tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32924127528239821722024-03-06T17:17:11.319+09:00くノ一へkunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-56411447036957534812007-10-23T19:35:00.000+09:002007-10-23T19:37:20.095+09:00Miyazakiya-san<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMm2uEa8zxgalLdeGAIGA1lSUjZqE3Uq3PbHyH3D2cqEqjQVR67Rekk1eljPo8ofaZZVIuUUPGPCSRz9FQM75qi1Zb8SpXNfhhB_4RWFmg0aeaJxGQmsSyhQToUQ4fner-VZLJQQcDKO-/s1600-h/jusoaftertherain+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124479281639060034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMm2uEa8zxgalLdeGAIGA1lSUjZqE3Uq3PbHyH3D2cqEqjQVR67Rekk1eljPo8ofaZZVIuUUPGPCSRz9FQM75qi1Zb8SpXNfhhB_4RWFmg0aeaJxGQmsSyhQToUQ4fner-VZLJQQcDKO-/s320/jusoaftertherain+002.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As the summer deepens, so does my resentment to work for GEOS. “Wouldn’t it be great if you ha d a job here in Iga, so you could come here more easily?” says Kashira, and I have to agree.<br />So one hot day in July, we take our mission to Miyazakiya-san. “Is this a shop or a person?” I whisper in U-san’s ear, as the Japanese language is ambivalent about this. I learn that Miyazakiya-san is both a person and a shop. Miyazakiya-san is becoming a more and more mysterious and powerful existence. But quite apart from being mysterious, powerful, and obviously well connected, what Kashira seems to be looking forward to most is Miyazakiya-san’s soy sauce ice cream. All day, as I sweep my way across the stage and tidy my way through ninja-tō and nihon-tō swords, fukiya wooden flutes designed to blow horse dung- poisoned darts through them, kunai dagger-shaped all-purpose tools, and sickles of all sizes, I am fidgety with a growing feeling of curiosity at being introduced to the mysterious Miyazakiya-san.<br />After Kashira and I have changed back from the ninja garb into our casual clothes, we take the big black van with his ninja-picture holding two cross-shaped ninja stars in a thicket of light green trees, and drive down the road into the little shop-lined streets of Iga, until he pulls up in front of Miyazakiya-san, the shop.<br />Miyazakiya-san, the shop is a spacious one floor shop advertised by inconspicuously charming wooden boards bearing big black brush strokes of Japanese writing, one of the many shops in tourism-friendly Iga that sell traditional Iga goods.<br />There are ceramics in various shades of earthy browns and greens: Iga-yaki, a famous style of ceramics that originated around the 8th century in the Iga region and uses Iga clay, burned at high temperatures to acquire a reddish hue with brown-green marks caused by log ashes.<br />There are kata-yaki, the famous hard, sweet biscuits they sell in all the tourist shops, with pictures of various famous ninjas on their adventurous missions burned in dark brown lines onto their surface. Rumour has it that the ninjas used this type of food as long-lasting emergency calorie supplies when they had to go on long missions, although to me the articulate crunch at biting into kata-yaki makes me doubt their suitability to the stealth business. Be that as it may, to the present day ninja, who typically makes his living in the world of show business and entertainment, far from stealth and secrecy, the stylishly illustrated kata-yaki are a welcome tool to disseminate his glory. Beautiful, plentiful, and loud.<br />The main product of Miyazakiya-san, the shop, however are tsukemono: pickles. One type of pickles using ginger as one of the main components, is particularly famous in Iga. It is sold in flat plastic bags, through which it has a dark-brown pasty appearance, and is recommended expressly for use in making ochazuke, a dish in which rice is topped with one’s personal favourite mixture of flavourful ingredients (such as umeboshi salted plums, nori roasted seaweed or flakes of salmon), and turned into a kind of soup by pouring green tea over the mixture. I buy a pack of this so-called Yōkanzuki and take it home to eat it on toast with cream cheese, for breakfast. Delicious. Blessed be the flavourful cooperation between East and West.<br />When we enter the shop, it is apparent that Kashira is well known and respected here, and we are immediately given a little tour of the products by a gentle little woman in her forties who welcomes us standing behind the round counter in the middle of the shop. She then leads us to the right corner, where we are told to sit down at a table and served tea. In a small, fish-shaped bowl, we are then presented with the shop’s highlight: a perfect little scoop of soy sauce ice cream. It sits there posing, ninja-like, as vanilla ice cream, but exuding a certain presence that makes me feel thrilled.<br />Enter Miyazakiya-san, the man himself. He is slim and bald, wearing round little glasses with no frames, and a cardigan. His fine features in combination with his clothing style make him look like a Meiji period aristocrat who has naturally and enthusiastically absorbed the tastes of the West. Everything about his efficient and inconspicuous movements appears experienced and refined. He sits down and watches Kashira and me eating his ice cream, smiling.<br />The slight flavour of soy sauce adds a refinement to the cream that lets the beauty of burned caramel strings melt into tongue and palate without needing its stickiness and boldness. The slight idea of salt makes the tongue appreciate the sweetness and creaminess of the composition. It is an altogether stunning invention.<br />I compliment Miyazakiya-san on his ice cream. “Yes,” he says, and his eyes start sparkling a pleasant, quiet enthusiasm when he rolls out his words, all carefully articulated as if his mouth was a printing press. “Actually, soy sauce and cream are a marvellous combination!” And while his creation melts into my tongue, I am blessed with the chance to flavour, at the same time, the deep happiness sparkling in the eyes of the inventor, a genius living his genius dreams, creating beauty in the world.<br />Kashira finishes his ice cream and articulates our cause.<br />“This girl here is very intelligent.”<br />“Obviously,” states Miyazakiya-san matter-of-factly.<br />“Her Japanese is…well, I want to say she even has a Japanese accent…well, you know what I mean. Yes?”<br />“She even writes books and the like…” (I have told Kashria about my plans to write a book about my experience with the ninjas).<br />“She is working in Osaka as an English teacher, but we would like to find work for her here in Iga.” Miyazakiya-san nods, takes a sip of green tea, and speaks.<br />“Where are you from, Anna?” he asks me kindly.<br />“Germany.” “Ah, Dort bin ich gewesen.” He replies in carefully articulated, almost perfect German. More and more, I get the impression that this Miyazakiya-san is a true ninja. <br />“So,” he concludes. “You can speak English, German, and Japanese.”<br />“I can,” I reply.<br />“She’s also interested in studying ninja history, learning about Japanese culture, you know. Isn’t there something like that she can do in Iga?”<br />Then Kashira tells us about how his wife, who is also very intelligent, and runs the Ashura ninja group’s business, changed his plans. When Kashira met me, he was prepared to take me on as a full time apprentice.<br />“But O!” He winces at the thought of it, and then laughs his infectious laugh.<br />“She got so angry with me! You can’t take that girl’s life away from her like that, she says to me. She needs to make a living. You know how hard it is to earn enough money as a ninja! It took you 20 years! Don’t take the ground away from under her feet! Let her come on weekends, while she works. She needs to have enough money to live, independent of whatever she achieves as an apprentice kunoichi.” Kashira takes another sip of tea.<br />“It’s true, isn’t it.” Kashira is a man of instinct. He has learned who to trust and rely on in his long experience as a ninja. “Isn’t there something for her?”<br />Miyazakiya-san quotes some of his local connections including a tourist magazine he publishes himself, and the Local Foreign Exchange Association among the most surprising revelations, coming from a pickles shop owener.<br />“So,” he smiles at Kashira, “Next time we meet, let us invite I-san. He is head of the Foreign Exchange Association here in Iga. I’m sure he will have some ideas.”<br />And with our ice cream bowls eompty, and the next step planned, we feel like today’s mission is accomplished.<br />I bow repeatedly to Miyazakiya-san, the man, and thank him for his kind efforts. Kashira says his more casual farewell. Then we leave Miyazakiya-san, the shop, and return to the black ninja van.<br />I am thrilled about meeting I-san next time, and have a feeling that with every step I advance further into the complicated, interwoven world of Iga-ryu ninjutsu, it appears more sparkling and complex, with every day, new paths open up throughout the maze, and its invisible core increases its power of attraction, although what exactly it is I am advancing towards is still unknown to me. And while the many paths inside the maze branch out and multiply, as I get physically closer to the attraction of its core, Kashira takes me to the bus stop, and I thank him for his kindness, and ask for more of his mysterious, yet undoubtedly trustworthy guidance in this dark, attractive, invisible future I sense through my taste buds in the lingering flavour of Miyazakiya-san’s soy sauce ice cream.<br /><div></div>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-85039068142719102102007-07-05T11:11:00.000+09:002007-07-05T11:22:54.756+09:00Poisonous Centepedes and Magic Rivers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DrYlY7BWgECrBNYmuGP6mZYIkqyQq2xnRBDYW6Yzq_0P69n37_xgRn6GJLtRdVcytc3bDlAO1mzEDtIHGgw5oIhBxNn0TgWSVkTtLmqALeLg0HNhsEkB8RKZbfEN3hEQRQQqReovwvA3/s1600-h/centipede.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DrYlY7BWgECrBNYmuGP6mZYIkqyQq2xnRBDYW6Yzq_0P69n37_xgRn6GJLtRdVcytc3bDlAO1mzEDtIHGgw5oIhBxNn0TgWSVkTtLmqALeLg0HNhsEkB8RKZbfEN3hEQRQQqReovwvA3/s320/centipede.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083531797032837458" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmq9u1Ceae9ncYOjezn2ot5ebSdTSK-x8BVvmbBQM_O0UyOW6LtV1RVc1d70wa26CDYprCT_QcJ1eTEMpnfhXdnXoJZPzUIe2LbkTDbZEcvlUkJ8ysyrLMjqutLr9Ak5HoF68OOFdlHgfe/s1600-h/river_bamboo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmq9u1Ceae9ncYOjezn2ot5ebSdTSK-x8BVvmbBQM_O0UyOW6LtV1RVc1d70wa26CDYprCT_QcJ1eTEMpnfhXdnXoJZPzUIe2LbkTDbZEcvlUkJ8ysyrLMjqutLr9Ak5HoF68OOFdlHgfe/s320/river_bamboo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083531736903295298" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">Kashira is swinging his arms around on stage to warm up and says: “So, Anna, today, lets practise doing the introductory speech to the show.” “Okay.” I say, light-heartedly, but then U-san warns me that that usually means he will suddenly tell me to get on stage and do it, without prior warning. So panic stricken, I look for Kashira who has disappeared. Working with professional ninjas can be a challenge. I run to the tent and, luckily, find him there. I tell him I can’t do the speech yet but will learn it for next week. He chuckles. “Its ok if you remember it come summer.” “No,” I say, “If you tell me to remember it, I will remember it for next week.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Again, I get to wear my bright blue ninja suit. Kashira gives me a new hachimaki to go with it. The same blue, with white wax patterns randomly pervading the cloth. