Confessions of a Japanese Temple Gardener: (P.S – Who's from London, England)

by Ben Stevens

  I’m sweating buckets, although it’s not yet summer, when the temperature inside the dojo can climb to over a hundred degrees.

  In winter, conversely, it’s absolutely freezing. Thick underwear, socks and sometimes even gloves are allowed to be worn, along with the usual dogi or judo uniform.

  I’m lying underneath Oddjob, trying hard just to breathe, when Ozaki-sensei stalks over to stand by my head.

  ‘Ben!’ he roars. ‘Fight! Fight!’

  I’m trying hard to push Oddjob off me with my hands.

  ‘No!’ roars Sensei. ‘Don’t rely just on your strength!’

  Telling me not to rely on strength is a bit like telling a sloth not to rely on speed. But I know what Sensei means. The two kanji or Chinese characters which form the word ‘judo’ can be translated as something like the ‘gentle way’.

  The martial art arose out of another called ju-jitsu, which is what the samurai used to learn and which caused quite a few of them to be killed or crippled even during practice sessions. (It was common, for example, not to have nice springy tatami mats to land on when thrown – just hard wooden floors.)

  A man called Kano Jigaro (1860 – 1938) used ju-jitsu as a way of compensating for his slight build, which caused him to be badly bullied up until the time he entered university. So dedicated did Kano then become with his training, that he apparently had a habit of crying out the names of various moves in his sleep, at the same time as he unconsciously grappled with his bedclothes.

  But eventually he became disillusioned with ju-jitsu, considering that this was once-noble samurai system of fighting had become little more than a series of crude moves used largely by thugs to bully innocent people. So taking out the bone-breaking locks, strikes and kicks, and also putting in a series of rules and regulations designed to prevent the number of deaths and serious injuries suffered by ju-jitsu practitioners, Kano came up with judo.

  Judo requires that you use your opponent’s strength against him. Someone pushes you, you don’t push back but instead ‘give way’. This theoretically enables you to throw your opponent, or in any case have them somehow fall in an obliging heap at your feet, allowing you to then perform some flashy hold or lock…

  All well and good in theory… But, I have to say, I’ve found that in the years I’ve been studying judo (from the age of seven – albeit with the ‘odd’, decade-long break in training…), its best practitioners – male or female – do tend to be built a bit like bulls, or just naturally be very strong…

  Finally, the two-hour torture session draws to a close. Oddjob and I bow to each other.

  Then, magnanimous in victory, he offers me his hand and an amiable grin.

  Sensei and his seven students that evening – all except for me Japanese, although sometimes a Scottish sailor called Neil shows up for practice – then kneel in a line before the statue of the fierce-looking dojo kami or ‘god’, located on a shelf over in the kendo-half of the dojo. (Kendo and judo practice take place on alternate days of the week.)

  Both hands placed on the tatami, we bow our heads first to this god, and then turn to bow to each other. That wonderful etiquette of the martial arts, where respect is everything…

  At least, it is most of the time…

  It’s gone nine p.m. on a Friday night: time for a beer or two and something to eat. With Sensei, Yamada-san – whose sloppy throw damaged my leg previously – and two other male students in their thirties, I head out to Shianbashi.

  ‘Shianbashi’ is Nagasaki’s sprawling, eating-and-drinking area. A maze of winding streets with countless neon signs advertising bars with such weird and wonderful names as Led Boots, Diamond Land, Bar Granddad – and my personal favorite, Laughles.

  There really is just one ‘s’ in the title, which sometimes makes me wonder… Did they just misspell ‘Laugh-less’, not quite realizing that this isn’t really the best name with which to try and entice foreign custom? Or is it actually an imperative being given to a man named ‘Les’, which has become a single word?

  Either way, it makes an almost charming lack of sense. A perfect, extremely concise example of ‘Japanglish’ – that unique, and often incomprehensible use of the English language in the Land of the Rising Sun…

  Shianbashi also has a red-light district, where groups of young Chinese, Filipino and Thai women offer passing males a ‘massage’.

