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Thursday, December 17th, 2009
5:41 pm	Blog Fiction: Motor Blue (Part 1) A Note on Blog Fiction: Blog Fiction is my attempt to tell you about my life in Japan in an unconventional way. It contains real events that happened to me, but all of these experiences have been rolled into one fictional narrative. Of course not everything in this story is true as the word “fiction” indicates, but in order to make it compelling some fabrications were added. However, I believe if you take the time to read my adventure you will get a glimpse into my life in rural Japan. Hope you enjoy it. Motor Blue The clouds were high and spread from horizon to horizon, covering the landscape with the gloom of late autumn. The air was cool, but comfortable enough for walking if properly dressed. Riding a motor scooter however, was another issue. Even after layering oneself in heavy clothing, the wind eventually sliced through to the bone. It attacked the hands and ankles first followed by the legs which would knock together from cold-induced spasms. Despite this, Michael buttoned up a newly purchased brown (but easily mistaken for army green) jacket. Underneath he wore a pullover, thermal shirt, t-shirt and undershirt. He pulled on a pair of cheap nylon gloves and pushed a racing helmet on his head. He climbed on the Honda and slowly twisted the throttle until it grumbled and lurched forward. The tires were small and when he hopped from the gravel drive to the pavement he was jarred. After waiting for an opening in traffic he darted out onto the street, but the engine was still cold and choked. A line of vehicles collected behind him and he veered to the side letting them pass. Once clear he accelerated up the road, cool wind stinging his face and reddening his nose. The lonely stagnation he felt in his apartment was stripped off, and for the first time in days he breathed a heavy, self-assured breath and his shoulders relaxed. Although the surrounding fields, valleys and hills offered little in the way of lively destinations (the city was an hour away), the roads provided an escape he could appreciate. He enjoyed the green brush and farms, and seeing the locals picked at their fields with hoes, shovels and rakes. They were clearing their plots before the winter air set in and plumes of white smoke rose from piles of smoldering brush. The odor was sweet and heavy like hemp and permeated his clothes as he drove through them. The engine groaned as he wound his way up a slope, the road weaving back and forth towards its summit before disappearing between green hills. With the steeping inclination the bike decelerated considerably, and he feared the motor would sink into a dead sleep leaving him stranded in the backcountry among the thinning houses and the wide fields. But just as the road began to level out the needle on the speedometer slowly reversed its direction and the brisk wind blew more fiercely into his watering eyes. Several road signs blurred by, the characters the indistinguishable scrawl of a foreign language. He’d learned to remember some of them, several city and river names, but he knew if he ventured too far and took too many turns he would be in trouble. The signs provided a dichotomy of loneliness and excitement. The fresh feeling of a new landscape and architecture still impressed him. It released his tension and unwrinkled the funny sensation that had invaded his stomach in previous months. However, he also longed for normalcy and predictability that home offered, as mundane as it was. He was far too stubborn to admit to such desires though, recalling vividly his mutterings of the opposite when he was back home. As the street wound deep into the cool hills he nearly missed his destination, a small turnoff from the main road in the middle of deep curve. He squeezed tightly on the brakes and the scooter rattled as he swung into the small drive. Immediately to his right was a derelict temple, weeds sprouting up around its old cobblestone steps. However, a bright blue bucket and upturned wheelbarrow suggested some recent activity as did a pile of twigs and tree limbs. The road, though narrow, was paved. It led up a large hill, or what was known locally as a mountain. Mt. Mikuni pushed upwards some 700 meters. The road switched back an forth under bamboo groves which hung low like a canopy. In their shadows the afternoon seemed to pass in an instant. It was a steep climb and started taking a toll on the scooter. The engine’s high buzz sank to a low complaint, like some snoring animal. It slowed to a jogging pace, even with Michael’s hand fully twisting the throttle. The bike’s dim headlight cast a dull yellow glare on the dark pavement, and as he glanced at his wristwatch he noticed the phosphorescent hands had begun to glow. It was 4:45. Just as the bike seemed at the point of dying, he crested the final hill. From the summit the road continued down the other side of the mountain, and to the right stretched a barren parking lot scribbled with cracks and sprouting bleached weeds. He made a full revolution around the lot, surveying the surroundings. On the far end was a small cabin office for a summer camping plot awkwardly stretched among a density of trees on a steep slope. Tree branches were growing into one another clogging the sky. A summer weekend spent here would be one spent with mosquitoes, he surmised. The office had long since closed for the season and its storm doors were securely shut. So too were those of a restroom building located in a well-flattened grassy meadow. He continued on, the scooter’s tires squashing dry leaves, and stopped in front of a paved walking path that parted two rows of reddening maples. Under the maples were meter-high, three-walled stone houses sheltering small stone statues donning faded red caps and shawls. Some of the fabric was so tattered that it barely clothed the statues, large holes showing mildewed patches on the dingy stone, in front of which were filthy ceramic cups filled with sand and covered smut from incense ash. Some statues stood without protection at all, long since overgrown with moss and rounded by biting winds and heavy showers. The stone houses were a collection of different ages, some were still smooth, pristine concrete with sharp edges, while others were more rounded and pocked with small holes, fractured with cracks and covered with patches of damp moss. At the end of the path stood a weathered shrine with a decaying leaf-covered roof. Underneath was a tablet with indecipherable characters, skillfully etched with bold lines and dramatic swoops. Some of them he could make out, but the context remained a mystery. In front was a broken wooden box for offerings. He withdrew a lowly coin from his pocket at tossed it in and a resounding thump revealed it to be the only one inside. At the top of the hill in a clearing stood a tall hardy lookout tower. Its roof just poked above the surrounding pines and maples. With icy hands crammed in his pockets he jogged up four flights of stairs to the top and beheld the view. Surprisingly the heavy clouds left the lowlands unobscured and the peaks and valleys were contrasted with blues and greens. To the east were a tacky collection of television towers that looked like the skeletons of rocket fuselages with an odd assortment of drums sticking out here and there like metallic fruit. Beyond them lay a vast stretch of city, the dotting suburbs amassing to a hulking metropolis, from which industrialization reverberated with an occasional crash or knock from some far away factory. Smoke stacks sprouted up in patches exhaling growing plumes of steam into the air and downtown was marked by an impressive menagerie of skyscrapers. (Comment on this)