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Being the gaijin ninja, </span>I get to take care of all the foreign visitors. Today, there are a lot of them. First, an Indian looking young Canadian couple. I chat to them. They have found themselves some standing up spots with a good view near the back entrance that becomes the exit after the show, and are shooting away with their cameras as the show starts. We chat a little bit before things get serious with Kashira’s katana routine. They are just in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> for a little holiday because the country seemed exotic and interesting to them. I interpret what is being said on stage, and they say “Oh!” and “Aw!” and “Ah!” and take more pictures. What a response. And I’m just a whispering interpreter. In the next show, we have three more Canadians. This time Chinese-Canadians from <st1:city><st1:place>Toronto</st1:place></st1:City>, a pleasant couple with their clever-looking college age son. They take a picture with me and ask for my e-mail, so they can send it to me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I accompany Tomonosuke to the front entrance to let in the visitors and lighten their burden by 200 Yen each, he tells me that he and his mother have been looking for cool English phrases they can entertain the audience with. “I say Iga, you say Nin!” Is one of them, “Watch out! Hard contents!” is another. “Why do foreigners find that so <span style="">f</span>unny?” he asks me. But then he walks away before I can answer the question, to announce the show again and see whether any more visitors will file in from the ninja museum. Then he comes back halfway, keeping his back turned towards me. He concentrates, then practises a pretty looking three-plus-one-is-four gesture with his fingers coming up and going back down and his hands sliding together and apart again. It is one of his intro-speech jokes. “When I tell you to give me a cheer, say nin!” he says. “Give me a cheer!” “Nin!” They say. Tomonosuke repeats the procedure a couple times. “Nin!” they say, and <span style=""> </span>“Nin!” again. Then he asks them “What is three plus one?” Which, in Japanese, is “Yon!” But they are all fixated on the “Nin!” and he has to tell them every time that three plus one is yon, not nin. So the ninja is practising his three plus four hand gestures. A real show biz pro. A word Kashira likes to use. Pro. Pro no sekai. The world of professionals. A tough world. Where everything needs to be practised every free minute. There is too much competition not to. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am happy I can help with my own maths skills later on when Masanosuke, who is doing everything at the same time, as usual, silently and efficiently, without a single complaint, miscalculates at one point, telling somebody who wants to pay for 16 people that it costs 2,200 yen, while really it costs 3,200. So I correct him, and he smiles and takes the 3,200 Yen. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next group of foreigners comes in. This is a rather large group of young people with mixed nationalities who are in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> on a Japanese language scholarship. But they haven’t started learning, so this time I get given a mic and told to do a special welcome speech before the show and some interpreting in English, the little microphone clipped to the diagonal collar of my ninja kimono, the rest of it at the other end of the cable clipped onto my various belts. The mic makes noise in front of the speakers, and it is difficult to position myself outside the speakers’ range. I don’t have time to interpret most things that are said because the show advances to rapidly. It is all rather spontaneous, and there was no time beforehand to agree on how to proceed with the interpreting throughout the show. So I simply say something where I there is a large enough gap in the performance and it seems appropriate. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the next show, there is an American couple with four sons between 6 and 12. I make a special announcement for them, too, and during the show, translate for the sons in the back row. All of them, without exception are real ninja enthusiasts and watch the show with big, round eyes ready to pop out when Masanosuke comes out with the ninja stars. “WOW!” they shout, and “That is SO COOL!” Still shouting in their feverish ninja excitement, they fire questions at me. “Wow, are those REAL ninja stars? Could he kill somebody with them?” “Is that a real sword? O my god, has he actually just cut his balls off with that ninja sword?” “Has he actually hurt him?” I try to keep them enthusiastic while making them pipe down a little bit. People are turning around to look at our excited little group. The big American parents also turn around from their third row seats. Mom with a finger at her mouth, cautions them to be quiet. There is no stopping them. But their loud enthusiasm does not do much harm. On the contrary, after the show, a Japanese woman smiles at us heartily and says “They really love ninjas, don’t they! They are SO CUTE!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The four boys love ninjas indeed, and as I am their own personal link to the ninja world, they love me, too. They all try out the ninja stars and want to take a picture with me. I pose with them for a few pictures, teaching them how to do a proper “Nin!” with your hands, and their big parents shoot away with their big cameras. Then they thank me and wander off with their hyper little crew of four. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another request to pose for a picture comes from a group of Japanese teenage boys. While they are queuing up to throw some ninja stars, I hear one of them voice concern about losing face in the impending ninja star throwing. “What if it doesn’t get stuck in the wall. That would be so embarrassing!” So I take it upon myself and try to calm them down. I tell them if they hold and throw them like this, they will be grand. <span style=""> </span>I do my usual imitation of the ninjas’ star throwing posture that I see ten times a day, and although I have never really done any serious practice with this popular weapon myself, amazingly, my instructions usually help people. After all they don’t know I’m just an apprentice ninja doing shugyo. I know what I am, but to them I am a gaijin ninja in a bright blue ninja suit. “Pose with us!” they beg me after they have completed their star throwing without any major embarrassments, and I pose again, taking on low stances, hands in blocking and striking postures better for pictures than for any real fighting purposes, but this is business, and I am an apprentice show ninja. I need to find out what kind of “me” people like to see. That’s all that matters. There are many kinds, so I am still looking. The kids love me, too, especially the girls. Japanese girls need strong ideals to aspire to, as they do not have many in read life, sad mothers and housewives all around, quitting their jobs to be at home. I am happy to provide something to aspire to for the little girls, something strong, fun, and free. They watch me with big eyes filled with awe and whisper breathlessly, “Wow, a kunoichi!” I take special care when instructing the girls on how to throw things. It is more difficult for them. I know all about it. But they should learn earlier than me that anything is possible. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am advancing my own throwing skills practising darts, using every opportunity in my kids’ classes to throw things, aim at targets. I am trying to engrain the throwing action into my muscles, eyes, and brain. At this point, I do not have much skill myself in this field, but everybody trusts me blindly. Seeingly. Sometimes, eyes make people blind to the truth, create illusions. I am a ninja illusion. Their trust in me is based on my ninja outfit, skilfully crafted by the multi-talented, respected, and revered S-san. She has never studied making ninja outfits. She just has a talent, U-san tells me when she helps me put on my ninja hakama. No doubt S-san has talent. Not only for making ninja costumes. She has so much talent, U-san tells me, when she was a ninja, she hid behind a black face mask so people wouldn’t recognise her as a woman. She was pure skill. Other kunoichi usually just exploit the fact that audiences love them simply for being women. I admire S-san’s skill and integrity in awe-struck silence. She provides a kunoichi ideal to aspire to. But I have a feeling Kashira wants to sell me as a kunoichi that looks like one, too. A ninja in short dresses. Whatever works. I will make an effort. If this opportunity stretches out into the future, and my capacities allow it, I will work, and sell. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The day is very busy and hot, but time flies, as I get to interact with lots of enthusiastic visitors. “Eigo ga jouzu desu ne,” (“Wow, your English is really good!”) jokes a tall American who has seen the same show as the Japanese language scholarship group. For people who have never tried their Japanese in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, this is a play on the phrase “Nihongo ga jouzu desu ne!” (“Wow, your Japanese is really good!”), which you usually get to hear upon uttering any one or two word statement in Japanese. Come to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> and try it. “Konnichiwa!” will do. Or “sushi”. And to uphold the good image people have of your Japanese, you can then finish things off quickly and effortlessly with a hearty “Sayonara.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The hot topic of the day during our little breaks are centipedes. There was one discovered near the ninja tent yesterday. Apparently they sting you and you have to go to hospital if they do you because they are so poisonous. So the centipedes are the real ninjas here, scaring even the ninjas. I learn the word for centipede. Mugade. It makes me remember the Jet Lee film in which he sees a chicken eat a worm, and adapts the chicken’s movements to be used in a spectacular fight against a giant human centipede that operates in a similar fashion to Chinese festival lions. Apparently here in Iga, too, somebody strong and brave managed to kill the centipede. Hero. