Beach barbecue

At the end of July, some of the teachers from Tsushima High had a beach barbecue, and I happily went along. We went to a beach I hadn't seen yet, though it turns out to be almost the nearest beach to me. My car's share of the supplies was two big ice chests, and we stopped at a commercial fishing dock for the ice. The teacher I was with paid the dock guy, and we used their gigantic ice-for-the-fishing-boats-to-keep-their-fish-fresh machine. The only part of the apparatus we saw was a rubber pipe about two feet in diameter. There must have been a glacier being butchered by a buzzsaw at the other end, judging by how much ice this thing shot out. $10 got us 100kg, which is about 200 pounds. All that came out in about ten seconds, and the ice chests were practically buried by the excess.

The beach itself is called Oura, and instead of sand, its shores are rocky. The rocks are smooth, though, so walking on them is more uncomfortable than actually dangerous. Raised above the beach is a picnic area, with six or seven five-foot-square brick pits for barbecuing. There were about twelve teachers there, and half of those had brought their wives and children. (None of the married women teachers came.) They had prepared customary barbecue fare--hot dogs (they call them wieners here, which still makes the third grader in me giggle), thinly sliced beef, and corn on the cob. In addition, though, they had sliced up some carrots, onions, green peppers, mushrooms, and potatoes. I quickly realized the Japanese tendency to never do anything halfway extends to cookouts as well.

Everyone had a blast talking and eating, and I met a girl who was visiting from Nagasaki. She's dating one of the teachers at Tsushima High, and she wants to be an English teacher. I found out from her that qualifying to teach in Japan requires a series of standardized tests, and she was just beginning down that path. Her English was awesome, though--she was an exchange student to Australia in high school. Having a Japanese girl talk to me in English with an Australian accent kind of blew my mind.

One of the other English teachers had assumed the role of grill master, but when he took a break after a while, he asked me if I'd brought my frisbee. Having lived in Myers for two years, I hardly ever go outside without a frisbee; of course I'd brought one with me. He and I threw for a while, which got a couple of the other guys to join in.

The main attraction at Oura is the swimming. There's a large tide wall that isolates the beach area from the sea, and the water gets to about twenty meters deep. There's a large concrete platform on the beach side of the wall, and you can jump off into the water. Lots of kids were doing it, and some adults were, too. Once some of the other teachers ran off to do it, I figured it'd be ironic if I used that as an excuse to jump off the platform.

When I got here last year, I discovered I'm kind of a weenie when it comes to being in deep water if I can't see the bottom. I think it comes from reading things like Sphere and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and watching too many videos like this on YouTube. When I heard that Japan gets jellyfish the size of refrigerators, that pretty much turned fear of something imagined into fear of something probably there. I've tried overcoming that fear this summer. That's been a big part of my push to go swimming and snorkeling every chance I get.

Anyway, I swam out to the platform, mustered all the courage I could, and jumped right in. Of course nothing went wrong; it was awesome. I haven't had that much fun in the water since we used to spend afternoons lining up and jumping into a swimming pool. I borrowed one of the teachers' masks and took a peek at what we were jumping into. All I saw was clear water, with beautiful blue and green fish dancing around. No jellyfish, no urchins (not around our platform, anyway), and no giant squid waiting to grab unsuspecting American teachers of English.

Later, some Tsushima High students showed up. The teacher in charge of the grill asked them something about catching some fish for him to cook. When they half-jokingly said they'd be happy to, except they hadn't brought any equipment, he called their bluff: he gave one of them a mask, snorkel, screwdriver (for prying), a mesh bag, and swimming shoes. The boy and his friends darted off, and about an hour later, they showed up with two sea urchins. The urchins were still very much alive, their spines still shifting around. The teacher thanked the students and, without hesitating, flipped the urchins over, used the screwdriver to crack open their bodies (I later learned the technical term is test, and put each half on the grill. After a minute or two, he took one piece off and tucked into it with his chopsticks. He gave the student another piece, thanked him again, and offered some to everyone else. I've tried it before (thankfully before I read about what part is eaten), so I passed, but everyone else raved about how delicious it was.

Alas, my deceased camera was unable to take pictures of the occasion.

Homesickness

I love the weather here in the summertime. Though it's almost enough to make me forget how bitterly cold it gets in February, I'm still aware of that just keenly enough to make me appreciate the warmth that much more. School feels a lot more relaxed, and hanging out at the beach sure beats staying inside all the time.

