Twinned toilets in the new capital of the North

Jan came out of the ladies' toilet in the reception area of Luther King House with an interesting observation: it was twinned with a toilet in Honduras. A photo on the wall showed her that the Honduran toilet was a small corrugated metal shack. The twinned toilet had been selected by the students of Luther King House.

 

We were visiting Manchester to meet a friend who Jan met at university in Pamplona in the 1970s, and who was attending a course in Manchester. One of her last names is Roca, a name that will be familiar to any of you who have visited Spain. Roca, a firm founded by her engineer father with his two brothers, makes just about all the bathroom and toilet fittings in Spain (originally, they also made tiles, but decided that it was better to dominate one industry rather than compete with others in tile manufacture). The three brothers divided the labour of setting up the business: one took a job in a factory France where bathroom fittings were superior to those in Spain to study manufacturing techniques; another was in charge of marketing and distribution; and our friend’s father designed the products.

 

Our friend is the eldest of eleven children. She grew up in a home in Barcelona where her father designed four sets of literas, bunk beds: four sets of three beds to accommodate eleven children. The family was profoundly Catholic; several of the sons are now priests. Our friend is a numeraria of Opus Dei, a Catholic order. Numerarias are celibate women who devote their lives to God.

 

Our friend was staying in Coniston Hall, a female only student residence managed by a Christian educational trust. A short walk from the hall is the Elizabeth Gaskell House, the home of the 19^th-century novelist and her husband William Gaskell, assistant Unitarian minister of Cross Street Unitarian Chapel, who she married in 1832. William was also Chair for thirty years of the Portico Library. The library summarizes its history thus:

 

“The Portico Library was established by 400 founding subscribers in 1806, during Manchester’s emergence as ‘the first modern city’. Early readers and associates included word-famous authors, future Prime Ministers, leading scientists, and educators. Built with wealth derived from the Industrial Revolution, British empire-building, and colonial expansion, the Library amassed a collection that reflects the innovations, but also the exclusions and inequities of its time.

 

The Library’s early members—all men until the Married Women’s Property Act of 1870—included people of various political positions, from Radical and Liberal abolitionists and anti-poverty campaigners to exploitative factory owners and textile traders. Many members were non-conformists and several wrote influential books, such as our first Secretary Peter Mark Roget, who wrote the first English thesaurus, and founder of atomic theory, John Dalton. Celebrated Manchester author Elizabeth Gaskell used the Library while her husband William acted as its longest-serving Chair.”

 

I can heartily recommend a visit to the Gaskell House. Although there are a limited number of exhibits that belonged to the Gaskells, the house has been carefully furnished to give visitors a vivid impression of the house in Gaskell’s time. Similarly, the garden (much reduced in size from the Gaskells’ Garden) has been planted based on scanty evidence gleaned from Gaskell’s letters and novels. Where possible, varieties from Gaskell’s time have been planted. The volunteers are uniformly enthusiastic and well-informed. The Gaskells were much involved in education and social causes in Manchester. In addition to his preaching duties, William provided education to some of the city’s poorest children, and (he spoke German) taught the city’s German workers English. The Gaskells taught poor children from a local school Sunday school lessons in their home.

 

The Gaskell House.

 

 

Their home was also functioned as a salon welcoming those involved in the arts, intellectual life and social issues. Charles Halle, founder of the famous Halle orchestra taught their daughters piano, and two daughters trained as painters. Charlotte Brontë visited the house and Charles Dickens was Elizabeth’s editor – some of her novels were published in the journal Household Words, edited by Dickens. Apparently, she was not very good with deadlines and exasperated Dickens.

 

The Gaskell House drawing room.

 

 

The volunteer in the dining room, which also functioned as a study where Elizabeth wrote her novels, told us the touching story of Elizabeth’s death. She was a great traveller and travelled to Europe several times with her daughters (her passport for a tour of Italy is displayed in the Drawing Room).  A few paintings by her daughters suggest that they had the full Grand Tour experience. William, on the other hand, showed no interest in foreign parts and limited his excursions to walks in the Lake District, Peak District and Scotland.