5:39 pm	Blog Fiction: Motor Blue (Part 2) Michael was unsettled by the mirrored color of the city from the slate gray sky. The world was a gloomy sandwich. He suddenly became aware of a vast stillness. Despite being on a mountain peak, the tree limbs didn’t tremble in the slightest. The air was static and the parched maple leaves, which would have scattered in all directions from a gentle gust, clung to their perches. Not only was the air still, but muted surroundings offered no hint of life. He touched his face with his colorless hands. It felt like a block of wood, cold and dead. His feet were numb inside of his heavy socks and he dropped to his toes and completed 30 pushups from his white knuckles. He warmed slightly and his heavy breath showed in the air. As he sat puffing and staring out at he cityscape, he heard a distant roar. As it became louder it distinguished itself a pack of tearing motorcycles, and they were moving into the hills. They were probably headed to the city in the neighboring prefecture, he thought. But his irritation compounded at the disruption of his quiet moment when he realized they were moving up the mountain road towards the summit. He could have enjoyed himself, despite the bitter temperature, for a while longer. However, the impending invasion made him tacitly glance at his watch. 5:30. The evening was nearly upon him. Soon it would be dark and he didn’t want to be caught navigating the twisting mountain road at night. Before he could descend from the lookout tower the first motorcycle came screaming up the hill. It was neon green and looked like a dirt bike, and had a long backrest that stretched out like a saber tooth. On it sat two riders dressed in bright green and pink jackets with matching helmets. After them came a blazing procession of bike after bike, each one a presentation in itself. All in all about 20 of them collected in the parking lot. The riders all donned bright colors with wild designs and logos. Some sat revving their engines, others parked and stretched while a few popped wheelies and drove in donuts, screeching their tires and leaving heavy skid marks. Their menacing presence left Michael feeling uneasy. His bike was tucked away near the edge of the lot and he’d hoped no one would notice it. While he stood clutching the railing watching the gang’s romp, he began to ponder how best to the avoid them. Perhaps if he just waited for a few minutes they’d be on their way. But he began to think that unlikely when he spotted a bald tough taking several swigs from a liquor bottle. Their laughs stabbed his ears and he felt a sharp headache growing. By the cabin office someone had heaped twigs and branches in a small pile and started a bonfire. Eight people gathered around it and their outstretched hands glowed orange. These people aren’t up to any trouble, he reasoned. They’re just blowing off steam. However, as liquor bottles spread among the gang, they became more obnoxious. Fearing their increasingly erratic behavior, he decided to make his exit, even if it meant encountering them. In the end, he thought, his anxiety was blown out of proportion. He could probably walk down and have a laugh with them and tell a good story about it later on. That hope evaporated when he saw someone taking a piss on his bike. The guy was scrawny, and his thin arms hung out of rolled up jacket sleeves. He stood shaking his member with his back to Michael, which injected white hot anger into his blood. It went straight to his stomach which fluttered and adrenalin pumped through his shoulders. His first reaction was to run up and shove the violator. However, a retaliation was sure to follow from the biker’s friends. He walked briskly down the path between the stone houses and maples, his feet sweeping through scattered leaves. “What are you doing?” he barked in their language, however his voice was drown out by the howling of revving engines. “Hey!” The scrawny guy turned around, noticing Michael for the first time, and simply zipped up his pants and walked towards his clan. Dumbfounded, Michael looked at his dripping wet bike. Steam from the urine splashed upon the floorboards and engine rose up into the dusk. Thoughts flashed through his head. The expectation would be to fight. The gang probably expected as much. Several of them began jeering him and his temper rose. He felt stiff and rigid and his knees were weak. Taking on a pack of thugs in a foreign country didn’t seem like the best idea. He took the key out of his pocket and tried starting the ignition. It whined with pulsing dry coughs and refused to start. A tall biker still wearing his helmet hurled a glass bottle. It landed within a few meters and burst into pieces. The biker was shoved by his companion who spewed angry words. They shot their mouths back and forth and the gang converged to resolve the dispute. Michael took the opportunity to make his exit. He pushed the bike to the road and at the point of decline he had enough momentum to jump on and ride it down the mountain. His cold shaking hands had difficulties gripping the brakes, but he cut silently through the evening negotiating his way around the sharp bends. It was hard to see, but the edges of the road were blanketed with leaves giving him warning when he strayed too close. While squeezing the brakes he tried hitting the ignition switch to no avail. The engine sputtered a lifeless gurgle. After coasting for 10 minutes the occasional motorcycle scream that ripped from above was joined by a chorus, and he realized with horror that they were descending. He brought his scooter to a halt and tried several times to kick start it without success. The motor hounds were blazing around each switchback with alarming speed and panicked urgency fluttered in his bladder. He grabbed the bike by the handles and sprinted like a bobsledder and jumped on. He looked up and noticed the clouds in the night sky were beginning to part, gaping holes speckled with throbbing stars. Constellations still obscured appeared in fragments. Orion’s belt, the imperfect line of three stars, revealed itself, and he realized the last time he’d set eyes on it was back home months ago. It seemed strange that the same stars should occupy the night sky in this country. And for a moment, home only seemed blink away. Vivid images of his family, friends and work place floated through his head. His whole body pulsed with his heart squeezing memories from him like a factory production. They came one after the other until he couldn’t remember if they were real or not. (Comment on this)
5:37 pm	Blog Fiction: Motor Blue (Part 3) The distraction was instantaneous for the gang was nearly upon him. But ahead the mountain drive joined the main road, and just before the bottom was the derelict temple. He swerved to catch its small dirt path, shoved the bike along for a few meters and let it drop into a hedge. He took off on foot and dashed over to the loft-sized building and hid behind it, landing on the cold hard earth. One by one the bikes went ripping by, swinging onto the highway. He could hear their motors far into the distance as they gradually faded. Would they be back? Uncertain, he climbed the stairs of the shrine and curled up in front of its locked doors. He wasn’t going anywhere on a dead scooter, so he waited. He unzipped his jacket half way and jammed his hands inside under his armpits. The half moon cleaved itself free from the clouds like an axe blade and sliced through the shadows, illuminating his foggy breath. His ears spread out to all of the silent corners, listening for any indications of the return of his tormentors. There was an occasional car motor laboring in the night, or an intermittent rustling in the surrounding foliage, probably some animal. He let his revving heart slow down to a gentle thump before walking over to the bushes to retrieve his scooter. He heaved it up, rolled it to a patch of even ground and leaned it on its kickstand. He spent the next 20 minutes trying to start it, exhaustively stepping on the kick pedal which made the engine belch the shortest of grumbles. That’s that, he thought. He returned to the temple, its imposing roof a huge black angle with barbs, and lay down on its wooden porch. There was no escaping the cold, his hands as white as bones, his feet frozen popsicles. He pulled his hood over his head and pulled the drawstring until it puckered around his nose and curled his body as tight as he could. The hours passed slowly, each second ticking in his head. His thoughts flowed from one place to the next until eventually they took on life, skating a thin edge between dreams and consciousness. Sometimes he would come to and try to recapture the thought before reality pulled him too far from sleep. Suddenly a terrible racket jolted him awake and for a moment he thought the bikers had returned. But after several seconds he realized it was a pair of raccoons fighting. He saw the animals rolling around in the brush like a thrashing ball until the weaker of the two darted into the trees with the victor in pursuit. Wide awake, he walked the perimeter of the ground, and followed a small stone path to the temple’s entrance which was marked by a stone torri, a symbolic gate. It’s design was simple; two stone pillars of even height connected by an arch at the top. A quarter of the way down a rope hung between the pillars with dangling white cloth streamers. There was an old tool shed in the corner housing several worn brooms, a rake and a rusted hoe, some odd lengths of wood and a few bamboo poles. He looked around for some matches in hopes he could make a fire and discovered a green plastic lighter, but it was dry of butane. He spent the remainder of the night on the temple porch. He swam in and out of sleep for the next few hours until he was awakened by the sweet odor of burning brush and the crackling of exploding sap. The morning light spilled pale blue into his bleary eyes, and his joints shook loose their rust as he eased onto his haunches taking in the scene. An old