Audition Day

On May 4^th, I check my e-mails again for Ishizuka’s detailed and concise description of how to get to Iga, and cycle to Sone Station. On the way I realise that I’ve left my mobile phone at home. Not a good idea. I might get lost, arrive late, or the ninja might change his mind or want to contact me about something on the way. I-san is in Nara, and we have to get in touch about a possible visit on my way back the next day. I turn around and go back to get my phone. On the way back to the station, I stop at the Japanese sweets shop with the woman who has the 1000 wrinke smile and the Oji-san with the friendly face and the round, bald head. Today they are both there and repeatedly express their admiration of my Japanese skills. But the real compliment is that the more I say, the more the two of them laugh. The absurdity of it. A gaijin that really does speak Japanese. Oji-san even voices it: “Well, if you’re that good, it’s fun, isn’t it?” All I’m doing is everyday conversation, but it is definitely more fun being able to communicate than to being stuck behind the language barrier, and watching the world through the bars of that cruel prison.

I want to bring the ninjas something famous from Osaka, as is customary in Japan: you bring a present that is famous where you come from, but here, they only have more local Toyonaka specialities, and it is a hot day, so I settle for a box full of small tubs of fruit jelly at 1600 Yen. I want to spend more money to show proportionally more appreciation for the ninja’s kindness. Alas, this Friday is Golden Week holiday, and the post office-ATM included-is shut. SO I have to be careful with my cash as I have to pay for the train journey from Sone to Ueno-shi in Iga, and back.

Oji-san wraps the box in the shop’s own wrapping paper and puts it in a matching paper-bag for me, while Oba-san takes my cash and gives me the change. Then they perform their final obligatory good bye bows and tell me to come again. Oba-san’s 1000 wrinke smile escorts me out into the hot May day, where the sun looks faint in comparison.

Finally, I board the Hankyu train to Umeda. On my way to the big pedestrian’s bridge that leads across to JR Osaka Station I run into Itamal, the new aikidoka at Shosenji from Israel. He is waiting for B-san and Herrn T to attend the opening ceremony of a new dojo to be opened today in Umeda. We exchange a short greeting. “Are you coming, too?” he asks. “I’d love to, I have a job interview today, so I can’t go.” He wishes me luck, and I get on the Osaka loop line, direction Tennoji, to Tsuruhashi. The train is packed, and I can hardly squeeze in. Then it goes on to the Osaka Subway, which is not a Subway at all but a rather nice two double-decker train complete with real big green plants in the spaces between the coaches and nice toilets with separate mirror and sink arrangements in the corridor. This comfortable train takes me to Iga Kanbe. I have to buy another ticket for 1040 Yen at Tsuruhashi before I can pass through the gate to change trains. On the train, I have to pay another 850 Yen to the ticket man. The system is not altogether clear to me, but I am moving towards my destination, which is what matters.

When I arrive, I get onto another Subway train, which is not really a subway either but a very plain countryside train with two benches facing each other along the length of the train. I try to ask an oba-san whether this is the right train, but she waves her hands at me before I manage to say a word. “I don’t understand,” she says. I don’t want to upset her any further and ask the lady beside her who looks Philippino and has an un-Japanese kind of accent I can’t identify. It does seem to be the right train.

Ueno-shi is a small, inconspicuous station. Iga is a town that doesn’t seem to have much, and what it does have is hidden, in every otherwise unused nook and cranny of the city, on every shop and restaurant signboard, and on just about every product sold in this town: ninjas. Scary ninjas, cute ninjas, big ninjas, small ninjas, plastic ninjas, wooden ninjas, ninja dogs, ninja children, ninja men, and ninja women clomping about in high heels. The city is rife with ninja commerce. Ninja udon, ninja rice crackers, ninja wristbands, ninja mobile phone pendants, ninja weapons made of rubber, ninja suits, ninja everything.

Once upon a time, they used to be so well hidden, people didn’t know where and who they were, never mind what business they were in. This was their very business, stealth. But their excellence in mastering it in combination with a multitude of sophisticated espionage and martial tricks and techniques, has made them so famous that they have lasted through Japan’s warring states period from ca 1478 to 1605, when their skills were widely coveted by daimyos and other powerful people. They are still alive, and they still use the same techniques, skills, incantations, and weapons. But their business has changed. They now perform stealth for show. Iga is the last real ninja stronghold in the world, where the arts of the ninja, now called ninjutsu, are preserved and trained to be presented to enthusiastic international audiences. The ninja stage at Ninja-village is the main tourist venue for this, with shows every hour; every half hour during tourist season, including Golden Week. But occasionally, the ninjas leave their hometown to open up their skills to wider audiences and perform in movies and TV shows, including box office hits such as The Last Samurai.

I walk into the small tourist information box next to the station to get a map and ask where to go, but since everybody seems to be going the same way, there is no real need to adhere to the map. Down the stairs, and up the road to where it gets greener, big, leafy trees lining the broad path leading up to Ninja-village, a world in the shadow. When I arrive around two a’clock, hoards of people are queuing to get into the ninja museum, followed most likely by the ninja show. The person I am here to meet is probably entertaining the previous batch of people right now, sternly chanting mysterious ninja incantations, swiftly cutting through rows of makiwara, mats of bamboo, rolled up tight and soaked in water for hours, to offer the same resistance as human necks, swinging about his heavy Japanese katana with the ease and elegance of a monkey swinging from tree to tree. I join the shorter queue leading up to the ticket booth and announce my arrival. “My name is Anna, and I’m here to see Ukita Hanzo Sensei.”

The woman at the counter calls over another woman, young looking middle-aged, sparkly-eyed, in a purple ninja suit. “Ah, Anna-san!” she greets me, and gestures for me to walk to the exit of the ticket booth and follow her. She leads me down the path and turns at an almost invisible corner. From here, a small dirt track leads down to a little shelter. The “tent”. In front of it, is a fishing chair, surrounded by bins and other types of random objects resembling those found in a camping ground, or a film shooting camp. A tarpaulin roof covers the entrance area, big dusty foot mats pave the way to the door. The woman knocks and opens the door for me. “Anna-san is here!” In the tent, Ukita-Sensei and one of the other ninjas I saw in the show last time are preparing for the next show. But Ukita-Sensei seems calm. He has time. “Ah, Anan,” he says. “Hello. If you wear those flat soled jika-tabi all day, you get really tired. I’ll give you some with air cushioned soles, they’ll be easier to walk in. Don’t be nervous today. Just watch things and take it easy.” He gives me a box with size 25 jika-tabi. So this is what the shoe size question was about. I thank him humbly, trying to show even the smallest piece of my appreciation for his kindness, and change into my new tabi. “They fit perfectly, don’t they?” Ukita-Sensei smiles. They do. He then gives me a T-shirt and explains that the two kanji written on it mean “Ninja Soul”. A short explanation follows in English. “I think you understand this part.” He says.