 

William evidently had no desire to be anywhere other than Manchester. Nevertheless, Elizabeth plotted a surprise. She evidently had enough accumulated wealth to buy a house in Hampshire for their retirement. She arranged this in secret with one of her sons-in-law (since by law she could not own property). She travelled with him to Hampshire where the contract was signed; there she had a heart attack and died. William never moved to Hampshire and the house was eventually sold.

 

Our lodgings, Luther King House, originated with the Baptist Theological Institution, founded in 1871. In 1964 Manchester Baptist College and Rawdon College of Bradford merged to form the Northern Baptist College. The original Victorian building was replaced with a very 1960s brick building. In 1984 the college was renamed Luther King House to provide an inclusive training base for Baptist, United Reformed, Methodist, and Unitarian traditions, alongside providing accommodations and conference facilities. It grants MA and PhD degrees through Durham University. Its facilities include 50+ simple bedrooms, an important theological library, a peaceful cloister and a chapel.  The warm welcome of its staff makes up for what it lacks in boutique luxury. Frequent yellow Bee buses take visitors to the universities and city centre.

 

Luther King House cloister.

 

 

Birchfields Park and Platt Fields Park are a few minutes’ walk from Luther King House. Platt Fields is a large park with an historic house (Platt Hall), a lake, a cycle hub, a community orchard, a market garden and a Shakespearean Garden, which alas we lacked time to find. Also nearby are the many restaurants on Wilmslow Road (Indian, Turkish, Middle Eastern, a Mexican grill and so on) and numerous jewellers selling elaborate gold jewelry. We had dinner in a Palestinian restaurant, decorated with a neon-lit 3-D model of the Dome of the Rock at the far end and a prayer room. Famously of various ethnicities were playing with their children in Birchfields Park and strolling to dinner on Wilmslow Road. This is the Britain that our far right parties would rather had never existed.

 

Our new Prime Minister held his first meetings in the No.10 of the North in Manchester today (24 July), the day after we left, so he was, alas, unable to meet us. Had he done so we would have given his city the thumbs up.

90 Years Ago

  

This morning the BBC Radio 4 programme, Sunday, devoted its edition entirely to the 90^th anniversary of the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. If you can find it on BBC Sounds or elsewhere, I heartily recommend it.

 

The British historian Sir Paul Preston related an incident of which Jan and I were entirely unaware, the evacuation of Málaga in 1937. The people of Málaga fled East from the city as the Nationalist forces threatened to overwhelm is Republican defenders. The fleeing civilians were bombed and strafed by German and Italian aircraft and fired at by Nationalist naval vessels. This atrocity, I discover, is known as the Desbandá (a word that implies a disorderly panicked flight from danger).

 

Preston referred to a book, Behind the Battle, by T. C. Worsley, a British volunteer ambulance driver who had gone to Spain with the poet Stephen Spender to assist the Republican cause. I found a Spanish translation of extracts from Worsley’s account in a chapter of an exhibition catalogue written by Preston. Here is my translation of a few extracts back into English:

 

“The refugees continued to fill the road and the further we advanced the worse their conditions. Some wore rubber sandals, but most had wrapped their feet in rags, some were barefoot and almost all were bleeding. […] We had travelled 120 kilometres ahead of a desperate multitude, dying of hunger and exhaustion and the river of human beings gave no sign of diminishing. Bethune [Norman Bethune a Canadian volunteer who had organized a blood bank] said: “Ten thousand, no; thirty thousand; forty thousand. Poor devils, we can only imagine their suffering.” […] Then they heard the buzzing of the bombers. The kerbside, rocks and the beach filled with refugees, who crouched face down in any hollow, pressing themselves against the ground. Children, lying flat, raised their eyes to the skies, their hands over their ears or curled into a ball to protect their necks, the most vulnerable point. Everywhere groups of people sought shelter; mothers close to exhaustion protected their children with their own bodies, pressing them into any recess or depression in the ground, pressing themselves flat on the stony ground while the planes roared ever closer. Bethune said: “These poor people have suffered other bombardments and know all too well what they should do.”

