by Ben Stevens
‘That’s so cool!’ I continue.
Yep. Definitely starting to get the hang of this. Loud, slightly insincere and very smiley – that’s the key.
‘Look!’ says the girl, and then taking her best karate stance she proceeds to punch me hard in the groin.
‘Fu – ’
I stagger away, clutching my privates. I can testify that this kid is no slouch at her chosen martial art: at least, she can definitely throw a punch.
I’m having trouble getting my breath, and my eyes are watering.
The girl is half-heartedly reprimanded by her class teacher, and thus starts crying.
This is Naoko-sensei’s cue to again look at me a little severely.
‘Ben-sensei, what happened?’ she demands.
I’ve just been whacked in the nuts by Little Miss Psycho, you dozy cow I think.
‘Oh, not much,’ I reply, through a smile made up of gritted teeth. ‘Just a little harmless horseplay.’
‘OK, we have to go now,’ says Naoko-sensei loudly, as Pam gathers up the cards and such.
I realize that I have – entirely inadvertently – made a complete hash of today’s lesson. I’ve slipped out of ‘character’.
Being punched in the balls – even by a young girl – can have that effect…
Because, you see, gaijin teachers are required at all times to be as smiley, bland and generally characterless as possible. We’re apparently a little bit scary, otherwise – both to adults as well as small children.
In fact, a friend of mine working for a major English language teaching company – hint: there are four capitalized letters in the title – was recently told he had a new student starting that afternoon.
‘The only thing is,’ continued the Japanese woman in the office, who books all the lessons, ‘this student has said that she is very scared of foreigners. So please ensure that you are extra genki.’
‘Genki’ technically means being well, physically and mentally, and generally having a positive spirit. But for gaijin teachers, ‘genki’ basically means just be super-smiley and full of praise for your student all the time. Like some sort of robot.
So, in other words, my friend was being instructed not to let his patented, grinning gaijin-teacher genki mask ‘slip’ even for a moment, lest this new student run screaming for her very life out of the classroom.
I wonder how it would be if this situation was ‘reversed’. If, for example, a Japanese teacher in England was informed that his new student ‘…is very scared of you Orientals, so please ensure that you are extremely nice to her at all times.’
I can imagine that the Japanese teacher would be slightly offended. He might also consider that his new student needed to grow up a little bit, and generally stop being so pathetic. Maybe he would actually refuse to teach someone who is so obviously just a silly racist.
And that’s the strange thing about teaching English in Japan. We gaijin are not so much teachers as just clowns. Whatever the student says, we commonly – not always, but often – just have to raise aloft both thumbs and say, in a rather ‘jolly’ voice: ‘Good job!’ or ‘All right!’
Doesn’t matter if the answer is right or wrong: company needs the students’ fees so just play the game. Keep telling them how excellent their English is even when it’s… well, not.
Or seek employment elsewhere.
I get around this with my private students. We have fun, naturally, but they do want to know when they’ve made a mistake, and to be corrected on it. That’s the whole reason for them paying for tuition from a ‘native’ English speaker, after all. And so they make definite progress, for about half as much per month as it would cost them at a major language school…
…I return the slippers (the two women brought their own – only I was required to wear the pink monstrosities), and we put on our shoes and exit the nursery into the bright late morning.
It’s just gone eleven.
‘So, Ben-sensei, how was that?’ asks Naoko-sensei, as we walk along the street in the direction of the tram stop.
She flashes me a brief smile that spells out, perfectly –
F A K E
‘Well…’ I begin carefully, ‘to be honest, I’m not sure if…’
‘That’s OK,’ says Naoko-sensei instantly. ‘I understand. I will tell head office and we will find another replacement teacher.’
‘It was nice to meet you, anyway,’ says Pam, offering a limp, one-second handshake.
‘Pam and I are going to a café together now for coffee, so shall we say goodbye here?’ says Naoko-sensei perfunctorily.
It’s just a feeling, but I’m kind of getting the impression she doesn’t have a very good opinion of me.
Still, just for a second, I’m seized with the impish urge to say ‘Actually, I quite fancy a coffee too – is it okay to tag along with you guys?’
‘Yes, let’s do that,’ is what I actually reply. ‘Goodbye.’
And I walk away from them, heading towards the tram stop.
And thus ends my brief foray into the world of teaching English to children.
…The very next day, I receive an email from the ‘head office’ of Kids English.
(Cue ‘Darth Vader’ music)…
In this communiqué, entitled ‘A Regretful Email’ (no ‘regrets’ on my behalf, baby…), I am informed that the ‘other teachers’ of the company have requested that I ‘not be considered for further employment’ as I am ‘unfriendly to children’.
Deleting said email, I then continue to feed my youngest, six-month-old daughter who’s sat on my lap before, my lunch-break over, I return to my work at the temple.
Why Am I Here?
One of the things commonly said to me – by tourists visiting Daionji, as well as by some other gaijin who also call Nagasaki ‘home’ – is this: ‘I bet you never thought you’d end up working at a Japanese Buddhist temple!’
This statement is often followed by: ‘Exactly how did you end up working at a Japanese Buddhist temple?’
