From rice to radishes and Ranma ½

  

We took a short train ride away from frantic Tokyo to much calmer Shakujikoen for a stroll round Shakuji pond. At one end of the lake you can rent rowing boats, or swan boat pedaloes, at the other is a bird sanctuary inhabited by birdwatchers with cameras with enormously long lenses and binoculars.

 The pond has not always been the place for a relaxing stroll or watching birds, for Shakuji castle once stood on high land above the pond. In 1476 Lord Toshima Yasutsune of Shakuji castle was defeated in an ambush at Ekoda, twenty minutes’ walk from where we stay in Higashi Nagasaki. The terms of his defeat obliged Toshima to demolish his castle in Shakuji, but he did not do so. The victor of the battle of Ekoda, Ōta Dōkan, did not hesitate to punish Toshima for his disobedience. Ōta attacked and defeated Toshima, who, so legend tells us, rode his white horse to his death in Shakuji pond followed by his daughter Princess Teruhime. Ōta then demolished the castle. A few metres from the site of the castle, is the Shakuji Hikawa Shrine, founded around the turn of the 14^th and 15^th centuries as a protective guardian of the castle – it would seem with little success.

 

A Jōmon pot.

In 2010 the Nerima Shakujikoen Furusato Museum, a spacious glass-fronted building located next to the site of a settlement of the Jōmon period (14,000-300BC), opened to record the wildlife of the city, to exhibit art and crafts produced by residents, and to outline the history of the region. Fortunately, the history section was labelled in English as well as Japanese. Although a helpful volunteer who endeavoured to inform us of the exhibits in English (he had lived in Amsterdam for seven years) modestly told us that the museum displays were not very significant, in fact, they provide a helpful synopsis of the history of Sakujikoen. The story of the region begins with arrow points dated to 30,000 years ago.  The Jōmon period was a marked by characteristic ceramics and the development of hunting – as a bow and arrow in the display told us. A particularly rare artefact in the Jōmon display is the remains of woven a basket or container made of bamboo and other plant fibres.

The bamboo basket/container.

 

 

 

About 10,000 years ago, rice cultivation arrived from China and Korea via Kyushu in southern Japan. Sedentary, and therefore taxable, settlements developed and the aristocracy accumulated greater wealth. In the 17^th century the forerunner of the Tokyo megalopolis, Edo, was founded. The city needed food and the region in which Shakujikoen is located became an important supplier of rice and vegetables. White rice was central to the Japanese diet, but it lacked vitamin B1, so beriberi was a serious public health problem. The solution was pickled daikon radish, and Shakujikoen’s region became the capital of pickled daikon production. The radishes were first dried on racks to soften them. They were then pickled with salt and rice bran (which supplied the missing B1). Merchants traded the pickled vegetables in Edo, and brought back night soil from the city to fertilize the daikon fields – an 18^th-century circular economy.

The museum's exhibit of drying radishes and the wooden tub in which they were pickled.

 In 1872 Japan opened its first railway between Shimbashi in Tokyo and Yokohama. In 1915 the Musashino trains brought salary men and their families from Tokyo to Shakujikoen. Farming settlements were replaced by a town where residents acquired modern conveniences such as TVs, vacuum cleaners, rice cookers and so on. Urbanization steadily swamped the fields where once daikon was cultivated. But in the 1980s a new industry was born in Shakujikoen and nearby Nerima: the first animé films were made here. Shakuji pond was a setting for scenes in the hit manga/animé Ranma ½, and films of Astroboy were made here.

A 19th-century rice hulling machine.

 In the grounds of the museum, the home of the Kyu-Uchida-ke family has been relocated from the Nakamura district of Nerima and was reconstructed in 2010. The house was originally built in 1880; the contemporary visitor sees it as it was in 1925-1940. The construction is of wood; zelkova beams and cedar pillars support a roof of bamboo and pampas grass. The entire structure is of wood, bamboo and pampas grass – no nails were used. The family lived in the portion of the house with wooden floors. Here was their Buddhist altar and a shelf where the gods of rice, rain, salt, fire and so on were kept. More than half of the residence was floored with tatami, with elegantly designed sliding panels, carving, a tokonoma (an alcove in which a scroll and/or flowers could be displayed) and shelves for books. This area was for guests. The owners of the house were wealthy owners of rice paddies. The house we visited was the “mother house”. There were once two others for the family and other buildings to house farm workers. All this we learned from a lady volunteer who struggled to explain the house to us in English, assisted later by the volunteer we had met in the museum. He took us to see the sites where traces of houses from the Jōmon period have been excavated.

TheKyu-Uchida-ke. This view shows the guest side of the house and the guest entrance to the right.

 

The carving over the sliding doors between the two guest rooms, the tokonoma and shelves.