Japanese Ninja Soul

The ninja’s original use of guerrilla tactics against better armed enemy samurai and their eventual use as hired spies does not mean that they were limited to espionage and undercover work, this is simply where their actions most drastically differed from the more accepted tactics of the samurai. Their weapons and tactics were partially derived from the need to conceal or defend themselves quickly from Samurai, which can be seen from the similarities between many of their weapons and various sickles and threshing tools used at the time.

To top it off, he gives me some red wristbands that bear the kanji for “nin”, or “shinobu”, hide. “Do you want to get changed?” asks Sensei. He and the other ninja politely leave the tent, and I change into my ninja soul. We then proceed to the ninja stage around the corner. He greets the diligent woman shouting out the show on offer and selling tickets to long queues of visitors, and takes me to the stage. The previous show is over, and the two entrances are closed, so no visitors are in the stage area at the moment. He introduces me to U-san, a very friendly woman with a pony tail wearing a short, kimono-like top with the kuji-no-in, the nine-letter incantation the ninja used in combination with hand gestures to prepare themselves for their missions. She is another diligent helper who shows visitors to the correct exits, and sits in the little box at the rear end of the rows of spectator seats, providing the music and sound effects for the show. She is always doing something, mysteriously making this a good environment for people to sit and enjoy the ninja show to the fullest.

I am reminded repeatedly by the ninja boss to just watch and take it easy. “And by the way, S-san, the woman you just saw selling tickets over there is the world karate champion.” He chuckles silently, walking on ahead of me, knowing without looking that my jaw has dropped and I have trouble regaining control over it. “If you start working for us,” says Sensei, “this is what you have to learn first. Sell tickets, help visitors, clean, remember how to do everything around the ninja stage. Help us.”

So it is this mysterious, constant diligence in the name of visitor satisfaction that I have to try and copy. I try to take in U-san’s every step and word. What is the secret? How do you get good at this? The first thing is probably to actually have your visitors’ satisfaction at heart. And what a truly splendid cause it is to entertain people. To give them some happiness and diversion in a world that is usually crammed with drab duties. Other than that, I do as I’m told, sitting in the middle of the front row, enjoying the ninja show. There are several different programs, but even if it was the same one every time, I would never get bored of the swishy flying around, the somersaults, ninja stars being hurled into a wooden wall, and the sword art. “Anna,” I get called by U-san in between shows. “Go down to the queue and interpret!” I run and find the boss next to a small group of foreigners. “I think they want to ask me something,” he says. I interpret for them. Their English sounds Dutch. “Yes, we were just wondering how long we have to wait to get in.” I interpret, and the boss tells them: “Sorry, this show is full now. The next show starts at half four, but if you want good seats, you should try to get here for quarter past.” I pass on his words, they thank me, and I tell them to enjoy their day at the Ninja-mura. “Very good!” says the boss in English and smiles. “This is great. It’s just what we were looking for, somebody who speaks English and can help us with all the foreign visitors.” I humbly deny any trace of expertise or skill and assure him I will always be at his service.

I run back inside and help the next bunch of foreigners, Americans this time. One of them has a camera and wants to know where he can go to get the best view of the show. I tell him to try standing behind the kids sitting on the mat in front, and enjoy the show from there. U-san witnesses our communication, makes round eyes and claps. “Sugoi!” she says. “Wow!” It is unbelievable how as easy an effort as speaking a few lines of everyday English can impress somebody who, day in, day out, watches people fly about in somersaults, run up walls, make six ninja starts land simultaneously in a wooden wall 15 feet away, and have a coin wander around an umbrella for minutes at a time.

After this, I spend a few shows sitting in the sound effect box with U-san, trying to remember what button makes which sound – control panel on the left. 1: flying about stealthily, a sound like wind. 6: ninja star gets stuck in the wall. Clonk. Control panel on the right: 1 - knife goes into the neck, 2 - knife gets pulled out, 3 – the rope is retrieved. A separate button on the bottom is turned right and back quickly when the katana cuts through the bamboo mats to create a cutting thump. I can’t remember everything, there are too many sounds and buttons, and it is difficult to watch the show and the buttons at the same time. But U-san seems to, whisperingly, give the boss a good reference about my observation skills. “Yes,” says the boss, “She’ll probably remember it in no time.” I don’t know where he takes his faith in me from.

After the last show is over, the men are busy putting a big tarpaulin above the stage to prevent it from getting wet or dirty during the night. This is their job, so the boss tells S-san, U-san and me to sit down and relax. We sit watching the work. The boss walks past us and says to S-san: “I’d like you to check whether this child is flexible. Whenever you have time.” S-san seems exhausted. She is married with children now, and doesn’t really want to come work all day during Golden Week, but she is a faithful group member even now. She has tended to long queues of visitors all day long in the scorching May sun. “O well, “ she says, “let’s do it now!” She gets one of the thin plastic sheets used when the spectator seats get so packed that extra seating eneds to be provided on the floor, and puts it into the stage. Then she sits down n the front bench. “Ok, Anna.” She says. “Side splits.” I stand on the mat and slide down into as wide a stance as I can manage, then I sit down. It is not a perfect 180 degrees, and I have probably failed the audition already. “OK. Now turn left.” She is still going. Is that a good sign? Front splits are easy, so left is no problem. Neither is right, although my pulled hamstring injury is still making this side much elss flexible than the other, but it is enough for front splits. “OK, and back to the middle.” I get back to the middle. “Can you bend your upper body forward? How far down can you get?” I lean forward and put my upper body on the ground. Today it hurts quite bad. Some days it hurts more, some less, but it’s always possible. “Yawarakai!” sounds the judge’s decision. Relief. She actually thinks I’m flexible. She has me do a few kicks. Kicks are my weak point. Ask T-Sensei. She corrects my round-house back kick, and I try to follow her instructions. This is the world karate champion, if nothing else, I will take her advice home with me. “Ok, ok, she says.” “So?” says the boss when he comes back. “Yes. She’s flexible. She won’t injure herself. If she trains, she’ll be able to do it in no time.” Somehow, everybody’s optimism about my learning capacities makes me more and more nervous. Some training this must be.

