Monday, November 28, 2005

O RotAryan!
I've just come back from a billionaire's lunch, feeling completely stiff and out of place. I did, however, look 'hot' in my suit, or so I was told. (It certainly felt that way - leave it to posh hotels to crank up the heating at full blast for no reason). If only they knew my suit only sees the light of day a few times a year, usually for funerals, and most recently for a couple of weddings I conducted.

So how did Alex Holmes, language teacher, part-time bum, occasional fake priest, long-haired stoner, frustrated writer and fiddler of discrete musical abilities manage to get invited to an Old Boys Lunch? Given Japan's near-obsessive compulsion with "the outside" (it could be said, just to give legitimacy to its racialist "inside"), Kumamoto must be dying for something "international," if only to shake its nagging feeling of provincial inferiority. As the only Chilean in the city, I fit the international leather shoes quite well. Japan certainly puts the "national" in "internationalisation," and more often than not I am required to act as a poster boy for it. I would have a hard time believing that in any other country they would pay a lowlife like me almost 30 pounds for just for a 3 minute interview in front of sleeping old men, some with with egos as overinflated as their wallets.

The lunch started in a rather bipolar fashion. First, there was a standing up rendition of Kimigayo, the nationalist Japanese anthem used in WWII. As the people around me sang gravely, hands on their chests, full of pride and contempt for history, I was transported to my school days under Pinochet's rule and his addendum to the national anthem: "Vuestros nombres valientes soldados, que habeis sido de Chile el sosten..." (Thy names, brave soldiers, who have been Chile's great pillars.") A man next to me gripped a pamphlet for a new Japanese film titled "Men's Warship Yamato," a Leni Reifenstahl-esque movie about a Japanese submarine during the war. I'd seen it all before. After all, authoritarianism is usually based on propaganda, and the latter is invariably tied with kitsch. Silence is usually the best remedy in these situations, and so I stood there, quietly scratching my arm.

Soon, the mood changed and the Club anthem began playing, a jumpy hymn based on the slogan "service above self." The clumsy piano and the morally-charged lyrics were vaguely reminiscent of many a children's song from communist youth camps. Self-sacrifice for the sake of a higher ideal is as pure an endeavour as it is easily distorted by the powers that be. The Japanese establishment places a high regard on purity: purity of thought, of action, of spirit. Dying for the Emperor was nothing but the purest form of obedience, of militarist avowal to the fact that He knew better. Neither Hitler, Stalin, Pinochet nor Mao departed radically from this idea: serving a higher goal pertaining to their assumptions of the public good, carried out even in spite of the public itself. The club's anthem smacked of well concealed despotism under the guise of well meaning altruism. The heartfelt rendition of Kimigayo moments earlier gave the scene an even creepier highlight. Here were the two extremes of authoritarianism, clasping hands in musical communion. It was endearing, for lack of a better word.

The songs were followed by a few quick speeches, and soon I was in front of the mic, talking about sea turtles and thatch cutting in Shikoku. (Volunteering is something Japanese audiences love to hear about, perhaps because it meshes well with the right wing's ingrained ideals of masochistic self-sacrifice). I might have clumsily overstepped the boundary, however, as I mentioned how people conduct illegal businesses with endangered turtle shells. There was some shuffling in the audience, others coughed, and others looked away in seeming discomfort. Maybe something in them stirred, a little speck of conscience biting where it hurts - for all they know they could be the biggest poachers themselves. The announcer quickly thanked me, and my turn was over. A man took my place and started talking about his love of chicken breasts for nearly 25 minutes.

As soon as I came back home, my housemate asked me if I had made any good connections. I cannot say for sure. While I did meet some interesting characters, I was introduced to many others whom I have no idea what they do, apart from the fact that they may well belong to the corporate forces of Evil. And I couldn't go around giving the business card I usually give my friends, the one that says "Paul Fontecilla, Escort, lover and drain repairman, all your plumbing needs delivered." They might never call me. But then again, the power of "internationalisation" might prove stronger, and my rumbling stomach may yet score some more free lunches on their tab.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The Tone-Deaf Ear of the Law

Street performing is not uncommon in Japan’s larger cities. Many times it will take the shape of young people armed with instruments –usually guitars–, wailing their way through a crowded arcade like banshees. Yet the range is ample, and acts can include anything from shamisen players, classical string quartets and African djembes to painters and living statues. Much like the rest of the world, Japan is full of artists eager to show their craft, hopefully for a penny or two. Many are locals in search for their fifteen minutes of fame, others are travelling Japan and some are just looking for a quick yen. Yet busking doesn’t always turn out to be profitable. And like in the rest of the world, it can be a dangerous gig.

