Lastly, rake the small stones into patterns around the big rocks. The patterns left by the rake represent waves in the water. Avoid tsunamis, though, or people will think you have rocks in your head. Do nothing that might upset the balance of the garden.

Some people pipe music into their gardens. No, not rock 'n' roll, not rockabilly, but slow strumming koto music. I'm not sure why people do this, though, since everyone should know that rocks are stone deaf.

Maintenance of your rock garden is easy and involves just giving it a passing glance as you leave the house for work. But the real beauty of the rock garden is that it is easy to take with you. I especially enjoy mine on the train. Just close your eyes and imagine your garden. Hold that picture. You will find peace. You are Monet.

You'll also find you can take solace in this image the next time you find yourself between a rock and a hard place. If you still haven't made your garden by then, however, I suggest you head to the nearest beer garden instead

The catalog encouraged me to. "You'll be able to express your deepest gratitude and best wishes to yourself," it says in English. Gosh, couldn't I just write myself a thank-you note?

I have to admit though, I was relieved to see that the catalog was named "Just Heart," thus clarifying that there would be no kidneys, intestines or other internal organs involved. A bit disappointing in some ways, perhaps (after all, we could all use some new kidneys, couldn't we?), but largely -- especially large intestine-wise -- it was a relief.

But as I looked through the "Just Heart" catalog, which offers English titles of every product, I found myself wanting to write that thank-you note to myself less and less. As greed slowly took over, I began yearning for some of the wonderful one-of-a kind things in this catalog.

For instance, the "slime stocker." It's about time someone came out with a product that allows you to store your slime, isn't it? Still a little vague on method, the picture shows a stack of slim plastic boxes for storage. A "slime stocker" would definitely come in handy to store those leftover UFOs (unidentified food objects) in the fridge, not to mention the mold from the bathroom. It doesn't tell you exactly how to stock the slippery stuff, but this is truly a new product I'd be the first one on the block to have.

The next section is the "Pick Up" section. Sorry, no trucks or women. This section includes things you can pick up with your hands, like kitchen knives, pizza cutters and cheese graters. How this differs from the "Kitchen One More Happy" section, I'm not sure, but here I found an ingenious product called a "ceramics knife," just in case I should suddenly decide to make some pottery while chopping veggies. There is also a "cassette cooking stove." You've been wondering what one does with old cassette tapes? Now you know.

I skipped over the section on "Brand Items," since I don't have any cows, but found the SOHO section very intriguing, offering "convenient and able stationery." Do you suppose it writes a letter and jumps into the envelope all by itself?

Or how about a "personal shredder?" I could shred myself anytime.

Being a small person, I was very interested in the "body care goods indispensable to care of the daily body compact type." For people who are not the compact type, however, and who are tall and solid types, I recommend moving on to the next page: "hearth and beauty care."

I was also interested in the "cocktail makeup set." Ladies, if you've never used cocktails as makeup, you're in for a real treat. Use the shaker, bottle opener, shot measurer and lemon squeezer as needed to make your favorite cocktail. Then, simply throw the mixed cocktail onto your face. It's refreshing!

Under the "Life Convenient Goods," section, there is the "space hanger rack" for conveniently hanging your space, and the "personal hanger," should you decide you just can't take any more of bad catalog English.

But before you do, let's take a look at the "Outdoor Section." What -- you don't want to? Oh come on, "get into the shine!"

Most of what I've learned about Japanese gardening comes from my neighbor Kazuko. Usually a mild-mannered woman, Kazuko becomes a heathen when in the garden. "Mo dame!" ("Already finished!") she exclaims while whacking off the heads of the tulips during their last hour of blooming. "Mo dame!" she says while yanking out daisies in their last moments of glory. Anything short of perfect gets the ax.

But don't let this scare you. Over the years, her seeds of advice have elevated my own garden to Japanese standards. By passing this information on directly to you, you'll have a successful garden in a mere 3 1/2 minutes. Ready to get started?

Day 1 (30 seconds): Fill planters with store-bought soil. The only sensible type of flower garden in Japan is a container garden. The idea is to elevate the dirt. This is because in Japan, the ground is a dangerous place for flowers. Think of the ground as a large graveyard where planting something is as good as burying it, since it will soon die anyway. This is because Japanese soil is a combination of sand and Godzilla DNA, so your flowers have a very small chance of survival. Thus, container gardens.

Day 2 (30 sec.): Choose from predetermined flower combinations. Once you've chosen your pots, you'll need to consider which flowers should share the same pot. What? You were going to give an entire pot to one type of flower? Don't be so simplistic. Choose predetermined flower combinations that retain the "sempai-kohai" relationship inside the pot in order to generate flowerpot harmony. For example, tall yellow marigolds, short purple petunias and something that bows, such as ivy, go well in the same pot. Do not try your own combinations. Planting geraniums and petunias in the same pot, for example, is an unacceptable combination that will cause undue stress on the frowning muscles of your neighbors.