gardener swept twigs and leaves into a heap with a bamboo rake at the edge of the compound. A tremor of chills rocked his body and he walked slowly to the burning pile. “The temple is closed for the year,” the gardener barked when he saw Michael approach. “I’m sorry,” he replied, searching for the right words. “My bike broke down.” He wasn’t sure about the word for breakdown. It was the same word for pepper. “I couldn’t go anywhere.” The gardener’s expression softened. “How long have you been here?” “Since last night.” “My poor fellow, since last night? That’s rough!” “I’m so cold.” “Warm yourself by the fire. I’ve got some tea in my truck.” He dropped his rake in haste as he went to fetch it. Handing Michael a plastic thermos cup of green tea, the old man prattled on for awhile. Michael caught some words here and there, but what he was saying was lost to him. The gardener fell silent for a minute. “Can I take a look at your bike?” “Of course, of course,” he said. “Sometimes these old bikes…” was all Michael could catch as he rambled on. But suddenly the old man had the engine blazing. It snarled when he twisted the throttle. “I think it’ll be okay,” the gardener said. Michael guzzled the remain tea and handed the cup back. “Thank you so much. I thought I was in real trouble.” “It was nothing,” he said showing a wide set of gapped teeth. Michael shook his hand before straddling the bike. The engine purred with vigor as he rolled onto the road and drove into the early morning. As he shot away from the hills, the slowly rising sun was glazing the valley in honey gold. The road was free and clear and he smiled at the beauty of it all. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 29th, 2009
8:04 pm	Endress Love or Motorbike High Two weeks ago I found myself frantically sketching on a notepad as I tried to think of a viable idea for a wedding anniversary poster. Mika, the school owner's daughter and assistant, had noticed my ability to quickly sketch cartoons on the classroom white board for the students. Her original plan had been to hire a professional artist to do the task for her upcoming celebration. You can figure out the rest. The day before the party I'd finally decided on an idea and was painstakingly inking in pencil lines and coloring with marker until midnight. Thank god that's over, I thought while I framed it. On Sunday I rode with Mika and her husband Tatsuya and listened to them bicker all the way to the hairdressers where I waited an hour, and then into downtown Nagoya for the main event: a nomihodai, or drinking house. The place was smaller than I thought, but I really should have known better since this is Japan. And as the only white guy, and a mildly fluent Japanese white guy at that, I quickly collected some friends, among them the husband of Mika's best friend, a fellow with a receding hairline and a gummy grin named Daisuke. I stuck to ice tea as Daisuke jested me with a pitcher of beer. As he was downing his third glass, plates of food came, all laden with meat. I picked at a few leaves of lettuce from a bacon-covered salad, much to the confusion of those sitting around me. Having given the explanation of my vegetarianism in Japanese many times before, the practice proved beneficial as the question came my way. What a weird guy this Mike; a non-drinking, non-meat-eating foreigner with an unusual grasp of Japanese mannerisms. I seemed to fit in. No really. I've found those topics to be good ice-breakers. I spoke a lot of Japanese and it was fun. I didn't feel confused or out of place, contrary to my expectations. There's something to be said about communicating in another language, maybe where one's proficiency isn't perfect as in my case. Somehow it was easier to speak than it would have been in an all English environment. I concentrated more on the words coming from others and had to consider what to say each time I spoke so as to choose the correct words or grammar. Hell, I'm not perfect. Not even close. But it didn't seem to matter. As the evening concluded Tatsuya, Mika and I along with Daisuke, his wife and a few others went to a Indian restaurant where I happily clobbered a bowl of spinach curry and a large piece of nan. "When did you and Tatsuya decide to marry?" I asked Mika. "Maybe two years ago," she said while Tatsuya downed another in of a string of beers, the alcohol increasing the volume of his jokes and laughter. Her brows curled with disdain at his continued rambunctiousness. "Was it dramatic? Did he kneel and take your hand?" "No. Are you kidding? Him? He'd never do a thing like that!" I pressed my palms to my eyes and threw back my heading laughing. But Mika looked down towards her empty plate with a straight face. "I can't laugh about it," she said, slicing the chuckle from my throat. As the days passed my unease with her comment grew, and I realized in the two months I've been out here they've never seemed to enjoy one anothers company. The other night their fighting penetrated the thin wall that separates our apartments. The irony of their recent anniversary celebration bogged down on me like a slimy sensation invading my stomach. It doesn't really concern me, but I've become friends with both. I've been riding my motor bike around quite a bit recently, buzzing up and down the back roads of the hills and fields. I left the Aichi prefecture on one of my many exploratory trips to Gifu prefecture. On a passage between two hills I found a park road that wound up a low rolling mountain. I drove slowly to the top and climbed a lookout tower. And there, scrawled in black felt pen, everything was summed up. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 20th, 2009
7:00 pm	The Hog and the Children When you're stuck out in the countryside and the only escape is a bus stop a mile away from you're lodging other solutions are not only practical, but a desperation. Enter the Hog. The Hog and I became good friends a few weeks ago after I signed a contract written in indecipherable Japanese and carefully explained by a man who spoke limited English. Who cares! Let me outta here already. May I introduce the Hog. So there I was, stuck in my apartment with intolerable boredom clenching a set of keys in my shaking palm. The urge to take the Hog out was greater than my fear of being run over by one of the frequently passing flatbeds and dump trucks or crashing into a cement barricade. I tore off the Hog's gray ragged tarp, put on my helmet, grabbed the throttle and gently turned it sending gravel flying and hurling me toward the street. I made a right turn and veered on the left side of the road (they drive on the opposite side of the road in Japan) and headed towards a stoplight 100 meters beyond. It blinked red and I squeezed both handle brakes, forgetting to release the throttle and the Hog jerked forward. "Whoa! Whoa!" I shouted, finally realizing my error. The bike came to a hault several meters in front of the stop bar. Luckily, besides several amused attendants at the adjacent gas station, I was alone. Finally the signal blinked green and I precariously twisted the throttle and the Hog screamed up the hill at 30 km/hr. My fellow motorists, including another motor scooter similar to mine, flew past me, my wide eyes catching their dust as I wobbled near the shoulder. The road began twisting back and forth like a shoelace and I decided to head back and find an easier route for my inaugural ride. I went back to the signal and took the right fork. Soon lush green and gold rice fields were flying by, the wind flooding into my squinting eyes. The more I squinted the larger my grin became. Upon returning I was filled with euphoria and relief. I'd avoided death. Every time thereafter the adrenalin pumped through my veins like thick motor oil. Each ride was more successful than the previous and I gradually calmed. The Hog was tame and I its loving owner. Though there were still others to tame. Yes, teaching still remains to be done and these wild children continue to throttle me, sending me to my apartment with slumped shoulders and a bruised ego. No, it's not that bad, really. The kids are a handful yet a joy. Who can blame them for being unruly? How would I feel if my parents forced me to go to language classes when I was six-years-old and wanted to do nothing more than goof around? Probably the same way. I don't know how kindergarten teachers do it, I really don't. Oh, has my respect for that profession increased ten-fold. I have 3 classes with about 8 six-year olds. But during our weekly battles something amazing happens. Sometimes they listen and English pours from their little mouths forcing a smile larger than a banana on my face. After class I follow them as the rush out into the gravel parking lot towards waiting minivans, screaming and giggling. The school owner and I exchange glances and she cracks a grin and laughs. "Oh my god!" I exclaim. "Oh my god!" she echos. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 28th, 2009
