John Stupart.com

So after a week of teaching ridiculously studious students in ‘Engrish’ and trying like hell to get them shouting “WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!” in order to get a sense of intonation, I was honestly looking forward to a nice long weekend of slowing things down and chilling out a bit. Instead of the vastly superior Eastern JET party occurring somewhere 8 hours’ drive away, I opted instead to sleep in, drive to Wakkanai and explore the surrounding countryside with Heather. While there weren’t nearly as many opportunities for typhoon-chasing camping, it was inspirational in a completely different sense.

Wakkanai from a big hill. Ferry boats leave several times a day for the local island and volcano.

 Perhaps a little background of northern Hokkaido’s most populous city. It’s essentially a large fishing town, 6 hour’s ferry ride from Russia. The result is an odd mix of depressingly compressed residential areas and a wonderfully fractious assortment of Japanese fisherman, bureaucrats and military personnel, Chinese factory workers and the Russian boat crews, in dock for the pre-Winter fishing season. Although the Japanese are largely far too polite to say it, they consider the Russians as generally no-good louts. In Sarufutsu I’m used to being treated as ‘different’, but in a good way. In Wakkanai, however, this is not usually a good thing, as being ‘different’ means being ‘Russian’ and thus guilty of petty theft, alcoholism and general undesirable behaviour.

 Case in point, upon meeting up with Heather at the local general store/mall (A monolithic mall called ‘Saijo’), we headed for the nearest food outlet like true westerners in search of breakfast that wasn’t fish, pork or a mixture thereof. After being handed a Russian menu and a generally perplexed response, the lady behind the counter was most surprised both that we weren’t dirty Bolsheviks and that we were able to say as much in Japanese. Funny in an isolated sense, but a little disturbing. I guess  a pale and blue-eyed John next to an equally Caucasian and green-eyed Heather didn’t help pass us off as visiting Lebanese tourists, or something…

 The Russians are conveniently contained in a small portion of Wakkanai unsurprisingly near the port. Within this section are a plethora of stores catering primarily to our soviet clientele. What’s notable, however, is how differently the shopkeepers treat you. Whereas in a normal Japanese shop of any sort and size one is greeted with a hello and acknowledgment in Japanese of your potential patronage, the Japs in the Russian sector closely shadow your movements to make sure you don’t steal anything, with nary an acknowledgement of your legitimate mercantilist aims. In South Africa this is normal, as often someone is indeed out to steal something, but in Japan it was tantamount to being doused with icy cold water.

 Wakkanai as a city is really quite fascinating, with an interesting mix of people, shops and sights. Anything from communications stations listening in on the Vladistovok Naval Base radio transmissions through to dirty Hokkaido bikers camping underneath the mammoth concrete break-wall. It’s an interesting mix. Of course it’s hardly a Newtown-esque bohemian melting pot of different colours, cultures and arts and crafts, but rather a fragmented, kaleidoscopic crushing of many demographics into one port-town. It ultimately lends itself to a terrific experience when driving safely by.

Shinto Shrine! One of many in the city. A plus was receiving a crash course in Buddhist and Shinto theology courtesy of Heather. Definitely a big eye-opener!

The surrounding countryside is much like the rest of Northern Hokkaido, with small country roads, giant power-generating windmills and miles and miles of lush green pasture-land, rivers and circling birds of prey. This is not limited to the outskirts of the city either, as even a short drive down some Wakkanai side roads revealed the curious mortal combat between fox and feline. Truly a sight only to be seen in Japan!

Wakkanai is always a pleasant drive to and from, so it was a genuine pleasure to just kick back and take a slow tour through the city and its surrounds. The rest of the weekend was completely relaxing, and for the first time since Tokyo I actually felt like my mind had caught up to the reality. It was great!

This little guy was rummaging in the backyard of a nearby house for some dinner. You can see the glinting eyes of the resident cat-guards on duty behind the tank.

Japanese Behemoth cat fights off the fox. The sound of fox vs cat combat was quite a shock!

Next weekend (another long one. God bless Japanese public holidays!) I’m headed to Sapporo for a much-needed winter-clothing expedition. Stay tuned!