  It’s not unusual to see a solitary, drunken male (both Japanese as well as gaijin – the ubiquitous Japanese word for ‘foreigner’; literally, the ‘outside person’) staring in stupefied amazement at an open, empty wallet. Many bars here will happily rip you off, if they feel they can get away with it. Such places represent the other side of ‘honest’ Japan.

  Tonight, however, we members of the Daionji judo club head for a small restaurant that serves Chinese food. It’s got a counter, as well as a tatami area with three low tables.

  It’s a popular place – good food, good service – and it’s common to turn up only to have the ‘master’ (the male owner, who also does the cooking) regretfully inform you that he’s already full.

  Tonight, however, we’re lucky. One table is still free. The restaurant is up a flight of stairs, on the second floor. The ‘second floor’ in Japan, by the way, is what is called the ‘first floor’ in Western countries – there is no ‘ground floor’ in Japan.

  Yamada-san is still full of apologies for having hurt my leg previously. I assure him that all is fine. This is judo, after all; these things happen. I’ve previously suffered broken toes, fingers, a fractured hand and (frequently) wounded male pride, all thanks to the ‘gentle way’. So what’s the big deal with also having had a little infected pus in one of my legs? But still Yamada-san states his intention to treat me to drinks and dinner tonight.

  I have no intention of allowing him to do so, but I shall wrestle with the legendary Japanese sense of hospitality when it comes time to divvy up the bill. Right now, I just want a large bottle of Kirin lager and some spicy shrimp – a favorite dish of mine.

  I’m not so keen on the gyoza – meat-and-vegetable filled dumplings which are extremely popular in both Japanese and Chinese-style restaurants, but which, quite frankly, tend to repeat on me.

  Plates of food are consumed, beers drunk, cigarettes lit. (Compared to such countries as England and America, Japan has rather ‘relaxed’ laws concerning smoking in public places.) Soon the table is littered with the debris of our feast.

  I try to follow the conversation as best as I can, but it’s become the sort of semi-drunken male ‘grunting’, littered with Nagasaki ben (dialect), that’s about as far removed from the polite form of Japanese most textbooks/CDs will teach you as it’s possible to get.

  Example: ‘Good morning. Lovely weather, isn’t it?

  a) ‘Ohio gozaimasu. Kiyou wa ii tenki desu ne?’ (Textbook Japanese translation.)

  b) ‘’Osu. Mumble-snort-something-spit-mumble-ne?’ (Authentic Nagasaki ben translation.)

  One thing I do manage to deduce is that Oddjob – obviously, the others refer to him by his real name – is due to take his second dan judo examination in the near future.

  Achieving first dan earns you the ‘legendary’ black-belt, although originally it just signified that you had learnt a certain number of moves, so that they had become something like ‘second nature’. You still had a long, long way to go before you could be considered a genuine martial-arts’ ‘master’…

  ‘He’s amazing, for his age,’ I chip in. ‘So strong.’

  Yamada-san chuckles as he stabs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s still a cherry-boy,’ he states. (‘Cherry-boy’ is said in English.)

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I say, doing my best to appear confused although I think I know what’s being said here.

  ‘He hasn’t…’ begins Yamada-san.

  Then, as though the rest of the sentence is too rude to be said aloud, he mimes poking one finger through a hole made by the finger and thumb
of his other hand.

  Behind the counter, the woman who’s serving a group of raucous salaryman shoots our table a startled glance.

  ‘Fifteen years old, and still a cherry-boy,’ sighs Yamada-san, shaking his head sadly. As though fifteen is an extremely advanced age to still have one’s virginity intactus.

  Ozaki-sensei laughs, and then turns to talk to me. When Ozaki-sensei talks, everyone listens. He’s an extremely amiable man, who laughs easily; but his build and strength are like those possessed by an oak tree, and he carries an effortless authority.

  ‘Not long left to your black-belt examination, Ben,’ he informs me. ‘But that accident of yours recently – that thing with your leg… I’m concerned you’re not ready to take the test. You don’t train enough.’

  ‘But that accident wasn’t my…’ I begin.