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On our way back, U-san and I eat in the little restaurant attached to the place where she usually stops on our way back to buy big boxes of tomatoes for her mother, and other cheap fresh fruit and vegetables. U-san recommends oyakodon. Parent and child at their tastiest together, laden on top of a bowlful of sticky rice. Runny egg, and good, juicy chicken, soy flavoured, slightly sweet. Perfect! </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The little combini-vegetable market-restaurant oasis along the motorway is right next to the river, and you can look down on it from the side of the parking lot. While U-san goes to the bathroom, I watch the river flow, a natural river, no concrete. A miracle in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, where all the rivers are embedded in concrete, stripped of their freedom and beauty. Not here. There is a small bamboo grove on the left. Here in Iga, you can imagine what <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> must have looked like when the ninjas were at work…green and wild, with trees and bamboo groves freely mingling their shadows and reflections with the glittering flow of crooked, wild streams. A world of the past. Especially good to retain, recreate, and reinforce now. May the beautiful shadow world of the ninjas be re-born doubly strong in its nostalgic splendour, combined with the comfort of high tech toilets and i-pods. I am hypnotised by the river. As I get lost in its waves and ripples, veins and arteries, it starts gurgling a song to me. The river carries the water into the ocean where the sea will take it further up to be clouds and rain back into the river. My phone rings me back into this world. I turn around and see U-san calling me from the other side of the parking lot. Why can’t she see me? Does this river hold some ninja magic? Has it temporarily turned me into a real shinobi? I take a deep breath and, breathing out, reappear in the parking lot. I walk across and join her in her little corsa for the ride back. Another week to prepare for the next ninja adventure. </p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-46702260653673534142007-07-01T22:38:00.001+09:002007-07-05T11:11:00.309+09:00Gaijin Ninja<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij12AgRvBL85n5Nz8NkaHOG8pqKgQFaq5B5fsidKTisy-j_jbxkgrWuMCteI5sVaht5u-_wa-bkOCc38xfn1LPgWwMYa16fs4JEvBU45jXMzCRKuJ9__Crc9h5_bIMM8r2vQv_hx1dLOfW/s1600-h/ninjaanna+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij12AgRvBL85n5Nz8NkaHOG8pqKgQFaq5B5fsidKTisy-j_jbxkgrWuMCteI5sVaht5u-_wa-bkOCc38xfn1LPgWwMYa16fs4JEvBU45jXMzCRKuJ9__Crc9h5_bIMM8r2vQv_hx1dLOfW/s320/ninjaanna+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082222802670166322" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">“Please bring a pair of short leggings next week,” U-san writes. I buy one with Its-san on one of our long gym training days and wear them under my trousers the following Sunday. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Again, I meet U-san in her little car, and we drive off to Iga. On the way, as we pass green hills and forests, she tells me to observe every little thing. To make sure I use the time I have now to learn everything. The order of the weapons backstage. The way everybody moves, and the time they move. One day, Kashira will suddenly tell me to tidy up backstage, and I wont have the slightest inkling what goes where if I don’t open my eyes and learn things now. U-san always has things to tell me. If she isn’t giving me tons of useful advice of how to become a successful apprentice kunoichi, she teaches me new words, and new little details about people in <st1:city><st1:place>Osaka</st1:place></st1:city>. In <st1:city><st1:place>Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city> everybody is rich and proud of it. In <st1:city><st1:place>Osaka</st1:place></st1:city>, people are proud if they can buy good things for little money. In <st1:city><st1:place>Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city>, girls will be jealous if their friends are better looking. In Osaka, if I make friends with a really beautiful girl, she says, I’ll just abuse the fact telling the guys I’ve always wanted to go out with, that I know this really beautiful girl, and they’ll all want to come. And the subtle difference between aho and baka, one of them being meant in a serious way, the other in a mocking way, is exactly opposite in <st1:city><st1:place>Osaka</st1:place></st1:city> and <st1:city><st1:place>Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city>. In <st1:city><st1:place>Osaka</st1:place></st1:city> everyone says aho all the time. If you say that in <st1:city><st1:place>Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city>, it is quite offensive. Kashira is donburi kanjo. He gives money away easily, likes spending it on friends. His wife is the business person. She does things properly, and if he didn’t have that kind of wife, things would be difficult.<span style=""> </span>I have had that feeling ever since I got the first phone call from her. Kashira was telling me to move in with them next month. She put the brakes on very quickly. “It is a hard job,” she tells me. “Many people quit.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then, the emergency text message, telling me not to quit my job, because we will run into lots of visa problems if I do. I assure them I will not quit my job if I am not absolutely sure of how to make a living afterwards. Kashira has done a lot of talking with his wife. “Being a ninja is not easy,” he sends me another text message. “In martial arts dojos, the teachers just want your money. You can buy everything, even your dan grades. Here, it is different. A true warrior has no thoughts, and no desire. I will teach you from the bottom up.” “So desu ne,” I agree with him, the universal agreement. This is not the place to tell him the various stories of my wonderful dojo acquaintances including teachers with firm ideals, and free of greed. Gambarimasu. I assure him. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This time, Kashira wants me to look like a real ninja. That’s why he makes me wear leggings. To be able to get changed in the same room as the men without stripping down to my knickers. The T-Shirt stays on anyway. I get given a bright blue ninja outfit with light blue ninja stars sewn onto the chest, and red borders. There are lots of ribbons to tie, and it is complicated to put on the trousers. First the short kimono, and an obi around it near the hip bones. Then the trousers. When you hold up the front part, the rest of them hangs down. You wrap the long belt around your waist twice and tie it in the back. Kashira is in the tent with me and helps me with my first ninja dressing routine. “Ah, it’s difficult,” he says. “If you’re doing it on somebody else, you don’t know how to hold the strings and where to tie them.” So he changes positions and stands behind me and pretends to be me when he wraps the belt around my waist and ties it together, squeezing my organs into my lungs. “This has to be quite tight, because it will become loose,” he explains as I struggle for air. It does loosen immediately. “You are all muscles,” says Kashira as he ties a bow in the back. “What a waste for you to be a school teacher!” Then, a plastic tongue sewn to the back of the trousers is stuck into the tied belt, and another belt tied in front above the first one, this time like a karate belt. Then its long ends are tied together in the back and hidden away, tucked up somewhere beneath the whole belt arrangement. Finally, the shin parts have to be tied. First, jika-tabi, ninja shoes. The shin parts of the trousers are split in two at the back of the lower legs. In front, two ribbons come out of the middle seam. The two sides are wrapped around the shin tight, inside to the inside of the leg, outside on top, then the ribbons are tied in front, loose ends tucked away just like those of the belt. Finished. Kashira hands me a hachimaki headband with a metal plate and a Naruto symbol on it. I have never read or seen Naruto, the famous ninja comic, and anime, but I know that it is famous and popular not only in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“This is really expensive, even in Japan.” Says Kashira. “When you go back to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>, everyone will want to steal it off you, so be careful!” he warns me. “Wow,” he marvels at the result of his efforts. “This really suits you!” I give him a smile, and we move on to the stage, which is a different experience today, looking like a ninja. “Wow,” people say when they pay to get into the show. “A gaijin!” or “Wow, a kunoichi!” Or<span style=""> </span>“Wow, a gaijin ninja!” And many of them want to take pictures with me. “Anna!” U-san shouts from the audience seats as I am posing for a picture with a group of teenage boys, “Karate-kamae!”And I go into a back stance with a low block in front and a high block in the back. “Ho!” she and Kashira exclaim, impressed, and the camera flashes. I feel unworthy of so much attention. I don’t even know how to throw the ninja stars myself, but am given the task to I instruct people in this skill after every single show. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But it is fun. Kashira tells me he wants me to talk to people, get sued to dealing with visitors. And this part, I have less trouble with than the complicated cleaning techniques I was taught on my first day. As I brush the dust out of all the eyes watching me from the spectator seats during the break, another eye catches me, and Kashira says: “You’ve become quite good at cleaning.” I bow and smile at the wooden eyes in front of me. The day passes quickly as I try to absorb the ticket selling routines. I assemble the thick, wooden tickets in the basket once the visitors are all seated. And watch the ninjas collect money in their black leather bags, saying Irasshaimase and Konnichiha degozaru. And dozo. I thank everybody who comes in and guide them inside with me dozo, this way please gestures. Smile and bow. Interpret during the show for an Indian Canadian young couple enthusiastic about ninjas. And pose for pictures. Next time, says Kashira, we will practise posing for pictures. In no time, the last show is over, and we scatter into the tent, where I empty the hot water dispenser and de-dust the foot mats in front of the door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This time, I have brought some Ferrero Kuesschen chocolates from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>, as I had half a box left and know Kashira loves sweets. He tells me next time we will take some pictures and do some training. I thank him for his guidance and ask for more, much more of it in the future. And U-san and I take her little Corsa back to <st1:city><st1:place>Osaka</st1:place></st1:city>, back to the world of bright lights and long working days. For another week. </p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-28142590633924767512007-06-12T10:39:00.000+09:002007-07-01T22:42:48.125+09:00Broomsmanship and Zokinjutsu<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXgv4KhWsFasthD-p7Mlb9klurZ3toWiWYvLHftZkWNVOje8_AL8UCl41rM8MgEhHWUlWnetIkZ4d-h_VF38_YULVs0om1MP9e11j6VV-gc5hexqf6BmSR9MxU2DdOe47TZ2w6zhN9cUO/s1600-h/iga3+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXgv4KhWsFasthD-p7Mlb9klurZ3toWiWYvLHftZkWNVOje8_AL8UCl41rM8MgEhHWUlWnetIkZ4d-h_VF38_YULVs0om1MP9e11j6VV-gc5hexqf6BmSR9MxU2DdOe47TZ2w6zhN9cUO/s320/iga3+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074988123690342514" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiOxMcLxJ-PTFFYND1aIm8q__G0XHw6RytSBO3loZ-kIqOR90XpYFFzLcHgmfbeCwYkBIQEq_o_umjzBseUqirltqhtAFr__Fz-9mkMdMa9-NJxN3WT7Vys-x-YgGh_ntnsYGBWBHXdSU/s1600-h/iga3+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiOxMcLxJ-PTFFYND1aIm8q__G0XHw6RytSBO3loZ-kIqOR90XpYFFzLcHgmfbeCwYkBIQEq_o_umjzBseUqirltqhtAFr__Fz-9mkMdMa9-NJxN3WT7Vys-x-YgGh_ntnsYGBWBHXdSU/s320/iga3+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074987960481585250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKYo6yAmjGaq_4ymzqTrg8q0j7L4UN3bFyqv-hN3iwJsaKJz7VMcegnSeIqJnklols7qNd82YpzkpjOVV8vQSLbhw061TkOFYp2zHy7vqtIQ6jLuHOfZM5zwUUb5E5Jx2lw0qj7CzerBN/s1600-h/iga3+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKYo6yAmjGaq_4ymzqTrg8q0j7L4UN3bFyqv-hN3iwJsaKJz7VMcegnSeIqJnklols7qNd82YpzkpjOVV8vQSLbhw061TkOFYp2zHy7vqtIQ6jLuHOfZM5zwUUb5E5Jx2lw0qj7CzerBN/s320/iga3+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074987784387926098" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">A message from U-san.