Day 3 (30 sec.): Put up lattice. You can never have too much lattice. A good half your garden should be lattice, which is necessary for hanging cute thingies, such as hanging pots and English signs. Lattice can be put anywhere. It can even share your veranda with the laundry.

Day 4 (30 sec.): Put up more lattice.

Day 5 (30 sec.): Add an English phrase. In Japan, the English phrase is a necessary component of any flower garden. You can't have a proper flower garden without some English conversation in the form of a sign or plaque. The most popular sign is the one that says, "Welcome to my garden." But there are several other meaningless ones to choose from. Mine says, "Every birdie loves his own nest best." These signs are hung on the lattice, of course.

Day 6 (30 sec.): Add more nonplant decorations such as wooden cartoon characters on sticks next to the flowers. Small ceramic figures, such as farm animals or gnomes, can be set on the soil in the container next to the plants. You can never really have enough of these.

Day 7 (30 sec.): Yank like a heathen! Yank out any soon-to-expire blooms or plants while exclaiming "Mo dame!" Make sure there are no fallen petals on the soil. Replace flowers promptly with something in bloom.

Now, go water your plants. Welcome to your garden.

These were the gifts that the son and his family had brought for friends and relatives who would be attending the "Okanki" prayers that would take place in the house where I live -- their ancestral home (called "Okankin" in other parts of Japan). The family had asked to be able to return for the weekend for this ceremony and to take the urn to the local cemetery for burial. My landlord was an 85 year-old lady who had grown up here on this island. Of course I obliged, although I avoided telling them about the cat.

You see, I have a white cat who, now that it is spring time, is molting.
I tried brushing her, but she is very skilled at "iaido" and drawing a sword, so I back off. Besides, she prefers to brush herself -- by rubbing up against the pant-legs of anyone who walks into the house. The Japanese are so polite though, they always say the same thing, "Oh, don't worry. I have cellophane tape at home." But I was still worried because all the guests coming for Okanki would be wearing black.

I vacuum every day, sometimes twice, but it still doesn't prevent blizzards of white hair passing through the house regularly. They're more like cumulous clouds, really. I've even considered leaving the vacuum running 24 hours a day.

The family arrived at my house with the urn in a Tokyo Disney bag. They brought back not just the bones, but the Adam's apple too. These were set in the family shrine inside the house. The island's Buddhist priest arrived and knelt on a cushion in front of the altar and chanted, while the family sat behind him.

I put the cat outside, as I didn't want to take the chance of the priest choking on a cat hair while chanting. Then I went into the kitchen to prepare green tea. I did look in on the chanting session once, and the son's wife was sending e-mail from her cell phone.

This is why Japanese funeral ceremonies remind me of kabuki performances. People come and go, mentally and physically, many of them with a mere passing interest.

Later, another chanting session was held for 15 neighbors and friends. Everyone gathered in front of the shrine for this. The lady leading the chants was practically deaf, so the chants wandered up and down with no real rhythm and everyone in the room started to giggle. People giggled so hard, tears came from their eyes. Or perhaps they were just allergic to cats.

After the chants and giggles, someone opened the window for some fresh air. Suddenly, like lightning, the cat jumped through the window and ran through the house so fast, she left nothing but a cloud of white hairs swirling in the air behind her. The hairs quickly hitch-hiked onto a static wave and transported themselves to the nearest black suit.

The bones and the Adam's apple stayed overnight and were carried to the temple the next day via the Disney bag. Despite the fact that everyone was rolled down repeatedly with a lint brush before they left my house, I noticed at the temple that most people were still wearing my cat anyway. Well, that's OK. They must have cellophane tape at home.

You see, one of the first things I noticed when I came to Japan was -- it smells. All countries have their own distinct smells, such as spices in India or garlic in Italy. What does Japan smell like? "O-bentos"? Pork "udon"? No. Japan has always smelled like garbage -- burning garbage. But now that Japan is slowly eliminating the burning of garbage, this smell will hopefully become a smell of the past.

There used to be a public garbage incinerator in my neighborhood, which meant that smoke wafted through my house daily. I often closed the windows in summertime just to be able to breathe. I eventually developed a strategic shallow form of breathing, the same way some people smoke cigarettes without inhaling the smoke.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was standing with the other horses on the train coming home when I noticed an overall unpleasant-looking man sitting by himself. With holes in his jeans and T-shirt, a black leather belt with metal studs and various dangly, clanky chain-type accessories, no one wanted to sit next to him. Suddenly, I realized this guy was much smarter than I had thought. If I could be a little more unpleasant, people would keep their distance from me too. In fact, they'd avoid me.