 

Worsley and Bethune decided to open the ambulance doors to provide shelter for children:

 

“Instantly we became the centre of a fevered mass of people who shouted, prayed and begged us at the sight of this miraculous apparition. The scene seemed unreal, with the vociferous faces of women who held their naked babies above their heads, imploring, weeping and sobbing with gratitude or disappointment.”

 

Preston quoted this passage on the radio:

 

The women’s eyes were full of puss and mucus, their faces stained with tears, dust and anguish. The babies that they held mostly had a small garment and their legs and buttocks, which were uncovered, were a mass of sores and infections. […] The lorry was full, crowded almost to the point of suffocation, and the people below were still surrounding us, begging  and begging: “It’s not for me, comrade, it’s not for me that I ask. But take the child, save my child.”, “Holy Mary, save the little one”, “Mother of God, don’t leave my child behind”.

 

Imagine Gaza, Lebanon, Iran, Sudan. TODAY.

Who belongs?

  

Some time between January and April 2027 I will put in a brief appearance on PBS. No, I am not about to become a TV celebrity; my appearance will be only by way of a credit on a programme called Finding your Roots, hosted by Professor Henry Louis Gates. PBS describes the programme thus:

“For more than a decade, renowned Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates, Jr. has helped to expand America’s sense of itself, stimulating a national conversation about identity with humor, wisdom, and compassion. Professor Gates has explored the ancestry of dozens of influential people from diverse backgrounds, taking millions of viewers deep into the past to reveal the connections that bind us all.”

 

A researcher contacted me after consulting my book Indigenous Culture and Change in Guerrero, Mexico. She was investigating a priest called Alonso Gómez de Castañeda who in 1595 applied to be appointed comisario (a local investigating official) of the Inquisition in Sultepec, a mining town southwest of Mexico City. Gómez de Castañeda had been married to Juana Cerezo de Vicuña, who had died aged 50, leaving Alonso with an unspecified number of children. The widowed Alonso then became a priest and sought suitable employment.

 

In order to determine whether there was any impediment to appointing Alonso, the Inquisitors ordered that his genealogy be examined to discover whether in his parents, grandparents, his wife’s parents and grandparents were “Old Christians, pure and of clean blood, without lineage, stain of descent from Moors, Jews, converts or any other recently converted sect, and as such they have been regarded, held and commonly reputed, and such is the public voice and fame, and common opinion, and there has been no fame or rumor to the contrary … [and that] none of them have been punished or condemned by the Holy Office of the Inquisition.” After what seems to have been a fairly perfunctory examination, Alonso was duly appointed comisario of Sultepec, where one of his duties would have been to hunt out Jews, “Lutherans” (Protestants) and any other heretics he might come across.

 

The records of Inquisition trials tell us that Jews were particularly harshly punished, often sentenced to death. “Lutherans” tended to be let off more lightly with a good few years in the galleons and perhaps a few hundred lashes. As you read the lengthy transcripts of the trials of some of the unfortunates rooted out by the likes of Alonso Gómez de Castañeda, one cannot help reflecting on the sheer waste of time and resources devoted to hunting down people whose crime was to be different.

 

About the same time as I was contacted by the PBS researcher, a publishing friend, Stephen Lustig sent me a link to an article written by his brother Robin, who has just published a book, And the Cello Came Too: A Story of Survival, about his father Fritz, a non-observant Jew who arrived in Southampton as a refugee in April 1939.

 

As Robin comments, Fritz was “An unaccompanied male of fighting age, seeking asylum and hoping for a chance of a better life. Sound familiar? He was the sort of undesirable alien referred to by a London magistrate, and quoted approvingly in the Daily Mail, in 1938: “The way stateless Jews and Germans are pouring in from every port of this country is becoming an outrage … Then, as now, the outrage was unwarranted. In the years leading up to the second world war, between 70,000 and 80,000 Jewish refugees were allowed into the UK. But up to 10 times as many were refused entry. Among them was my maternal grandmother, who was shot by a Nazi execution squad in 1941.”