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“Let’s check how long it takes for you to get here next Sunday. When would you like to be in Iga?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I reply.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“Would it be ok if I left the house around seven?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Her reply:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“You are new to the job. So you should be there before everybody else and clean and prepare the place. Can you be here at the train station near my house at seven?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">This is followed by a detailed description of how to get to Furukawabashi. I have to take the Hankyu line to Umeda, then change to the Midosuji Subway, and then, one stop later at Yodoyabashi, hop onto the Keihan line and go to Furukawabashi. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style=""> </span>On Saturday night, I make a big sacrifice for the ninja boss’s wife and skip karate training. She wants a Japanese CV from me, and I need Excel to update my old one. And to use Excel, I have to go to Its-san’s house. After work, however, Manager gives Chi-san, one of the three students in my last Saturday night class, a sales pitch, which is disguised as a long, animated conversation involving Chi-san’s new work schedule and triathlon training. She is a lovely woman, but I want to leave as soon as possible so I don’t have to bother Its-san and little R-chan until late and can secure some sleep before tomorrow’s early start. But there is no way out. I have to stand and smile and nod, and contribute my own half marathon times, and throw in some admiring English aizuchi, little meaningless comments to encourage people to keep talking. I have to <span style=""> </span>be smiley and patient, and look like I’m thoroughly enjoying a little chat with my favourite people in my favourite place. Difficult. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">My colleague M-san appears from our messy store room that remains invisible to our students in casual clothes and murmurs a half-hearted apology. Chi-san, bless her, tells me to please go home, too. She works in a gym, and knows, no doubt, what a chore customer service can be. But I pretend I was not even thinking of exiting such a wonderfully stimulating conversation. Why? Adaptation must have snuck up on me when I didn’t notice, like a cunning ninja.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We finally see her off at ten to nine and Manager takes the elevator down with her to retrieve the pink GEOS flags from outside. M-san and I simultaneously start moving at tenfold speed and erupt into individual fits of swearing that meet harmoniously here and there, in chords of dischord, mixing English, Japanese, and here and there, M-san’s freshly learned German swearing styles. Manager comes back, we log out, and say farewell to her for another weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Then I try to find Its-san’s house and fail miserably a few times. I am exhausted. And cycling around in the dark, somewhere near my house, failing to find a way I have been shown over and over again makes me feel stupid and annoyed with myself. Finally, I manage to find the path Its-san keeps telling me to go straight down all the way, the blessed path that leads me right up to her house. She is waiting outside for me in a sweat suit. We enter the house, where R-chan, wearing manga rabbit pyjamas, is lounging about on the sofa watching a morbid comedy program on TV. “R-chan, aisatsu!” Its-san tells her to greet me properly. “Hello” says R-chan. Its-san switches on the computer for me and serves some white drinking yoghurt in a small glass bottle, and a juicy orange cut up on a leaf-shaped plate. I thank her and start working on my CV. The only difficult part is the free writing part where I have to detail my hopes for this job. I have never written a CV for a ninja job before, but try my best to use formal CV language to let the ninjas know I am prepared to do as much cleaning, carrying boxes, lining up tickets in baskets, and assembling ninja stars into badges of five to be test-thrown for 200 Yen each, as it takes. I will in fact do all this just for its own sake, and for the honour of being able to help the ninjas. And if, at any stage, I could start training ninjutsu and maybe even start a career as a ninja, I would be infinitely grateful and forever in their debt. I have Its-san read it over, and she makes a few nice changes, including the order and the polishing of some expressions for which I hadn’t been aware of more formal versions. We spend some time fiddling with the strange format and print out my form. Then Its-san makes some Korean nut tea, and R-chan, Its-san and I sit watching R-chan’s strange show together, drinking our sweet, nutty tea. I give R-chan some chocolate. “Do you want some chocolate?” “Hm. Ok. But I also want something salty.” “Sorry, I don’t have anything salty.” I apologize. Its-san gets out some big, salty o-Senbe rice crackers. I get out my kinoko mochi sweet chewy rice balls. I have three. Its-san is keeping toher diet. I eat one and R-chan eats one. I haven’t had dinner. I grab the second one. R-chan lets out a screech like an old car breaking suddenly on a rain-wet road, and says: “Choudai.” meaning “Give me it!” I let her grab one side of it and pull it into a long sticky string to share it. She grunts and sqeals, not happy with only half. “R-chan!” Its-san growls Marge Simpson style. “You eat too much!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Finally, I thank Its-san and say good bye. It is </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="0"><span style="">midnight</span></st1:time><span style="">, and I cycle home, where I have to try out several long pairs of trousers to see which ones go best with my ninja soul. I assemble everything I need when I depart for my first proper shugyo training in Iga in a few hours. Notebook, book, camera, wallet, some food and drink in my rucksack, clothes to be worn on the table. Then I try to sleep, but it is difficult, especially knowing that I only have a few hours to do so. When I finally fall into a dream, in which I have to be really careful about the corridor that leads towards the light, because somebody is coming from there, and something suspicious and frightful is happening between me and the light, I get thrown right out of it again by my alarm clock. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">On Sunday 12 May at 4.44, mothers’ day, I force myself out of bed and put on my ninja soul. I have two slices of buttered toast and a cup of coffee and cycle towards Sone station. The only hiccup is missing a semi-express at Yodoyabashi that I could have taken, but I arrive on time, and U-san is waiting for me in her little car, complete with sun screens suction-cupped to the windows, and a little lamb-shaped tissue box in front. After some efficient early morning greetings, we drive out onto the motorway towards Iga, our surroundings getting greener and greener. “Today,” says U-san, “Tomo-chan and Hentai (the weirdo) are at a wedding, so Kashira (the boss) and Ma-chan are on their own, and they definitely need me to help. When it’s not so busy, and there’s four of them there, they can do everything on their own, but today they need me. Tomo-chan’s umbrella trick is lucky. It is like an offering to the gods, so people love it for weddings.” I am impressed by the sphere of tasks carried out by the modern Ninja. What a truly adaptable creature. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">It is a cloudy day. When we’re almost there, we stop at a combini and get a second breakfast. Later, there might not be time for much of a break. Only a short lunchbreak. Maybe 15 minutes. We sit slurping coffee, U-san eats an egg sandwich, I have some salmon onigiri to re-fill energy reserves.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When we get to the Ninja-village, some people are already in the parking space. It is half eight. We go to the tent and U-san shows me how to clean the hot water dispenser and where to plug it in, in case anybody wants coffee or cup-ramen. Another piece of the big jigsaw puzzle of daily routines at the Ninja-village I am trying to put together in my head, as a map to be followed with my body. I am not here for money. Or amusement. Or martial arts training. I am here for Shūgyō, training mind and body, demonstrating dedication. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We accommodate our things on the raised section inside the tent, resembling a tatami room, but not treated like one. Shoes are worn everywhere in the tent, it is a work place like that for actors backstage, where they have their makeup and costumes, snacks and drinks, where they get changed and fight their nerves between costumes and different entertainment routines. The two men who work at the village are already there. <span style=""> </span>I’m not sure what their jobs are, but they are always there, helping in one way or another, or being there in case help is needed. Smiling. Greeting everybody with a friendly face. Friendly greetings all around. “In </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">, “ says U-san, “We say if you can’t greet people properly, you can’t do anything.” Shihan’s words echo in my mind. “The first interaction with your partner is your greeting. Give everybody your best possible greeting. At all times.” But here, at the Ninja village, it is not a big chore to greet people who greet you with a smile and a slight, polite bow. It is the most tiring thing to do at GEOS, the office I am stuck in doing something I don’t want to do for ten hours a day. But here, in the Ninja-village, where people in Ninja costumes with cleft shoes move between old Japanese farm houses, equipped with revolving doors, secret exits to be opened with bits of paper, and invisible flap doors used to disappear up the roof; in the shadow of big, old trees and walls made of old, moist rocks, the friendly greeting routine is in fact, rather infectious. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We walk up the short path to the Ninja stage, and I get the big straw broom and the orange dust pan from the small space backstage behind the straw wall that shows marks of being battered with small sickles turned ninja stars. This is a small episode in one of the show routines in which Kashira explains that especially here in Iga, a lot of Ninjas used to be farmers, or at least lived and dressed like farmers most of the time, so they pretended to cut grass with their little sickles, and when enemies appeared, they hurled their sickles at them and punctured their unassuming hearts. Sickle ninja stars. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Like last time, I start sweeping between the benches and gather the dirt that accumulates in the orange dust pan. Ma-kun appears out of nowhere and smiles. Then Kashira appears, sees me and smiles very broadly. I’m not sure whether that is a good sign. Somehow it makes me nervous. We exchange greetings, and I arrive at the front row and start sweeping the stage and the space in front of it. Kashira comes and takes the broom off me. “Anna. Look.” One of the oji-sans who are always around to help is sitting in the front row, watching us at work. “Foreigners are not used to using a broom.” Kashira tells him. He takes the broom in both hands and in a few, elegant strokes, without the slightest effort, gathers all the leaves on the left side of the stage into a neat pile. There are no superfluous movements. His soji, cleaning, is precise, elegant, efficient, and effortless. “You have to treat the broom like a sword.” Unfortunately I have no experience with swords. I try my best to imitate Kashira’s style of soji. He walks around doing things here and there, and then takes the broom off me again. “Anna. Look.” He gathers all the leaves on the other side of the stage with the same beautiful movements. This time, I notice his big, long strokes rather than trying to analyse the position of his arms and hands. “The way you do it, Anna, a 10 minute job takes half an hour! If you don’t get used to using a broom properly, you can’t proceed to the next step. Foreigners are not used to using a broom.” He tells oji-san again. Oji-san laughs. “You use a hoover don’t you?” Kashira asks me. “We use hoovers, yes.” I admit and try to take the broom off him. But he handles it at his own pace. I want to learn. “She comes from a well-to-do family in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Germany</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">,” he tells Oji-san. “Don’t you Anna? In </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Germany</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">, people live quite a good life.” Finally, he returns the broom to me. In front of oji-san’s bench, I hold the orange dust pan with my left hand and try to sweep up the pile onto its safe orange landing with the broom in my right. “No,” says Kashira. Let Papa here show you how to do it properly. Oji-san laughs. “Not like this!” He holds the broom like me. “Like this!” He grabs the broom with his right hand, like a sword, his palm facing the way he is sweeping, and, with ease, sweeps the whole pile onto the dust pan. I nod and take notes in my mind. Chapter 1: How to Handle a Broom. “The Japanese soul,” says Kashira, “lies in the broom. I bet you thought it was in the katana, didn’t you.” He laughs, chuckling away greatly amused at the extent of my ignorance. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I sweep the path that leads the visitor queues up to the stage to free the rubble of fallen leaves. While trying to implement Kashira’s and papa’s broom teachings, I notice that sweeping leaves out of rubble requires a very light, long touch, because too heavy strokes clear both the rubble and the leaves. The long bristles of the broom have to dance lightly across the chunky path, to work like a sieve that separates the leaves from the rubble. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When I finish, I run to dump the dirt on the big leafy pile hidden behind the photo gallery to the right of the stage that shows Kashira with Takeshi Kitano, his friends at the film set of<span style=""> </span>“Last Samurai”, Tomonosuke and Masanosuke when they were kids, smiling in front of a warrior with a white beard and a dirty face who seems to have come from a long gone age, and various Kunoichi in short ninja dresses that have left Kashira’s house to become famous actresses. Once back, I ask U-san whether anything else has to be cleaned, but she tells me to do the seats next, so I deposit broom and dust pan backstage and grab the short broom from the side of the sound effects box, reserved for cleaning the benches. In short strokes, shaking my wrist, I brush the dust off the benches front to back. Kashira is next to the sound effects box, drilling a big hole into a stump to be used for mounting the rolls of soaked bamboo he will cut with his katana in the show later on. The makiwara that offer the same resistance to the sword as a human neck. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“Anna,” he interrupts his wood drilling to drill me. “Do you know what this is?” He points at the bench. I wonder what kind of answer he is looking for. “It’s wood.” I see. “And these,” he gestures along the lines in the wood, “are lines in the wood. And these are the eyes.” He shows me the places where the twigs used to grow, leaving round, dark dents. “You have to clean the benches along these lines.” He takes the broom off me and, in long sweeps, brushes the dust sideways <span style=""> </span>along the benches until it flies off in a little cloud at the end. “Wakarimashita,” I say. Understood. And smile. I take the broom and try to sweep like Kashira, who goes back to drilling the wood. He has turned his back to me. But the eyes in the wood are watching me, wherever I go, and they will cry to Kashira about the dust I have left in them if I don’t brush them<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">properly. “The stage,” says Kashira, “and its whole environment have to be kept neat and clean. The Kami-sama live there, the gods. If you make an effort, the gods come out to help you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">U-san has already watered the sand between the rows of seats, to avoid flying dust and enhance the cleaning prowess of the broom. I spot a bit of insect protection that has leaked onto the front bench and ask U-san whether I should clean this with the zōkin, the cloth in the bucket behind the sound effects box. “Yes.” Kashira appears. “Does Anna know how to use a zōkin yet?” I remember U-san showing me how to fold the zōkin twice and wring it last week, but after my first lesson in broomsmanship this morning, I don’t dare being so bold as to claim I know how to use a zōkin. “The monks at the Shaolin temple practised this every day. They practised with the broom, and they practised with the zōkin. So did the samurai and the ninjas. In handling a zōkin correctly, you develop the muscles in your forearms, and you tighten the grip on your sword. He folds the zōkin twice, like I was shown last week, and grabs it like the handle of a katana. His forearms bulge as he wrings the water from it to the last drop. He hands me the zōkin and wanders off with the amused chuckle I am getting used to. U-san shows me how to clean the bucket with the hose by the stage that is used for watering the sandy stage and spaces between the benches before and in between shows, and I spend some time practising Kashira’s wringing sword grip on the zōkin. Chapter 2: First Steps in Zōkinjutsu.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">After I have cleaned the insect protection off the front bench, and under U-san’s instruction, wiped the splutters of mud off the photo galleries and poster walls around the stage, Kashira tells us to take a break. We still have more than half an hour before the first show. I feel lazy sitting down, but U-san gives me a short lesson on how important it is to work when you are told to work and rest when you are told to rest. I get my notebook and copy down the English text on the posters around the stage. Maybe, I think, I can improve on that a little bit if they want me to at some stage. <span style=""> </span>“Best selling item in house of Ninja Tradition!” “Where light is, shadow exists. The Ninja, living on the backside of history. With strength, mental power, and the sword’s power. Iga Ninja have existed for centuries. Now, again!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I look at the Japanese versions and try to produce some more appealing English blurbs. After all, the Ninjas were known for their excellent spying skills. They used secret codes and a writing system nobody else knew. And don’t we all know from authentic spy movie experience that spies are known to be great linguists?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Brooding over my English ninja ads, U-san who has finished testing the mic and audio equipment, sits down next to me and asks me what I’m doing. She listens and sounds very impressed, as she would never notice such a thing. I diplomatically tell her, the English is not really wrong, it just might not appeal to English visitors in this form because they have a different way of responding to advertisements. She sounds even more impressed and turns around to tell Kashira. “O, really?” he says. “Please fix it for us!” Happy to have found a purposeful way of sitting on the clean wooden benches, I keep brooding over the most enjoyable and attractive text possible to be put on posters and signs. One of them is aimed at selling the big hachimaki headband with<span style=""> </span>the kanji for “</span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">mushin</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="">” on it. “The Ninja Stage original towel.” It reads.”Please ask ninja about this towel.” No. Let’s have this instead. “Ninja-headband ‘MU-SHIN’.Empty your mind and fill it with the world. Interested? Ask a Ninja!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Masanosuke, otherwise knows as Ma-chan, comes back with his eyebrows emphasised in dark, black strokes of make-up and a dark ninja tan. He takes his baseball and catching glove and starts throwing the ball at the straw wall. “Want to play?” he asks me. Throwing things is not my strong point. But I’ve always wanted to play with a Ninja. “Sure.” I smile and get up from the bench. “Are you right or left handed?” he says. “Right.” “OK. He hands me a glove.” Put this on your left hand. He walks across the stage and throws the ball at me. But it bounces off the glove again and again, and I don’t manage to catch many balls. Ma-chan smiles and says “Kashira<span style=""> </span>will be back soon. We’ll show you how to do it.” Kashira comes back, wearing a catching glove on his right hand, and the two of them start throwing the ball back and forth, catching it with the leather gloves, holding them up high and snapping the ball out of the air. “This,” says Kashira,” loosens up your muscles before the ninja star routine.” “Yeah,” says Ma-chan, “He is really used to it, but I’m not, so it’s difficult. My hands get sweaty.” The ball from Kashira’s side flies at three times the speed as Ma-chan’s. U-san has told me about this. She has to adjust the timing of the sound effects to the people doing the routine. Kashira’s ninja-stars land so fast, she can hardly push the button home in time with her finger tip lying in wait right on top of it. “We came second at the Kōshien baseball championships when I was in highschool.” Says Kashira when I admire his throwing skills. “So I practised a lot.” <span style=""> </span>The skills and achievements of the modern ninja are baffling indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Finally, ten minutes before the first show at </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="11"><span style="">eleven o’clock</span></st1:time><span style="">, U-san puts on her walkie talkie headphones so she can communicate with the other actors in this routine, and I accompany her to the back entrance, to be opened slightly after the people who have queued by the front entrance have been let in. I switch on my MP3 voice recorder, newly acquired for this purpose, and hide it under my red ninja wristband, on the inside of my forearm. This will be my study material for keigo, respect language to be employed when talking to visitors. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Keigo are used in every shop and tako-yaki stall in the street. In every restaurant. At GEOS. At the tourist information centre. In every customer service environment in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">, combined with the appropriate bows and gestures to usher people around or give money back to them. Humble guiding gestures, accepting business cards with both hands, giving back paper money change first, counting the notes for the customer to check, lightly supporting customers’ hands with the left hand when the right hand deposits the coin part of the change in their palm. And a zillion other subtleties that have escaped my coarse, unpolished<span style=""> </span>gaijin observation skills so far and that I might have the honour to be taught at some point in the distant future, once I have mastered broomsmanship and zōkinjutsu.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">All this reflects the Japanese saying “The customer is to be treated like a god.” After the madness of Golden Week, this is an exceedingly quiet day, and there seems to be little effort in smiling and making the few groups of visitors stop when they come past from the ninja house, inviting them into the show for 200 Yen each. Families. Kids pay the same price from 4 years of age. Old women. Old men. A young couple, he is wearing a big, purple felt hat and a T-shirt that reads “Be Peace!” sporting a hemp leaf and a peace sign. The Ninja’s popularity stretches across all boundaries, impressing even the true Japanese Hippie pacifist with his martial prowess and stealthy skill. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">U-san tells Ma-chan through the walkie talkie that we are about to close the back entrance, and walks up to the sound effect box while I fasten the metal hooks to the metal rings around the entrance and close the tarpaulin door. I stay on the left side of the stage, and only make my way around to the other side when I notice that a few people are sitting on the plastic sheet near the stage, the spot that becomes dangerous during the ninja star routine, so when Ma-chan walks onto the stage with his juji, cross-shaped, and roppo, six-point <span style=""> </span>ninja stars, I tell them quietly that this part of the show will be dangerous, so could they please stand back just for the ninja star routine? I apologise and bow and usher them up the first two stairs. After that, I walk back to the left side, where I watch as amazed as the audience, as the two ninjas demonstrate their skill in the use of different sized sickles, including one attached to a long chain with an iron ball at its end, the kusarigama, and hobakujutsu, the art of inflicting damage on an opponent from a distance without weapons, using nothing but a rope with a knot at each end. Also called taijutsu and employed, without the rope, in various modern budo including aikido, judo, and karate. Finally, after Kashira has cut off his son’s balls with a sickle, caught his foot with a chain, stuck his hand through his skin up his stomach, and broken his neck with a frightful crunching sound, resulting in a pained grimace on Ma-chan’s face, he walks a few steps away from his most recent victim and looks at the audience. Then back at Ma-chan. Pats him on the back. “Hey, it’s over!!” People laugh. Ma-chan wakes from his painful death, bows and scrambles off stage. Kashira thanks the audience for their visit and attention, and tells them what they have seen today are not the only tricks the ninjas knew. While Ma-chan comes out to present the Ninja group’s original DVD to people, drawing another laugh, I unhook the tarpaulin door and stand by the exit, raising my hand when Kashira tells people “The exit is on the left.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Outside tourist season, such as Golden Week and the summer holidays, shows are only on every hour, and the stage is turned into a ninja star throwing dojo in between shows. People get to throw five stars for 200 Yen. Unlike the walls used by the ninjas in the show, the special walls put up for this purpose have a shooting target on them to give a goal and enhance the thrill of playing, and are not made of wood but of Styrofoam. Kids on the right, with U-san and Ma-chan. Adults on the left with Kashira. Each team has one bucket for cash and one for Ninja stars.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I stand by the exit and bow to people, one group after another, smiling “Arigatou gozaimashita!” as they leave. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When most people have cleared the exit, Kashira waves me over with the strange Japanese hand gesture that is used to signal “Come here!” but always looks like “Go away, filthy vermin.” Feeling appropriately addressed by this, I disobey my lowly gaijin impulses and approach him. “Here. It’s five stars for 200 Yen.” He hands me a pile of five ninja stars and takes the next person’s 200 Yen. Startled into my sudden promotion to advanced customer service personnel, I bow as I hand the man his five ninja stars and say: “Five stars, good luck.” “Where’s your voice?” says Kashira. “Speak louder. Do you find it embarrassing to talk to visitors?” He hands me the next five ninja stars and I don’t get a chance to answer his question. “I want you to talk to visitors as much as possible. You have to get used to it.” I talk to the visitors as much as possible, digging out scraps of keigo from the periphery of my cerebrum, dusting them as I go along listening to Kashira, trying to extend my audio-absorption sphere to take it Ma-chan’s and U-san’s words as well. Red line for the men, yellow line for the women. It gets easier. In the end, when most people have left, Kashira hands me five ninja stars. “Here. Try. It’s difficult.” My first star barely clings on to the wall. It doesn’t have any force in it. I try to remember the body postures I have seen Kashira and Ma-chan use. Arm back, <span style=""> </span>elbow in. Hip swing when hurling the star forward. My next attempt is stronger. And my last star lands near the centre of the shooting target. Maybe throwing things can be learned after all. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style=""> </span>In between shows, I talk to U-san and work on more English for the posters. In the second show, I am to help Ma-chan clear away the fallen pieces of bamboo that Kashira slices off the bamboo stalks and rolled up mats in the first part of today’s show. I stand on the left side of the stage. U-san has told me to go gather the bamboo once Kashira finishes his routine and starts his explanations. But I don’t dare shooting out without a further signal. Sure enough, shortly after Kashiras explanations have begun, Ma-chan’s face appears from backstage, and he nods as he runs onto the stage and carries the heavy mounts with the stumps of bamboo stalks and rolls to the back of the stage. I run with him and gather the fallen pieces of bamboo into the straw mat, the mushiro, as U-san tells me, at the front of the stage, roll it into a bag, and run to the audio box at the back of the audience, where I deposit everything at the foot of the round, wooden steps leading up to the box. After doing this once, it repeats itself every show. You do not get told things twice. You get told once and are expected to do them from then on. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Three foreigners come to the next show, an English teacher with his two parents on visit is my guess. I sit next to them and interpret the explanations. Especially the dad is very happy about it and acknowledges the information I give him with amazes nods and gasps of admiration for the skills and knowledge of the Ninjas. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I can’t believe half the day has passed already when U-san tells me that the two of us are going for lunch now. We walk down to the tent, where some big o-bento lunch boxes are waiting for us, containing a mountain of rice, fried meat, a pink and white fish paste flower, cooked beans, little tofu balls, deep fried fish and soy sauce. While we eat, she says, today is a very easy day, and there aren’t many visitors. Sometimes there is not much time for lunch, but today things are easy, and we have 20 minutes to eat and drink some barley tea from the fridge. “When you leave for lunch, you say O-saki desu. Because you are going for lunch before they are.” This is what we are told to do, but it still has to be regarded as something that should not be done and therefore has to be mentioned as a kind of apology. Kashira says: “U-san and Anna. Go for lunch.” And we say “Osaki-desu.” That’s all the etiquette we have time for, emphasises U-san. There is no time for polite hesitation. When you get back, you say “Osaki deshita.” I went for lunch before you did. And they will go after the next show. I take a note in the Ninja Japanese section of my brain. Then we go back to the stage, and enjoy another three shows. During the second to last show, my tiredness hits me so bad, I forget to warn the three people in the dangerous place and watch Ma-chan throw his ninja-stars in horror, breaking into a cold sweat myself as his words from earlier on are on repeat in my spinning head “I’m not really used to this yet. My hands get sweaty.” <span style=""> </span>I have also missed to gather the mat with the bamboo from next to the audio box and carry it backstage. U-san has told me what Ma-chan does with it, and I have not interpreted this as an instruction to do it myself in the future. The subtleties of Japanese teaching methods are plenty. After everybody leaves the next ninja star throwing session, I carry the mat backstage and look for the black bin bag Ma-chan has mentioned to me, to be used for the bamboo mats. U-san hurries to help. “Take off the rubber bands,” she says, “and put them in the bowl there. They are a different type of rubbish.” </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">’s strict garbage separation laws are as true in Ninja-vilage as everywhere else. Then put the bamboo rolls in here, and the bamboo stalks there.” I follow her instructions and, on my way out, meet Kashira on the stage. He tells me if I’m interested in budo and zen, I should learn sword fighting, not karate. He fetches a sword from back stage and slices through the air with a swishing sound that doesn’t need electronic support. He hands me the sword. It is surprisingly light. “It’s a women’s sword,” he explains. “For practice.” I try to imitate his cut, but there is no sound. “You can do it, too.” He shows me again, and I try again. But there is no sound when I do it. He laughs and shows me again. When I try to imitate his upward swing before the actual cut, I puncture the tarpaulin behind me that has big red “nin” kanji on it and provides the backdrop to the ninja show.” I almost drop the sword in shock and dissolve into an avalanche of bows and apologies. Kashira laughs and takes the sword back. “That, I can definitely teach you if you start training with us.” He deposits the sword backstage.