 The following day we were back in the madness of Tokyo – we had tickets for a ballet, Flames of Paris – in Bunkamura in Shibuya. Fortunately, Ryōka, John’s partner, and her parents guided us through the crowds to our lunch in a Chinese restaurant on the 12^th floor of a new building whose dining floors are rather unattractively (but appropriately for crowded Shibuya) named Shibuya Square Foodie Scrambles. Then we braved the masses at Shibuya Crossing to Bunkamura Hall for the ballet, lavishly produced with plenty of virtuoso solo performances. The original performance was in 1932 in Russia, with a suitably Soviet climax of the people’s triumph over the aristocracy accompanied by the Marseillaise. The Tokyo production ends with the Revolution turning on its own heroes, the death of the heroine on the Guillotine and the shooting of her lover by one of his comrades. A sign of our time with little optimism but much hate and bitterness. But I would have preferred to have my soul stirred by a rousing Marseillaise and tricolore waving dancers.

Only a century or so separates the daikon farmers and picklers of Sowa-era Shakujikoen from Shibuya Square Foodie Scrambles and the skyline of Shibuya; the changes that have led from that traditional rural Japan to an urban megalopolis are difficult to comprehend.

Neon cows (top left) graze above Shibuya Crossing.

 

Numbers and other observations on daily life in Japan

  

I have managed to learn sufficient Japanese to get by in daily life without undue difficulty. By listening to the soundscape around me I have acquired a somewhat random collection of terms and phrases. For example, there are several ways to ask for a bill/check in a restaurant. My standard phrase to ask for the bill in a restaurant was for a long time “okanjō onegaishimasu.” But I hear my son John who speaks Japanese well ask for the “okaiki.” And Ryōka, John’s partner, taught me to ask for the “denpyo kudasai.”

 

In a society in which politeness and deference are important, it is not surprising that there are many ways to say thank you. The basic starter is “arigato.” Politer is ”arigato gozaimasu.” And then there is “arigato gozaimashita [the past tense of gozaimasu].” If you want to lay it on a bit thicker, you can precede all these phrases with “domo” (“domo arigato gozaimasu” and so on). Another means of expressing thanks is “okagesama” (thanks to you or by your grace). I may well discover more variants of gratitude yet

 

The most fiendish challenge for a non-Japanese speaker is numbers, for there are multiple numbering systems depending on the kind of object you are counting. When I travelled on business, the most useful system was the one I had been told was for ordering food and drinks in a restaurant or café. For a long time “hitotsu, futatsu” (one, two) sufficed, while “mittsu” (three) occasionally was required. Since our numbers increased to seven this year, I resolved to learn one to ten, and to learn another common numbering system which begins with “ichi, ni san” (one, two three).

 

However, in the heat of the moment the appropriate word does not always come to mind. I also notice that those I speak to did not correspond with the same word. For example, on our arrival at Haneda airport, I proudly ordered two Limousine Bus tickets to Ikebukuro (“Ikebukuro made ni onegaishimasu”), but the lady who sold me the tickets responded with “nimae”. John explained that this is the correct form for a flat object such as a ticket or a sheet of paper.

 

When we decided to order lunch from the Yakitori King (a grilled chicken takeaway) the number only sprang to mind after I had resorted to holding up the correct number of fingers. I made up for this by reciting one to ten using the “hitotsu” system, which drew a round of applause from the kind people behind the counter. However, when I told John the story, he told me that I had used the wrong numbers anyway because, although kebabs are food, they are long objects.

 

I have had one moment of triumph in a bakery which sells a delicious rye bread, called 61 for some reason. To construct 61, one starts with six (“roku”) followed by “juu” (ten) and then “ichi” (one).

 

Our son Chris, who has just experienced Japan for the first time, and who speaks excellent Mexican Spanish, commented that the Japanese seem never to stop speaking. He was referring to the waves of verbiage that greet a customer in a shop, café or restaurant. It all begins with “irasshaimase” (welcome), in a chorus as staff echo the first call. Then there are the repeated offers of thanks for placing your order, completing and enjoying your purchase: the various riffs on “arigato” repeated several times, along with other phrases that I do not understand.

 

For a Spanish speaker, some aspects of Japan’s complicated language are gratifyingly simple. Verbs have only one form for each tense, and there are no pronouns. So while students of Spanish have to learn six forms of verbs for every tense, plus a large number of irregular verbs, students of Japanese need only learn that “desu” means to be/is, “wakarimasu” means to understand, and so on. For speakers of Spanish the stress placed on a particular syllable carries meaning: “hable” (stress on the first syllable) means speak up, while “hablé” means I spoke. In Japanese the importance of stress is replaced by the vital role of the short and long vowel. For example “obasan” (short a in the second syllable) means aunt while “obãsan” (long a) is grandmother.

 

Japanese has many homophones, words pronounced identically or similarly, perhaps with slight differences of tone, but written with different characters. A restaurant owner taught me that “kaki” means oyster, while “kaki” means persimmon when the finally syllable is pronounced with a slightly rising tone. Other meanings of the same syllables include (according to Google): fence or hedge, summer, inflammation, fire hazard or open flame.

 

An inescapable part of the soundscape of moving around Toyko are the announcements (generally in female voices) and jingles (known as melodies) that one hears constantly in train stations. As we enter our local station on the escalator, an announcement in Japanese only in a high-pitched female voice plays constantly. I have as yet succeeded in deciphering only the first phrase: “o nori kudasai” (please ride …). If one concentrates, it is possible to decipher the most frequent announcements after numerous hearings. For example, on the Yamanote line, when a train approaches the next station, the announcement is (I think) “o-deguchi wa hidarigawa/migigawa desu” (the exit door is on the left/right). This announcement reminded me of a former Macmillan colleague in Tokyo, Mr. Deguchi. The imminent arrival of a train is heralded by an announcement beginning with ”mamonaku” (imminently, shortly).