  Then I abruptly stop talking and instead nod my head. If Sensei says something, then I have to accept it. This isn’t a matter for debate.

  ‘Try to come three times a week,’ Sensei says – for that’s how often judo practice takes place.

  Previously I’ve attended twice a week, but in the last couple of months just once. Having two young daughters (one aged three and the other still a baby), as well as a physically demanding day-job, leaves me not exactly desperate to spend my evenings pinned underneath Oddjob.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘Okay!’ says Yamada-san, who’s drunk more than a little. ‘Let’s get out of here and go to karaoke!’

  Sensei and the other two make their excuses, but Yamada-san and I spend another lively couple of hours singing away at a nearby karaoke parlor. Yamada-san favors songs by The Blue Hearts, Japan’s punk-rock legends, whereas I tend to stick to songs by such bands as the Rolling Stones. (Who, according to the menu provided by this karaoke joint, apparently recorded a number entitled Jumpin’ Jack Frash.)

  I manage to pick up the tab for this, at least – for Yamada-san was absolutely adamant that he was paying for my meal and beers in the Chinese restaurant.

  They’re a good bunch, the judo lot – Sensei, Yamada-san, Cherry-boy and the rest. I was the first gaijin ever to join their class, so there was a bit of uncertainty concerning me at first.

  (People in Nagasaki are not often very cosmopolitan, and many of my friends and acquaintances have never left Japan. In fact, a journey to somewhere as exotic as Tokyo or Okinawa is something to be talked about for a while after. The really adventurous might travel as far afield as Hawaii, which is in any case an extremely popular destination for the Japanese.)

  But the invitation to go out drinking with the judo club came after my third or fourth lesson, and I think I’ve since become ‘accepted’ – at least as much as a gaijin ever will.

  The Gaijin Monkey Zoo

  Early February, a fire one night destroyed the main genkan (entrance hall) to the temple – the one used by visitors when they come for a service in the main hall.

  This is the latest in a series of fires which have plagued the temple since its construction in 1649. The most serious was in 1959, when the main hall and the mausoleum behind it were completely destroyed.

  There exists a black and white photo taken of this fire, in which the flames coming from the roof of the hall almost completely block out the night sky.

  This latest blaze was caused by old and faulty electrical wiring. Not only was the genkan destroyed, but the wooden corridor that leads from it, as well as the three rooms that are used as waiting areas for temple guests, have been severely damaged by smoke. The rooms’ tatami mats, along with the sliding doors made of wood and paper, will all have to be replaced.

  Construction work began only a few days after the blaze was extinguished. A building team arrived, sheeted off the area, and began the task of first removing the debris and then constructing a new genkan.

  ‘It’s going to take them at least six months,’ my boss informed me one morning soon after the fire, as we watched the men throw charred lumps of wood into the back of a large truck…

  …Shortly after the men arrive for work at around eight a.m. each morning, they perform group calisthenics for ten minutes or so. They assemble by the temple bell that is opposite the main hall, across the small car-park, and move their bodies in accordance with the instructions given by their employer.

  He is a stocky, powerful-looking man who is always smiling. He gives me a cheerful greeting, each time we happen to meet.

  With several of the other builders, however, relations aren’t quite so cordial. They seem unsure of my role here – even not quite in favor of it.

  Once, I overhear one man mutter, ‘Why is this gaijin working at a Japanese Buddhist temple?’

  My ‘Ohio gozaimasu’ (‘Good morning’) to them is commonly greeted with a grunt, and a lowering of the eyes.

  I should reiterate that this is only true for some of the men. The boss and others appear to have no problem at all with my being there. But, as I say, no one seems to be quite sure of my role.

  If I were a monk or a priest, I think they would understand it better. It’s still not exactly common to have gaijin monks or priests in Japan, but it’s certainly not unheard of. (I’ve met two – although both are now retired.)

  But a gaijin gardener/janitor at a temple? I do sometimes suspect that I’m the only one. And it does confuse some Japanese people.