Robert Bertie has busked in over ten countries. A skilled sitar player, he is part of a band in Fukuoka, yet still enjoys the occasional foray into the streets at night. He has fond memories of welcoming audiences as well as darker ones of gangsters and abusive policemen. “Cops in the Basque country can be particularly brutal,” he says smiling. He tells me how he was the victim of a dramatic arrest in Vitoria for busking. “I wasn’t even getting money. They told me they didn’t like vagrants like me and arrested me on the spot. Luckily I didn’t spend the night in prison, but they did tell me to get out of town.” What about Japan? “It’s the same, though at least the police are much more polite here.”

Shinji, a street guitarist in Kumamoto, also thinks the police in Japan are not keen on his ilk. According to traffic laws, it is illegal to play music in any public street or park in the city. “They will tell me to put my guitar away and move on, but I just wait until they leave and play in a different place.” He knows what days and times to avoid, and though common lore is charged with urban myths and strange concepts –avoiding days ending in a certain number, for example–, he does a good job staying away from trouble. And he doesn’t think he is doing anything wrong by playing his guitar.

Street performers have for centuries been stigmatised as vagrants, bums or criminals by the authorities, either as disturbers of the public peace at best or petty thieves at worse. It is an age-old prejudice, spawning from itinerant Gypsy tribes in Europe to the “floating world” artists of the Edo period. Perhaps there is something unruly, defiant even, about people expressing themselves in public.

Although there is a chance that a minority of street performers may sometimes resort to dirty deeds, the authorities generally fail to see is that artists are just as, if not more, vulnerable to crime than others. It is the gangsters and petty criminals who typically hound street artists for protection money and not the other way round. “I was harassed by gangsters in Amsterdam once,” says Bertie. Japan doesn’t seem to be the exception, although the mafia has never approached him personally.

On a weekly night raid, a Kumamoto police inspector confirms these doubts. In his view, performers work hand in hand with the mafia to conduct “illegal business practices in public areas.” After asking for my alien registration card and jotting down my personal information, he is quick to inform me about the recent arrest of several street vendors selling counterfeit goods (allegedly, for the Yakuza). “But surely performers are different. They aren’t selling anything – people decide to give them money on their own accord,” I argue. To no avail, of course. “Traffic laws say it is illegal to play music in public areas. Anyway, I’m just doing my job. Where did you say you work again?”

Just like Shinji, the buskers will wait until the wolves are gone before they start playing again. Soon the streets are filled with music other than the strident clatter of Pachinko parlours and amphetamine J-Pop. It’s another night in the city and the coast looks clear. For the time being, at least.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Fascists. I hate them with a passion. How could I not? Ever since I was little, I've been surrounded by rightist oddballs a little too keen on their ideological stance. Blame it on my surname (English surnames in Chile dictate a certain social status automatically linked to conservatism). Blame the decade and the country grew up in (1980s Chile was far from democratic and free). Blame the school I went to (an elitist excuse for an elitist upbringing). Luckily in my family we were all a bit lefty, otherwise I'd probably be kissing pictures of General Pinochet and ranting about the wonders of Thatcherism by now. Not that it wouldn't have helped when I was a teenager and had to resist abuse by the 'cool' kids, who would sometimes -inexplicably- yell at me "go home you dirty commie!". Wherever they meant by "home" was always beyond me (though my house was actually very close to the school). As you can see, our cool kids weren't all that cool, neither were they very bright.

Yet the awareness of being trapped in this intellectual swamp started way before. Flashback to the fifth grade and my best friend at the time. Though an otherwise "respectable" clan in the eyes of the community, I always thought his family a little strange. Perhaps it was his mother's parkinson-like shaking hands, his elder brother's closet alcoholism or his father's obsessive knack for order and cleanliness (he would actually comb the carpets). Or perhaps it was my friend's secret shrine in his attic dedicated to the SI movement, wallpapered with the nazilike Patria y Libertad memorabilia. All in all, they were a spooky bunch. But I was just a child, and thought it all normal - even when my friend made fun of my aunt, a former detention camp retainee and torture victim.
(To be continued).

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Chance (Castellano aqui)

Yosuke and Kana love each other, but they don’t know it. As he clumsily alights the tram, his jacket is caught on the railing next to the window, making him lose his step. He falls out of the door and bangs his leg on the metal rung, under the coldly astonished gaze of the conductor. But it is not hard concrete what awaits him below. Instead, her left side stops his fall on the crowded platform. Unwillingly, of course. Shit.