 

On the platform, the imminent closure of the doors is signalled by a Japanese only announcement “dōr ga shimarimasu” (the doors are closing) accompanied by a melody. There are thought to be hundreds of melodies heard every day by millions of people on their daily journeys. Some musicians derive part of their income from composing melodies. For example, Mukaiya Minoru, a jazz keyboardist, has composed some 200 melodies that are played in more than 110 subway stations.

 

Melodies are chosen for a variety of reasons. At Kawasaki station, travellers can hear a 10 second departure melody from Sakamoto Kyū’s 1961 hit song Sukiyaki. The melody was adopted as a result of insistent lobbying by the Kawasaki chamber of commerce and other local organizations.

 

Apparently, Japan’s first railway between Shinbashi in Tokyo and Yokohama announced train departures with a drum and a bell. In 1951 Bungotaketa Station in Ōita Prefecture chose “Kōjō no tsuki” (The Moon over the Ruined Castle), composed in 1901 by Rentarō Taki (1879-1903). The song refers to a local castle. A proud resident bought a recording (vinyl in those days) and played the song over a megaphone when trains departed. Eventually, the record deteriorated, and by 1963 some 80 records had announced train departures. The recording has now been replaced by a recording of a local girls’ choir performing the song. However, the mass introduction of melodies seems to have come about during the “bubble economy of the 1980s. In 1989, the bell sounds at Shinjuku and Shibuya stations on Japan Railways’ Yamanote line in Tokyo were replaced by melodies. My son David tells me that one station introduced a melody from a song performed by one of Japan’s “idol” groups, but fans holding their phones to the speakers to record the melody caused such a nuisance that it had to be withdrawn.

 

Melodies also have an accessibility function. Various bird songs are played to inform the blind and partially sighted that they are approaching escalators and lifts. Apparently, they are also played to reduce tension for all travellers. Based on my observations of commuters rushing by, I am sceptical.

 

Our son John had told us that melodies are apparently randomly played across entire city areas. We heard such a melody during an evening walk home from Ekoda to Higashi Nagasaki. The time was approaching 6pm, so perhaps the music announced impending nightfall to the population at large.

 

It is, of course, perfectly possible for a non-Japanese speaker to cope with the basics of a visit to Japan without paying any attention to the melodies, announcements and daily interactions in restaurants, cafés and so on. Certainly, the great majority of Japanese passengers in Tokyo seem to be so absorbed in their mobile phones on the platform and the train that they surely pay little or no attention the melodies and announcements. But the sounds and language of life in Japan are an integral part of life and culture.

 

Haning the laundry Japanese style.

 Weather forecasts drew our attention. Japanese TV forecasters all use the same pointer to direct attention to the weather maps – a stick with a white ball on the end, A minor detail of Japanese weather forecasts tells one about a small detail of domestic life. Forecasts include a Laundry Index because most Japanese homes (perhaps for lack of space or possibly to conserve energy) lack a dryer for laundry (although they may have a dishwasher). Almost all Japanese homes have a small balcony, but this is not for sitting to enjoy a pleasant evening; rather, it is the location for the metal laundry bar and an array of equipment for hanging washing. When the Laundry Index is favourable, our neighbours’ balconies are filled with drying laundry.

Racks for hanging multiple items.

These kinds of things give the daily life of a country its textures. They merit the attention of a traveller as much as the temples, shrines, gardens and other distinctive aspects of Japanese life.

 

At the urging of my family, I have installed on my mobile phone a programme called Google Lens so that we can “read” Japanese menus and other indecipherable text in Japanese characters. This has certainly been useful, but it has a number of limitations when it reads Japanese. If the text is in true Japanese order (vertical columns of text read from top to bottom), the English is presented vertically on its side and is extremely tiring or impossible to read. Panels of text in museums are read with difficulty because the screen cannot take in and display translations of a complete line of text. Again, reading becomes very hard. When the programme reads menus, it is not always clear which line of Japanese a line of English translates. Perhaps this accounts for the unexpected appearance of a plate of octopus sashimi in one restaurant, for example.

 

Occasionally, the programme reads the text phonetically, producing amusing results. One regularly finds in café menus “cafe ole,” although if cream is added it reads correctly as “cream cafe au lait.” And for some reason, the readings are not always stable; the programme seems to change its reading of characters unpredictably. For example, we visited a local museum devoted to an artist who had live in our neighbourhood. His biography in the leaflet we received with our tickets told us, according to Google Lens, that Kumagai Morikazu was “attached to dog killing,” but then the programme changed its mind and informed us that he opposed cruelty to animals, and particularly liked cats.

 

When we visit a historic building or museum, a helpful member of staff or volunteer sometimes uses a mobile phone to translate into English what our guide is telling us in Japanese. Some of these programmes speak in irritatingly “helpful” voices, asking after each utterance “Is there more you’d like to know?” or “Am I boring you?” While we learn things we would not otherwise have known, the guide clearly finds the process hard work. We respond with profuse thanks and bowing.