Apparently, my audition is over. S-san tells me what boxes to carry from backstage to the car. We carry the boxes to the car and deposit them in the back, together with the nunchakus and katanas. Then I sit in the car with U-san, waiting for Tomonosuke, the umbrella man to come and drive us to the ryokan (Japanese style hotel), Hotel Neo Furuton, where the boss has told me he will put me up tonight, the same ryokan they are staying in for the duration of Golden Week, when things are so busy at the Ninja village that they don’t have time to go home for the night.

In the car, talk to U-san. She does a “normal” job during the week and usually only comes here to help the ninjas on Sundays. She has been doing this for years, but she never tires of seeing the show. I tell her this world seems familiar to me. There are no ninjas in my family, my mum was an actress until she was about 37, when she decided to go back to school and become a children’s psychologist. So when I was little, I spent a lot of time playing with all the bizarre objects that, in the backstage shadows, mingle to create strange little worlds of their own, the darkness beneath the spectacle that most people never get to see. U-san is thoroughly impressed that my mum went back to school to become a psychologist. “She must be really clever!” “She is. I’m proud of her.”

Finally, Tomonosuke and his father, the boss, come walking up the road. Tomonosuke’s ninja pony tail has dissolved into a hairstyle that is clearly intended to be turned into a ponytail, with a fringe in front that goes a little further around the sides than a usual fringe, and longer hair in the back. He is wearing jeans and a denim jacket. Sensei is wearing a T-Shirt with “Bruce Lee” written across it. Then Masanosuke, the other ninja son appears, together with the third ninja, who is not a family member by blood, merely by profession. The boss has his own car and takes Masanosuke along. The third ninja jumps in with us, and we drive to the ryokan. It is a ten minute drive, and when we stop, there is nothing there but the hotel and a big parking lot. Life in the shadows of the motorway.

We enter the hotel and take off our shoes to deposit them in the shoe shelf and change into hotel slippers. U-san hands me my key, number 403, next to the ninja brothers who live in 404. She buys some mobile phone straps for 800 Yen a piece. They are shaped like the ropes the ninjas use to apply arm and wristlocks and other deadly techniques to people from a distance in a set of techniques called Hobakujutsu. “My mother really wants one,” she explains. “She got angry with me that I hadn’t brought her one before. “

Then she tells me to go to my room and relax, and come back down at 7.30 for dinner in the dining room on the first floor. “Over there.” She points at the dining room, and I thank her for all her help and instructions and take the elevator upstairs, together with Masanosuke.

My room is a tidy Japanese tatami room, complete with a futon, a TV, the usual toiletries, a kettle, green tea bags, and a folded up Yukata in a niche in the wall. I try to tidy up my thoughts, and take out my notebook for support, but there is not enough time until half seven, when I have a dinner appointment with the ninjas.

On The Phone Again

The next day, I get a text message from the ninja. “I have your details in my phone now, so please contact me by text message in the future because I am usually too busy to take calls.” I send him a reply to confirm I have got his message, thank him for his kindness, and ask for more of it in the future. The standard Japanese order of etiquette. To be applied together with horenso. It means spinach, a vegetable highly revered by many conscientious eaters because of a misplaced decimal that ended up in a gross exaggeration of its iron content. My friend Popeye rode the wave and it didn’t do him any harm. Ironic. In Japan, these syllables are also used to refer to HOkoku, report, RENraku, contact, and SOdan, consultation. The vitamins and minerals of Japanese work relations. Everything has to be reported, everybody has to be contacted and contact everybody else all the time, and before you sneeze in the office, you have to consult with your manager and colleagues about the possible effects of this action. I have to report every month how many students have renewed their contracts. Most of the time, the number is zero. But horenso needs to be eaten in spite of decimal blunders and followed regardless of the rules of common sense. Nonsensical reports take up about half of my twenty weekly hours unpaid overtime, which usually spoils my appetite for spinach.

But the ninja teacher has my genuine respect and I genuinely hope for his continued benevolence, so in this case, what is usually automated etiquette comes from the heart. The next day Ishizuka kindly sends me an e-mail containing details of how to get to Iga by train, and I send the ninja a message telling him I will be departing for Iga on Friday early morning but am not sure how long it will take me. I am aiming to arrive at two a’clock.

Later in the evening, I am sitting in a small Shinsaibashi bar with a friendly barkeeper who is wearing a baseball cap and admits to latent video game addiction, occasionally taking calls from a phone the shape of a giant burger, opposite Shi-chan, B-san’s student’s girlfriend, who I have met up with to inquire about the possibilities of taking on hostess work. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Another message from the ninja. “You’re quite a find. You don’t have to come on Friday. Come any time you are free. I will wait.” Shocked I take another sip of my yogurt and pineapple flavoured long drink, put the glass down, and apologise to Shi-chan for being so rude as to be using my mobile while we’re talking. She uses the opportunity to write a text message herself while I send another bout of heartfelt etiquette, together with the promise that I’m going this Friday if the ninja world is not too busy to audition me, and I will stay for as long as he wants me there.

I get a reply the next day. “When you get here, please tell people in the ticket booth that you’re here to meet me, so you won’t have to pay to get in. I will introduce the world karate champion to you. What is your shoe size? Please don’t be nervous and come for an enjoyable day. I will let you stay in our hotel for the night.”

Yet again, get the feeling I really HAVE got stuck in the mysterious Bermuda triangle of a day dream. Move on. Even here, I cannot escape it. Horenso, but here, in my world, or at least a world that favours me uncannily with generosity and continued benevolence, it is horenso from the heart. And my shoe size is 25. On 25 cm feet I will be walking into Ninja-mura tomorrow. This time, for an audition with a view to becoming a ninja.

