360 Degrees Longitude

by John Higham

  “That’s your father for you,” September summarized. “Eat first, ask questions later.”

  We stepped off the plane in Mauritius without the accoutrements of handcuffs or leg shackles. It was the perfect temperature that’s only possible in the tropics, where the air is warm, yet the breeze is pleasantly cool with a hint of salt spray. To top it off, we found that in Mauritius they sell fireworks in the grocery stores. Really big ones. How can you not love a place like that?

  Mauritius is a tiny dot on the average globe, situated just above the Tropic of Capricorn and 530 miles east of Madagascar. The dodo bird, we discovered, is Mauritius’s claim to fame. Our taxi driver from the airport was an Indian gentleman with a perfect French accent. I find it a bit unnerving when the person I am talking to doesn’t have the accent that my stereotype has assigned him, for example, Africans in London with their perfect British accents, or Harley riders who talk like Inspector Clouseau.

  “Ze French,” said the taxi driver, “when zey first come to Mauritius, zey love to eat ze doo-doo. It ez delicious to them.”

  “How is that again?”

  “Ze doo-doo, zey cannot fly and were eezee to catch. Ze French eat all ze doo-doo, so it eez extinct.”

  Mr. Taxi-Driver must have thought I was having spasms as I was forced to stifle snickers as visions of doo-doo eating French went through my mind. I had always thought it was the Dutch who drove the dodo to extinction, which is what research later confirmed. Even though inaccurate, I can’t help but like Mr. Taxi-Driver’s version of the dodo’s demise better, as the French are so delightful to poke fun at.

  September had found an apartment in Pereybere, a beach town on the northern coast of Mauritius, before we had left California. It was the only preplanned break in traveling that we had made, and we looked forward to a week basking in the tropical sun and recharging our batteries. Test-driving the fireworks on the beach was an unexpected perk. Even though we could buy fireworks at the grocery store, every time I lit a fuse I couldn’t help but think that this much fun surely couldn’t be legal.

  “Jordan and I decided we’re staying in Mauritius,” I announced to September and Katrina one morning. “We’re having some shirts made up patterned after the one you sabotaged in Turkey, and we’re going to open up a hamburger joint.”

  September was doing homework with Katrina and Jordan. Jordan was in on the ruse, and got a big smile and started squirming in his seat. He’ll never amount to much in a poker game. September didn’t look up from what she was doing and merely said, “That’s nice dear.” Katrina started peppering September with questions. “They’re not really serious, are they?”

  “As far as you know I am,” I responded. “Before we left Istanbul I found a place on the Web that can make us anything we want. Just send them a picture.”

  September started to look nervous. “Do we have a picture?”

  “Oh, yes. You took one of me wearing it in Pompeii. It’s a beaut. Having the shirts sent here made the most sense because we had an address. Little did I know then what a great place this was.”

  After a few nights we had graduated to fireworks that would not have been out of place in many civic Fourth of July celebrations. As window-rattling booms washed over the island and trails of flaming flowers of gunpowder lit up the night sky, I would look over my shoulder, expecting the police to storm the beach in riot gear and haul me away.

  Katrina was mildly amused by the fireworks, but mostly she busied herself baking cakes. As our departure date neared I told Katrina, “We ordered you a shirt, too. We can serve burgers and cakes. We’ll just hide the plane tickets from Mom until it’s too late.”

  “Dad,” Katrina responded, “Mom and I love it here, too, but we want to see the rest of the world.”

  When our departure date arrived, the custom Bill’s Burger Barn shirts still hadn’t arrived. Sadly, we made our way to the airport without them. We queued up at the Air Mauritius counter and handed the nice lady our tickets.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “this flight departed yesterday. I’ll see if I can’t get you on the next flight, but we only fly this route three times a week.”

  What? Yesterday?! I grabbed my e.brain and looked at the date. For several seconds my gaze shifted from our tickets to the display on my PDA as if by looking at them hard enough the calendar would magically roll back. “I guess I lost track of time and forgot what day it was.”