 

And I must not forget to mention the elderly gentleman who serves the food in a nearby noodle restaurant. We occasionally encounter him making a home delivery on his bike, holding the handle bars with his right hand, and balancing on his left a tray with a bowl of noodles, soup and pickles. As he weaves his way through the narrow streets of Higashi Nagasaki, he somehow maintains perfect balance.

Paper and culture: the Paper Museum in Asukayama Park

  

The first paper was made in Japan in the early 7^th century, using technology transmitted from China via Korea. For some 750 years Japanese paper, or washi, was made from mulberry bark by a laborious manual process. Then in 1875 Shibusawa Eiichi, “the father of Japanese capitalism” founded the first large-scale modern paper mill in Japan in Oji, now part of Tokyo. In 1950 the company’s collections were opened to the pubic in the Paper Making Memorial Museum. In 1998 the museum, renamed as The Paper Museum, moved into a modern building in Asukayama Park, where Shibusawa had his residence , a rea house, and a guest house.

 

The story of paper and printing, is inseparable from the history of culture and power. The museum possesses an example of the oldest datable printed material. In 770 Empress Shōtoku ordered that one million miniature three-story pagodas be made. Printed Buddhist charms were placed inside the pagodas, printed on paper made of hemp and mulberry bark. The early history of paper (and of printing) was intimately related to religious uses such printing sutras, and in turn to political power.

One of the million miniature pagodas and its text.

My book production friends would be especially interested in the largest wood block printing in the world. In 1904 the Mitsumura Printing Co. exhibited a woodblock print of the Peacock God of Wisdom at the St. Louis International Exposition. In 1990 a print was made on washi paper from the original cherry wood woodblocks. The production of the image involved a total of 1,303 impressions – a number so extraordinary that I had to check on the museum’s website that I had not misunderstood the label in the museum. In order to sustain the pressure of so many impressions, the image was printed on two sheets moulded together to a thickness of 0.3mm; the backing sheet was removed when the print was mounted.

Woodblock print of the Peacock God of Wisdom.

Initial sales of industrial-scale Western style paper industry were poor, until 1873. The previous year, the Meiji government had ordered land title deeds as proof of ownership of landed property. The following year, the government ordered that all titles be printed on western-style paper (one suspects lobbying by business interests). This expanded the market for industrial paper.

A land title printed on washi (1872) 

 

A land title printed on western industrially produced paper (1879).

The museum collection is an enthralling display of the many uses of paper. The more obvious were. official documents, textbooks, magazines and books. There were also sample books used by paper salespeople, lanterns for domestic lighting, screens to divide rooms in the home (of course, many traditional Japanese homes included sliding paper screens). More surprising was paper clothing, such as robes worn by Buddhist monks for a ceremony. A 16^th-centruy coat was rendered waterproof using thick washi coated in devil tongue paste (made from the root of the konjac plant) or persimmon tannin. Washi could also be processed to give the paper the appearance of leather, or to produce embossed and colourful wallpaper.

A Hayori (Japanese half coat) made of washi, dated 1596-1615.

 

Meiji era textbooks. On the left, a Japanese reader for Higher Primary School (1901); on the right, a foreign geography textbook for Primary School (1900).

 

A large display was devoted to the work of an origami artist, Yoshizawa Akira (1911-2005). Apparently, he produced more than 50,000 pieces, including a crane feeding her young in their nest, gorillas, fearsome scorpions, and a variety of insects. A large number of his pieces were exhibited at the Stejdelik Museum Amsterdam, and then on a 50-museum tour of the USA, where they were lost. Fortunately, many pieces were eventually found and returned to Yoshizawa in 2004.

A wet-folded bull by Yoshizawa Akira.

Paper is not my speciality, but I did spot one error that is very apparent to a Mexicophile. A map illustrating the spread of paper technology from China records that paper arrived in Mexico in 1757. Well, the Indigenous people of Mexico made books and other objects of fig back paper long before the arrival of Spaniards in 1519. I think that the 1575 date may refer to paper arriving from Manila, where Spanish merchants traded with Asia, through Acapulco, but that was by no means the first use of paper in Japan. The Spaniards brought with them quantities of paper for administrative purposes.

To Die in Aomori

  

I am writing this on the train home from Aomori at the most northern part of Honshu Island. In our room at the Hotel Aomori was an information folder that included capacious information about the hotel’s terms and conditions and obligations.

A section headed Provisions for Condolence Money for Hotel Guests informed us that, should we die during our stay, our family would receive ¥100,000 (roughly £500) for each death. Moreover, “depending on the circumstances,” a hotel director or employee may attend the funeral and/or the hotel may send flowers. However, condolence is not due if death is caused by an injury, the use of drugs, pregnancy or childbirth, suicide, diseases caused by nuclear radiation, or bacterial food poisoning (be careful in the hotel restaurant then).

Hotel Aomori wedding salon: weddings are big business for hotels.

Thankfully, we had no need to claim condolence money during this visit.

Figures typical of the Nebuta Festival in Aomori in August displayed in the htoel lobby.

