In Search Of Gold

Last week, I took a short trip to Sado Island. I had a lovely time. I saw some nearly extinct birds, I went out on the sea in a big wooden tub and I bought some senbei from a man who deserted the US Army, went to North Korea and married a Japanese woman who was kidnapped from Japan by North Korean agents – the usual holiday stuff. I also visited an old gold mine and tried my hand at panning for gold.

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Now, perhaps I watched too much Champion the Wonder Horse on Saturday mornings when I was a kid, but I thought panning for gold meant I would be sitting by a river, perhaps wearing a neckerchief and a cowboy hat, and swilling gravel around a big metal pan until I found golden nuggets the size of the breakast cereal ones I used to eat in front of the telly way back then. It wasn’t to be. Instead, my wife and I took our places in one of many lines of people standing next to very long and shallow troughs of water in a building containing nothing but such troughs. It wasn’t even outside. We didn’t sit on rocks by a river. Our pans were no more than small plastic bowls. And, to be honest, I think a few people were sniggering at my leather chaps and holster.

Anyway, a Japanese fellow demonstrated how to scoop up some gravel from the bottom of the trough, swirl it about a bit in a repetitively dull manner, and eventually find some tiny, tiny flakes of gold which had obviously been put there just for this purpose. We did it for an hour and at the end of the experience I had managed to collect two minuscule flaky pieces of gold which may actually just have been shiny sand. Nobody was thinking about selling up and moving here full time. The man opposite me had more gold in his teeth than the entire room could hope to find in a year. Oh well, It was just a bit of fun. Apparently.

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As we left the hall a small, tubby woman in her late sixties or early seventies caught up with my wife. ‘I took a photo of your husband and you in there,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you the picture. May I have your address?’

‘Email?’ asked my wife.

‘No, I want to send a picture,’ said the woman and I guessed she wasn’t the most technogically minded person in Japan.

My wife wrote our name and address down for the woman and she thanked us. We thanked her for the offer, too. ‘Bit weird,’ I said as we walked away. ‘Asking to send photos to complete strangers.’

Well, today the photo arrived. It wasn’t the best. It was a bit blurred and showed me at an unflattering angle which managed both to accentuate my baldness and multiply my chins. It’s not a wall-hanger, that’s for sure. But with the photograph was a letter. It was immaculately handwritten on beautiful paper and told us a little about the woman’s life. The fact she was a calligraphy teacher explained the wonderful script, but there was no explanation about why she had written the letter other than the simple fact that she thought we might like the photo. She could have just stuffed it in an envelope with ‘Here’s the pic,’ scribbled on the back, but she didn’t. She spent some time neatly writing a couple of pages because, I suppose, she thought it would be a nice thing to do. And she was right. It was lovely and thoughtful. The photo may not be a keeper but the letter is. An email would already have been deleted.

There was gold there on Sado. We were just looking in the wrong place.

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Toki

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Careful Workmen

Every so often, a workman appears at my house and proceeds to fix things I didn’t know were broken. My wife is long accustomed to my hopelessness in all matters D.I.Y and no longer asks me to do any household repairs. Shortly after buying our house she had asked me to do something involving electricity and I managed to plunge the entire house into darkness. Then I had to confess to a manly neighbour that I didn’t even know what a ‘breaker’ was never mind where he might find it. These days, my wife silently notes that something needs to be done and gets a man in. Today it was a plumber because apparently it would be better if we had the option to decide if we had done a big toilet or a little one and flush appropriately.

Anyway, the plumber fitted the new flushing device and asked if there was anything else that needed doing. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the socket there is a bit loose.’ I pointed to where our toilet seat plugs in, to the casing that was hanging off the wall to such an extent that I was terrified to touch it. ‘Oh, that could burn your house down,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to fix it?’

‘Yes, please,’ I said, and then after he was done, I led him through our house pointing to all the other loose sockets. He sucked air through his teeth as he pondered how it was that I was still alive. ‘They are all quite dangerous,’ he said. ‘That’s why I never touch them,’ I replied. ‘Can you make them safe.’

The nice man said that he could and proceeded to do things not really within a plumber’s remit. He did so without complaint and announced at the end that it was all ‘service’. He had charged us only for the ‘big shit’ / ‘just a pee’ flusher installation. I thanked him profusely and, after he had left, went to test the big flusher. As I sat there, I marvelled at how unfailingly polite and helpful the man had been, as indeed have all the workmen that have visited my house over the years. It’s always shoes off, sheets down, careful handling, and tidying up so that things are spotless when they leave.

As I came out of the toilet I heard a car arriving and looked out the front door to see the plumber’s van pulling quickly in to the driveway. I wondered what he had forgotten and really hoped he didn’t have to go back into the toilet. I’d have to stall him for a bit if that was the case.