I shifted my hips, putting my weight on my left leg to give my right foot a rest, closed my eyes and started thinking of a plan. What did I come up with? Garbage perfume. Perfume that makes you smell like garbage.

Heck, why not? There is a very successful music group called Garbage, and I've seen fashion photo shoots with sexy girls in blue jeans standing in front of a garbage dump. Why not garbage perfume? Choose your poison: Rotting fruit or sour milk. Want some flies with that?

I recommend producing the following, um, strengths of garbage perfume:

Nonburnable: This is described as "mildly putrid" or "just starting to stink." The kind of smell that prompts people to say, "Hmm, something smells funny. . . ." Most people will take a step back, opening up just enough room on the train to give you more space. Mild enough to wear all day long.

Burnable: This steady, smoky and rather forceful smell can be used when you see either someone approaching you to ask a favor or a perfect stranger heading toward you to practice their English. Keep an emergency bottle with you so you'll be ready for a quick dab behind the ears. Strong enough to make most people do a U-turn.

"Sodai gomi": Face it, there are times when you just want to repulse someone. The most expensive type of garbage perfume, sodai gomi is extracted from large chunks of furniture that must sit around for decades and cure to attain this special stink. You'll find that most people won't even think of coming near you. You'll be able to repel people from far away, including drunk men, stalkers and perverts. Use sparingly.

If you come across someone who is especially persistent, get a jar of the ultimate garbage perfume: fresh compost. Guaranteed to give you your own stall on the train ride home. Just stick your fingers in, dig out the amount you feel necessary -- and fling it!

Reader Paul Clark wonders how I could have failed to mentioned the "Whumpf! Whumpf! Whumpf!" the shinkansen makes as it enters a tunnel. No, Paul is not referring to the hoboes on the top getting knocked off, but to the sound the train makes as the force of the wind rocks the carriage back and forth, similar to the way your toy train used to rock back and forth before it derailed. Not to worry though. The shinkansen has an impeccable safety record, as long as you don't count the time one of the drivers fell asleep for eight minutes. Despite being entirely too comfortable driving at high speeds, I hope that guy has given up any hopes of becoming a race car driver.

It does seem that all that wind generated by the shinkansen should be able to be used to power electricity or "o-bachans." Couldn't we recycle that wind to scoot old ladies up the stairs in the train stations or to help them go a little faster on their bicycles?

Reader Mike Bay asked if eating an "o-bento" box lunch on a train going 300 kph would qualify it as "fast food." And, should the train stop suddenly, wouldn't that produce flying sushi, passengers skewered by chopsticks or, at the very least, train walls with a splattered "tempura" motif?

Yes. Food, being naturally aerodynamic, would be very dangerous at speeds over 200 kph. And, I might add, there is a danger of flying peaches. You see, my first o-bento on a shinkansen was served to me in a plastic peach container. (Surely nutritionists should be up in arms about such fruit substitutes.) When I took the lid off the peach, I almost passed out from the smell. Since o-bentos contain fish, opening any o-bento on the shinkansen is equal to announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my o-bento." There is no way to avoid nostril-sharing your o-bento with all the passengers in the carriage.

Why do o-bento have such a bad smell? That fish has been inside that box producing fishy smells for several hours already and has probably already started to decompose. Add to that the smell of shocking-pink ginger and wilting plastic grass, and it makes you wonder why they don't include a pair of gardening gloves with your o-bento. Now, imagine that entire peach box flying through the air and exploding on impact.

Reader Bob Nash says, "Don't assume that you can buy a reserved ticket at the last moment, especially during holiday periods." True. During holiday times, reserved tickets are often sold out days in advance. There's nothing more humiliating than paying a few hundred dollars for a shinkansen ticket only to have to stand and share the same square of floor tile with several other people. There is hope, however. With the economy these days, we may soon have shinkansen ticket scalpers.

Bob also warns against trying to feed your tickets into the turnstile at the exit. "You'll be sure to insert the wrong ticket, since you probably won't be able to decide which of the several tickets is the magic shinkansen ticket." I couldn't agree more. This is just one of the many mysteries of riding the shinkansen, in addition to figuring out the symbols on the train schedules and the difference between a limited express and a super express.

As reader Glen Kenner put it, "You'll always get to where you're going on time, but you'll have no idea how you got there!"

"What's going on?" I asked the taxi driver.

"Oh, a prominent yakuza member has just been released from jail. They're welcoming him back home," he said casually, as if he had heard this information on the morning news along with the weather forecast.
Back home? You mean the Japanese mafia lives in this neighborhood right next to the school where I work? But my students walk past this house every day! Then I realized that not only did my students pass here every day -- some of them probably even lived inside that house.

There are about 120 members of the Asano syndicate in the tiny town where I live. It may not seem like a large number, but in a small town where you know almost everybody, you start wondering just who your neighbors are.