This is when I smile whimsically, and say ‘Well, it’s something of a long story…’ which is usually the cue for whoever’s listening to start discreetly edging away.
Anyway, dear reader – if you’re still here…
It all began one winter’s day in 2002 when I met my future wife, Kazuyo, in my hometown of Kingston upon Thames, southwest London. She’d been a student living in England since 1999.
She was at that time studying science, math and various other complicated-sounding things at Kingston University, while I was working for a small construction company…
We began dating. In fact, we both had rooms in a shared house plagued by a major damp problem, with an electric meter fed by one-pound coins, and a somewhat ‘eccentric’ downstairs’ neighbor, who was fully of the opinion that the movie The Matrix was based upon real-life events.
By the summer of 2003, aged twenty-seven (Kazuyo is one year my senior), I was making my first trip to Japan.
It was a country I’d always been fascinated by, but never thought I’d get the opportunity to visit. Twelve hours on a plane! And that was just to get to Tokyo – another flight was necessary to go on to Nagasaki.
When I first met Kazuyo, and she told me that she came from Nagasaki, I didn’t understand. I actually thought, because of the nuclear bomb that was dropped at the end of the Second World War, that it was still an irradiated zone – that no one could live there.
That was my first introduction to temple life, the wonderful city of Nagasaki, and Japan in general. I was hooked. I wanted to go back! Another long British winter, then in April 2004 we returned for my future brother-in-law’s wedding.
It was at the reception afterwards that I first started ‘talking’ – with my wife translating much of what I wanted to say, as my Japanese was at that time virtually non-existent – to Unki-san, the temple gardener and janitor and my future boss.
‘If you ever need a hand with anything, I’d be happy to hel
p out,’ I informed him, filling up his glass with beer.
He looked at me curiously. I have a strange habit of making random offers, when I’m a bit drunk. He also later told me that I was pretty much the first gaijin he’d ever had a conversation with.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But understand this – I’m the boss. What I say, goes. If you’re all right with that, then fine.’
So for the next few years, every time I came to stay at the temple, I assisted Unki-san with his work.
Under his tutorage, I learnt how to make a gate and fence from the bamboo that grows at the back of the temple, and climbed inside one of the countless tombs that are all over the mountainside, to deposit a big urn containing ash and bits of bone – all that was left of someone who’d recently died and been cremated.
In September 2005 Kazuyo and I got married, and the following year we actually stayed in Japan for about six months. Then I was offered a live-in janitor position at a small private school in my hometown.
It was a good job, so back to England we went.
Our first child – Amelie-Momo – was born in Japan. I got six weeks’ parental leave, and flew out there to be with my wife.
While she was in the maternity hospital, I was back working with Unki-san.
One day we were cutting down a small dead tree up on the mountain. It was good to be moving, sawing and such, for it was a freezing cold and foggy winter’s day.
‘Ben, kyukei ne,’ (‘Let’s have a short break’) said Unki-san.
We took a seat on one of the low, crumbling stone walls that are all over the mountain cemetery. Unki-san lit up one of his short and lethally-strong ‘Hope’ cigarettes, and then asked me: ‘Have you ever thought of living again in Japan? I mean, for a good while – longer than last time?’
‘Yes, I’d like to,’ I replied. ‘But it’s work – I’m not sure I could do the usual, gaijin English teaching-thing for a full-time job. It didn’t really work for me, that time I last stayed in Nagasaki for about six months.’
I paused, and chose my final words carefully:
‘What I’d really like to do is… well, this.’
‘Then move out here, and work with me,’ returned Unki-san simply. ‘I’ll continue to train you in all you need to know, and when I retire you can take over.’
I was so surprised I almost fell backwards off the wall.
To actually do this as a paid job – to become a fully-fledged gaijin temple janitor?
But much as I was flattered (and tempted) by what Unki-san was saying, any offer of employment ultimately still had to come from the temple priest – my brother-in-law.
(Note: at the time of writing, Unki-san is sixty-five. Technically, he could have retired five years ago, although he says he as yet has no desire to.)
Back to England for almost another year, as Kazuyo and I started to find the one-bedroom apartment that came with my janitor job becoming a little small – what with our new addition, I mean.
Then in late September, my grandfather passed away.
Returning from the tea that followed the funeral, slightly drunk and feeling a little despondent, I lit a fire of dry autumn leaves in the steel drum that was by my janitor’s hut at the back of the school playground.
It was dark; all the pupils had long since gone home. I sipped from a large glass of red wine (wherever there are teachers, you’ll always find booze), stared into the flames and did some thinking…
I was thirty-three. Not old, but no longer so very young. For some time now I’d felt that I wasn’t doing very much; just working, paying the bills…
Hardly big worries, in the scheme of things – I had my health, a job and everything else – but still…
I wanted to do something different – challenge myself a bit…
I wanted to move to Japan for a good few years. I wanted to work at the temple.
I realized this suddenly, although it had been on the edge of my mind for some time now.
I went back inside the school – which had once been the house owned by the Bluebird pilot, Donald Campbell – and walked upstairs to the apartment that was at the very top.
My wife had put Amelie-Momo to bed, and was now watching television.