Call

くノ一

“You know the kanji for woman?” says Ishizuka while we’re slobbering our Ninja Udon in Iga. “Take the left part, and it becomes a hiragana ‘ku’. Take the right part, and it becomes a katakana ‘no’. Take the straight line on top, and it becomes the kanji for ‘ichi’, number one. So a female ninja is called a ‘kunoichi’.”

On the second day of Golden Week, I have fallen for the idea of becoming a kunoichi. It keeps somersaulting through my head, triggering domino collapses of sensible thought, turning everything into a landscape of chaotically pulsing rivers flooding arable fields with imagination, triggering the uncontrollable growth of irrational hope, and lifting the underside of my stomach like a speedy elevator. I grind my teeth and try to put my feet on the wobbly grounds of ‘it won’t work anyway, but I will try whatever I can, and if it happens after all, what a nice surprise it could be’ and take up my phone. The ninja is busy. I leave him a message, using my best keigo. I try again. And then, finding nothing better to do, again. Then I send him an e-mail to his mobile, asking him in another seven line tirade of linguistic humility whether he could contact me should his busy schedule open up. Then I call the number entitled ‘office’ from his card. A woman with his surname answers. Something tells me I have to be especially polite here, and again, I search the recesses of my brain for appropriately humble words to address the Ninja’s wife with proper etiquette. “This week, he is so busy he is staying in Ryokan Hotel near the ninja stage all week, so he won’t be back till Monday.” Ms Ukita tells me. “But if you’ve left him a message, I think he will contact you.” I thank her and embark on a day floating down flooded rivers, and crashing down raging waterfalls, being tossed here and there by the electrical currents of my nerves, crashing on rocks, and being crushed by falling dominoes. Then, near evening, I get a phone call from the ninja.

“Good evening,” I greet him. “I’ve thought about this for a night, and I would like to try for an audition if it is at all possible.”

“So you want to become a kunoichi.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen us do lots of cool things on stage yesterday, but there is a lot of hard and boring training involved before you get there. We usually never accept foreigners. There are special schools that will teach foreigners ninja skills, but they take lots of money. What we do has nothing to do with that. I’m interested in you because you speak Japanese and English. That could be very useful.”

I throw in a lot of aizuchi, sounds of enthusiastic agreement and encouragement for himto continue talking.

“The kind of training you would be doing with us is completely different from what you do in the dojo. In the dojo, you pay a monthly fee. If we train you, we take no money. In the beginning just keep working your current job, and come only when you’re free. We will see what happens and if you do well, you can start training properly. Becoming a ninja takes about three years. Then you’re ready for being a professional show ninja. You would be popular with TV and movie producers. Foreign ninjas are rare.” I laugh at the hilarity of the thought. Whatever. Nothing can go wrong with this. I want to experience as much of it as I possibly can. If it fails, if I fail, there will still be books to be written, and there will be enough time to re-think and tidy up the chaos that is currently wreaking havoc in my heart and mind. I have never yet failed at the tidying up job, and it was not for lack of chaos.

“But the training is hard.” He says. “In the beginning, you have to do basic things. Then, once you can clean, and tidy, and sell tickets, you might get a chance to train martial arts. And I’m not very nice. In the beginning, I will not give you any false encouragement. I will be strict, and nothing else.”

“I understand.” I assure him. Somehow, although he has been nothing but pleasant so far, I have got that impression from our first encounter. He is an honest, strict, no-nonsense teacher.

“I will try my very best.”

“I will be here all week. You are welcome to come for an audition any day you like. The world karate champion will be here, too. She used to work for us and is coming to help us during Golden Week. I’ll introduce you to her.”

“That would be fabulous.” I don’t know who the world karate champion is, and I’m not one to die for mixing and mingling with celebrities, but the drift of our conversation together with the bizarre idea of conversing with a ninja via mobile phone in the first place make me wonder whether I have floated down one of my raging mental currents too far, got sucked down a freak cortex and am caught in a bright pink daydream somewhere beneath the rough surface of my storm-ridden cerebral sea, never to emerge again. But so be it, it is a world to live in, and I don’t discriminate. After all, until just a minute ago, I was living in Japan.

“I will go to Iga on Friday if it is all right with you,” I offer.

“Sure. I will see you on Friday then. Thank you for your call.”

“No, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to contact me!” I launch a humble protest. “I will do my best. Please favour me with your continued guidance and benevolence in the future.”

Thus ends my telephone conversation with the Ninja. Friday is three days away, but really, I am away to Iga already, running along invisible paths with stealthy footsteps, attacked by a ridiculous passion to become a kunoichi.

Dogs Breathing, Frogs Jumping

We discover a nearby temple and pray in front of it. A god responsible for people’s education and academic refinement resides at this address, and I decide to pray. Ishizuka shows me how to rinse my mouth and wash my hands with the wooden ladles by the well. A dragon resides over this purifying well. Then we walk across to the gate to the gods and pull the big knotted rope to call them. I get a few coins from my wallet and flip them towards the bars that separate them from their givers and declare them property of the god asked to render services in return. My coins jump across the bars and are rejected at first, but I insist that the gods take them and clap and pray for the good of my continuing education and intellectual development.

B-san swiftly turns himself into a ninja and poses invisible for a few good ninja pictures in a historical setting. He has some important messages tattooed onto his body that need to be transmitted by dusk or he will pay with more than just a few coins. His jumper turns into a ninja mask, and the pillar that supports the open mouthed lion dog into the perfect hiding place. “You look more like an Al Qaida fighter than a ninja,” muses Ishizuka, adding a more modern viewpoint to the topic of the day, while I shoot my furtive model repeatedly out of the shadows, flash!

We walk back through the eternal circle breathed across this space by the lion dog with the open mouth and the lion dog with the closed mouth, the shrine’s own guardians, breathing in and out, giving birth and killing, barking and biting, talking and shutting up, forever and ever, until, in no time at all, we get back to the car.

We decide to visit the birthplace of famous Haiku poet Matsuo Basho. You may remember his famous poem. A frog jumps into an old pond. Splash.