6:49 pm	Visa and Beyond I was driving with Mika and Mrs. Ito yesterday to fill out immigration paper work so I could get the very thing I'd been longing for the better part of two years: a work visa. "Do you see that pencil-shaped building over there?" Mika asked. Poking over the city-scape above a green bluff a thin obelisk with a white tip. "There's a...how do you say..." and paused to consult her electronic dictionary. "A botanical garden." "Ah, I see," I said. "Do they have greenhouses?" I'd just learned the Japanese word for greenhouse and sprung at the chance to use it. Mrs. Ito turned from the passenger seat and smiled at me. "You know Japanese words very well!" My ego was satisfied for the day. We continued on into downtown Nagoya to the regional immigration office where they helped me fill out some forms. We took a number and sat waiting to be called. I glanced around at the other foreigners wondering why they were seeking visas or immigration permission. A scene I'd seen moments ago still rattled around my head. While walking through the corridors of the building I glanced in a room and saw a family sitting at a table waiting for something. The menacing name plate outside the room announced that this was the Detention visitation room. The other day an American came to Japan to visit his son and asked for directions at a police box. The officers asked him for some reason if he had a knife. I always carry one, he replied, removing a pocket knife to show the officer. He was detained for 10 days much to the outrage of his son. Maybe this family too was visiting a man who'd been jailed for some minor contraband. My number was called and I went to the desk and was handed my passport. I flipped through the pages and saw an ordinary gray stamp. Specialist in humanities/International services was printed at the top, along with, Period, 1 Year. It seemed such an unglamorous thing, this visa, the very item I'd been after for so long. It should have been splashed with a rainbow of colors with some artwork lacing the borders. When drove back and as time went on the city thinned until I was back in the rice fields of Fujioka. Fujioka was originally a town of its own, but the rapidly expanding jurisdiction of Toyota city caught up with it, along with a scattering of other small hamlets. Here's what downtown Fujioka looks like. But here's the reality of where I'm living. Make no bones about it. This is the country, despite what Toyota city might say. This is the view from outside my place. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 21st, 2009
5:31 pm	How I became an English teacher (finally) It's been awhile since I kept my blog current, especially during my travels. The lazy part of my personality has frequently gotten the better of my interest in keeping you informed, but I promise to conquer that beast once and for all. So what happened to me? I was planning on going on vacation to Japan to visit Takayo, my girlfriend, when suddenly I had a job interview and received an employment offer in less than a week. When I heard the news I swallowed hard and made an uncomfortable announcement to my employer. "Remember that vacation I'm taking in two weeks? Well, I'm not coming back." "Good for you Mike, this is what you wanted," my good-natured boss Dave said upon hearing my explanation. And so roughly three months after I returned home shamefully from Japan having failed to secure a job, I was on my way back to the rural outskirts of Toyota city in a place called Fujioka; my employer, a small English conversation school called Able English. I'm the only teacher here and I have about 130 students who I teach over the course of six classes six days a week. I live above the school in a small, single-occupancy apartment. But it's comfortable enough and I don't feel cramped. The building is situated next to a clear gurgling brook that sounds like rain pattering on tree leaves. Since the place is located in the middle of a smattering of rice farms there isn't much to do unless you enjoy taking walks or going jogging. There's a mini-mart within walking distance and a bus stop 15 minutes away by foot. However the ride downtown takes a good 40 minutes and costs 800 Yen round trip (about $8). I begin teaching at four p.m. and finish at 10 p.m. The hours are agreeable but eliminate dinner from my daily routine. Most of my students are elementary or middle school students, but a few highschoolers and some adults have found their way into our classrooms. I've learned to talk very slowly, clearly and simply. When classes begin the students enter the room expecting to see the old teacher. He was essentially canned, and they have been shocked seeing this new stranger standing before them with a gaping grin slapped across his sun-tanned face. "They teacher has changed, hasn't he?" I heard a few of them whisper in Japanese. One of the younger students asked if I got my hair cut, thinking I was still the old teacher. Then Ito-san, the owner of the school who assists in the classes always begins with the same explanation. "Class," she says in Japanese, "Sorry about this, but we've changed teachers. Because the previous teacher had to go home, we have a new teacher. This is Michael Carter. His nickname is Mike. Understand? Mike." I wave and flash a grin. They giggle and cover their mouths. "Hello class," I begin... (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 7th, 2009
1:35 am	American Japan Just outside of Yokosuka-chuo Station in downtown Yokosuka, gathered in a pack around Marion’s Crepe shop late in the afternoon, you’ll see one of the city’s predominant features: Americans. Just away from the city center on Route 16 the street is lined with several Irish bars and restaurants serving hotdogs, burgers and milkshakes, all of which are strategically positioned opposite of the U.S. Navy Japan Headquarter, one of the largest and most important overseas U.S. naval facilities in world. For Americans in Japan longing for a taste of home, this just might be what the doctor ordered. Parallel of Route 16 is Dobuita Road, one of the city’s main attractions. It features American country-style bars (where you might just see a Confederate flag), several Mexican restaurants, an army surplus store and clothing stores that sell everything from NFL jerseys to American baseball caps. There are English speaking housing and mobile phone agents and currency exchange businesses as well as military uniform tailors. Having lived in Yokosuka for two-and-a-half months I’ve become tacitly conscious of how immediately distinguishable other Americans are, seeing them on a daily basis walking on sidewalks, shopping, eating and waiting on train platforms among other things. They’re attracted by certain restaurants and establishments, dress in different attire, talk louder, hang out together and are, well, just plain American. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. However, somehow by seeing them I see myself, and I don’t want to see myself. I traveled across the Pacific from Seattle to get away from the States for awhile and see something different, be someplace different, even to be someone different. I live with a Japanese woman in a Japanese-style house, eat Japanese food and try to speak Japanese. I dress more formally and according to the season, bow and greet my neighbors and, well, try to be Japanese. Since the spring air became balmy and the cherry blossoms came into bloom the navy base opened its doors for one day to welcome local residents to its annual cherry blossom festival. People by the thousands lined up in Misaka Park adjacent to the base on Green Bay waiting more than an hour just to gain entrance. I went with a group of Japanese friends for flower viewing, hoping to buy some nachos at one of the plethora of food stalls lining the base. Security was tight and everyone went through metal detectors where our bags where searched. Once inside we immediately came across a McDonalds and then a strip of restaurants including Popeye’s, Subway and Mean Gene’s Pizza among others. It looked like America. It felt like America. As my friends sat on a grassy knoll between two parking lots eating fajitas and pizza I watched as off-duty sailors walked around with plastic cups of beer in their hands wearing backwards caps, t-shirts, sunglasses and shorts. In the distance a navy cover-band was playing the Eagle’s “Hotel California.” Had I really left home? Was this Japan? Perhaps I’d entered some weird warp that transported me back home. “A-ii-su-ku-ri-mu!” an American sailor working in a food stall shouted, which is the Japanese pronunciation of ice cream. “A-ii-su-ku-ri-mu!” (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 18th, 2009
