Rice

Planet Japan, is a place where little goes to waste. Their attitude to recycling, resource conservation and the environment in which they live, is admirable, although it borders on obsessive. Maybe it has something to do with the savage hand mother nature regularly deals them, earthquakes and typhoons are common place here and 10% of the world's active volcanoes reside on Japan's four beautiful islands. They stand on the brink of daily natural disaster so I guess they don't want to tempt fate, or perhaps it is because they like to save money - I'm still deciding. I must admit there seems to be a significant amount of overkill on the rice front here, from serving it with every meal, to using it to make sake (alcohol), to pounding it to oblivion in a big pot in the middle of our kindergarten playground to make mochi (rice cakes.) I find myself asking if there is anything it can't be used for, because I am sure there are several more I have yet to discover. I think they might run their cars on it. None of it, for sure, ever goes to waste.

Outside of lessons there is an enormous selection of cultural activities for my students. This week was rice crushing, last week was soup making, two weeks from now will be the Christmas play. For anyone who has read my previous updates you will not be surprised to know that at least 200 staff and parents are required to make any event a success, and today, making mochi was no exception. By 9am the kindergarten playground was filled with official photographers, hordes of teachers, real parents who had managed to secure some time off work by agreeing to stay on for five years after retirement, and yes, even the kindergarten bus drivers came along when they were taking a break from smoking. Mochi making is serious business here and to my surprise we were graced by the presence of two professional mochi makers who pound rice to oblivion for a living. So what is mochi? Well, I can't say that it tastes very good, or that it has a nice texture and in all honestly I think it should be used as some type of glue substitute rather than for eating - but I can't deny it is fun, if not tiring to make.

The first step involved steaming about 100 kilos of rice on various outdoor fires (fires and so many young children seem wrong to me) that were erected for the occasion, the second step, once the rice was ready, was to take it to a bashing area - we had 10 set up around the school. Basically, these are little basins raised about 3 feet off the ground. From here you need 102 people, one with a giant mallet and one crazy old man to roll the rice with their hands, and a hundred to watch. The bus drivers were useful for both rolling and watching. So, that said, the mochi making process goes like this, roll, whack, roll, whack, roll, whack and so on.

After a good 20 minutes of rice pounding you are left with a big glob of goo that is ready to be served as mochi. The final touches are to break it into small globules and roll in baking soda. Sounds delicious, doesn't it? Of course as a token gajin (foreigner) I was required to give the rice a serious pounding, and as much as I pleaded incompetence, there was no escape. Now before I go on with the story, there are two things to consider. Number one, my hand/eye co-ordination is, well, minimal at best. Number two, the mallet was big and heavy. Number three, instructions from the old man in charge of rice rolling could not be understood by me, as I don't speak Japanese. Similarly, those reading my previous updates will know that old people are important here and that as I was a guest, I was also important. So they decided to give me the oldest, most respected photographer/bus-driver, who had worked at Haraumadai Kindergarten since it opened, to roll my mochi. Finally, of course, you need to picture the scene, hundreds of kids and children watching and cheering Dean sensei on. And so I started pounding rice with a giant mallet.

Roll, Whack, Roll, Whack, Roll, Whack, Roll, Whack, Roll, Whack, Roll, Whack, Roll, random Japanese word, slight hesitation by Dean, chink, whack, "argh", "argh", "argh", "argh", old man crying (and I think swearing), astonished looks on teachers faces, parents covering children's eyes, argh, evil laughter from older kids, clunk of mallet falling on ground.

You see, my mistake was trying to listen to what he was saying, and so I missed the centre of the basin, clipped the edge, which led to a ricochet onto the fingers of aforementioned old
respected man. Four words entered my mind, "ground," "swallow," "me," and "up." This was interspersed with the pangs of guilt and hundreds of laughing kids, but, I have to say, I do think anyone who puts their hand near a mallet I am trying to swing in rhythm is asking for trouble. And so that was the story of how the most respected photographer in Harumadai Kindergarten had their glittering career ended by a flying mallet. They are going to remember me here, but at least he can drive his bus one-handed. I think.

Things are getting better and my adaption to Japanese culture is becoming less forced and more like second nature. Several things still frustrate me but I am doing my best to block those out and accept the country and society for what it is. I hope I am winning. An integral part of that adaptation process was my welcome party at the weekend. Even though I arrived one month ago, busy schedules meant this was the only time available for my official arrival meal and drinks. It was held at an all you can eat meat barbecue with all the beer you could drink included. I was delighted. The beer here is good and the meat delicious, when you don't know what it is, and presented with the opportunity to eat as much as I liked, I had to try everything. It felt weird biting into a piece of tongue that had been cremated on our table-top barbecue, but I must admit it is the closest taste I have found to bacon here, so I may try it again. For those of you who think it seems wrong to eat tongue, my second dish, intestines, must sound even worse. Nothing of interest to report with them though, a bit chewy with little or no taste. No need for a second helping.

The most interesting part of the evening however, were the customs, rituals and formality that surrounded it, oh, and the fact we had to sit on the floor. As I was guest of honour (again) this meant everyone had to keep cooking my food and topping up my glass. I was hardly going to complain. The only requirement of me was to lift my glass off the table as they poured my drinks, not to do so would be disrespectful to whoever was pouring, and more often than not, it was my boss. Unsurprisingly I obliged. At the end of the night, when we were all a bit worse for wear, my boss gave me a present. Or, well, he sang a traditional Japanese welcome song for me. It was, erm, interesting, although as soon as had he finished I noticed everyone casting a curious look towards me. For about 30 seconds I wondered why, then a cold chill ran up my spine. I knew. I was going to have to sing something back. So, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, with no backing music I belted out a chorus of Wonderwall by Oasis (the first song that came into my head) much to the amusement of everyone else. If I hadn't been so drunk I would have been beamed with embarrassment. I think I did anyhow. As the evening wore on the rest of the teachers started to sing and we considered going to a karaoke bar, but thankfully, sense prevailed and I had a party back at my apartment instead. So, that was it, after a tough week, things were looking up, the drinks were unlimited, the food was good, but, best of all, they didn't serve rice.