  September looked at me in disbelief. “Did you make us late so we could get that package?”

  “That’s not something I’d do!” I protested. September looked at me like she wanted to believe me, but didn’t know if she should. “Okay, maybe it is something I’d do, but I didn’t. Really. I swear on the fish.”

  Swearing on the fish was code. Shortly after we married, September’s parents had a great practical joke played on them that involved a wading pool and a catfish. The blame was laid at our feet, and although it was something we would have loved to take credit for, nothing we could say would cause her parents to believe it was someone else. They don’t believe us to this day. By swearing on the fish, September knew I was innocent of the charge of missing our flight on purpose.

  Problem is, even by the time we eventually left Mauritius our shirts still hadn’t arrived. Somewhere in Mauritius there are four Bill’s Burger Barn shirts waiting for a grand opening.

  • • •

  “You remember, of course, what I said as we were leaving Europe.”

  Katrina, September, and Jordan repeated sequentially as if on cue, “Yes.” “No.” “Maybe. I dunno. Can you repeat the question?”

  “You guys need to get a life.” Four people sharing another’s private space for such a long time creates a weird group dynamic, including communicating by quoting sitcoms. I ignored the bait and continued, “I said we will never fit in again. That is especially true in Japan.”

  I have been explaining to Katrina ever since she was old enough to listen that she was just like our faithful Toyota Corolla—made in Japan and exported to America. And of course, it was while September and I were living in Japan, contemplating raising a family, that the whole World-the-Round Trip idea hatched. Being back in Japan was wonderfully comfortable.

  More than a decade after we had lived there I was surprised at how much Japanese was coming back to me. It was wonderful beyond description to be able to communicate with the locals. Make no mistake—my Japanese gave me all the proficiency of the average toddler. But I found that my communication skills, no matter how crude, coupled with a credit card made a powerful statement.

  Recalling our previous experiences in Japan, we were reminded of the saying that no one extorts the Japanese as well as the Japanese. When we lived in Japan twelve years prior and were making plans to explore the country, we found it was cheaper for us to fly to Hong Kong for the weekend than it would be for us to take the Shinkansen (bullet train) to Hiroshima for the weekend. So despite living in Japan for a year, we’d never made it to two places we really wanted to visit: Kyoto and Hiroshima.

  Thus, visiting these places was a priority and we braced ourselves for the most expensive two weeks of our entire trip. But first, after twelve years of being away, we returned to Kamakura where the idea for the World-the-Round Trip began.

  Kamakura is about an hour and a half south of Tokyo by train. An easy day trip from Tokyo, it’s a popular tourist destination and, as an important cultural and historical center, was spared damage during the war. The giant Buddha that is frequently seen on postcards from Japan is just a few blocks from our former apartment.

  Visiting places where we have such fond memories was even infectious for the kids, who were as enthusiastic to walk by where we used to buy groceries as September and I were.

  “There it is guys. Groceries. American groceries. You can get almost anything you want in there.” We were in front of Kinokuniya, which specialized in imported foods. “I’ll buy you Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and if you’re extra good, I’
ll get some peanut butter.” Which was a lie and they knew it. Peanut butter just isn’t available to the general population outside the United States and we were going to get a jar no matter how good or bad the kids might be.

  We entertained ourselves by perusing the aisles of Kinokuniya for a bit. The look and feel of English words is exotic to the Japanese, so many things are spelled out in Jinglish. Where else can you find “Tissues of Kittens” (a box of tissues with kittens pictured on the front) or “Glutinous Starchy Substance” (corn syrup)? Even though I don’t consider it food, we picked up a few boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese along with our “Paste Essence of Peanut.”

  One morning, we started near the apartment where we had once lived and walked past the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha) then continued up into the hills above Kamakura to a shrine called Zeniarai Benten. A sign near the entry proclaims that in a year of the serpent (1185) a Shogun had a dream of the location of a spring and that he should find the spring and build a shrine there. Access to the shrine is through an opening dug into the side of a mountain, but after a short distance, the walkway opens up into a courtyard with blue sky above. A steady stream of people from all over Japan come to the Zeniarai Benten shrine to wash their money in the spring that flows from the side of the mountain. The practice is said to bring good luck.

