Monday, 11 May 2026

Paper and culture: the Paper Museum in Asukayama Park

  

The first paper was made in Japan in the early 7th 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 16th-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 20th 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.

Wednesday, 6 May 2026

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.

 

 

Monday, 4 May 2026

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-17th 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 19th 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

Wednesday, 22 April 2026

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 13th March 2026: “I was delighted and impressed to hear about your “Amazing Books for Children Day” on 20th 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 23rd 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.

Sunday, 12 April 2026

Why burn an OXXO?

  

When I mention to somebody in the UK that we spend a lot of time in Mexico, one of two comments follows. The first is: Cancún? The second is: Isn’t Mexico very dangerous?

 

My answers are that I have only been once to Cancún, in about 1975, before it became the frightful mega-resort that it now is; and that, yes personal safety is an important concern in Mexico, but although members of our family have visited Mexico many times for more than 50 years, none of us has yet been harmed. I sometimes add that an acquaintance once asked me (we were visiting the Paricutín volcano in Michoacán) if I was worried for my safety in London because he had heard that knife crime was very prevalent.

 

I have heard gunshots only once in my now 74 years, one Sunday in calle Mexicali, Colonia Condesa, in Mexico City. A young neighbour in a nearby apartment building had borrowed a gun to warn off a worker in the building who had been pestering the young man’s sister. The confrontation became heated and the young man shot his antagonist several times. I stayed home that day. Once in a while, I would learn of a shooting in Mexico City through conversations or reading the press. Casual violence was not uncommon in 1970s Mexico, but I did not feel threatened. My travels in Guerrero obliged me to be somewhat more cautious, since there was fighting in the mountains between guerrillas and the army.

 

By 2018, when Jan and I spent three months in Zamora, Michoacán, at the Colegio de Michoacán, organized crime had created a much more severe level of violence. Before we left I consulted a man on the Mexico desk of the Foreign Office, who gave me some useful advice. After we had been in Zamora for several weeks, we learned one day that a local crime boss had been arrested, and as retaliation his fighters had stopped some buses, ordered passengers off, and burned the vehicles. Our small local supermarket was attacked with a fire bomb, but it caused little damage. We only learned of this after the event when the owner of our rented apartment told us what had happened. Otherwise, we led normal lives, in the library, attending seminars, walking around town and eating in restaurants and cafés. However, we only left town if we were taken by local colleagues, or if friends told us that the risk of encountering crime was low. Occasionally we were advised not to undertake a visit, to Uruapan, for example. But mostly we lived life as normal and enjoyed being part of a community for a time.

 

In 2026, however, organized crime violence, briefly affected the life of a Jacobs. On 22 February the Mexican armed forces, apparently acting on intelligence from the US government, apprehended Nemesio Rubén Oseguera Cervantes, alias El Mencho, who died from gunshot wounds. El Mencho was the head man of the Cártel Jalisco Nueva Generación (CJNG), currently the most powerful crime syndicate in Mexico; in effect an international enterprise that operates across continents. One of El Mencho’s senior lieutenants is the boss of Puerto Vallarta, where our son Chris lives.

"Mug shots" of El Mencho under arrest in San Francisco 1886 and 1889.
A US Department of Justice wanted poster for El Mencho.

Chris began our regular Sunday Zoom session the next day with the words “We are under attack.” From the balcony of his apartment, with views across the Bahía de Banderas, plumes of smoke could be seen. CJNG men were emptying and burning buses and cars, and businesses. Perhaps the most targeted business was the convenience store chain OXXO, and its lesser rival Kiosko. These shops supply a wide range of generally unhealthy food, with an emphasis on crisps and beers. They also sell some household basics such as milk, eggs, a very limited range of vegetables and fruit, detergents and so on. Most Mexican, and many foreign, residents frequently buy something from an OXXO. The hijackings and burnings lasted for the day, and by Monday it was time to clear up. Chris’s partner Kourtney is a teacher; her school remained closed for several days, but Chris returned to work on Tuesday as normal (he does not work Mondays). He stopped for petrol at a service station where there was a burned out OXXO. The woman who sold him his petrol reported that on Sunday a group of young men had arrived, asked the employees of the OXXO and the petrol station to leave, reassured the petrol station workers that their business would not be harmed, and then poured petrol around the OXXO and lit it.