The folder also informed us that we could be denied our room if we were an Organized Crime Group Member, or associated with an Organised Crime Group. Or if we were controlled by an Organised Crime Group, or if we were in an organization controlled by an Organised Crime Group. Or if we are considered to have violated applicable laws, public order or public morals.

Fortunately, the hotel deemed us free from the taint of Organized Crime, law breaking and immoral practices. 

We were in Aomori to visit friends. There is little other reason to visit this port city, first established in 1624. Decidedly unattractive buildings dominate the waterfront. The city is very much given over to the car: pedestrians wait patiently at the intersections of wide avenues as cars speed by. There are cycle lanes but, unlike other Japanese cities, very few cyclists.

Aomori waterfront at Gappo Park - the city could make its location attractive.

Emblematic of the lack of interest in developing an agreeable cityscape is the site of the former city hall. This was built in the early 20^th century. Akutagawa Ryūnosoke (1892-1927), Japan’s foremost exponent of the short story, once lectured here to 2,000 people. Helen Keller (1880-1968) who visited Aomori in 1937, 1948 and 1955, and spoke in the same building, charmed the audience by noting the delightful aroma of the sea that pervaded the city (if true then, it is certainly not today).

But this view is more typical of the waterfront.

 

This building survived the American bombing of the city in World War II, which destroyed 88% of Aomori, and, as an information panel outside the current building observes, it was one of the few structures with a documented history. This evidently failed to impress the authorities who demolished it in 1996.

But the pleasure of visiting places lies not in the physical environment, but in the people. We had travelled to this unlovely city to see our friends (introduced to us by our son John) Ikuko and Maro Takahashi. Ikuko welcomed us with a carefully prepared afternoon tea of green tea, a rice and bean sweet, panna cotta with strawberry and lemon sauces. Maro joined us after his day’s work at his shoe shop (he specializes in therapeutic shoes), curiously named Brian. We were joined by Yasutaka and Sachie Takeuchi for a dinner at a local restaurant. We began with the obligatory kampai and group photo. There followed a seemingly endless procession of delicately prepared fish dishes and seasonal vegetables (a green mountain vegetable that we could not identify, young bamboo shoots, and unfamiliar leaves of various shapes and textures). Particularly delicious offerings were a cube of green fish jelly, an unidentified shellfish, tiny firefly squid, sardine balls, and a sort of fishy egg custard with the thinnest of noodles. And to finish, a selection of sushi; a visual delight as well as delicious. We ended with a cup of highly-regarded sake from nearby Hachinōhe. (An aside: Japan’s most internationally famous drink is not called sake at all by the Japanese, but nihonshu, or “Japanese alcohol.” I have no idea why foreigners insist on calling it sake.)

Kampai before dinner.

The Takeuchis were able to explain to us the signs we saw all over the city announcing Aomori 2026, the national athletic competition. Yasutaka we learned is a choral singer. When he was aged 18, his high school choir travelled to Wales to perform at a choral festival. He showed us the scores of works his choir was rehearsing: a Brahms piece sung in German, Vivaldi’s Gloria, and a modern Japanese composition. Brahms, it seems, can attract an audience of 1,000 or so (in a city of 265,000 souls). Yasutaka will sing at the opening ceremony of Aomori 2026. In fact, the entire Takeuchi family (they have two teenage sons) are choral singers. Apparently, there is a lively choral tradition in all the high schools in Aomori.

We travelled home to Tokyo laden with gifts, as is customary. Aomori is apple (ringo) country and produces endless varieties of apple cakes, biscuits, jams and jellies, etc. We now have enough to feed a family for many weeks. Jan has an elegant pair of red slippers, made in Japan, from Maro’s shop. And the Takeuchis gave us some local mementos to remind us of Aomori. Even residents of not-so-lovely Aomori can be proud of their home town.

The smallest mariachi in the world?

  

On 5 May, we headed with Ryōka and John to Asukayama Park in a district called Oji (meaning “prince”) to visit the paper museum. The production of Western-style paper (as opposed to washi made by hand from mulberry bark), of which more later. When we arrived, we found a celebration of Cinco de mayo in enthusiastic full swing. 

Dance routines led by an Argentinian.

 This historic date is marked by patriotic Mexicans in many countries (including, as we discovered in Japan), but is barely marked in Mexico itself. The date is significant: on that day in 1862 Mexican forces commanded by General Ignacio Zaragoza defeated the French in the Battle of Puebla. There are some events to mark the day, in Puebla and in Mexican City, but they are fairly low key and the day does no merit a public holiday. These Mexican celebrations certainly do not match those in American cities with large Hispanic populations, such as Los Angeles and Chicago (although, alas, in the latter city the main celebrations have been cancelled for the last two years for fear that they will invite US immigration authorities to detain the participants.)

Tacos and Okinawan donuts.

 The celebration in Oji was not entirely authentic. A song and dance event had a decidedly Asian air. The tacos sold alongside Okinawan donuts would have disappointed a Mexican diner, and the anticuchos (grilled beef hearts) were honestly described as Peruvian – you will search in vain for them in Mexico. When I asked at the information table if any Mexicans were involved (meshiko jin deska?) in my pidgin Japanese, I was told with that slightly regretful mien that Japanese adopt when they answer in the negative that, no, there were no Mexicans here.