  No, I answer to their questions, I’m not a trainee monk. I’m not receiving through my work some mysterious education in the ways of Japanese Buddhism. I’m not a volunteer, hoping that by helping out around a temple, I can obtain an insight into the fabled ‘true heart’ of Japan.

  I’m just doing a job, for which I receive payment and am very grateful. That’s it.

  Approximately two months after work began on the new genkan – just after Japan’s famous sakura zensen or ‘cherry blossom season’ has finished in Nagasaki – I’m using shears to prune a tree that’s close to the main hall.

  I’m cutting the leaves at the end of each branch into the classic ‘Oriental’ half-circular shape. It’s relatively easy to do, once you’ve been shown how (one trick is that you have to use the shears upside-down) – but also easy to totally butcher, if you don’t know what you’re doing.

  The builders are having a break, sat in a large group by the side of the car-park, drinking cans of Coke, ‘C.C Lemon’ and sweet coffee purchased from a nearby vending machine, talking and smoking…

  Then they start to take notice of me.

  I overhear some of their comments:

  ‘That gaijin’s not so bad at cutting…’

  ‘He must have received training in how to prune Japanese-style…’

  ‘He’s American…?’

  ‘No, English I think…’

  ‘I’ve only seen him sweeping leaves before…’

  ‘Strange noses they have – very pointy…’

  ‘Who…?’

  ‘Well, them – gaijin…’

  ‘Oh, yeah…’

  ‘My wife’s cousin knew one, once, you know.’

  ‘Really…? How come…?’

  And so it continues for a little while longer, as I start to feel a bit like a performing monkey being gawped at by visitors to a zoo.

  Then, as I stop for a quick breather, the boss calls over.

  ‘Eh – anata wa umai, ne!’ he says, with the usual cheery smile. (‘Hey – you’re pretty good, uh!’)

  After that – as though that comment alone contained some sort of ‘seal of approval’ for the pointy-nosed gaijin – even the previously ‘sullen’ builders seem suddenly more accepting of my presence. They nod to me, and I get called ‘Ben-kun’ on occasion.

  (Sort of means ‘Ben-lad’ – an ‘affectionate’ suffix which, like its counterpart chan, is most commonly used between males of approximately the same age, or sometimes by an older male to address a junior colleague.)

  A few times, I’m even asked to join them as they have their short break. I’m offered a can of drink, ask
ed if I smoke.

  They talk fast, Nagasaki-ben (‘accent’) Japanese, and laugh but not mockingly when I periodically fail to understand them. Self-studying Japanese from the ‘standard’ textbooks and accompanying CDs, and then living in Nagasaki (as I do), is broadly equivalent to someone from Japan learning classical ‘BBC’ English and then trying to understand a builder from Liverpool.

  The men shake their heads as they inform me just what a difficult language Japanese is, and how I speak it so much better than they first thought.

  (This last observation is, I suspect, born more out of kindness than actual fact.)

  They seem interested to learn that, in England, I was once a plasterer, and a painter and decorator. This interest is also mixed with a little surprise: the gaijin they encounter – and then only very rarely – are purely of the English-language sensei (‘teacher’) variety.

  They ask me if I’ve ever considered joining a Japanese building firm, as though this is a standard career move for gardening gaijin. They tell me about some of the carpentry methods they’ll be using to build the new genkan.

  These guys are all genuine craftsmen. It’s fascinating to hear and even learn a little bit about what they do, and how they do it.

  Then we crush out our smokes, and putting our empty cans in a bin return to work.

  Feels good to be accepted, I must say. To just be ‘one of the gang’.

  Slight (but still definite) progress made in the sometimes ‘complicated’ field of Japanese-gaijin relations.

  Road Rage and the Mysterious Case of the Missing Little Finger

  Today is the first time I see a genuine case of road-rage take place in Japan – although I’ve heard of it happening a number of times.

  In one case, after a minor accident, my wife was obliged to lock herself in her car and phone for the police. Meanwhile, the male whose own car had received a scratch down the side jumped up and down in a rather animated fashion, repeatedly declaring ‘I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you!’