An Oxxo store in Oaxaca.

 When Chris arrived at work at the botanic garden, he found a group of Canadian tourists being served breakfast. They had been on a bus travelling to the airport on Sunday. The bus was stopped close to the garden, its passengers ordered off, and the bus burned. The garden workers on duty invited the Canadians into their building and gave them shelter and meals for two days. After breakfast on Tuesday, they ordered taxis for their visitors and waved them off.

 

We also heard that the staff of a hotel in the centre of Puerto Vallarta that has no restaurant ventured out in the midst of the violence to find food for their guests. Not all Mexicans are, contrary to the statements of D J Trump, bad people; they can be very generous indeed.

 

I read an article that asked why so many OXXOS were attacked (especially in the state of Jalisco), but also elsewhere. Apparently, the OXXO management refuses to pay protection money and has elaborate security plans. This may have been one reason why so many OXXO stores were attacked, but so were Kioskos and some larger stores such as Costco. I suspect that the sheer ubiquity and visibility of OXXOs was also a reason (there are apparently as many as 22,000 in Mexico, perhaps some 1,500 in Jalisco). Fortunately, it seems that nobody in Puerto Vallarta was killed or injured.

 

The cartel probably has the firepower to inflict far greater violence and terror on the people of Mexico than was the case on 23 February. The objective seems to have been to demonstrate forcefully the power of the cartel and to warn the government not to take further action by targeting things that are highly visible fixtures of everyday life for most Mexicans: convenience stores and public transport.

 

I have often asked Mexican friends in Vallarta how they explain the city’s relative calm, in contrast, for example, to Acapulco, Guerrero, a much older resort which is now a decidedly dangerous place. They usually reply that there is only one cartel in town, so there are no turf wars (as has occurred, for example, in Chilpancingo, the state capital of Guerrero). However, the same friends often comment that a new narco business has opened in a certain neighbourhood, perhaps a bar or a restaurant. When I ask them why they think this might be a narco business, they reply that it is open for very long hours, even when there are no customers. The main function of the business is to launder cash, so profit or loss is not particularly important. I have also read that the boom in condominiums sold to overseas owners is another way for the CJNG cartel to legalize its cash.

I must confess that we have been shaken by the events of 23 February – we will no doubt be more cautious when we next visit Chris and Kourtney, but the CJNG’s revenge will not deter us from our next planned stay.

Wednesday, 1 April 2026

Alice in Wonderland in Sunninghill

  

2026 is the National Year of Reading in the UK. As our contribution to the year, the volunteers of Sunninghill Library, and Claire Towers-Goodman, the library manager, have organized an exhibition of some of the illustrations from Alice in Wonderland. Today (1 April) Claire and her colleagues organized a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, with a “real live” Alice (actually Chloe, on of the librarians) and craft activities for children. When Jan and I visited the library at 2pm it was full of children busily making White Rabbit pocket watches. Clifford, the Sunninghill Librarian, made two Mad Hatter hats of papier mâché.

 

Here are a few photos, followed by a brief history of Alice in Wonderland.

 

 

 

Note Clifford's hat. 

 

The edition of Alice with dots on the cover is illustrated by the Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama. 

 

 

The Mad Hatter's Tea.

 

This is the story of Alice (with thanks to Alysoun Saunders, former Macmillan archivist for her precise comments): 

 

Alice in Wonderland: the Tenniel Illustrations

 

Alice in Wonderland is a tale that has been enjoyed for more than 160 years and is one of the most influential children’s books of all time. We all know what the fantastic characters created by Lewis Carroll look like because an artist who specialized in drawing cartoons for Punch magazine drew 42 illustrations for the story. But those first readers did not know that Alice wore a blue dress and blue and white stockings, for the original pictures were black and white.

 

To celebrate the National Year of Reading, we are exhibiting in colour a selection of the illustrations created by Sir John Tenniel (1820-1914) for Alice in Wonderland.

 

The author of Alice was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832-1898) whose pen name was Lewis Carroll. He taught mathematics at Christ Church College, Oxford and was friends with the Dean of Christ Church, Henry Liddell, and his three daughters: Lorina, Alice and Edith.