We drive for a few minutes, stopping by a street map that shows us the way. The entrance of the old Edo period house is so low, Ishizuka, who is unlikely to have suffered this kind of difficulty before, hits his head on the top beam of the door frame. This leaves the two foreign giants to get through the midget door. “Please be careful,” a woman calls from the darkness inside the house. Another ninja? A caring, considerate ninja at our service or here to kill us with the tempting trickery of kindness? “Don’t hit your heads. The entrance is very low.” B-san passes through the gate with an elegant Praying Mantis stance, and I duck through behind him. There is only half an hour left, but the house is not too big, so we decide to pay the 300 yen and have a look anyway. We pay the friendly woman in the ticket booth who apologises that she doesn’t speak any English, and walk through the old, well-maintained lower rank samurai house.

There is a fireplace inside a cupboard-like niche, a pan on top of it. A mill stone. The kitchen. A beautiful little garden, leading across to a tatami room with sliding paper doors and a small table as its only piece of furniture. The back of the house which stretches alongside a broad corridor, reveals some wooden doors leading to the bathrooms, remindful of the showers in the village marshal’s house Jacky Chan as the Young Master unknowingly visits to take a shower, because he has had a messy encounter with a swamp while eloping from the marshal’s custody. Marshal’s beautiful but deadly daughter lets him in, and he sings derogatory songs about the marshal while rinsing himself down with a wooden bucket behind the same type of wooden door we have here in front of us in Basho’s house.

There is a spacious loft at the very backside of the house which I would choose to sleep in if I were allowed to live in this beautiful, wabi-sabi Japanese minimalist old house. We walk across to the other side, where there is another, bigger garden. Here, we spot some tall, big-leafed banana plants. They were imported to Japan during the Edo period when Basho lived, and his disciples planted one of these trees for him when they gave him a hut. The name of the tree, Basho, consequently became his pen name. We stroll back towards the midget entrance and thank the woman in the ticket booth for her kindness and consideration. Everything is closed by now, and the day is coming to a close. So after a quick stop at a souvenir shop specialising in cookies with ninja pictures burned into their surface, various rubber ninja weapons, and pottery, we make our way back, with a different sound track for the way home, the green landscape around us getting greyer as dawn brings about the world of the shadows.

I have the ninja master’s contact details in my pocket. Hanzo Ukita, a real ninja name. Ishizuka and I talk, and enjoy this rare occasion that gives us time to do so, something we used to be able to enjoy much more often when studying at Bath together. Stretches of road call for peace and quiet. B-san in the back leaves for his own world of shadows for a while and re-joins us again when we are approaching Osaka.

We return him to his bicycle, say our farewells for the day, and make our way to Kobe Sannomya to return the little car. Then we embark on a few pints with Yuko and Takae, and their British boyfriends in an Irish Pub in Umeda. But today’s new career idea stays between Ishizuka and me for now. He thinks I can do it. I appreciate his faith in me, because I am not as sure of it as he is. All I am sure about by this time is that I will try. And try. And try again.

It is water and cranberry juice for me tonight. No need to blur the contents of my head, as they are blurred into an intoxicating maze between reality and possibility anyway. The world of shadows. And before I calm down into its subconscious abysses this night, a long while passes. A long while of unrest, of jumping shadows and climbing walls up swords, cutting rolled up bamboo mats, and catching deadly weapons with ropes. Until a coin jumps up on the roof and rolls round and round and, with me, finally, drops.

Ninja Udon

“Hm,” I say to B-san when we’re walking through the ninja museum after the show. We look at a variety of different shaped ninja stars, try out a real ninja rope ladder, and admire a 60 kg sack of rice the ninjas used to lift up with two fingers to train themselves for missions. They kept their weight at 60 kg or less, so they could hold themselves up by nothing but their thumb and index finger. “Hm,” I say. “Shall I become a show ninja?” B-san’s reaction says: “How could you not.” And reflects what I’m feeling myself. This sounds surreal. And I don’t have the slightest idea whether I am cut out for the kind of training needed for this enterprise. But indeed. How could I not. Some words come a-floating on a melody from the early morning hours. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life.” And make me feel good. The strange tickle in your stomach. Butterflies from an uncertain future, full of promises and expectations. I’m falling, falling, falling. It is a painful, uncertain kind of beauty, this terrain I am entering, and my helplessness pains me, but I have no intentions of stopping myself from falling. Gravity. What can you do.

When we have taken in all the information we can about ninjas for the day, we walk back to our little Toyota Vitz and explore Iga. We find a small restaurant that serves Ninja Udon, a big bowl of too soft, fat, white udon noodles in soup, with a ninja-star shaped piece of nori dried seaweed on top and some hidden pleasures near the bottom: a big, sticky piece of o-mochi, sticky rice mass, an egg, vegetables.

We eat and talk. “You should do it.” “You should do it.” “I should do it.”

Ninjas Wanted

“Look,” says Ishizuka and points to a poster by the side of the stage, in between photographs showing the ninjas wearing various pieces of ninja merchandise and posing with weapons. “They’re looking for ninjas!”

Indeed, the poster says “We are recruiting healthy men and women up to 25 years of age. If interested, ask a ninja.” What a bizarre idea. And what a great one.

For a laugh, I walk onto the stage, where Tomonosuke, the umbrella man is tidying away bits of cut bamboo and straw. “Excuse me,” I ask, “You are recruiting new ninjas?” “O, you’ll have to talk to the boss about it. Just a second.” He disappears backstage briefly and comes back out together with the boss, his proud father.