  The courtyard was bustling during our visit with people drying their newly washed bills and coins over burning incense. We had good luck the day we visited:

  John’s Journal, November 17

  Since discarding her crutches, Katrina has walked with a severe limp, but week by week, her stride has improved. I decided that I would classify her as “completely healed” when I saw her run spontaneously just for the fun of it. That finally happened today, eighteen weeks after her accident. She was running down a steep hill from Zeniarai Benten shrine. She still has a wee bit of a limp, but if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t notice it.

  Of course, we sent our bikes home before we left Switzerland in mid-September. Now in mid-November, Katrina had just passed my litmus test for returning to cycling. We discussed sending for our bikes a few times, but there was always some reason why we couldn’t do it “this month.” Over the remaining months, it just never happened.

  www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz

  On Being Stupid. I had been terrorized as a little boy by my older brother, Dale, at Anaheim’s Disneyland. Thirty-five years later I was finally able to talk about it. Unfortunately, I talked about it with Jordan.

  I love Japan and almost everything about it—the people, the culture, the wonderfully weird mannerisms, and especially the gadgets. But I can do without the food. I mean, come on. Who eats fish and rice for breakfast?

  Through our travels we had hopes that the kids would learn to expand their diet of plain pasta for dinner and toasted waffles for breakfast. Katrina had come a long way in trying new and different foods, but Japan would be a test. More than anything else I had been looking forward to introducing squid and corn pizza to Jordan. However, in a not-so-subtle way, September let me know I was a wimp when it came to eating beyond my comfort zone.

  After leaving the Zeniarai Benten shrine, it was time to rustle up some grub. “I remember a McDonald’s near the end of the pier that leads out to Enoshima Island,” I said.

  September patted me on the hand. “We’re going to be here for two weeks. You are going to have to face the fact that eventually, you will have to eat Japanese food.”

  I thought of George Bush senior making the excuse that he was president of the United States and shouldn’t have to eat broccoli if he didn’t want to. Then I recalled the image of the same George Bush puking and passing out in the lap of Japanese Prime Minister Kiichi Miyazawa. “If I puke in some sushi restaurant,” I said, “it’ll be on your conscience.”

  “I’ll sleep soundly,” September replied.

  Enoshima Island is just a few hundred yards off the mainland, connected by a pier. We walked right past the aforementioned McDonald’s and onto the island in search of lunch. I remembered the vendors along the main walkway on the island selling what the fishermen had caught that very morning. We would find lunch, but it would squiggle, of that I was certain. As we ambled along, Katrina noted one sidewalk vendor making what looked liked thin, crispy waffles. Mmm. Lunch!

  We watched the woman pour batter onto a griddle and then tightly close a lid, cooking the waffle. But I knew that a plain waffle in Japan was too good to be true; there would be a surprise inside. In retribution for inflicting years of plain pasta for dinner on me, I thought the kids deserved a surprise in their lunch. I pointed to the waffles and said, “Why don’t we get waffles for lunch?”

  Unfortunately, Katrina was paying too much attention. “She put something inside,” she said.

  “Probably apple filling or something else yummy.”

  Katrina moved a little closer and to her horror, saw the woman place a little squiggling octopus in the middle of the griddle, pressing it flat with the lid and cooking it into the waffle.

  The kids weren’t interested in waffles anymore.

  Katrina started talking fast and excitedly about how she wanted to rescue those little octopuses. This was more or less expected, since we’ve known that we’ve had a Greenpeace recruit in the making since she was about two. I still envision her as a young woman in her twenties in a rubber dinghy trying to cut off the path of a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.

  I tried to sneak off but September was on to me. “I know what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to eat with us. Into this tempura shop you go.”