Thankfully, he didn’t. Instead he was full of apologetic phrases as he asked to go back into one of the rooms where he’d fixed a socket high on the wall. You see, he’d moved a chair about a foot or so in order to do the work, and realised after he had left that he hadn’t returned it to it’s original position.

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Japanese Football Commentators

Well, the World Cup is upon us once more. You’ve probably noticed. It’s very entertaining so far and I’ve enjoyed watching as many games as I can. I’ve been doing so while listening to the Japanese commentary of the matches and I have learned a great deal. I now know the heights of most non-Japanese players and understand that Japanese referees and players alike only warrant the mildest of criticism for any errors made.

Perhaps my sleep deprived state is a causal factor, but there is one area of Japanese commentary that leaves me in some confusion: conventions regarding players’ names. I don’t mean mispronunciation of non-Japanese players’ names. That is to be expected and is certainly no worse than English attempts at Japanese names (although the insistence that Italy’s Ballotelli really should be Ballotetti, is still somewhat puzzling). No, what baffles me more is how the commentators decide what name to use for each player. You see, usually they go with the accepted norm, the standard last name of an individual. But why, I wonder, do Japanese commentators almost uniformly call the Spanish player Cesc Fabregas by his first name, Cesc? What’s so special about him? They don’t talk about Wayne or Lionel or Luis. They don’t refer to Fernando Torres as Fernando. In fact, they don’t refer to him as Torres either, for he is another anomaly whereby his first and last names come as a set: Fernandotorres. I am genuinely curious as to why this is so but can find no answers. I shall ponder some more, but in the meantime I must get to bed. I am getting up early tomorrow to watch England take on Uruguay. I wonder if Daniel will score again?

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Road Safety Advice From Rabbits

The other day I popped down to the local police station, for it was time to renew my driving license. The procedure was simple enough. I filled in a form with my personal details and answered a short questionnaire. By means of leaving boxes unchecked, I assured the nice people at the police station that doctors hadn’t told me not to drive, that I wasn’t in the habit of suddenly passing out and other such indicators that I might be a danger behind the wheel. I liked their faith in honesty, but I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had ever checked those boxes.

I handed in my forms and waited for half an hour or so, as those who had arrived before me were called up to have their eyes checked and pay their renewal fees. I knew when it was my turn before they even called my name because a couple of staff members were having a discussion and looking puzzled. I recognised them as katakana illiterates, and as they looked up, about to give my name a go, I was already standing in front of them. I said my name for them and they smiled and gave me my eye test.

Then it was time to wait until I could have my photo taken for the new licence. I was sent to the corner of the police station, where a video was playing on a loop. It was a driving safety video, warning us to wear our seat belts, drive within the speed limits, not to drink and drive and all the other sensible pieces of advice you should heed when operating a motor vehicle. We heard an interview with someone whose child had been killed in a road accident and were shown what would happen to us if our car hit a wall even at a moderate speed. It could have been quite the depressing film, but thankfully our narrator was a cartoon bunny rabbit to keep it all cheery. It reminded me of the Tufty Club in Britain. That was hugely successful and employed a cartoon squirrel. But then again, that was aimed at teaching children under the age of five how to cross the road. I’m not sure it’s quite as necessary to employ the cute friend technique when informing grown-ups how best to avoid death on the roads. When the rabbit appeared on screen after a demonstration of crash test dummies hurtling through windscreens, I kept quiet. I wasn’t sure when the appropriate time to say ‘Kawaii!’ was.

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The Fin. – Circle On The Snows

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When Home Is Far From Home

Every year, towards the end of December, my wife and I pack our bags and fly back to the U.K. It’s not that I miss home, particularly, but rather the fact that I am conscious of the fact my parents are in their seventies and whilst they appear healthy and in reasonable control of their faculties, once you reach a certain age you can’t take another full one for granted. It’s awful really. As everybody knows, time passes more quickly with every year one is alive. When I look back ten years, it seems to have been just a short time ago. When I think of the age I will be ten years hence, it is terrifying. In that short time, I will be what seems like a ridiculous age to be. My mind isn’t ready. But it never is, is it? We are all still youthful in our heads. However scary my forward thinking may be, though, at least I have that luxury. At least I can hedge my bets and consider ten years into the future. For my parents, and perhaps yours, ten years is a luxury they can pray and hope for but not accept as a given.

Right now I am sitting in Heathrow Airport having a pint before I head back to Japan. A few hours ago, I hugged my mother and watched her cry as she always does when I leave. ‘I wish you could be here more often,’ she said. And every time it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart because amongst those tears which are saying goodbye to a son who is heading back to Japan, I know there are frightened tears that say so much more. I know there are tears which roll with the fear that they are simply saying, ‘Goodbye.’

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