 

This turned out not to be quite accurate, since I later discovered one Mexican, the guitarist and singer of a mariachi whose line-up consisted of said Mexican, a female Chilean violinist and a Japanese trumpeter who told me that he speaks very little Spanish. I told him that he need not apologize, my Japanese was even more limited. I abandoned my family (and my lunch) for the first two numbers: a rousing Jarabe tapatío (known to foreigners as The Mexican Hat Dance) and Cielito lindo.

The Mariachi la Fiesta.

 This was certainly the smallest mariachi I have ever seen. It lacked the vihuela (a small guitar tuned like a lute) and the guitarrón (and oversized guitar), and there would usually have been more than one trumpet and violin. But needs must, and for a few happy minutes Mexico had come to Tokyo.

El jarabe tapatío.

 

 

Rest in peace General Tōjo? Japan then and now.

  

After an agreeable lunch of grilled mackerel, pickles, salad, rice and soup, on our first Saturday in Japan our son John took us to Zōshigaya to see the famous Zōshigaya Kishimojin Temple (founded in 1561; the main buildings date to the mid-17^th century).

Zōshigaya Temple.

However, our first stop was Zōshigaya Cemetery. After a brief search we found what we were looking for – the grave of General Tōjō Hideki, Prime Minister of Japan 1941-1944, who was sentenced to death by the Tokyo war crimes tribunal*. A small sign identifies the tomb as that of “Toujou Hideki a military man, a prime minister” (the difference in spelling of his name reflects a different romanization system). A few flowers decorated the grave, but exactly what remains of Tōjō are buried where is a bit of a mystery. It was the intention of the American authorities to hang Tōjō, cremate him and to scatter his ashes over the Pacific, precisely to prevent there being any permanent burial site that could attract nationalist attention and sentiments. However, it seems that some of his ashes were secretly stolen and buried. Accounts of where the stolen ashes were buried vary. The purported burial sites are the Martyrs' Shrine in Mt. Sangane, Nishio City, Aichi Prefecture, Koa Kannon Temple in Atami in Shizuoka Prefecture, and Zōshigaya. Quite what remains of General Tōjō they may contain is very hard to say.

General Tōjō's grave.

 Other burials tell us of less bellicose aspects of Japan’s history. We noticed a number of memorials marked by Christian crosses. Twenty-four sisters of the Society of the Sacred Heart who died between 1916 and 1953 rest in a single plot. The order arrived in Japan in 1908, sent by Pope Pius X to establish a higher education. Two other Christian burials similarly reflect the large-scale introduction of foreign expertise and a policy of educating the Japanese in modern ideas and technology under Emperor Meiji in the latter part of the 19^th century. Professor Alexander Joseph Hare (1849-1918) served initially in the Department of the Navy helping to give Japan the capabilities that would eventually defeat Russia at sea in 1905, and then in a more pacific role as a teacher of western business practices in the Commercial Training School. Raphael Koeber (1848-1923), born in Russia studied music at the Moscow Conservatory and philosophy and literature at the University of Heidelberg. In Japan he taught music history and gave piano concerts at the Tokyo Music School. The notice that marks his grave tells us that he “introduced a philosophy into Japan and had effected on the Japanese modern music[sic]”.

The burial plot of the Society of the Sacred Heart.

 Jan and I were particularly pleased to find the grave of Natsume Sōseki (1867-1916), an important novelist, and perhaps the most widely read literary figure in Japan. We had visited the museum built on the site of his home several years ago and have read several of his novels. One of the most famous, Sanshirō, follows a student from his home in remote Kyushu to university in Toyko. This is a much-loved novel of social manners at the end of the Meiji era. Kokoro is a much darker story told by two narrators, a student and his sensei (a revered teacher) who has a shameful secret in his past, the betrayal of a close friend.

Natsume Sōseki's grave.

 A map of the cemetery listed seven other notable burials (but not Tōjō). Takeshima Yumeji (1884-1934) was a poet, painter and graphic designer, the leading artist of Taisho-era (1912-1926) romanticism. One of the first Japanese to visit the United States (where he was a whaler and gold miner) was John Manjirō (1827-1898), also known as Nakahama Manjirō. Manjirō’s knowledge of western shipbuilding techniques was instrumental (like Alexander Hare) in the development of the Japanese navy.

John Manjirō.

 Koizumi Yakumo (1850-1904) is better known as Lafcadio Hearn, a Greek-Irish writer, teacher and translator who introduced Japan and its writers to the Western world. During the reign of Emperor Meiji, while the government was busy importing expertise from the world beyond Japan, a few westerners, of whom Hearn was perhaps the most influential, introduced the West to Japanese culture.

Lafcadio Hearn and his wife Setsuko.

 A writer of a very different character from Sōseki was Kafu Naga (1879-1959), known for his depictions of the demimonde of early twentieth-century Toyko was. His writings were suppressed during World War II because of his opposition to the military regime (led of course by Tōjō). Another politically committed figure was Hai Goro (1901-1983), a noted Marxist literary critic, educator and historian, whose work focused on the development of capitalism in pre-Meiji and Meiji-era (1868-1912) Japan.