“Excuse me,” I say to the ninja boss, and bow, putting on my most presentable Japanese manners and respect language. “I read over there that you are recruiting new ninjas.” “Ah. Yes.” He says. “I’m already 26, but I would be very interested in the kind of work you are offering.” “Hm,” he says, and turns to Ishizuka, who is standing next to me. “She knows Japanese, doesn’t she? She understands most of the things I’m talking about.” “She does, “ says Ishizuka. “Hm,” he looks at me again. “Well. And you speak English, too?” “Yes, Im teaching English conversation at the moment but my plan for Golden Week was to find a new job.” “Hm,” says the ninja master. “Where do you live?” “I live in Osaka.” “Well, that’s not too far away, is it.” “No, it is not.” “She has a black belt in karate,” Ishizuka advertises me. The ninja master keeps talking to Ishizuka. “Well, we usually take people in for weekends first, see how they do. If we think they can’t become professionals, we fire them immediately. But if they look fine, we take them in and train them. It takes about three years to get through the training you need to do professional work. Then, you can become an actress. And this child here, she has a good face.” Gladly, it doesn’t blush easily. “For women,” he adds, “That’s important.” “She’s strong,” says Ishizuka. “Are you flexible? Can you stretch?” “I am quite flexible,” I tell the lucky truth. “Hm. You know English and Japanese. You have a good face. We have been looking for someone like you. Think about this carefully, and if you really want to do it, come for an audition.” “What about my friend here? Can he come too?” I bring B-san into the conversation because I know he is dying to lead this dream of a life, getting paid for martial arts training. “No,” says the ninja coldly, casting a derogatory glance at the stripe of tattoos visible underneath B-san’s T-shirt. “We don’t accept people with tattoos. Tattoos sully the purity of the body we have been given by our parents and ancestors. We’ll have nothing to do with them.”
I bow and feel a pebble of sadness cast into my immediate surroundings, throwing up concentric circles like a heaving chest while the pebble gets stuck somewhere. “I will give you my card,” says the ninja and disappears backstage. “The audition is easy. We will look at how flexible you are. That’s all. The rest depends on nothing but the effort you put in. That’s everybody’s life here. Everybody’s salary depends on how much effort they put in. Think about it carefully. This is based on effort.”

I thank him and give him a long bow, and ask for his continued benevolence and guidance in the future. When I look up again, he has disappeared, and I wonder whether this was just a dream. On the other hand, sudden disappearance speaks for the presence of a ninja. This whole new idea is spinning round and round in my head like Tomonosuke's 500 Yen coin, but I don't know how to catch it, where to put it, and what to make of it. Keep rolling.

Ninja Show

Our group is let into the house by a smiley female ninja who bows “Irasshaimase!” in a near-ultrasonic voice and proceeds to demonstrate the house’s special features to us. Disguised as just another part of the wall, there is a revolving door. The girl touches it ever so lightly and disappears through it, stopping it from the other side. The wall has swallowed her. In the floor boards of the ground, there is a loose one to be opened by a skilled tap of the foot. A sword lies hidden underneath, the short, straight ninja-tō, to be thrust at the enemy, rather than cutting through him like the long, curved nihon- tō or katana. A rack on the wall is swiftly turned into a ladder that leads up to a flap in the upper part of the wall, through which the ninjas could escape via the roof.

When we have seen all the special features of this ancient ninja residence, we are invited by a real ninja to watch him and his fellow ninjas display some of their secret skills in a ninja action show. We don’t have to be told twice. To me, this sounds like the best part of the whole Ninja-mura experience. At 200 Yen each, we get some good seats in the middle of the front bench facing the sandy open air stage, and sit looking for the ninjas, carefully scanning the edges of walls for traces of shadows, and the suspicious stillness of the objects around the stage for movement.

Finally, a tall ninja with a samurai style pony tail appears from back stage and welcomes us to the show. Not much secrecy about his entrance. “Today, Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be handling real ninja weapons here on stage, a dangerous business, so please do not get up from your seats and approach the stage during the show. I would also like to ask you to set your mobile phones on manner mode. Our show contains some high intensity action, and sometimes children get scared and start crying. Should that happen, I would like to remind you that we explain everything we are doing here on stage, so in order to allow everybody in the audience to hear what is being said, please take crying children up the stairs or down the side aisles, away from the stage. We will refund your money. Finally, I know you are all here for sightseeing today, so some of you will have brought cameras to take pictures or videos. During our show, video recordings and picture taking is – absolutely fine! Please take pictures and videos at your heart’s content while we perform our cool ninja tricks. Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

The last remaining type of full time ninja, a striking oxymoron. A professional show biz ninja! After the young announcer, an older ninja enters the stage, striding forward with the stern look in his face and feel in his walk that marks a warrior about to risk his life in battle. On stage are three mounts, one on the left holding a large bamboo stalk, one on the right holding a rolled up bamboo mat mounted vertically and pointing to the sky at about half the height of the stalk. The third one, in front, holds four of the same rolled up bamboo mats as the one on the right. The ninja kneels down on a small bamboo mat in front of the four rolls and gloomily joins his hands, assembling them into different shapes, both index fingers pointing up, the rest of the fingers interlocked. The middle fingers wrap themselves around the index fingers. It goes back down as thumbs and little fingers join the index fingers pointing to the sky. Ring fingers are trapped and held down by middle fingers, the hands fold like in prayer, the fingers interlock with the fingertips invisible on the inside, the right hand slides on top holding the left hand’s index finger, hands slide apart forming a circle with the tips of the thumbs and the index fingers touching, and finally, the right hand forms a round pillow for the left to rest on, fingers joined. The Buddha gesture. Going through these shapes of his hands, he chants hoarse syllables to go with each one. Rin-pyo-to-sha-kai-jin-retsu-zai-zen. It is the kuji-no-in, the nine letter spell. An incantation the ninjas used to calm their minds and prepare themselves for their dangerous missions.

He puts both his hands in front of his face like a mirror and blows. Then, he makes a soundless clapping movement, then another, his hands going further apart this time before they touch in the middle, and a third, even bigger one. After a last moment of silent concentration, he takes the long, bent katana that is lying by his side, holds it up on his open palms and gives us a slight bow. He puts the sword through the opening by the side of his hakama, and solemnly rises. He walks to the middle of the three mounts, draws his sword and holds it up in the air for a moment. Then, with a guttural sound, and effortless, light movements, holding the sword with a single hand, he cuts through the giant bamboo stalk, then turns to cut through the bamboo mat, once, twice, three times. Slices of bamboo are scattered on the ground. He steps forward and faces the four-bamboo-mat arrangement. He holds the sword in both hands and pauses for the space of a breath. Then, with another kiai shout, the sword slices clean through the four rolled mats from right to left. He takes a small cloth from the natural pocket between the crossed front parts of his kimono upper body dress and the sash that holds it together, and wipes the katana with a single elegant sweep. He tilts the saya, or scabbard to the side and swiftly re-sheathes the long, heavy sword. He takes it out from his belt again, and presents it to us with the same bow as before. In the martial arts everything begins and ends with rei, respect, often expressed in this bow.

After holding our breaths for the duration of this intense performance, we are now reminded that we are here to witness a fun holiday action show and relax into applause.