After a busy week jumping between school, town hall and soccer field the weekend camp in Tomamae (a tiny North-Western town) for all the JET folks in Northern Hokkaido sounded like a great idea. A chance to say things like ‘incomprehensible’ and be understood, a rare occurrence in Japan; Beer and beach and sunshine. But that was before the typhoon…

…Friday morning arrives and I’m greeted with images of tiny Japanese news reporters holding onto street poles for their lives as a category 2 typhoon wends its way through Honshu, just south of Hokkaido and the precious campsite. Come the afternoon and the weather in Sarufutsu had taken a definite turn for the worse. Gale force winds, torrential rain and all the other things one associates with the end of the world. After some furious chain emailing amongst my neighbouring JET residents, I was able to dampen the delightfully hazardous enthusiasm that was expressed amongst certain individuals to make the 3 hour drive in such a maelstrom, pitch a tent in the pitch black of night whilst fighting off wind and rain and wild bears. By ‘individuals’, of course, I mean Heather and Moraya; Super-keen Wakkanai JETs, unafraid of being thrown off a country road by gale force winds into the sharp and fatal hooves of a nearby dairy cow. I love being miserable, cold and wet as much as the next person, but my idea of fun includes a roaring fire and a beer in hand, not watching cows being flung about like leaves in gale force winds, becoming giant bovine missiles of udder-death. It can happen…

On the road to Tomamae.

Thus it was on a Saturday morning that we set out for Tomamae. Driving in the hills and countryside is an utterly sublime experience, to say the least. Mist-enshrouded hills and mountains, wide open crops and pastures for the many dairy farms that dot the landscape of Hokkaido, all do well to impress upon oneself the true beauty that this place holds. Now I realize there are plenty of cows, mielies and hills in South Africa, but this is Japan damnit, so it makes it better for the simple reason that I’m a tourist in this land and thus am paying a bit more attention to my surroundings! To be honest I can only compare the experience to taking a long drive through the valleys and mountain roads of the Drakensburg, but the awe at Hokkaido’s natural beauty remains. The car trip itself took ‘slightly’ longer than anticipated (four and a half hours instead of three) thanks to a combination of my horrific navigational abilities and the frustratingly retarded signage system employed by the Japanese road department. It seems one is meant to simply know what turnoff is what, as the actual signs indicating a turnoff or a route change appear a full 500m or more before the turn itself. At the actual turnoff there exists no discernible means of figuring out what route or highway it is one is taking. The only thing differentiating the indicated expressway from a normal road is the amount of traffic going through it. Getting lost in Japan is nonetheless hardly a train smash as we simply ended up seeing a little more of the countryside than anticipated. Given that it’s all new and exciting there weren’t too many complaints from the car’s occupants. Any and all protests were swiftly stifled as soon as we figured out how to make the sound system work.

Likewise, upon arrival on Saturday afternoon there were exactly two people who had arrived for the camp so we had not lost out on any special moment or somesuch. Clearly the typhoon had done well to ward off any eager beavers wanting to head out on Friday. More people arrived, mostly Americans and a smattering of Canadians, and tents were pitched. What was probably the most surprising aspect of it all was how fragmented everyone was. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to claim that us northern-most ALT folks are about the most tightly-knit of the new JETs in our region. It’s nice to be arrogant, but it’s even nicer to be arrogant and right! Thus Saturday saw me sitting in a circle with a decidedly (and I would say deservedly) pompous air, beer in hand, trying to decipher what accent was American and what was Canadian. As a plus it turned out that the Typhoon had veered sharply eastwards, removing the last of my doubts and fears of typhoon-powered dairy cows impaling me at mach 2.

The sun making a long-overdue appearance after the giant typhoon of doom flies away.

Giant energy-producing windmills, doing their thing. These things are everywhere in Hokkaido. For a country that still harpoons whales and consumes about a rainforest a day in disposable chopsticks, they sure are energy-friendly!

The campsite. It’s as surreal as it looks.