5:26 pm	Japanese-ish After scrapping through an uneventful week spent mostly alone, Takayo and I usually share the weekends together. “We’re meeting my friend Oolong on Saturday. Don’t you remember?” she asked, visibly irritated. It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention, but for reasons unbeknownst to me some details evade me. I groaned to myself. Great. Just great. “And on Sunday we’re gonna’ meet my friend Maririn and see her new baby.” “Oh, right,” I said while internally grumbling. How I looked forward to a relaxing weekend alone with Takayo; some simple activity like going to the park or watching a movie. On the holiday a few days prior we went to her friend’s house for supper. The weekend before that we went on a double date to an expensive French restaurant with a couple she was trying to play match-maker with. I sat quietly as she and her two friends chattered away in Japanese. Occasionally they’d break from their conversation to ask me something. “Carter-san, why did you become a vegetarian?” Tamaki asked me. I considered a good way to explain it in Japanese and so began… “When I was in high school I had a part-time job at a restaurant. Our customer would…er….um, is okay if I explain it in English?” Both Tamaki and Keiko spoke English. “Yes, yes. Please,” he said. And so I continued my explanation. “You don’t seem like an American,” Keiko suddenly said in Japanese. “People in America think the same thing,” I replied. “They always think I’m Russian or something.” “Ah, yes, yes, yes,” Tamaki said. “And you use words Americans don’t use, polite words. “I don’t think I could be with Carter-san if he were a typical American,” Takayo said. “I’m a person without a country of his own,” I said. “You seem Japanese-shi,” Keiko said. Weekend after weekend of meeting with Takayo’s friends, I was subjected to these conversations, all in Japanese all the time. There’s always a point of mental exhaustion, where the ability to listen and understand wanes. The more I try to think of an appropriate comment or response, the more fatigued and tired my mind becomes. However, after running a gauntlet of these encounters, my Japanese has improved. Words come easier to me and Japanese pounds through my thick ears and reaches my brain, the meaning less and less obscure than before. Who knows how long I’ll be here. But surely I’m learning much, and hopefully much more. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009
5:33 pm	Oh Lovely Trains I've been in Japan for a week-and-a-half now and have formed a routine. In the morning I walk Takayo to the Yokosuka Station about a mile from our place, then return and study Japanese for 2 hours or so and fiddle around on the computer, searching for jobs and checking my email. After lunch I head for the Yokosuka-chuo station which is a 10-minute walk down the main street, and I take the trains to where ever I happen to be going that day. Usually Takayo and I decide on a location the previous evening, the point being that I have to plan ahead and get used to traveling to different cities on my own and learning how to get around. The train system here is fantastic. There is a liberating feeling not having a car. You don't worry about parking, traffic or gas. It's very quick and stress free. Rush hour is a different phenomenon than we experience because the trains continue to arrive and depart on schedule. The only difference is how crowded the cars become. Sometimes I have to stand for a few stops until some seats clear up. However, Takayo's father was telling me stories about the subways in the Tokyo area; how there are so many business men commuting that the station attendants sometimes getting behind the embarking crowd and shove until everyone is packed into the subway car. I haven't gone as far as Tokyo yet, but I'm planning on going fairly soon. So there I was sitting on the Keikyu train from Yokosuka to Yokohama. A quartet of plump Americans stood chatting at the other end of the car when one of them approached me. "Excuse me," he said. "Do you know if this train goes to Shimbashi?" "I'm not sure," I replied, producing my train map. He studied it for a minute furrowing his brows. "Let me ask someone," I said. I tapped the shoulder of the woman sitting next to me. "Um, excuse me," I said in Japanese. "Do you know if this train goes to Shimbashi?" She looked at my map. "I don't think it does," she said. "You have to transfer at Shinagawa Station." "I see, I see," I said. "Thank you very much." I turned to the American. "Well, according to her this train doesn't go that far." "Well, someone told me that and Shinagawa this train becomes a local train and you can take it all the way to Shimbashi." "Look, I'm pretty new at this," I told him. "This is my first time riding the trains here. Your best bet is to transfer at Shinagawa." The train stopped at the Kami-Ooka Station and the woman got off. "Can you ask someone else for me? How about that guy? He looks well traveled." He pointed to and older Japanese man in a tan trench coat. Oh man, I thought. "Excuse me," I said to him, repeating the hefty American's question. "You can take this train," he said in English. "About 45 minutes." "Thanks very much," I replied. "Where did you learn Japanese," the American asked me. "College." "I've lived here for three years and I haven't learned any. Nice to meet you," he said shaking my hand. "Nice meeting you." (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, February 1st, 2009
3:46 pm	Trombone Blood & Taka's Mum It was fairly late as I sat in the living room of Takayo’s parents. Takayo was still working and her mother was rambling on about something. Not only is it difficult for me to understand Japanese, but especially when I’m tired. I watched her kind face with patent fatigue just wishing she’d let up and listen to the television which was softly streaming some news program. Takayo’s father sat watching it silently, occasionally taking slow sips from a large cup of tea. Most evenings I have dinner with them while waiting for Takayo. They’re very nice, and her mother always fixes some vegetarian food for me. But when the conversation starts flowing I’m in trouble. I try my best making grunts and agreeable noises. Sometimes I kind of get what she’s talking about. If I don’t I try to act like I do. I can offer a short comment from time to time. But it’s always a long wait until I hear Takayo opening the front door. Someone was playing a piano on the television set. “Do you play any instruments?” her mother asked me last night while Takayo was in the shower. “Uh, when I was a child I played the trombone,” I replied in Japanese. “But my arms where too short and it was difficult to play it. I couldn’t really play it at all.” Her father cracked a smile. * * * We were moving some furniture from Takayo’s small house into the upper floor of her parents’ house. On a small cement stair way leading down towards their front door there was a smattering of dried blood drops. “Eh!?” Takayo gasped. “Someone must’ve gotten hurt here.” I examined the blood. On the entry way of the house next door there were a few blood drops. As we walked back to our place the blood drops created a trail. We followed it down the hill towards the main street by the 7-11. Intermittently the drops turned into collection, like handful of coins had crashed onto the ground; probably a location where the individual had removed their hand from the wound to examine it. Near a stone wall there were several crimson slashes on the stone walkway. The trail went cold. (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 28th, 2009
4:29 pm	Japan Train Blues So I wake up and I’m in Japan. Not just that, I’ll be here for awhile. Living in a small, cold house, and alone for most of the day without any certainty is definitely an insecure feeling. The only thing to do is learn and try and get by. So that’s just what I’ve been trying to do. Takayo was teaching me to use the trains. The rail map looked like a tangled plate of spaghetti, a color coded nightmare. She arranged an itinerary for me and using the internet and my Tokyo city atlas I tried to make due. She played a tough game and made me do everything. After all she had to work the next day and from that point on I was on my own. So from the station near our place in Yokosuka, we took the Keihin-Tohoku line up to Yokohama station. Without looking at the rail signs, the place is a chaotic swarm of moving people. So it was easy to lose sense of things. She made me transfer to several different rail lines in order to go to different locations. I was supposed to get off at the Kikuna station on the Minatomirai line. After several stops I was convinced we had a few more to go. But to my horror I saw the Kikuna sign disappear behind the closing doors of the train as it began to lurch forward. Yesterday was my first time riding the trains by myself. Takayo and I have come up with a learning game. Each day she gives me a new assignment, or rather