Despite all this, I noticed back in July that I was spending a lot of time in a bad mood. I was cranky, I didn't like hanging out with the other ALTs as much, I enjoyed chorus rehearsal less and less, and I was just generally pretty crabby. When I realized this, I was confused: I readily admitted to myself that I still loved my job. Lessons were, as always, fun and engaging. Sure, some of the kids were coming along slowly, and some classes were rowdy, but no more so than usual.

It took me a while to realize that I was homesick. Prior to this, the longest I'd ever gone without visiting my parents had been six months. Not having been home since New Year's, July marked the beginning of my seventh month without seeing them. Despite my best efforts to stave it off, I'd come down with a case of homesickness.

Realizing it was only half the battle, of course. I had to force myself to go outside and be more active. I started going to the gym at least three times a week, I stopped at the beach every day on the way back from the gym, and I cleaned my apartment. It took a couple of weeks, but, little by little, I pulled myself out of it.

I still love traveling, and I know that I'm not ready to cut bait and go home. I eventually want to settle down somewhere near family, of course, but not yet. This summer has taught me that I can handle travel with no problem, so long as I go home every six months. I felt kind of ashamed when I first realized that. I felt like a weenie: here I am, so weak that I can't stay away from home for a measly six months, when Aaron went a full two years without going home.

After some more thought, I've decided that's the wrong way to look at it. My needing to visit home twice a year doesn't make me weak or oversensitive; someone else not needing to visit home but every two years doesn't make them strong or cold-hearted. Each of us just has different limits, and I've found mine. I love adventuring almost as much as I love my friends and family. Visiting home twice a year is what I need to keep a healthy balance of those two loves.

Beach miscellany

I spent a lot of time at the beach this summer. After the rainy season ended, and temperatures jumped to the 30s (high 80s Fahrenheit), the water got just about as warm as a nice bath. I bought a mask and snorkel, and took every chance I could to use it. I wish I'd taken a marine biology class in college, because I know I'd be able to appreciate all of this so much more. Without knowing the actual names of the fish I saw, all I can say is there were blue ones, green ones, brown ones, and yellow ones.

I also saw a few small schools of tiny fish fluttering around in perfect synchronization, which reminded me of Finding Nemo. I swam over to a part of one beach that didn't have any people in it that day, and all around me were foot-long white fish just chilling out: not feeding, not mating, not really even swimming around much.

I've seen several slug-looking things, though I'm not sure whether they're Opisthobranchs or sea cucumbers. I've also seen a small stingray.

The other ALTs and I have been hanging out at the beach pretty often. One day, at Miuda, my favorite beach in Tsushima, we were throwing the football around in a shallow area of the beach. Evelyn saw an octopus up near the shore, and we slowly surrounded it. It was a dull red color, and definitely alive. We didn't get close enough to make it freak out and ink or anything, but we wanted to keep it from being gobbled up by a local. We slowly hedged it over to some nearby rocks. Along the way, it found a piece of seaweed, stopped, and promptly changed its color to the same dull green-brown of the plant. When it realized we weren't fooled, it let go, changed back to dull red, and swam on. We finally got it to the rocks, and it immediately changed to their precise shade of brown.

This is obviously one of the coolest things I've ever seen.

Toyotama Taiikutaikai

This is going to be a long and largely unpleasant post.

My frustration with the handling of the hot weather came to a head one day at my small high school--the one in Toyotama. Every summer, high schools have a field day called 体育大会, or tai-iku-tai-kai. I went to the one for my main high school last September. For some reason, Toyotama has its field day right smack dab in the middle of July.

Unlike for my main high school, I wasn't required to attend this one. Instead, my supervisor there asked if I could make it, and told me the kids would like to see me there. I'm a sucker for that line of reasoning, so of course I agreed. The shindig began at 9, but I hadn't spoken to my parents in a week, so I stayed in to talk to them for a while. I got to the school at about 10:30.

By the way, this is my smaller high school: there are only 130 students, with three grade levels having three homerooms of 15-20 students each. This makes for a very cozy group, especially compared to Tsushima High School's 700 students.

Both of my high schools have a huge dirt field used for everything from track to soccer to baseball. I can only assume this is a fixture of Japanese high schools. There were tents erected and chairs set out for the parents, teachers, and various townsfolk who came to watch. There were also two tents and some chairs set out on the other side of the field for the students, but they spent most of their time out in the sun.