In all the camp was great, and new friends were made, mostly due to us commonwealth folks sticking out like Boers laagered in the open veld, keeping a stout heart and making snide xenophobic insults at anything that doesn’t play rugby, as well as what was quite possibly the funniest beer run in history. Thankfully the one Brit at the camp didn’t come along and was spared being reduced to tears by our unceasing anti-Anglophile assault. With a true-blooded South Irish girl, a South African (me!) and two Kiwis, the tolerance for colonial bally-hoo-esque antics was low and any transgression brutally shot down, but in a funny, drunken kind of way, of course. I have to wonder how long we shall remain pals, however, as the World Cup has now started and I must for the sake of the boks become mortal enemies with any and all New Zealanders running around this island. Such is the way things are. I don’t make the rules about these things, I just follow them!

Americans and Canucks. Largely unremarkable except for a precious few.

Heather. From Tennessee… Definitely not unremarkable!

Irish Anne, Kiwi #1 and Kiwi #2, 15% of Theresa’s head and some other nameless bloke. The funniest people to go to the store with!

Of course, just because we’re foreigners doesn’t mean we’re friends, and there were plenty of folks at the camp I had neither met nor wished I ever had. It’s slightly disturbing to see folks so committed to being ardent retards, but kind of endearing as well. I guess it’s like the kid in your class who drools a bit. You just have to smile and pat him/her on their hunchback. Of course, my initial pomposity after such a glorious trek from Sarufutsu unnerved many I’m certain, and those who know me will also know how hilarious I find that. Correct use of feigned arrogance does wonders to ward off slack-jawed loud-mouths from far-flung corners of the earth. It does not, however, prevent the bastards from stealing your chair and beer. That’s right folks, Americans steal your beer! If you want one, ask and I will gladly provide, but simply yoinking an icy beverage from my hoard will earn you scorn and eternal shame in the books of John (for the religious I mean MY books, not that other guy who wrote about Jesus.) I have no idea in what part of the world such open thievery is tolerated, but in the People’s Republic of John beer-thieves are drawn and quartered. Mr. beer-thief, if you’re reading this, I will stab you in your spleen. Repeatedly. With a spoon. From a post-camp inventory we still ended up with a lot of excess food and drink, but the principle remains true! Just because there’s lots doesn’t mean it’s there for the taking. Revenge shall be had, I am certain of that. The northern-most JET’s shall strike back when everyone least expects it. So don’t be surprised come Christmas day when your turkey disappears, or there are no presents. It’s not the grinch, it’s karma hitting back!

After seeing the unending compassion and humility displayed by the locals in my town, the brief 24 hours spent with true westerners was more of a shock than I had anticipated, and would have dampened my spirits as easily as any typhoon had there not also been some very incredible people attending as well. And at the very worst, watching a giant night sky on the grass, replete with shooting stars and bonfire, made up for all the little minor inconveniences and still left change to spare!

Basically then, the weekend can be summed as follows:

l  Typhoons mean STAY IN BED! Flying moo-cows are a real and ever-present danger.

l  If you think it’s the right turnoff, it probably isn’t.

l  The British have the funniest accents in the world. From cockney to  Windsor Lordling, they’re all hilarious.

l  Stealing my beer means I will steal your first-born and sell him/her to Somali pirates.

l  Americans are loud.

l  The Irish have a disturbingly strong affiliation with the IRA even today…

Onishibetsu – A side road. One of many. By “many” I mean “four”.

So a month and bit into my embedding with quite possibly one of the most remote villages in Japan, I have begun to realize just how anomalous Sarufutsu strikes my stubbornly cynical South African mentality on just how a community functions. It would appear that everything in this town, from education through to basic civil service, functions as a component which serves more than the obvious purpose.  

The Town Hall. Nexus of all things ideal and cuddly.

For example, every year the area of Sarufutsu have an organized ‘street sweep’, whereby ordinary citizens, not civil servants, make the 5km-odd walk from their homes to a pre-arranged rendezvous (this year it was the Sarufutsu Park. A curious arrangement of monuments mourning/celebrating the accidental sinking of a Soviet warship in 1939, through to a 36-hole putt-putt course festooned with a giant Dutch-styled windmill.) One has to remember, of course, that this trek is voluntary, yet attracts well over 100 villagers and their families to take part, scouring the sidewalk for trash that has been thrown to the side over the course of the year. What’s more, a seemingly onerous chore that just about any other village (Sarufutsu is the only one who does this in the sub-prefecture) would rather pay someone to do, is transformed into a pleasant family walk to the park. For the kids, hunting cans is akin to a treasure hunt. The enthusiasm with which the children, aged between 1 and 8 years of age, hunt rusty old beer cans is quite humourous to watch. Indeed, there is even a scheme in place in the schools aimed to incentivise the collection of cans, whereby 10kg worth of ring-pulls can be exchanged for a ‘rare and precious ‘prize’ as my supervisor put it. The result is that the kids range far and wide along the length and breadth of the road, scouring the brush on the sides and rooting out even the most stubborn of shiny bauble in the hopes that it is an intact soda can, ready for disassembly and the furthering of their ultimate quest for the ‘rare and precious prize’.