 Ohkawa Hashizo (1929-1984) was an actor, originally in Kabuki, but best known for his roles in more than 100 films between 1955 and 1981. He also worked in television, notably in 88 episodes of Heiji, The Detective.

 The grave of Ogino Ginko (1815-1913) introduced me to an extraordinary character, and the only woman notable enough to be brought to the attention of visitors to the cemetery. Infected with gonorrhoea by her husband (whom she divorced), her experience of the shame of her disease and of being treated only by male doctors, inspired her to study for nine years to graduate in 1882 from Kojuin Medical School as Japan’s first female doctor. She founded Ogino Hospital in Yushima, converted to Christianity, and in 1890 married Yukiyoshi Shikata, a protestant clergyman. Ogino inspired other women to train for the medical profession.

Ogino Ginko.

 The day before our visit to Zōshigaya we had been to the National Showa Memorial Museum, which provided a good introduction to Japan from the 1930s to the 1950s. The story begins in a Japan that enjoyed few of the benefits of modern industrial society such as a domestic electricity supply or domestic appliances. A domestic convenience available only to the rich and to businesses was the ice refrigerator, a wooden cabinet with two compartments; in the top compartment was a block of ice, and in the lower the foodstuffs were kept cool.

 A black and white photo showed an audience of children enthralled by a kamishibaiya (“paper theatre narrator”) who travelled the streets on a bicycle, on the back of which was mounted a wooden cabinet. The kamishibaiya told stories enlivened by illustrated storyboards and sold inexpensive sweets stored in his cabinet. This was the pre-War equivalent of children’s TV.

The Second Sino Japanese War (1937-1945) and the Great East Asia War (1941-1945, the Pacific theatre of World War II), spurred intensive mobilization not just of the military but of all society. Displays of luxury became unacceptable. Citizens were encouraged to eat simply and sparingly. As scarcity became more severe, a meal might consist of a bowl of rice and a plum. Metal was collected and melted for military uses. A housewife no longer ironed clothes with a metal iron but with a ceramic replacement. Students from primary to university level were educated to be fighters; secondary and university students carried out regular military exercises. Textbooks were revised to promote militarism. As the war came closer to home, children were evacuated in school groups to the countryside and taught in temples and other buildings.

Two exhibits were particularly powerful of examples of commitment to the war effort. When a man was drafted into the armed forces, his wife produced a senninbari (“thousand-person stitches”), a white cotton sash embroidered with 1,000 French knots. The man’s wife stitched the first knot and then invited other women to add theirs to make an image referring to the year of the soldier’s birth (the sash in the museum depicted a tiger). In his turn the soldier-to-be would create a yosegaki hinomaru (“good luck Japanese flag”), inviting friends and relatives to sign it with best wishes.

A senninbari.

A hinomaru.

 The post-war period was one of great deprivation and hunger. Large cities like Tokyo were devastated by fire-bombing (remember that homes in Japan were made of wood). People lived in ruined structures or temporary shelters. War widows suffered particular hardship. During the war, widows were honoured for their sacrifice and received a pension. However, the American occupation abolished all military pensions, on the grounds that enemy soldiers (and, whether intentionally or not, their widows) should not be rewarded. The pensions were restored when the occupation ended.

One exhibit, a DDT pump, illustrated neatly the post-war living conditions. In poor conditions fleas, lice and the like proliferated, and with them disease. The American administration ordered mass fumigation with DDT. The display included a photo of a Japanese child being fumigated, covered head to toe in white DDT powder.

Then came the Japanese economic miracle, neatly summed up in a display of domestic appliances:  liquidisers, washing machines, refrigerators, televisions and so on. The contrast with the pre-war domestic lifestyle was very clear.

The Zōshimaya Temple gingko tree.

 After our visit to the temple and its 700-year-old giant gingko tree, we walked in search of refreshment to Ikebukuro. Our first stop was a bakery with an enormous range of donuts whose customers (John and I excepted) were young women dressed in a variety of fashions, and with impeccable makeup. But, alas, we could not be seated for coffee. Next was the giant (ten floors) Junkudo bookstore – crowded with readers, a delightful sight for an old publisher – but the Book Café was full.

The Ikebukuro donut shop.

 Third time lucky, was a small café where one had to access the menu by QR code. John, aged 35, was decidedly old as the café’s customers go; Jan and I were dinosaurs. The clientele was also decidedly female, and again dressed in an array of fashions, makeup carefully applied. At the table next to us, two customers had purchased boxes of one of the cute toys that are universally popular with young people, attached to handbags or backpacks, or  as collector's items. One girl was unable to contain her excitement when she opened her box – it contained two small plastic figures called chīkawa (based on characters from a manga series) that lit up when the base was pressed. The chīkawa were carefully arranged with the drinks and desserts that the young women had ordered, and then meticulously photographed. I am told that these kinds of cute figures are inexpensive, and that there is an enormous variety of them, including figures produced for sale only in a certain city or region.

C

Chīkawa figures.