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Before the last show, Kashira joins U-san and me by the back entrance. “You are not good at sales.” He says, but there is no blame in his voice. “No, sorry.” I say. “I hate sales, too,” he says. I tell him I don’t mind selling things if people want them. I just don’t like having to force things on people. “Are you nervous about talking to visitors?” he asks. “Not in general.” I answer truthfully. “I’m just worried about using the appropriate keigo.” “But you speak hyoujungo (Standard Japanese). That’s better Japanese than we speak.” U-san looks flustered and Kashira laughs. They are good friends. “This one here,” says Kashira, is a real Kansai woman. For women it’s especially dirty to use Osaka-ben.” He laughs, and U-san gives up her mock indignation and bursts out laughing, too, releasing an unintelligible stream of Osaka-ben swearing in Kashira’s direction. “Don’t worry, Anna. Your Japanese is pretty. How are we going to solve your visa problems.” “I wish I knew. I didn’t think it would be this complicated.” “Neither did I. But my wife is checking everything she can. As long as we don’t do anything illegal.” “Yoroshiku onegai itashimasu.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">After the last show at four a clock, U-san tells me to go and tidy up the tent, pour out the water in the hot water dispenser, dust the floor mats by the entrance, and relax. Cleaning is mostly done in the morning. During the night, leaves will fall, so there is no point. I do as I’m told. Ma-chan and Kashira come back to the tent. I have made some cake for them, and Kashira looks happy when I put the tray full of green tea and chocolate cake in front of them. They thank me, and U-san and I thank them. For the day. Their work. Their attention. Their honourable presence. “We will be in touch before next week,” says Kashira, and I bow “Shitsurei shimasu!” again before I exit the tent and walk to the car with U-san.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">On the way back, she tells me I have to become a ninja in the ninja world. Somebody who lives in the shadows of the shadows, assuring the shadow’s existence. It is like a Japanese saying. You have to become like a pillar that is dug up in the ground to support a house. Nobody can see you, yet without you, the house would crumble. But even to become that, it takes a long time. She lives with her mother, and works Monday to Saturday in a car export and import company. So she can only go on Sundays, and it took her about three years to remember the routines. We stop by a combini-cum-vegetable market, use the toilet, buy some cheap fruit, and continue our journey back through the green winding roads of Iga to the big ugly monstrosity that is </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="">. I like the city, but seeing some green now and then is refreshing. I have the prospect of absorbing some real Japanese traditions. If I get a visa, I can spend time here. Enough time for in depth learning. I will do anything for it. But in the middle of this hope and will, I sorely miss the green, rolling hills of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">England</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">, </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Ireland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">, </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Scotland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">. The quaint pubs, the people who never bow to you but look you straight in the eyes, and smile if they feel like it, and call you darling and sweetheart and serve you golden pints and greasy pies. The herds of sheep, the smell of green. Blue and red TESCO signboards next to a centuries old bridge. Toast for breakfast. Hill races and beer festivals in the summer. Jokes, pub crawls, and pub quizzes. This is the first fit of homesickness I have felt since I’ve come to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style=""> this time. But it is sweet. Sorely sweet, and whatever I love I can treasure. And whatever I treasure is sweeter the further away it goes. Preparing perfectly any future reunion. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">For now, I am on the dusty path of shugyo. I am training to be without desire. Without thought. Stealthy, quiet, living a life in the shadows. Don’t leave me, sun. I need you, for without you, I cannot be the shadow I aspire to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I arrive at home at </span><st1:time minute="30" hour="8"><span style="">half past eight</span></st1:time><span style=""> and take a shower. Then, I suddenly notice I need sleep and fall into a world of shadows that is too dark to see a single thing. Sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-8059929755241155252007-06-10T14:40:00.000+09:002007-06-10T14:50:05.611+09:00Shadow Watching the Light<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjta9hYqtigpjc93PUZyL3ZzaUt7JDNTjegdukz3lpQD6eMbTH-kkq9RFZ93TsDyB87p5TwkBaNhuf6SSbZN44JgsNKTTzsM3wSReiLsiSMMqzmvydyjCaO_vS3cVfJu2kRMaPXcLh-Euy6/s1600-h/Iga+2+032.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjta9hYqtigpjc93PUZyL3ZzaUt7JDNTjegdukz3lpQD6eMbTH-kkq9RFZ93TsDyB87p5TwkBaNhuf6SSbZN44JgsNKTTzsM3wSReiLsiSMMqzmvydyjCaO_vS3cVfJu2kRMaPXcLh-Euy6/s320/Iga+2+032.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074308788713134146" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The next morning, we meet for breakfast at 7.30 and leave for the ninja village. It is Golden Week, so visitors are already streaming into the ninja fortress at this early hour when we arrive. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We deposit our things in the tent. I am wearing my ninja soul, and my wrist bands, and get given a “</span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">mushin</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="">” hachimaki to tie around my head. No mind. That should be the perfect preparation for whatever mindless jobs S-san has promised me would be lying ahead of me. But I am soon corrected. There is no such thing as a mindless job. Everything requires a lot of attention and consideration. Only once you become skilled at whatever it is you are doing, cleaning the seats, ridding the paths of fallen leaves, watering the sandy stage down with a hose, it only becomes mindless in a fruitful way once you become so good at it that your body develops its own mind to do it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">But today, the boss is easy on me. I am to watch S-san managing floods of visitors, dividing the long queue into two parts with ropes, to create a passage way that lets people into the museum, or House of Ninja Traditions. She is very professional, polite at the exactly appropriate level that makes visitors feel special, e with due humility and respect, but she does not create too big a distance between her and them, so they feel treated warmly, and truly welcome, at the same time. Yet another art I still have to master. She hands out little wooden tickets from a basket and gives change from a black leather bag. She sends me to get her 100 Yen coin change from Tomonosuke and new Iga brochures to hand out to people, to let them know what delicacies and other attractions can be enjoyed in the city at this high time of Japanese tourism. On a normal Sunday, there are six ninja shows a day, one every hour, followed by ninja star throwing for the audience. During Golden week, there are about ten shows, one every half hour, and the ninja star throwing is only for kids, and not carried out on stage, which in this case, needs to be prepared for the next show, but in the House of Ninja Traditions. And in this strange Golden Week world, the ninjas have the hardest time of the year, while everybody else takes time out. The joys of the entertainment business.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I get used to saying “Irasshaimase” (the obligatory welcome greeting used by people in any shop or other customer orientated establishment, accompanied by a bow), “Arigato gozaimasu” (thank you), and “dozo” (go ahead). I bow and hail my humble greetings on people who are passing me by, hardly noticing me, and that’s not because I’m such a good ninja. I am a shadow, watching the light to become part of it at some point, maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">For the rest of the time, once the people are inside, I get to watch the show. “Just enjoy yourself!” says the boss. There are a few foreign visitors, and I interpret for them before and during the show. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Finally, at around </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="5"><span style="">5 o’clock</span></st1:time><span style="">, the boss tells me I have seen enough for today, and can go home. I bow to him and thank him for everything. “So I will see you next Sunday then,” he says. “Yes.” I thank him again, and ask for more continued kindness, benevolence and teaching. I say a brief thank you and farewell to the busy S-san who is managing another hoard of holidaying Japanese buffaloes, and follow U-san, who<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">shows me how to ready the tent for the next day: sweep it, clean it, throw away the water in the kettle, tidy it up. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Once we are finished, I say good bye to her and, still in an incredulous daze, walk back to the station and make my way back to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="">. So, next week I will start as a shinjin. A beginner. And next time I will come for shugyo. The kind of work you do to prove that you want to learn and become an earnest disciple. In this world, there is no business involved, and no money. You pay with effort and get rewarded with knowledge and skills. It is a kind of exchange that has suited me well in the past. I am nervous about it this time, but know that only shows I have found something worth working for. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-19213033108970886362007-06-04T16:03:00.001+09:002007-06-04T16:07:03.536+09:00Beer with the Ninjas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsulpj9_fDz5GPnGWGMhk95jgb97sKMsBphBbcRVk9a29vFnWQ1rjr5nmLOTXTK4nhHEHnB7TFdWVv2I-Z7QMYYP06m58YM8uJaIEDk4A7fjxhc3MQuSn2szVRc19YxTwKCHdS4kJHBGw/s1600-h/Iga+2+024.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsulpj9_fDz5GPnGWGMhk95jgb97sKMsBphBbcRVk9a29vFnWQ1rjr5nmLOTXTK4nhHEHnB7TFdWVv2I-Z7QMYYP06m58YM8uJaIEDk4A7fjxhc3MQuSn2szVRc19YxTwKCHdS4kJHBGw/s320/Iga+2+024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072101635848619650" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When I’m half way through my rice and just picking up a slice of radish, the </span>boss appears, Bruce Lee written across his chest, looking like a good-natured old boy who likes his beer and his baseball. He walks up to the counter to fetch a tray full of food and comes to our table taking S-san’s place. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So, Anna, he says, “How do you want to go about things?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know. I can stay longer if you want. I have a friend in <st1:city><st1:place>Nara</st1:place></st1:city>, so you don’t have to put me up, and I won’t cause you any more trouble. I could stay there tomorrow night and then come back the day after.