The activities themselves were great fun: I arrived in time for the end of what looked like a drag show. No, seriously: each homeroom of each grade was parading a boy escorted by two girls, and the boy was dressed up like a girl. One was in an evening gown, another in a girl's school uniform, and another in a leather jacket and fishnet stockings, carrying an electric guitar. Each contestant gave a short introduction speech, with most of the guys affecting a lisp or some other accent.

Next up, two boys from each homeroom took the field. Each one was presented with a large sack of rice. They were told to start, and one of each pair of boys hefted the sack over his head. It was a strongman contest: the last guy holding the sack up would win. They all made it thirty seconds; a few dropped out at about a minute. About half had dropped out by 1:30, and by two minutes, there were two boys left. One of them was a lean second-year; the other was a burly third-year boy, easily the biggest student in school. They stood unmoving, rice sacks over their heads, for another minute or two. They both started shaking a little, and let the sack rest on their heads. After a total of about five minutes, the second-year gave up. The other guy shall heretofore be named Ox in my mind.

After that, the students began the races. There were about ten different relays and dashes: one 100m and 200m each for boys and girls, and 200m relays for each grade level's homeroom. The most impressive was the final 200m relay for the clubs. Each club's members changed into their uniforms: basketball, volleyball, tennis, badminton, track and field, photography, and band. (The last two obviously didn't have uniforms, though they did change into something different.) The baton for each team was an object associated with its sport: basketball, volleyball, tennis racket, birdie, baton, camera, and electric guitar, respectively. Yes, the photography club members ran with a camera around their neck, and passed it to the neck of the next runner. The band runners did the same thing with the guitar. It was highly amusing, and everyone had a great time.

Around this time, we broke for lunch. The sky was a beautiful blue, with no clouds anywhere, and there wasn't even a hint of breeze. The temperature was somewhere around 90, with high humidity.

Returning from lunch, we did a few fun events. First was tug-of-war, with the grade levels squaring off against each other. The faculty comprised the fourth team in the bracketing--a quick call for volunteers got our team together. We just barely beat the third-years, who had Ox at anchor. Next up was a race called the mukade. Teams of six people line up and tie one rope to all their left legs, and another to all their right legs. Sort of a three-legged race writ large, the only way to run the race is to coordinate your steps. All the feet flying rather resembles a mukade (centipede); hence the name. There were three different teams of teachers for that one. Everyone got a kick out of my running, since I'd come in flip-flops, and decided to brave it barefoot rather than risk tripping over them halfway down the line.

The grade levels then performed dance routines. They all had matching costumes for the occasion: the first- and second-years dressed in tie-dye shirts, and the third-years wore their full school uniforms. The first- and second-years danced to salsa music. The third-years donned white gloves, and lined up single-file facing the crowd. With a student beating on a drum fashioned from a fifty-gallon steel barrel, the students performed a synchronized dance. The gloves made for a pretty cool trailing effect.

All along, I had noticed that the majority of the spectators under the tent were drinking not water, but tea. This struck me as silly but not dangerous, as they were all comfortably in the slightly-less-sweltering shade. I can't be sure, but I'm fairly certain the students were drinking tea as well, on the rare occasions when they were out of the sun long enough to have a drink break. As I began noticing just how uncomfortable I felt merely standing in the heat, I was prepared to chalk this up as yet another example of just how hardy Japanese are raised to be.

It was about this time that the trouble started. I noticed a couple of students being led by a friend or two into the school, only to see the escorting students return alone. After we finished the mukade race, I was walking past the students' tents, and saw one girl sitting, surrounded by friends, and sobbing. Another girl had her face buried in her hands, while friends fanned her.

Of course, the teachers were acting. Unflappable, one or two would help the sick students into the school infirmary. I watched as no fewer than six students were led inside. After the dances, the students lined up in front of the principal's table, presenting themselves for his closing remarks. One of the girls collapsed onto the dirt, and had to be helped inside.

Through all of this, none of the assembled spectators budged. As far as I could tell, there weren't even rumblings about the goings-on. I didn't get the feeling that they didn't care, but it never seemed to go beyond silent concern.

Even when the first ambulance arrived, parked directly behind the spectator tent, and paramedics used a stretcher to carry out a bawling girl, and drove off, the activities went on without a hitch. This was followed by a second and a third ambulance soon after; still the event continued. By the end, a small murmur had finally begun to spread, but still nothing was said openly.