“This,” says the ninja, “is a katana, a Japanese sword. What you’ve seen right now is called iaigiri. You’ve seen me cut through this bamboo stalk here. If you don’t cut these at exactly the right angle, they go flying off into the audience. You have to cut the stalk at a 45 degree angle, and luckily today it worked.” Relieved laughs get stuck in throats, swallowing hard at the thought of what would have happened otherwise. The ninja smiles. “These makiwara,” he points at the stumps of the bamboo mat rolls, “are tightly rolled up bamboo mats, fastened with rubber bands and soaked in water for a week. They offer about the same resistance to the sword as a human neck. So you could cut through four necks in one go. It is no problem at all.” Good to know.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, this was the katana, the Japanese sword. Next, we will present to you the ninja sword.”

He takes a shorter sword from one of the sword holders at the side of the stage and holds it up. “As you can see, this is shorter than the katana. But the main difference between the two is that as opposed to the curved katana, this sword is straight. In the warring states period, the samurai trained with katana, and were adept at the art of cutting things, and people, as I’ve shown you. But that was the only thing they knew. So the ninjas used a straight sword, made for thrusting, so they could defend themselves against the round cutting movements of the katana. Ideally, with this straight sword, they could just move straight forward and land their stab before they were cut by the samurai’s round movements. But the ninja sword has some other useful features. The tip of the scabbard, for example, is pointed.” He shows us the pointed end, shaped like a small pyramid. “This could be stuck into the ground. The ninjas could then put their feet on the tsuba, the ring that separates the hand grip from the blade, and use the sword to climb up walls. They would take this long string attached to the sword between their teeth, so that when they got to the top, they could just pull the sword back up towards themselves. But what am I talking about, we will show you how it works!”

He exits, and some action promising music storms in, pushing ahead through the speakers in clear, shiny brass; trumpets wearing winged combat boots. The two young ninjas, on the other hand, roll ahead quietly in their air-filled jika-tabi, boots cleft between big toe and the rest of the toes like Devil’s feet, making it easier to grip the ground and whatever materials need to be climbed, while proceeding quietly across complicated terrain without making a sound. The ninjas are back-flipping and rolling across the stage to the wall on the right, where they stick their ninja-swords in the ground, take the long, black strings between their teeth, and climb up, until they sit on top of the 10 ft wall and pull their swords up to join them. And in professional show-biz-ninja fashion, they give their performance a clean finish by simultaneously showing us the V for victory, or, more commonly, Sony digital memory. Picture taking is ok. The ninjas are used to more daunting tasks than performing in the presence of flashing cameras.

Next, we witness the throwing of the ninja star, or shuriken. One of the young ninjas comes out and shows us a little pile of 6 ninja stars. “These are real ninja starts from the warring states period You have probably seen ninjas in movies, with a pile of them in one hand, throwing them like Frisbees, one, two, three, four, five… . That is certainly cool. But ninjas didn’t actually do that. It’s impossible to throw them like that. And they’re really heavy. One of them weighs about 200 grams, so the ninjas maybe had one or two. And they only used them when they really thought they were beat, and there was no other way out. This was their last defence. They used poison and spread it across the points of the ninja stars. So they didn’t actually have to pierce through any vital organs or arteries. These stars simply had to scratch an enemy, and he would suffer paralysis or whatever it was that the particular poison resulted in. But I will show you. These,” he holds up a ninja star with four equally shaped points. “Are juji-shuriken. Cross-shaped ninja stars. Here we go.” He hurls the star at the wooden wall on the left side of the stage, and with a loud clunk, it gets stuck in the wood. There are some marvelling “Wow!”s and “Ho!”s. “This time,” says the ninja, “I will throw two of these at the same time.” Again, he swings his arm and hip like a baseball player, and clunk! Both ninja stars land in the wooden wall. Applause. “And finally,” says the ninja, “the most difficult technique. Three ninja starts at the same time. This time, I will use roppo-shuriken. Six-point-ninja stars.” He holds one up, and we can see the thinner points that make the ninja star look like an ice crystal or a flower. Zonk! All three ninja stars land in the wooden wall, and the crowd erupts into cheers. The ninja bows and exits. Enter the older ninja from the beginning.

“These clothes I’m wearing.” He points down his black ninja-costume, complete with a head dress that goes down the neck like that of a medieval knight, or a nun, studded with golden crosses in front. “Do you think the ninjas actually wore those? Ninjas were spies. It was their job to gather information. So if they had dressed like this, everybody would have known they were ninjas, wouldn’t they?” Surprised exclamations and muttering in the audience. “What I’m wearing here is for period dramas and ninja shows only!” Laughter. “Real ninjas took on whatever shape was most suitable for them in their current spy business. They could look like doctors or craftsmen. Here in Iga, a lot of ninjas dressed like farmers, because there were a lot of farmers here. And sometimes, they pretended to be street performers to perform lucky tricks and charm the gods into gracing people with their good favours. See for yourselves.”

He exits while some circus-like music floats from the speakers to introduce something like an acrobatic clown stunt, or a horse-number with a moustachioed horse whisperer with a whip. But it is Tomonosuke, the young ninja with the pony tail we have seen in the introductory part of the show, who comes a-running, stops in the middle of the stage and pulls a traditional umbrella with wooden spikes out of his belt from behind his back. He opens it dances with it for a few counts. Then he shouts: “Yo!”And balances the edge of it on his forehead, handle pointing towards us. We clap. But this is only the beginning. From his chest pocket, he takes a small wooden box. “And now, for everybody’s health, happiness and good fortune, I will make this box roll! Watch!” With another “Yo!” accompanied by the kind of outstretched body tension opening a gymnast’s competition routine, he throws the box onto the umbrella and makes it roll round and round it, as if it was nothing. Smiling brightly, he is moving across the stage, looking up at the box on top of the umbrella, watching it dance like somebody he has just fallen in love with. He moves to the left side of the stage, the box rolling and rolling and, with careful movements, turns the handle ever so slightly, watching the box dance.