a destination to go to. So with shaking hands and a thumping heart I passed through the ticket gate of the Yokosuka-chuo station and took the limited express up to Yokohama. Takayo assigned me to go to the Yokohama stadium where the Bay Stars baseball team plays. Once I arrived at the bustling station in Yokohama, I consulted my crumpled pocket map with its red scribblings of helpful notes and wandered up to a platform to catch a JR line train to Kannai. There were trains on both sides of the platform, and each would soon head in opposite directions. I picked the one that seemed correct, and after sitting in it for several minutes looking across at the other train, the insecurity that I’d selected the wrong train turned into a palpable fear. I nudged the fellow to my right who was sleeping. “Does this train go to Kannai?” I asked in Japanese. “No, that one is on the opposite side.” “Whoa! Thanks a lot!” I rushed off and took the correct train just as it was leaving, and two stops later I was in Kannai loitering about the baseball stadium. I snapped a photo to prove I’d made it. Today I face a slightly more difficult assignment. Takayo is sending me to Kawasaki which is even busier than Yokohama. Once there I have to leave the station by foot and walk to the Keikyu-Kawasaki station and take the Keihin-Tohoku line back to Yokosuka. If dear reader, you are confused by all of these different train lines and stations I’ve mentioned and can’t keep it straight, you’ll know just how I feel. God forbid I should catch the wrong train and wind up who knows where. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 26th, 2007
5:40 pm	Good bye and Good luck! Well, that's it from Freetown. Mr. Lewis and the Awoko staff held a farewell dinner for me and another person with the paper named Austin. He's going to China for two years. I had a vegetarian pizza to my immense delight. Mr. Lewis said some kind words about me and I spoke to everyone and thanked them for making me part of their family. I'll have some pretty strong ties to this country when I leave, and maybe some day they will be tugging me back. But that has yet to be seen. I finished writing my final article for IPS which was a post-election piece about the barriers women encountered while campaigning and the challenges they face. Jacklynne, the editor in South Africa called me up and said some nice things. She's going to recommend me to IPS North America so I can do some stories locally in Seattle. I've kind of been plugged into a journalism pipeline, and things have worked out better than I could have imagined. The only thing that remains is to say good bye and come home. To be sure, I'm not coming home, but someone is coming home. Good bye from Freetown and thanks for reading. love Mike (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 22nd, 2007
5:50 pm	The Twelfth &Final Round Well, there's not too many more blog entries left in the old coffee can, just a few rolling around at the bottom. I'll try to plug at least one more out before I take the plane home. I enjoyed the comments on my previous entry, even from those of you who I don't know. I'm glad that so many can have a window into my experience here. Keep those comments rolling! I've been really struggling to get the interviews for my final IPS piece because the rains put a total lock-down on the city (drenching my poor shoes for the upteenth time) and due to the fact that the parliamentary results aren't all out yet, which my interviews are entirely dependent on. So it didn't help that I was sent out with the sports reporter, a really cool guy named Bernard, to meet some footballers and the coach for the national boxing team of Sierra Leone. The football guys were a bunch of jolly gents, especially a guy known as Sweet-K who promised to get me a Leone Stars football (soccer for you Americans) jersey. The boxing coach was a lanky dusty fellow named Ali Bangura and it was difficult to snag a conversation out of him, but his lack of teeth told the story. Bangura, a fighter in the 60s and 70s, was understandably upset because the government, just before the All Africa Games, notified he and his boxers that there was no funding for them to travel. Imagine training rigorously for months only to not compete. Bernard had previously warned me that it would be ill advised to spar with any of the fighters who would take out their anger on me. Recover from the flu, I took his advice. But Bangura asked me to hit the bag and then gave me a brief workout, having me hit his hands. "Mike, if you train two months with me, you'll box perfectly," he said. So I'll have to think about coming back and undergoing intensive training so as to represent Sierra Leone in the next All Africa Games. Well, I've got just a few days left to do a hell of a lot. I hope everyone is doing well and that's all from Freetown. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 17th, 2007
8:41 am	Elections and the 'Or Potor 'in the North Well, the elections have come and gone. The process was peaceful and credible. I, as one of the international observers, was able to view polling stations. I saw as a ballot box was opened and watched election officials count the votes. The held up a given ballot, announced who the vote was for and separated it into a pile. On ambiguous or incorrectly marked ballots, they asked for the opinion of observers present. I know I helped save a couple of votes that they were going to put in the 'invalid" pile. The process was fair credible and violence-free; really the perfect result. I think the process was more important than the outcome. Now we're awaiting the results. After the elections I was lucky enough to travel in-country again. I met a friend of a UW professor, a man named Kempson Thomas. He's helping this professor make preparations for the arrival of his entire class Aug 25th. They'll stay in Freetown for a few days and then head up north to a place called Kagbere to study for three weeks. So I decided to accompany Kempson on one of his trips so I could see more of the country. Our journey got off to a disasterous start as he was flagged down by a police officer after driving the wrong direction down a one-way street. He managed to talk his way out of receiving a traffic ticket and was directed down another street where he was again stopped for driving the wrong direction by other officers. An argument ensued and somehow Kempson got us out of trouble. Soon we were flying over the pavement towards Makeni, the largest of the northern cities, the palm trees whipped by and Freetown disappeared. The ride to Makeni was about three hours. Once in town we drove to the house of a local paramount chief who is helping with preparations for the students' arrival. I sat at his place spooning mouthfulls of rice while his children ran about yelling "Or Potor" meaning white man, to get my attention. I'd wave and smile until the went shrieking off in the other direction in laughter. We all piled into the Chief's SUV and headed towards the town of Kagbere, the town the students will stay at. The pavement disappeared and soon we were balancing along a galloping dirt road in the dark with the clouds dropping bullets of rain on us. It was a miserable car ride. It was stuffy in the car and my stomach was turned like a crepe. To make matters worse, the Chief, in an attempt to de-fog the windows, turned on the heater. I some how fell asleep or passed out, I'm not sure witch until I heard the call of "Mike, are you sleeping?" "Yes," I replied and woke up back into driving hell. AFter two and a half hours we finally arrived. I flopped into a bed I shared with Kempson and slept. In the morning a villager was kind enough the warm a bucket of water over a flame for me so I could bath. While washing in a latrine area I got a strange smile on my face and thought, "Jesus, what the hell am I doing out in this small African town?" It felt pretty far away from home. Kempson and I walked to different houses so he could check the rooms being prepared for the students. People gave me long looks. Most were quite friendly and eager to meet me. The children gave me funny looks and shouted 'or potor, or potor!' We also watched some workers building several mud and stick houses that the UW professor commissioned them to build for his class. All in all there were 25 to 30 houses in Kagbere. When night came darkness reigned supreme. There were no generators or lights. So we went to bed around 8:30. The next morning we fueled up with anchovy sandwiches and piled back into the Chief's vehicle to make the return trip. The ride back was much better, even though there were eight people crammed in the car, plus a crowing rooster. Luckily I got a window seat and the sun splashed the country side. We whizzed by little villages. Curious people looked at me. Some smiled and some shouted "Or potor," so I waved. The bumpy ride was too much for a poor teenage girl sitting in the back and she vomitted all over herself and my belongings (good god!), so we pulled over and I passed out my water for everyone to wash off with. The sent her to a river up ahead to wash off and we drove up to pick her up. She emerged wearing nothing but her underwear with her jugs hanging out. I guess she didn't have any more clothing, so in she hopped. I was shocked. Soon the vehicle screached to a hault again. Kempson had seen a girl walking with a basket of limes on her head, and explaining how his wife love limes, tried to haggle a good deal. He bought her entire basket for Le 5000 (Le 3000 = $1). So the girl lifted her basked off her head and dumped the all the limes through the car window, and off we went with a naked girl, a crying rooster and the floor rolling with limes while children outside shouted "or potor! or potor!" Six hours later I was back in Freetown with my head spinning. And that was the trip, and that's the latest from Sierra Leone! (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 10th, 2007