‘I want to move to Japan and work at the temple with Unki-san,’ I informed her, holding onto the doorframe and swaying slightly.
‘Ben, you’ve just returned from your grandfather’s funeral, and you’ve had quite a lot to drink. Shall we talk about this tomorrow?’ replied Kazuyo, sagely.
And so we did talk the following day. I repeated what I’d said the previous evening. Drunk or sober, I now wanted very much to go and live in Nagasaki. So a phone-call to Japan was made by wife, who discussed what I’d said with her brother.
Taigi agreed that I could come and work at the temple, in a paid position.
I’d worked there before, after all; I already sort of knew what-was-what…
Also – the temple never advertises for new staff. Everyone who works there has to be recommended especially by someone already closely connected with the temple.
There are some things which happen that I can’t talk or write about. There are treasures and secrets. Someone who works hard but who can also keep a closed mouth is essential. (I obtained permission to write this book from the head-priest. Some names have been changed, some details slightly ‘blurred’ and some timelines ‘condensed’ – but everything written about did actually occur.)
Anyway, I’d already been recommended as an employee by Unki-san, although – I now realized – it had been up to me to actually state that I wanted to work at the temple full-time.
Shortly afterwards, I gave in my notice to the school.
They said they were sorry to see me go. It had been a good three years or so.
That was in early October. Some four months later, in late February 2010, I arrived in Nagasaki.
I started work at the temple two days afterwards.
Let’s Get Ready to Rumble
You might think that the sprawling cemetery which surrounds the temple would be an oasis of calm. A place where the souls of those whose ashes are interred in the many hundreds of ohaka (tombs) can reside in peace.
Sadly, this is not always the case – especially at night.
Frequently, teenagers gather among the stone and marble tombs, sitting together in the moonlight as they drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes, their voices becoming ever louder as they quickly get drunk.
Motorcycle gangs, too, park their noisy bikes just outside the san-mon (main temple gate) and venture into the cemetery, shouting to one another as though they have suddenly gone deaf.
(Which given the ridiculous – and deliberately engineered – volume of the engines of their ‘hogs’, might actually be the case.)
Music is played, on iPods and mobile phones. I’ve developed something of a strong dislike for the band ‘Sum 41’, whose songs seem to feature predominantly.
The police are periodically called to deal with such trespassers. Thankfully, they always arrive quickly – sometimes two or three groups of them, entering the cemetery from different entrances so that the assembled gang of teenagers or bikers has less chance of escaping.
They always try to run away – the teenagers especially, as they will otherwise have their parents/school/university notified that they have been caught drinking and smoking under the legal age of twenty. In Japan, this is a serious thing to have on your record, and can affect such things as job prospects for years to come.
Recently, I walked down the one hundred stone stairs one morning to open up the san-mon.
There, lying directly in front of the two wide doors, lay a young man of about twenty, a woman of about the same age crashed out beside him. Scattered around them were several empty cans of chuhai (a cheap, fruit-flavored alcoholic drink) and numerous cigarette butts.
On this occasion, also, I had to call the police, and ask them to come and wake up Romeo and Juliet and get them to move on.
No one employed at the temple is allowed to approach anyone deemed as being potentially ‘risky’, if such a thing can possibly be avoided. With my gaijin ‘high recognizably’ factor, this rule applies to me especially.
Today, as I take my three o’clock, half-hour break in the temple office, Miyazaki-san (one of the two woman employed in the office) anxiously calls me over to the window which overlooks the hundred stone stairs and the ‘front part’ of the temple cemetery.
I’m just in time to see the last of a group of schoolboys disappear down a path that leads to a somewhat ‘secluded’ area. Whatever they’re planning to do among the tombs there, I doubt it’s their homework.
I tell Miyazaki-san I’ll go and take a discreet look. (My boss, Unki-san, is off today.)
There is another path to that area of which I know; so long as I’m careful, I won’t be seen. Miyazaki-san warns me to exercise caution; it’s as though I’m planning to go and spy on a major yakuza drug-deal, and not just a bunch of schoolboys about to do –
What, exactly…?
I leave the temple and move quickly down a crooked, narrow path that runs among the tombs. Soon, from a vantage point on top of an old wall, concealed by several ragged bushes and a couple of gnarled, stunted old trees, I can see that the group of schoolboys has assembled to watch two of their number have a fight.
The two lads – both of them stocky and tall for their age (about fourteen or fifteen) – are currently removing their jackets and rolling up their shirtsleeves. From the various shouts and threats, I gather that the imminent altercation is apparently over a girl.
I run back to the office and inform Miyazaki-san that she needs to call the police posthaste.
She does so; they say they will be there in just a few minutes. They request that no one from the temple go near the group of schoolboys again.
Unfortunately, although the police do arrive extremely quickly, one of the teenagers fighting has already been knocked to the floor and has struck his head on the hard, stony ground. He is unconscious, and bleeding from a head wound.
An ambulance is called. It parks up just outside the san-mon and two paramedics run inside carrying a stretcher. They reappear carrying the injured boy, get him inside the ambulance, and turning on ‘blues and twos’ quickly drive away.