At the end of the course, the families do not simply bundle into cars and head back home, as I had expected, but rather settle down for a large picnic in the nearby fields, enjoying what is essentially one of the few summer days left before the icy tundra of winter descends. Dodge ball and other games are started, and the parents as well as kids thoroughly enjoy themselves. The smaller kids are the hardest to hit with the ball. The little bastards have watched too much Naruto and thus bob and weave like only a true ninja of Konoha village could achieve.)

So what would have essentially being a mundane civic duty is turned into a fun-walk picnic dodge-ball treasure hunt extravaganza, and serves to foster an even greater community spirit. In South Africa, of course, such a walk would require policemen, the closure of roads, booking of the park and other incentives. I tried to imagine asking anyone in SA to walk 5km collecting trash and came up with a mental image of trash bags measured in tons, not kilograms.

The High School Staff. From nurses to headmaster, all are unfathomably dedicated to their jobs. And eating octopus…

From an education perspective, the school system here appears to have far more financial social motivation to improve. I had gone on what was essential an inventory-taking excursion in the 2^nd week of my stay here, and it was quite startling to visit these elementary schools that in South Africa, or indeed most places in the world, could hold hundreds of students, house not tens, but two, three or sometimes five kids! Likewise, each school receives a considerable amount of financial support, as I witnessed these schools receiving government-purchased bicycles, digital cameras and so on. For the larger schools, the stock received each year increases. For my Junior High in Onishibetsu, the largest in the area at a whopping 72 students (in a school which in SA would house easily 500-600 students), items included projector screens, books, dvd players and a curious-looking OHP thing which I was later told projects 3D holographic images of camera photos or general digital media. The obvious response in my head was that such over-expenditure was a needless waste of resources. But after experiencing just how integral school life is in Japan, the resources spent all contribute to making education something the kids can look forward to, or at the least not loathe. Instead of a boring day-long stretch of classes, the kids here truly seem to enjoy their schooling, and often pop into the staff room to chat to the teachers who have no classes at the moment. Indeed, even myself, the resident Gaijin foreigner, replete with mutant features and far too much body hair for Asian standards, is liked almost by default, purely because my presence is simply another fascinating aspect of the school. Simply being here in the classrooms, it seems, is enough…

From the petrol attendant saying ‘herro John-san!’ to the kids in the school asking every conceivable question and then some, the life in Sarufutsu is indeed a homogenous one. To be sure, there must exist some animosity between individuals, as Japanese folks, no matter how polite, are human after all. But as a whole, community life permeates throughout this community like the very air we breathe. An odd sentiment, given my rather grim opinion of humanity in general, but living in this anomalous bubble has shown me that it is possible to achieve some semblance of a decent society.

Of course, the reality of the situation (ie the politics of it all) is that towns like Sarufutsu are dwindling in population. When the viable career options range from fisherman to fireman, the more service industry-minded high school graduates flock to Sapporo, Tokyo and beyond. It happens around the world, and Japan, no matter how idyllic, suffers the same problem. Young people my age are a rare commodity here, and are encouraged to marry up, pop out some sprogs, or go to the cities where there is more fun and financial reward to be had. Ironically, this probably contributes in no small part to the peaceful state that Sarufutsu exists in, as the youth are not around to cause trouble, as it were, and spit n curse n such.

The result – a damn-near perfect place to grow up, make friends and get lots of fresh air, and a great place to come to spend your last days as a pensioner. For the youth, all the enthusiasm of a community spirit cannot substitute drunken karaoke sprees and the pursuit of a career outside of the timber or fishing industries.

Norris, my resident spider. He too is committed to his job (catching and devouring tasty moths.)