10:50 am	D-Day Minus 1 Tonight is election eve. All of the political parties held huge rallies in Freetown throughout the week. Tuesday was the PMDC party's day. I went wit Betty to Victoria Park in the center of town to see their candidate, Charles F. Margai, speak. We arrived early and met some of our colleagues from France Radio Internation. I also bumped into a Canadian named Jennifer who is with an organization called Journalist for Human Rights. She knows me from my white-guy columns. We argued about US politics before the fun began. The crowd swelled into a massive orange sea. I saw two white faces in the crowd and intantly recognized them to be my advisor from UW, Professor Hoffman and his buddy John. I quickly greeted them before making my way to the center stage where I waited for Margai. The park was so crowded that people began climbing trees to get a better view. The stage quickly filled and I was completely surrounded by humanity. I had to take a deep breath and close my eyes, thinking to myself that I would be back at my peaceful room at the YMCA later that night. I goofy local reporter I've met a few times was crammed directly behind me. He could even bring his pen to his note pad he was so crowded. "I'm pressed from all angles," he grunted to me with a funny smile. Finally Margai showed up and came onto the stage. However, the police decided they'd let too many people on stage and began forming a perimeter. They just started shoving everyone every which way. I got caught is a knot of police who where about 10 strong with 3 more behind, pushing their mass. I was grabbed by what felt like an octopus with hands, and manhandled towards the back. I looked over towards Betty who was just smiling as she was shoved, so I took it all in good humour and got a few photos of the cops shoving us. I managed to make my way to the front to catch the last half of Margai's speech. I took a photo of him yelling into a mic which was put on the front page of the next days edition. Wednesday was the APC rally. Since I'd come down with the flu, I felt like avoiding another suffocating crowd, especially since Freetowners largely support the APC. So I finished up my work for IPS which has since been posted (Check their website dear reader, at www.ips.org. Then click the Africa news link and scroll down to check for my articles) I went to the electrical building with the Awoko accountant, a nice man named Fouyar (sounds like fire), where we perched on a balcony overlooking the main street. The roads were absolutely clogged with red-clad supporters. We snapped some photos, but then this one guy on the street got really pissed that I took his picture and turned around violently. He looked like he really wanted a piece of me, and his friend had to drag him away. Thursday was the SLPP's day. However, they were unlucky because the previously pleasant whether turned sour and the skies opened up dropping bullets, absolutely clobbering them. Wet political shirts clung to the SLPP supporters while the marched down Saika Stevens Street. Early in the day I woke up in a heavy sweat. The flu had gotten the better of my and I was about to call in sick when I got a call from Med. He told me about a press conference that Christiana Thorpe, the head of the National Electoral Commission would be attending (an inteview of opportunity that IPS wanted), so I pulled my crumpled body out of bed and slowly made my way to the office, and then to the British Council up a big hill where the meeting was being held. I was doubtful of getting the interview, but as luck would have it, Thorpe took the time to talk with me and I sent the interview off to IPS. I'm not sure if it's been posted yet. It wasn't nearly as interesting as my interview with the minister of social welfare who had some shocking things to say about female genital mutilation. So I'm not sure if they will use it, but here's hoping. Well, I'm back States' side in a little over two weeks. See everyone soon! (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, August 6th, 2007
5:40 pm	TV on the Radio I haven't been doing as much work for Awoko these days because I've been concentrating on my assignments from IPS. Nobody seems to mind though. I met with one of my adviors from UW the other day, a nice man named Danny Hoffman, a professor of anthrophology. He speaks Krio and knows his way around. He came to the office and I introduced he and his buddy John from Arkansas to the Awoko staff. They treated me to a nice supper and we chatted for awhile. It was nice speaking with other Americans. I finally got an interview with the elusive minister of social welfare, gender and children's affairs; a woman named Shirley Gbujama. I was required to track her down for a Q&A piece, but she'd been in Nigeria. She finally came back to Freetown, but was leaving the next day. Med managed to convince her to see me, saying over the phone that I was an important journalist who came all the way from America to interview her. I had to ask her a bunch of questions about female genital mutilations and about some unfortunate comments she made years ago. It was a tough interview and she openly told me she wished she hadn't participated in it, but I got what I needed and sent it off to South Africa. Yesterday Awoko had a big televised raffle to celebrate the paper's 9th anniversary. They were giving away a bunch of stuff and using this computerized program to select numbers at random. They'd then call up the winners and try to interview on-air. Everyone had assigned jobs but me. However, since Med is camera shy (he was going to give the vote of thanks at the end), his job was delegated to me. So I waited patiently until the end of the show, and the host said, "and now we have Michael Carter to give the vote of thanks." So I walked up in front of the cameras and said somethink like this: "I'd like to thank our sponsors, GCB, Celtel, Ecobank, Dr. Richard Coker, Freetown Cold Storage and the Brewery. Most of all I'd like to thank our readership. With out you none of this would be possible. Someone once said that newspapers have nothing to sell but their credibility, and Awoko has that. Thank you for making us one of Freetown and Sierra Leon's best papers." Every one clapped and the was the end of the show, and that's the end of my blog. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, August 2nd, 2007
8:21 pm	Salone Women Peacekeepers      I didn't think I had an assignment today. So I was planning on writing up my final draft for IPS and write out a piece for Awoko using the same research I'd done, but taking a different angle. However, I was assigned to go out with Abi on what I thought would be a short outting to cover a peacekeeping march from and organization called Salone Women Peacekeepers for Election 2007. We met up with them while they were assembling in the city park. The had a small marching band to lead their procession and were several hundred strong. I was the designated photographer, a role I'm not used to. But it seemed more fun that carrying around a pen and note pad. I snapped a few shots before the women got moving. They had a police escort which stopped traffic as the marched down the city streets of Freetown. I darted around, weaving in and out of the singing crowd, occasionally climbing up onto things for a better angle. I met the chairperson for the Sierra Leone human rights commission who I'd previously interviewed as she joined the ranks. Liberian women also came in support and a large contingent proceeding along with us. It reminded me of my protesting days in Seattle, marching through Capitol Hill against the War in Iraq.      