For an older generation, a good example of a temple to consumption is the Seibu department store food hall at Ikebukuro where out train line ends. Train companies own department stores, so that stations are also sites for department stores. The Seibu food hall is on two floors. One offers a huge variety of sweets, cakes, teas and coffees. The lower floor is the delicatessen, again with a bewildering variety. The Japan that we visit is, economically and socially, at least, a very long way from the Japan that dusted that little child with DDT.

 

*For an excellent study of the Tokyo war crimes tribunal see: Gary J Bass, Judgment at Tokyo: World War II on Tiral and the Making of Modern Asia, Picador (Knopf in the USA), 2023

The problem with Picasso’s trousers … and Queen Camilla

  

On 20 April five authors gathered at Sunninghill Library (another was ‘present’ in a video) for the Amazing Books for Children Day (ABCD). Using the library as their base, the authors were to cross the street to St. Michael’s School (the village primary school) to inspire the children with a love of books.

 

They did so with the blessing of Queen Camilla, who had written to the children on 13^th March 2026: “I was delighted and impressed to hear about your “Amazing Books for Children Day” on 20^th April. I do hope that you will have a wonderful time, celebrating your love of reading.” They most certainly did have a wonderful time, although the volunteers of the library (and their spouses), who had been preparing for the day for over a year, the library staff, and the teachers of St. Michael’s had a very busy day indeed.

 

 

 

The idea for the day had begun at a dinner hosted in their home by our friends Alison and Neil Baverstock (Alison and I worked together many years ago, and she was until recently Professor of publishing at Kingston University; Neil is a retired brigadier of the army and until recently was the 23^rd Yeoman Usher of the House of Lords). One of the other dinner guests was Nicholas Allan, author and illustrator of children’s books, of which perhaps the most well-known is The Queen’s Knickers (apparently quite a favourite of the late Queen), which has now been supplemented by The King’s Pants.

The authors left to right: Nicholas Allan, Fiona Barker, David Barker, Tilly Rand-Bell, Ally Sherrick.

 

The other four authors who donated their time and expertise on ABCD were:

 

Tilia Rand-Bell (Greeny La-Roo and the Earth Crew) and Fiona Barker (A Swift Return and Do NOT Eat the Egg) who entranced younger readers with their explanation of how words and pictures work together to create amazing characters. 

 

Ally Sherrick (Rebel Heart) introduced pupils to the exciting exploits of Merriweather Price in the England of Oliver Cromwell.

 

And David Barker (Pax and The Missing Head, Pax and the Forgotten Pincher and Pax and the Secret Swarm) introduced students to the adventures of Pax and his school friends in the perilous city of New London.

 

Nicholas’s presentation was literally magical – he is a member of the magic circle. He asked a boy to write his initial on a piece of paper and then punctured the initial on the paper with the pencil only to reveal that there was no hole and the initial was legible. The next trick involved tearing two strips of paper in half repeatedly (good for testing times table: 4, 8, 16, 32, eventually 64 pieces); he then manipulated the pieces to form an intact pair of spotted underpants. Children were invited to smack a dummy blank book: the smacks caused black and white illustrations and text to appear, further smacks turned black and white to colour, and finally all the images and text disappeared when the book was smacked again. Next, Nicholas turned a five-pound note into ten pounds. And finally, he asked children and a teacher to shake a dice in a paper cup, look at the number, and then Nicholas guessed the number the child or teacher had in mind.

 

The book that most interested this former art publisher was Picasso’s Trousers. Nicholas started by asking the children (aged 7-8) who was the best artist of all time: one suggested Vincent Van Gogh (“No” said Nicholas). Another said Leonardo da Vinci: Nicholas responded that he was a very great artist who made important discoveries about perspective, but … the greatest was Pablo Picasso (my readers may or may not agree). The reason? Picasso changed our way of seeing because he realized that when we look at something our two eyes do not see exactly the same thing. Nicholas encouraged the children to experiment by looking at a finger first with one eye, then the other. Try it: your eyes do not see the finger identically.

 

As Nicholas told the story, every time Picasso tried something new he was told “No, no no Picasso.” Whether he was experimenting with colour, with how to portray a face, with fragmenting the image, and so on, he was told “No,” but he did it anyway. Finally, Picasso wanted trousers with horizontal stripes to match his shirt, but the tailor told him “No” because all striped trousers have vertical stripes. But yet again Picasso insisted.

 

Over lunch Nicholas told me, and a fellow ex-publisher and a copyright expert (Richard Balkwill, grandfather of Tilly Rand-Bell) about his negotiations with the Picasso estate. He described discussions with lawyers that lasted several years. Many demands were imposed concerning how Picasso’s works should be illustrated, but the story of his trousers seemed to be the principal sticking point. The lawyers doubted that the story is true, but Nicholas insists that it is. All of this is wearingly familiar to anybody who has had to deal with artists’ estates. The Mondrian estate is notoriously greedy (even though he has been out of copyright for some years now). The Matisse estate insists on approving colour proofs, although it is not clear to what extent the person checking them knows what the original colours were.

 

The children of St. Michael’s had prepared for the day by writing a short story. The authors were asked to judge a short list of five stories from each class and to announce two runners-up and a winner on the day. So the day ended on a note of enthusiasm for writing and reading.