  Tempura is usually pretty safe for the American palate; it’s simply prawns or vegetables dipped in batter and fried, then served on a bed of rice. The shop had a picture menu, and when we ordered the food we pointed to the four dishes that looked the most innocent.

  When we got our rice, Katrina started to inspect it closely, wanting to avoid any surprises. Being a quick learner can be a handicap.

  “Katrina,” I said, “you know that inspecting your food too closely is never a good idea.”

  Katrina reminded me of the first time I ever told her that and then summed up, “… so every time I hear you say that, it sort of grosses me out.”

  September had been on a business trip and I hadn’t been to the grocery store in ages. The refrigerator was nearly empty, so I told the kids to go out to the garden and pick some broccoli. Later, when the broccoli was on their plates, Katrina said, “Didn’t you wash this? It’s covered with aphids!”

  I replied, “Oh, you’re exaggerating. Any vegetable is bound to have some tiny bug on it. It’s cooked. Pick the aphid off and eat the broccoli. You should never examine your food too closely; otherwise, you wouldn’t ever eat anything.”

  Problem was, the broccoli was covered with the critters. I found myself forcing a smile because I had already eaten a big plate of it. That’s how I earned my reputation of “eat first and ask questions later.”

  Now in the tempura shop, Katrina was examining each individual rice kernel in her bowl.

  “Eewww! Some of these rice kernels look like tiny fish! I am not eating this!”

  “For heaven’s sake, Katrina, they’re just bean sprouts. They won’t kill you. Starving children in China would be happy to have that.”

  “Since when do bean sprouts have eyes?”

  “They are not eyes! It is a bean sprout, and that is the seed.”

  “I am not eating it!”

  “Fine. Pick out the bean sprouts. I’ll eat them.”

  With that, I ate a couple of bean sprouts to prove my point. They were too little to taste like anything. As the meal progressed, Katrina started to assign imaginary fish parts to her bean sprouts. She could see fins and a mouth and a spine through each transparent little body.

  “Give me a break!” I finally said. “Show me the gills!”

  So she did. I took the tiny bean sprout and with my 45-year-old eyes trie
d to focus on it. “No eyes, no tail, no gills. Bean sprout.”

  “It is a fish!” she persisted. “You need your reading glasses!”

  Ahem. I reached for my glasses and sought out the best light. To my surprise, I found I was holding a tiny, narrow fish, no more than a quarter of an inch long.

  Youth triumphs over experience. This was a new concept for me, and I wasn’t too keen on it. Katrina made note of future “I told you so” rights.

  As an island nation, it’s logical that the dietary staples in Japan come from the sea. In the twenty-first century other options than getting breakfast off a hook are available, but the Japanese culture is arguably more steeped in time-honored tradition than many others. The British might argue otherwise, but how many British teenagers have you seen bowing while speaking on a cell phone? Anyhow, I suspect tradition is a big reason why fish consumption remains high, as it couldn’t be because of taste.

  But, the times they are a-changin’. We found a Baskin-Robbins and Mister Donut at nearly every train station. That certainly wasn’t the case twelve years ago.

  • • •

  “Japanese society,” I explained, as we were checking into a traditional Japanese inn, “lives by a complex set of time-honored customs, and everyone we meet will be courteous to a fault. As a gaijin (foreigner) we don’t stand a chance of ever learning what is expected and all of the rules that govern society. Luckily, we’re given a lot of slack and we’re more or less expected to use the wrong fork with our dinner salad. It provides them with a lot of entertainment.”

  “Dad, Japanese don’t use forks,” Jordan countered.

  “It’s just an example.”

  “I didn’t know you were supposed to use a special fork for eating salad,” Katrina added. “How is it different from a normal fork?”

  “I could never figure that one out,” I said, “but you’re missing my point—there are really only two things you must never do in Japan: no footwear on the tatami mats and no soap in the bathtub. It’s well known that shoes are not allowed in the house and that once inside, you wear slippers. What is less well known is that the slippers must not be worn inside a room whose floor is covered with a tatami mat. Tatami mats are worthy of bare toes or stockinged feet only.”