The event ended as planned: the principal and the head of the PTA gave speeches, thanked the students, and we all applauded everybody. The crowd dispersed, and students and faculty began breaking into teams to help take down the tents. I excused myself.

I can't remember the last time I've been this angry. I was mad at everything: the students, for not standing up for themselves; the parents, for not standing up for their children; the teachers, for not speaking out for their students; the administration, for not having the wherewithal to call the whole thing off; the prefectural government, for not using their authority to call the whole thing off for the administration.

I was just as mad at myself, for not doing anything to help. I remember consciously deciding not to intervene, that the onlookers were every bit as aware of the heat as I was, and that it was for them to resolve. I reasoned it that way not to shirk my responsibility, but rather to force them to face the consequences of the harsh (and to me--despite all the relativism and open-mindedness I like to think I embrace--stupid) circumstances they were subjecting their children to. The bottom line, though, is that I failed to help the students every bit as much as the parents, teachers, and administration did.

They didn't even have to call the whole thing off to solve the problems. I remember my field days, and Florida in May is just about as sweltering as Japan in July--we would spend the better part of a whole school day in the sun. We had cold drinks for sale, though, as well as water fountains, water breaks, and air-conditioned facilities for emergencies. They could have set aside ten- or fifteen-minute mandatory water breaks every hour or two for all participants. They could have reduced the number and intensity of the running activities.

They could have held the thing in any one of the other eleven months not part of the hottest time of year.

What made me even more furious was the fact--of which I was aware before, during, and after--that the other two high schools on the island don't have this event until September. It's still hot in September, but there are more cloudy days, and there's a pretty constant breeze.

The following Tuesday, when I made my next trip to the school, I heard the full tally: eighteen students admitted to the school infirmary for heat-related illness, with six taken to the hospital by ambulance. Classes had been called off the week prior, to focus on practice for the field day, so the students were all run ragged. The principal and vice principal spent most of Tuesday in the infirmary helping the nurse with the 20-30 students who came because of heat exhaustion.

That afternoon, something almost unheard of happened: school was dismissed early. For a school system where normal classes run until about 4 p.m., extra classes last until 5, and school-sponsored activities run until about 6 or 7, the concept of "dismissal" is hard to grasp. Due to the heat, though, school was to be dismissed after 3 p.m. I asked a few of the teachers, and none of them could ever remember any school dismissing early on account of heat.

When I discussed this with the teachers at my main high school, they all agreed that it was ridiculous for Toyotama to have their field day in July. This--hearing Japanese censure the actions of their fellow Japanese--went a long way to restoring my faith in the system here. Until then, I had been left to think that this sort of thing happens all the time in Japan, and goes unchallenged and unchanged.

Here, June showers bring July flowers

By the first week of July, all the rain cleared out. It literally felt like a great big spigot controlling flow to a great big sprinkler through a great big hosepipe was turned off. Except it didn't make the squeaking normal spigots always do. The point is, it went from blah one day to absolutely beautiful the next. After a month of rain, you could practically hear the flowers blossoming in the sunlight. My drive to Toyotama took me past wildflowers I've never seen before. (I don't know much about flowers, but I'm sure it'd be even more spectacular to an expert.) Once again, since I didn't have a camera, all I can do is fail to adequately describe them. There were several kinds with blossoms arranged in balls of 20-30. They came in shades of blue to purple. There were also awesome orange lilies. (See? Failure.) While a few houses have flower patches, the overwhelming majority of these were just growing wild along the road.

There was a brief period of comfortable weather as the rainy season officially blew out, but by the second week of the month everything was blanketed in heat. Highs which had a week before floated in the mid-70s jumped to the high 80s, with the same ridiculously high humidity from June. Basically, it turned into summer in most of the southern U.S. Of course, just as with the winter cold, I quickly realized what a difference insulation and climate control can make.

My schools' staffrooms began using the air conditioning, and while that gave welcome relief, it almost made teaching more miserable. I would last maybe five minutes in the classroom before being coated in sweat, and that's without my usual jumping around and walking from desk to desk. Again, just like during winter, my frustration was on the students' behalf. I get to change into shorts when I'm not teaching, drive to school in air conditioning if I want to, and I get to retreat to a 75-degree air-conditioned staffroom between each class. They have to endure the swelter all day long, and of course they still have club activities and P.E. to deal with.