 

Fritz was interned on the xenophobic orders of Winston Churchill to “collar the lot [German refugees].” However, he volunteered for service in the British Army, initially in an army orchestra, then in a military intelligence unit eavesdropping on the bugged conversations of German prisoners of war. While listening for secrets Fritz met his wife Susan, who worked in the same unit.

 

Fritz’s contribution to his adopted nation would not qualify him as truly British as far as today’s ethno-nationalists are concerned since for them “Britain is a people defined by indigenous British ancestry and Christian faith.” Nor would my friend Stephen or his brother meet their criteria.

 

Jan and I feel the current treatment of fellow humans who have come to our country because we invited them to work here in jobs some of our fellow Britons do not want to take, or in search of refuge and a better, safer life, is inexcusably intolerant, racist and unjustified. This applies not just to thugs who circulate the addresses of people who happen not to look like them so that they can drive them from their homes. A number of political parties, including the ruling Labour Party, of which I am a member, espouse policies and rhetoric that portray immigrants as breakers of the rules and a threat, ignoring the contributions they make to our society.

 

We feel it particularly personally because two of our sons are also immigrants. Chris, arrived in Mexico some seven years ago, initially with a work visa, then with a permanent resident’s card. He has contributed to Mexico working for a charity for disabled children, and now at a botanic garden.

 

John works for a Japanese company in Tokyo, bringing his expertise in international relations to a small Japanese business. He is also currently working exceptionally hard teaching a class of 49 students at Kanagawa University in Yokohama a course about Britain’s exit from empire.

 

Neither Chris nor John would pass the Do they look like one of us? Test. Nor would Chris’s partner, who teaches English in a secondary school. But, at least in our opinion, they make Mexico and Japan better places. Long may they do so.

Antidotes to Modernity

  

We accompanied David on a shopping expedition in Sunshine City. Wikipedia tells us that this is:

 

“a building complex located in … Ikebukuro ... It consists of four buildings: the 240-meter Sunshine 60 skyscraper, which includes corporate offices and restaurants; the Prince Hotel; the World Import Mart; and the Bunka Kaikan building. The complex sits on land once occupied by Sugamo Prison.”

 

A children's area in Sunshine City.

 

David remarked that Sunshine City is itself a sort of prison for consumers: as long as you are inside this vast complex you will see no sunshine. From our fleeting experience we learned that, apart from great numbers of shops and restaurants, the City provides: an aquarium on the 7ths, 8^th, 9^th floors and the rooftop (presumably an enormous weight of water in an earthquake zone, as one is reminded by a sign directing you to the Disaster Control Centre). The planetarium is on the roof of another building. The complex also has a theatre, an Ancient Orient Museum, Sky Circus (an observation deck), a conference room, two exhibition halls and a bus terminal.  

Shopping in Sunshie City.

 Perhaps the very acme of Sunshine City consumption are the Namja Gyoza Stadium (Chinese dumplings) and Fukubukuro Dessert Yokocho (Dessert Alley).

 

Next, Jan and I headed to an antidote to Sunshine City, the Tokyo shop of Inden Ya. This family-owned business was founded in 1582 to produce deer leather decorated with lacquer. In the late 16^th century, the techniques that produced a light, strong and durable leather from deer skin were transmitted from India via the Namban trade. The very name of the company tells us of this history: Inden means “India” and ya “from.”

 

Yusichi Uehara, Inden Ya’s founder, started his business in the mountainous Koshu region just over 100km west of Tokyo. The region was known for its Japanese lacquer work and had easy access to deerskin (although I was told by one of the staff in the shop that the deerskin nowadays comes from North America). Uehara’s genius was to marry Japanese lacquer work with Indian deerskin techniques. In the Sengoku Period (1467-1590) samurai decorated their armour with lacquered deerskin, and in the Edo Period (1603-1867) chic drawstring pouches, tobacco holders, coin purses and other accessories of lacquered deer leather demonstrated fashionable good taste.