“The people on this side are clapping very hard for me. I will give you some extra rounds of health and good fortune. May the gods bless you and your families!” He moves to the other side of the stage, and the box keeps rolling. Finally, he makes it fly off the umbrella and back into his hand, with a courteous finishing bow. The audience shows how impressed they are with a good round of applause. But still, Tomonosuke is not finished. “Do you know the famous ninja Somonosuke Sometaro? Actually, I know one of his tricks. What I will balance on my umbrella now…” he swaps his big umbrella for a smaller one. “is this.” He holds up a five hundred yen coin. “Money. So this offering to the gods will make everybody’s money roll in. Watch. Yo!” And he throws the five hundred yen coin onto the umbrella and makes it roll round and round and round the umbrella, smiling at his beloved dancing coin, which he seems even more fond of than his previous dancing partner. We watch in stunned silence as the spectacle unfolds with awe-inspiring ease. Again, he moves back and forth on stage, rewarding those parts of the audience who offer the loudest applause for his art. After a long fight with uncountable rounds disguised as a beautiful dance for us, Tomonosuke catches his coin and bows. “Thank you.” And we clap and clap and clap. He leaves us mouths agape, and in comes the katana ninja from the beginning. “This, ladies and gentlemen, was my son. I’m proud of him. If you don’t start learning this trick when you’re five years old, there is no hope.”

He then demonstrates on one of the ninjas we have seen up on the wall flashing victory, how the ninjas employed a rope with knots on both ends to apply joint and wrist locks, and inflict the same kind of damage on an opponent at a distance that is used for close-n fighting in many modern martial arts including judo, karate, and aikido. This weapon-less fighting art is called taijutsu or hobakujutsu. The other ninja evades a few of his attack, jumping over the rope or ducking away underneath it, but finally, the older ninja catches his leg, and next, wraps his rope around his sword and manages to take it away from him. They then keep fighting without weapons, and the old ninja throws his young foe onto the ground, turns him around, gives him a few good punches to the face, and finally stabs him in the stomach with a spear hand, a juicy enter-the-dagger sound effect slicing through the flesh-dense suspense in the air from the sound effect box. Another appropriate and well-timed sound accompanies the re-traction of his hand. But it is not over yet. While the soundtrack ends in a lamenting trumpet sigh, the old ninja props up the young one against his knee and makes a stern face at his own hand, the instrument of pending death. Which then reaches for the foe’s chin and turns his neck until it cracks with another effective sound. This is the end of the performance. We clap.

“Hey," Says the old ninja to the young one who is still sitting with the grimace of death on his face, his neck in an uncomfortably cracked looking position. “We’re finished. It’s over.” The young ninja wakes out of his nightmare and happily bounces back up on his feet.

They bow. “Today,” announces the older ninja, “You have seen many of the things we do in the ninja business. But this was only a fraction of what we CAN do. So if you would like to see any more fascinating ninja tricks,” The younger ninja has professionally disappeared for a moment and now re-enters the stage. “Buy the Ninja-village’s original DVD and watch us do a lot more than we did today!” The young ninja holds up a DVD for people to look at and start wanting.

“I hope you enjoyed the show. The exit is on the right side of the stage. Have a wonderful day in Iga. Thank you very much.” He bows and we clap and slowly rise from our seats.

It's A New Dawn

“Im at an ENEOS petrol station now.” Ishizuka-san tells me through my mobile phone. B-san and I have been lounging about on the picnic tables next to the baseball field behind my apartment building, waiting for him to find us, eating some combini breakfast. “Do you think it’s the right one?” asks Ishizuka. “I don’t know. Any landmarks?” “There’s an old woman cutting trees next to it.” A typical Ishizuka landmark. “O. I wonder whether that’s the right one.” I can’t remember any trees anywhere near my house, never mind an old woman cutting them. B-san and I walk down the motorway towards the petrol station. Indeed. Right next to it, there is a small old woman, cutting small young trees. And a few feet away is Ishizuka, leaning against the white littleToyota Vitz he has rented in Kobe for the day. We greet him, I introduce Ishizuka-san and B-san, and we jump into the car. And drive down the sunny Motorway on this first day of Golden Week.

It is a truly golden day, blessed with sunlight and freedom. The road is busy but not crowded, so we drive on to a soothing, tickling, trickling soundtrack kindly provided by B-san. “It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life!” Nina Simone’s voice melts from the CD player in chunks of forgotten ice cream at first, then flowing more smoothly, like beer from a rusty old barrel in a summer cornfield waking from the night. I turn up the music, and we ride away into the sun towards our appropriately touristy Golden Week initiation destination: Ninja-mura in Iga, Mie-Prefecture. At several points, we have to stop and queue, and pay motorway fees. Ishizuka pays for everything. We will sort it out later.

The drive is pleasant and quiet, with stretches of conversation and longer stretches of thoughts, three worlds quietly evolving, floating about the car, flying out the window, and coming back in, inducing, killing other thoughts, idle driving dreams changing shapes with the passing landscapes, in the speedy breeze. Clouds in the wind, shadows in the sun.

Finally, around ten o’clock, we arrive in Iga and find a free parking lot a short walk away from the village. We are not the only ones who have made our way to this rural tourist spot today. Amidst other groups of people, families, friends, couples, senior citizens’ gate ball clubs, we make our way up the shady path, between big, old trees. It leads up to a landing surrounded by yaki-soba fried noodles, tai-yaki fish-shaped sweet bean paste cakes and other fast food stalls. A souvenir shop to the right. In the middle, there is a group of people in ninja costumes, smoking cigarettes, munching on yaki-soba, talking about the weather.

We cut through the square and enter Ninja-mura proper, where we buy tickets for the first attraction: a ninja farm house. At the ticket booth, we get given English pamphlets with explanations on them. Many ninjas lived like normal farmers, so this is what a typical Japanese farm house would have looked like during the Kamakura and Edo periods. Except that the one we are about to see has several special features that other farm houses did not have.

We join the long queue up to the farm house and let our eyes wander about, leisurely travelling from face to face, past sunny patches dancing across fallen leaves and shoe prints in the sandy ground, catching drops of idleness running down the chins of child ninjas. My eyes are still in the process of opening up to the world. In everyday working life captivity, blinds grow on the sides of my eyes, narrowing my vision to whatever duty needs to be performed next, switching my facial features to mechanical smiles mode. The blinds are receding, the muscles relaxing, I can see the sun, and with each breath, the air in my lungs lightens my body and cleans it from the coal dust of the GEOS mines.