Yakuza make up one of Japan's designated "boryokudan," groups that commit violent acts. There are 25 yakuza syndicates, the biggest being the Yamaguchi-gumi with over 17,000 members. Yakuza are involved in everything from real estate to construction, pachinko parlors and hostess bars.

It's only a matter of time before you run into boryokudan members in some way. You may just be sitting in noodle shop when a man comes in and -- in a very loud voice -- demands 10 bowls of noodles, then walks out without paying. Or, it may be the terror the "bosozoku" biker gangs give as they whoop and holler while plowing through a crowd of pedestrians, giving everyone just enough time to get out of the way.
Although I've witnessed both these, I didn't recognize the perpetrators -- they were definitely not my neighbors. They were someone else's.

According to the National Association for the Elimination of Boryokudan (whose symbol is an animated sun punching out "boryokudan"), gang member numbers have decreased significantly since the 1960s. However, gangs still have a significant presence in Japan.

Nowadays, as gang members try to blend in with society, punch perms, "irezumi" (tattoos), and "yubizume" (cutting off pinkie fingers) are dying traditions. Members have also stopped wearing their gang's emblem on their lapels, and the gang name no longer appears on their business cards. Heck -- how do we know who the gang members are then?

To find out if your neighbor is a yakuza, or if you just want to know who to avoid, ask yourself these questions:

1. Does your neighbor take part in nocturnal motorcycle revving? This is a favorite activity of the bosozoku, many of whom go on to join the ranks of yakuza or other organized crime groups.

2. Is your neighbor constantly talking on one of five different cell phones using difficult-to-trace, prepaid phone cards?

3. Does your neighbor call any of his friends "aniki," the term used to refer to a senior gang member?

4. Has your neighbor been seen standing outside the door at your company's annual stockholder meeting collecting cash to ensure he won't disrupt the meeting? These "sokaiya" corporate racketeers often have yakuza connections.

5. Has your neighbor recently come to your house demanding 100,000 yen to 10 million yen in cash as a donation or as protection money?

If you suspect your neighbor may be affiliated with organized crime, don't panic. Now you know what to do: Give him 10 bowls of noodles.

Mrs. Nakagawa was 84 years old and had been "hanging on," as they say. Her posed funeral photo had already been taken: a head shot of her in kimono to place above the "butusdan" home shrine from the day she died. I never quite understood this custom, but soon I would come to understand it fully.

Two days later, we were at the funeral home, where the body lay in a casket in the middle of a cold room. After the ceremony, we all took flowers from the displays and put them around the body, and paid our last respects.
There were no pallbearers--just one white-gloved attendant who used an electric casket-mover on wheels. Everyone watched and bowed as the casket was placed into the hearse electronically.

Next, everyone boarded a chartered bus to go to the crematorium. Once there, we watched as they unloaded the hearse, the electric gizmo whirring along under the weight of the casket. More bows. We followed it inside, where we gathered for another short prayer and to pay our last, last respects while looking at the deceased's face through the window of the casket. More bows.

We followed the whirring casket again, this time into a big lobby with eight elevators. The attendant stopped the casket in front of the elevator labeled "Nakagawa" in kanji characters on an electronic panel overhead. We stood in the back of the lobby while the immediate family stood in front of the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, they pushed only the casket inside. One last prayer, one last bow. Last, last, last respects.

The attendant closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let out an eerie bellow to the heavens while the rest of us bowed our heads. When I looked up again, the elevator doors were closed. The oldest son pushed the button and we all turned around to leave.

No, not leave. We would wait. And while we waited, we would eat lunch.
During lunch, in a private room overlooking a Zen rock garden, every 15 minutes an announcement came over the loudspeaker that a cremation was finished.

When the Nakagawa name was called, we were directed into a room where, in the middle, was a stone table still hot from the oven. Nakagawa-san was, well, gone. Except for a large set of hipbones.

"Now for an explanation of the body," the white-gloved attendant said while moving his hand gracefully over the remains. Everyone gathered around the table as if it were a museum exhibit. There were "oohs" and "ahs" as people nodded their heads and feigned interest as the attendant showed where the feet and head used to be. There were very few bones left, but he identified them individually and set them aside.

Then the two sons were called to do "hashi-watashi" by together placing the first bones into the urn with large chopsticks made especially for the occasion. We all took turns, each putting a bone inside. The last bone was the "nodo-bodoke" (Adam's apple), which was put into its own special tiny box.

When the formalities were over, people lingered around the bones, some using the chopsticks to scout around in the remains. "Look at this big one!" said one of the old ladies. Everyone seemed to take an interest in the big bone, speculating as to what part of the body it was.

I sure don't want my friends and family fiddling around with my bones when I'm dead. Nor would I want them to remember me like that -- just hips. It's just not a good last image of someone. Which is why they take that "funeral photo" and hang it above your shrine.