 

Carroll was a man of many talents. In addition to his two Alice novels, he wrote the nonsense poems, The Hunting of the Snark and The Jabberwock. He also invented the Wonderland Postage Stamp Case, and the nyctograph, a device for writing in the dark, and an early version of a game that became the modern Scrabble. But he is famous as the creator of Alice.

 

One sunny day on 4th July 1862, Carroll took the Liddell sisters on a boat ride on the Thames in Oxford and he told the story that was to become Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The story enchanted Alice Liddell, who becomes Alice in the novel. She begged him to write the story down. The date became known as the “Golden Afternoon” and is celebrated every year in Oxford as “Alice’s Day”.

 

Carroll met Alexander Macmillan, the co-founder of the Macmillan & Co. publishing house in Oxford in 1863. Alexander immediately agreed to publish Alice. Carroll entrusted the illustrations of the story’s extraordinary characters to John Tenniel, whose illustrations for Aesop’s Fables he admired. Tenniel was an unusual artist in that he had been blinded in his right eye by his father in a fencing match. Author and illustrator did not get on: Carroll, who was keen on photography, then a new artform, gave Tenniel photographs of models he liked, but Tenniel refused to use them. Nevertheless, the poses and gestures of Tenniel’s drawings, like Carrol’s story, have enchanted children and adults alike.

 

Carroll paid for Tenniel’s illustrations to be engraved in woodblocks. Electrotypes, made from the woodblocks, were used for printing; as the electrotypes wore out, they were replaced by new ones made from the woodblocks. When Carroll died his estate passed the woodblocks to Macmillan to continue to use to make electros from and for the very odd special "pull". In 1984 Paul Trotman, the company secretary, rediscovered the woodblocks in the company archive. A limited edition of 250 copies with black and white prints was made from them by Rocket Press. The woodblocks are now in the British Library.

 

Indeed, Queen Victoria so enjoyed the book that she commanded that Carroll dedicate his next book to her. It is probable that the Queen did not enjoy that book, An Elementary Treatise on Determinants, quite as much!

 

In 1911 Tenniel commissioned Harry G. Theaker (1873-1954) to colour sixteen of the illustrations. In 1995 Michael Wace, Macmillan’s publisher of children’s books, commissioned DIz Wallis to complete the colouring. We have selected twenty-two illustrations, printed in a large format to show all the details, all but one in colour.

 

Alice got off to a bad start; Carroll rejected the first printing of 2,000 copies (known as the suppressed edition) in June 1865 because Tenniel was dissatisfied with the printing quality. A reprint in December 1865 sold out rapidly and by 1872 Alice was already published in French, German, Swedish, Italian; Finnish followed in 1906 and Esperanto in 1910. An edition in words of one syllable was issued in 1905. A stage adaptation premiered in 1915. By the 21st century Alice had been read in 175 languages, perhaps most popularly in Japan where 1,271 editions have appeared.

 

Carroll’s brilliant idea of a child’s adventures in a parallel fantastic world is the theme of many subsequent beloved children’s stories, many brought to life by the combined talents of the author and the illustrator such as:

 

J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, a play 1904; a novel 1911 (illustrations by F. D. Bedford, 1864-1954 and Mabel Lucie Atwell, 1879-1964)

L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, 1900 (illustrations by W. W. Denslow, 1856-1915)

C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, 1950 (illustrations by Pauline Baynes, 1922-2008)

Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time, 1962 (illustrations by Ellen Raskin, 1928-1984)

Phillip Pullman, Northern Lights, 1995; The Subtle Knife, 1997; The Amber Spyglass, 2000

Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, 1961 (illustrations by Jules Feiffer, 1929-2025)

Neil Gaiman, Coraline, 2002 (illustrations by David McKean)

L. D. Lapinski, The Strange Worlds Travel Agency, 2000 (cover illustrations by Natalie Smillie)

Christopher Edge, The Many Worlds of Albie Bright, 2016 (illustrations by Matt Saunders and Spike Gerrell)

Anna James, Pages & Co: Tilly and the Book Wanderers, 2018 (illustrations by Paola Escobar)

Jenny McLachlan, The Land of Roar, 2019; Dragon Riders of Roar, 2025 (illustrations by Alla Khatkevich)