The first stop was the SLPP party headquarters. The crowd amassed at the entrance, meeting SLPP representatives to deliver their message against election violence. The SLPP representative gave some hollow words of support before condemning the APC. We moved on as the march redntered the streets. Abi and I stayed near the front, and I would dart around the body of the march to take photos. We headed down Siaka Stevens Streets, one of the main roads in Freetown, towards the APC party headquarters where the women delivered the same message to waiting APC representatives. He made a longer, more uninteresting speach and condemned the SLPP while pledging his party would abstain from election violence. Next stop was the PMDC pary headquarters a few blocks away. They were the most inviting, though the loud speaker stopped working so I couldn't hear the words their representative delivered. Finally we moved off to a hall where the march ended with speeches from various ranks of the non-violence movement. Suddenly there was a ruckus towards the back of the room. Everyone stood up  as the current vice president and current SLPP presidential candidate, Solomon Berewa made his way to the front. He sat with the women listening to them speak. However, Berewa, who is aged has a problem of sleeping in public which has earned him the dubious nickname, the Sleeping Bomba. His eyes grew heavy and his chin dropped towards his ches. So he had was of his cornies fan him to keep him awake. He finally spoke for several minutes and sounded genuine until he too took the opportunity to bash his APC opponent.       Abi and I finally left late in the afternoon and I was sweating it out whether I would have enough time to finish my work for the day. We caught a ride back with a Reuters reporter. I had a fish sandwich and pounded out my article. The IPS piece hit a snag when my buddy Med, who was helping me out, came down with a  case of malaria. He was going to get me election demographics and also was going to transcribe an interview I recorded where the woman sopoke Krio. I went to his house and brought him a sparkling drink to make him feel better. I had to wait around for my other buddy Ophie, so he could transcribe it for me. I've got it now and I'm headed back to my place to finish the work. That's all from Freetown. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 1st, 2007
4:19 pm	Various      Today I didn't have an assignment with Awoko, so I planned to write out my article for IPS. I'd been dreading it. I painstakingly transribed all of my interviews which I had recorded. By the time I was done I had nearly 10 pages scribbled out. After our staff meeting today I went back to my place and did some laundry before forcing myself to sit and write. I had so much material and conductedso many interviews that I flew through writing imy article, and within 45 minutes had nearly banged out a first draft. It's not finished yet, but I've got a good bite on it. My deadline is not until Friday, so I've got plenty of cruising room. So I'm going to take the time to write to you about some various things. Food I've eaten in Sierra Leone: Cassava leaves and rice: Every Sierra Leonean loves of good plate of cassava leaves and rice. Cassava leaves are ground up and mixed with palm oil and spices. Before I came to Freetown I read that it was delicious, but have since changed my mind. I hate it! It seems like I'm always stuck eating it. Usually fish or bush meat is mixed in the sauce.  Fufu: Another product of the cassava plant, it seems to be the most popular dish on Friday and Saturday. Fufu is the root of plant. It is ground and reconsititued with water and forms this doughy mass. It's served with a spicy sauce with meat mixed in. Fufu is sour tasting and when I got through eating it the taste was too much for me. Pepper soup: I ate pepper soup during my last night in Kenema. I was trying to land a plate of fish and chips which is my favorite thing over here, but the place only had cassava leaves and pepper soup. I cringed at the options and opted for pepper soup. The stock is a brown meaty broth with some hunks goat  or cow meat. It wasn't untasty and I found some delight in some slices of plantain included in the soup. Potato leaves: The leaves of sweet potatoes prepared much like cassava leaves in palm oil and mixed with spices. Also untasty and mixed with meat. Need I say more?  Goat soup: I had goat soup in Moyamba junction on my way to Bo. It was a little puddle of slop in a bowl served with a plate of rice. All I can say is that I ate it. Produce: Sometimes I like to get some fresh foods. I go to the fruit vendors by the supermarket and haggle for cucumbers, roma tomatoes, mangos and bananas. The mangos are the most tasty, but are falling out of season and becoming smaller and more expensive. The bananas here are much tinier. I usually eat them with wheat cakes from the supermarket imported from the UK. Almost all packaged food stuffs are imported and expensive. Can of beans: I finally got fed up with the cassava leaves and invested some money in a metal spoon and bought six cans of baked beans. Not that baked beans are particularly tasty, but they taste not weird. I know the flavor and can spoon some out into a sliced chunk of bread and make a sandwich. I was having some bowel problems earlier and the laxatives here don't work too well. The beans were cheaper, tastier and more effective. Random things: I held hands for the first time with a boy. Over here you see it pretty regularly on the streets. Buddies hold hands like it's nothing. The handshakes last a lot longer here, and you tend to squeeze more. And why, if you start walking it just turns into holding hands. I met this guy on the street named Ali. He's pretty cool and came back to the YMCA last night to visit. I gave him a few biscuits. This morning I ran into him again and we had a long handshaked. He walked with me and it just turned into hand holding. No problem! When people want to get your attention they hiss. I first noticed it when I was in Bo with Med. When he'd flag some motorcycles down for us he'd his at them. Sure enough a bike would pull over. Now any time I hear a hiss I look around. Usually it's some child interested in the skinny white guy walking around holding a big umbrella. TV:  What's a TV? I haven't watched one in over a month! What a relief! That's it from Freetown. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, July 31st, 2007
4:04 pm	Freelancer Blues      The election is in 12 days and it's really crunch time. I'm finally making progress on the articles I was commissioned to write from IPS. The editor in South Africa asked me for the contact information for another credible journalist in Freetown, so I recommended my buddy Med. I've been assigned to write about female parlimentarian candidates' views on female genital mutilation (FGM) and have also been asked to interview the minister of social welfare, gender and child affairs regarding some unfortunate comments she made some years ago. I tracked her down to find out rather unluckily that she's in Nigeria. I informed the editor who asked for a suggestion for another person to do a Q&A article on. I thought about it and told her the NDA party had a woman for their vice presidential candidate, to which the editor was delighted. I noted that the door was not shut on the interview with the minister, because she may come back in time before the election, to which the editor replied that she'd float the bill for three pieces. So I some how managed to accidentall talk myself into a third assignment. It's tough because I'm trying to do work for Awoko and IPS. So I feel like I'm being tugged in two directions. IPS is a big news sight, so it's a good opportunity for me and I'm trying not to blow it. Luckily Med has a similar assignment in interviewing female candidates, so we're joined at the hip. We double up on the interviews and meet with a lot of the same people for our respective stories.  Their might be a little overlapping on out sources, but that's the way it goes.      Med was so happy when he heard the news that I recommended him to IPS. The money they pay ($150 per article) is about a month's wage for him. I'm hoping that if they like his work he can become a correspondant for IPS in Freetown and cover Sierra Leonean news for them.      In other news I finally got my luggage. It's been over a month and they must have left my suitcase out in the rain at Heathrow because there was some water damage to my things. But I'll give my clothes a good wash and everything will be just fine. Also it looks like I won't be staying any longer as I previously noted. If a runoff election occurs, it will be held four weeks after August 11. My work was gracious enough to extend me a two-month leave of abscense. I really can't press them any further, and I need the money to pay for tuition. Besides, I'm a bit homesick and two extra weeks seems like a long time. So I will return home on the 28th as planned. That's all from Freetown. All the best! (5 Comments |Comment on this)