Startled, Kana yelps briefly. People around her look in cold astonishment. Yosuke is mortified, so he laughs out loud. He bows and apologises to Kana, who is also laughing and secretly trying to suppress the pain from the shock on her left side. Of course she’s fine, she replies. As he secretly whimpers, sobbing his shin, Yosuke thinks he was lucky to fall on her and not a businessman on amphetamines. He is not much of a fighter.

Two weeks later, they will meet again, this time in a lift at the department store. He needs to get new strings for his mandolin on the top floor, and she needs some plastered bandage to make a mask. They fail to recognize each other at first, but their memory is refreshed as soon as the lift becomes crowded and she slightly bumps into his left side. She yelps again, this time in surprise, and he smiles awkwardly. No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry for that time. Out shopping? My floor. Maybe I’ll bump into you again sometime.

And so they met once more, at a bar one Friday evening after work. He was putting up with an office party, she was out with friends. They happened to sit on opposite tables. Yosuke noticed Kana as she peeled another soybean pod, though he wasn’t sure if he should say hello. Mere politeness, that’s all. I think she saw me.

Their eyes meet, and he bows awkwardly. She smiles and waves. I hope I don’t have bean skin on my teeth. They’re both trapped with their respective companions, him with drunken colleagues, her with good friends, so no one stands up. Once her friend decides it’s time to leave, he bumps into Kana on the way back from the toilet. You’re leaving? I wonder if we’ll keep running into each other like this. Smiles on both sides.

It could happen anytime. A walk in the park by the riverbanks, an intersection in the city centre, the bus stop in front of the bank. As Yosuke walks back home that night thinking if he should take the moped up to the mountains the next day, Kana brushes her teeth and decides that tomorrow she’ll go hiking. Sound asleep, they will both miss the time when spider webs glisten like dewdrops in the first light of the morning.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Life in Venn

Being strewn by circumstance into another country, especially in a culture as segregating as Japan, can be daunting and not always enjoyable. After the thrill of the new wears off, it's easy to get bitter about the less charming aspects of what's foreign to oneself. The result is an almost bipolar relationship with one's host country, alternating between varying extremes of love and hate. Some would say that in Japan it could be easily summed up as "we love them, they hate us."But of course, things are not so simple, nor are they so black and white.

The more one gets accustomed to another culture, remaining a foreigner in the eyes of the host can become annoying. It's a common complaint by most foreigners in Japan (at least the ones who refuse to become
charisma men). Books have been written about it. Sociologists, Psychiatrists and Anthropologists have dedicated volumes to this particular brand of underhanded racism. It would be foolish to believe that it only happens in Japan, though I dare say that here it's far more conspicuous. Institutions are built on the "us" and "them" mentality, a sore remnant of nineteenth century racialism and millenary exposition to Chinese cultural absolutism.

Walking through my local immigration office in a bid to renew my visa (which anyone can attest to as being far from easy), a poster looming over the main counter caught my attention. Colourful and cartoonish, it warned to the recent change in Japanese immigration laws. Indeed, as from 2003 these were tightened to secure an even more draconian approach to illegal foreign workers (and, one could argue, legal ones, too). Bigger fines, longer prison sentences, more paperwork and necessary proof of labour - all these items underlined in pink, with a somewhat stylish lettering and surrounded by horrid childish drawings. At the bottom, a smaller font paragraph claimed that "these laws are to ensure a better co-operation and understanding between Japanese people and foreigners, and to ensure a smooth transition into the effective internationalisation of Japan." It was all managerial-style wank, of course.

While illegal immigrants from poorer Asian countries abound, Japan has revered the time-honoured practice of exploitation for many centuries. Starting with the
burakumin, the Japanese establishment has for centuries found ways to deprive minority groups of citizenship. The legend above is nothing but a testament to deeply-ingrained xenophobia, based on the shaky grounds of an all-pervasive national identity. The herrenvolk still lives within the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Japanese establishment.

What is the effect of this, then, on a foreigner's ordinary life? Surely not all Japanese are racists - at least not consciously so. Yet a lifetime of being exposed to ideas of racial purity (though oftentimes stripped off its more virulent aspects), converges into feelings of uniqueness: they are not like us, therefore they cannot and will never live like us.
It is common foreigner lore that one can live in Japan for decades, but still have the same conversation over and over again. Perhaps it is a natural result of believing that one is able to define a fellow human being based on where they come from. And though superficial differences may well exist at first, human beings are extremely adaptable creatures. If the outside is inevitably defined by the inside, isn't there a point where the two must inevitably dissolve?