 

The lacquer technique used by Inden Ya reminded us of a visit to a cotton-printing studio in Ochiai last year: lengths of cotton were decorated by hand by applying stencils and one or more coloured dyes to the cloth. Similarly, the deer leather artisan applies lacquer designs with stencils.

 

Stencilled lacquer is not the only technique used. Inden Ya informs us that: “The fusube coloring technique entails mounting deerskin on a cylindrical frame and smoking it over burning straw to impart a sparrow-wing-brown finish. This started out as a hide tanning technique, and by the Nara Period (710–94) it had evolved into a leather-dyeing technique.”

 

Another technique is sarasa: "Chintz cotton printing" in English. The name derives “from similarly-named textiles originally brought to Japan in the 16th century through trade with Europeans. Using this technique, colors are applied one at a time in overlapping fashion using stencils, resulting in harmonious combinations of vibrant hues.”

 

The techniques used by the company are passed down through the generations by the head of the household, who upon inheriting the position changes his (perhaps her?) name to that of the founder.

 

We examined a variety of patterns. My eye was caught by the tombo (dragonfly) motif. The dragonfly is known in Japan as the “victorious insect” and symbolizes courage and strength in battle.

Tombo pattern.

 

The kozakura pattern incorporates cherry blossom, and was one of the motifs used to decorate samurai armour. Cherry blossom had been appreciated since the Heian Period (794-1185); from the 12^th to the 16^th centuries cherry blossoms became emblematic of the warrior’s mentality; In the Edo period the motif was widely used on kimonos and in craft products.

Kozakura patters,

 

Seigaiha is a design that originate in Persia and reached Japan via China and the Silk Road during the Asuka Period (592-710). Seigaiha means “blue ocean waves”, a name derived from a piece of traditional court music whose performers wore clothes with this pattern.

Seigaiha pattern.

 

And, of course, there has to be a Fuji pattern, takane (“high peak”). Fuji has several homonyms. One means “undying” or “eternal,” implying good luck in battle and therefore popular for weapons and jackets worn over armour. Another conveys “singular” or “peerless,” connoting unparalleled beauty and is therefore used on wedding kimonos.

Takane pattern.

 

We encountered another traditional craft, bamboo fencing, when we took a seat in Yakana cemetery for a rest from the hubbub and heat of Tokyo. A notice in English informs the visitor who chooses not to rush past to the shopping mecca of Yanaka Ginza that bamboo fencing is first documented in picture scrolls of the Heian and Kamakura (1185-1333) periods. The use of bamboo expanded in the Edo period when bamboo fences marked the boundaries of ordinary and tea-ceremony gardens. The notice observes that “There is a great variety of bamboo fences. In any given type there are subvarieties, and different kinds may be combined into one fence.”

 

Thirteen types are displayed either side of the road through the cemetery of fencing, each with a helpful notice to explain its characteristics. For example, the name of Garyu-Gaki fencing refers to its similarity to a dragon’s back.

Garyu-Gaki.

 

The names of some fence types immortalize their inventors. For example, master craftsman Hon’ami Koetsu (1558-1637) is immortalized almost half a millennium after his death by Koetsu-Gaki. His fence is characterized by “a round beading at the top wound with split bamboo thinly and [sic] center panel of criss-crossed bamboo tied in black hemp.”

Koetsu-Gaki.

 

Teppo-Gaki is a particularly ingenious fence type. Round bamboos are assembled alternately to both sides of bamboo cross bars. This fence is of a “blind type” when viewed head on, but when it is viewed diagonally you can see through it, so that the fence ceases to be “blind.”

Teppo-Gaki.

 

Tokusa-Gaki, on the other hand, named after tokusa grass which the fence resembles, is a blind fence.

Tokusa-Gaki.

 

I must confess that before we spotted this display my interest in fences was very low indeed. But I discovered that fences are culture as are lacquered deerskin leather products.

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.