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Cause us trouble?” he finishes chewing his beef and washes it down with a sip of miso soup, screwing his face slightly. “Stop thinking along those lines right now,” he waves me off. “That’s not the spirit of our group. We provide all you need, food, shelter, insurance. Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it.” He looks me in the eyes to make a point.<span style=""> </span>“You pay with effort.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Insurance?” I say. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” says the boss. “If you are a ninja in training, you will get injured.” A u-tube “Ask a Ninja” quote pops up in my mind. “Nobody has ever survived a ninternship,” and I swallow my last bite of rice. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No Japanese insurance company will insure a ninja. The job is too dangerous. We need to get a foreign insurance to cover our needs. Anyway. No worries. We make the environment for you to train in, you make your body. Turn it into a ninja’s body with a ninja’s skills. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">You do the small jobs first. Clean, give out tickets, handle the money, do the sound effects, interpret for foreign visitors. Just like a part time job. What you get paid depends on how much effort you make. If you’re lazy you don’t get paid. If you work hard, you could get a better life out of this than have now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Money or no money, I’m sure I will get a better life out of this than I have now. At least concerning job satisfaction. My present job satisfaction goes as far as taking home a paycheque at the end of the month. I’m not using my head or my skills, I’m working 20 hours of unpaid overtime, and I am expected to be a sales shark. Luckily, my students are nice people, and the time I get to spend with them brings the odd highlight into my days down under, toiling at the GEOS mines. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But,” says the boss, “I meant, when do you want to start?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have a quick think. “Maybe I could quit GEOS by the end of June.” Starting training near my birthday seems like a nice and motivating birthday present to myself. Also, becoming a ninja usually takes about three years. And I like the thought of setting myself that all-important goal people set themselves. That all-important goal you need to have reached by the time you’re thirty, or else, you’re past it, and it’ll never happen. So what’s your goal, Anna Sanner? House? Husband? Kids? Ph.D.? Stable job? No. By the time I’m thirty I want to be a ninja. That sounds like something to look forward to. I smile to myself. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“OK,” says the boss. Then I remember my summer plans. “O, but my friend is getting married in August. And my dad is planning to come over to visit me in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> after that.” “O, don’t worry,” says the boss.” “We’re not uptight about things here. My heart is wider than the sun!” he makes a big gesture with his big arms. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“On the twentieth of every month we decide the next month’s schedule, so if you tell us by 20<sup>th</sup> July when you will be in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region> and showing your dad around <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, we’ll put that into our schedule.” He eats another bite. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You have to know, we are a good group! Our line of work is full of Yakuza. We have nothing to do with them. We are a good group, and there are no strange people in our group. Apart from him.” He points across the table to the third ninja, the young stuntman with the golden teeth who is silently eating his dinner next to Tomonosuke. “What?” He makes a shocked face. “This here,” says the boss, “is Hentai (=Weirdo).” “What kind of impression is she going to get of me?!” Hentai’s somewhat handsome face takes on a deeply disturbed expression. U-san and the sons laugh silently. “Yes, he stutters,” says the boss. “And sometimes he mumbles away and says things to himself that nobody else understands.” Hentai turns red. “And today, he’s especially shy because we have a beautiful woman at our table.” “What kind of impression are you giving her?!” Hentai repeats looking helpless. “Don’t worry,” I reassure him, “It’s quite an impression, I won’t forget about you too soon.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Besides Hentai, the boss’s two sons and wife, there is also a three-year-old ninja in the family. He is just starting his katana training, and I’m looking forward to meeting him next time. The boss’s wife used to be a school teacher and is good at English. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But I want you to teach my Tomo English conversation. If you teach him, it’ll take care of your rent. There’s a little apartment in our house, but you have to tell us in advance so we can get it ready.” “Teaching him English takes care of my rent?” I ask, shocked. “Sure,” says the boss and keeps eating. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“We’ve just lost a kunoichi. She lost her will to be a ninja. I could see it in her eyes. I have taught so many people. I know. The fact that you came in right now is fate..”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">U-san tells the boss about my mum’s late career change. “Wow,” says the boss. “So her mum is clever. This child is clever, too. It’s worth gold that you speak Japanese and English, that’s exactly what we were looking for.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Somehow, a big bottle of Asahi beer makes it to our table. I feel no need or urge to drink. The boss himself says he can only have one glass, everything else is too much for him. Hentai and the sons are drinking. The boss urges me to have one glass. Luckily the glass is small, and I keep nursing it to prevent being offered more. As promised, after one beer, the boss turns red <span style=""> </span>and cannot drink another. The sons and Hentai keep refilling their glasses, and while I am not keen about beer tonight, I am enjoying the idea of having a beer with the ninjas. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Ninjas,” says the boss, “are specialists. If there is something you are bad at, leave it. If there’s something you are good at, polish it, and make it perfect. If you have one or two things you’re really good at, it’s enough to be able to do all the other ninja things just well enough. My Tomo over there, he will have enough to eat for the rest of his days because he can make a coin roll on top of an umbrella.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have no doubt about that. It is one of the most impressive stunts I have seen, and the boss claims, nobody else in the world can do it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So you have to find out what you’re good at. The only thing I insist on is sword fighting. If you make it until we start proper training, I will teach you how to use a sword. But first, you will have to do the little things. I’m good at training people. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” He chuckles over a sip of tea. He has cleared his tray. And an additional bowl of yaki-soba fried noodles. I’m impressed at the amount he has managed to eat while telling me so many things. “We have to eat a lot,” he says. “During Golden Week, we use a lot of energy.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And at that, he silently hits the table with the palms of his hands and gets up from the table. “Time to go to bed. We need enough rest, as well. Never forget that. Enough rest is just as important as enough effort. Good night.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And another one disappears. Just as professionally. <span style=""> </span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-68818288322062141632007-06-02T00:39:00.001+09:002007-06-02T00:44:06.245+09:00Grains of Rice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiare3ipaUd7rFyofLcw9GiHeVkPdkPPuL5d38G2ZAEMDjkaYa6aojaVvT2IqHiGtxZI1kiQGniBYlQxxXpxfVtAzi97BubeF_UOR-1x6tocqm7yUTO8g00Q0qbn09rCiA5_oYVGALPW_oN/s1600-h/rice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiare3ipaUd7rFyofLcw9GiHeVkPdkPPuL5d38G2ZAEMDjkaYa6aojaVvT2IqHiGtxZI1kiQGniBYlQxxXpxfVtAzi97BubeF_UOR-1x6tocqm7yUTO8g00Q0qbn09rCiA5_oYVGALPW_oN/s320/rice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071122117017159282" border="0" /></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal">At 7.30, I make my way down to the dining room where I find S-san and U-san sitting at one of the clean, plain white, cloth-less cafeteria style tables with trays full of Japanese food. There is a big bowl of rice, a smaller one with miso soup, a tiny plate with yellow slices of pickled yellow daikon radish, a plate full of a beef and vegetable casserole with sticky sauce. The casserole does not look especially Japanese, it could be served anywhere in the world, but everybody, including the oji-san at the neighbouring table, is worried whether I can eat it. I assure them I have no problem eating whatever it is, and sighs of relief fill the dining room. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I go to the window to the kitchen where the trays of food are filled and handed out and get a load of food and a glass of green tea. Then I join S-san and U-san at the table and sit down opposite S-san who has come to eat early because she wants to do her washing after dinner and is planning to leave us soon tonight. S-san has finished eating and launches into a speech. A very long, very useful speech. She speaks very fast, with an accent I’m not used to, so I have to concentrate hard to catch what she is saying to me, but what I am hoping to do soon, she has already done, so I need her words. Every single one of them might be a paving stone on my way to becoming a kunoichi. The boss has expressed his admiration for her skills today. “This one has mastered it all. She’s a martial arts ace, and she’s an ace at doing every other kind of job in this place. Watch her sell tickets today, and learn how it’s done!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I sit and listen to S-san, who reminds me of a fairy with her round short hair, pretty protruding upper lip and wide open eyes. A somewhat strict, awe-inspiring fairy, but a pretty one, and lucky, methinks. I hardly manage to swallow in between because I’m so intent on listening to her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“First of all, never think you’re too good for any job. You have to do them all, and you have to get good at them all, whether that is throwing a ninja star or sweeping the passenger seats. Never be lazy, and never be proud. Be humble and work hard. First, you’ll have to do a lot of annoying, lowly work. The martial arts training starts after that. And while you’re training, you’ll still have to do the lowly jobs. Everybody does everything here. We have a saying in Japanese that goes, if you don’t get the first thing right, you will never reach step number ten. Do you see what I mean? Get the first step right. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The most important thing to become a quick learner is to be able to read the boss’s mind. Once you realise what he wants, once you can read him, you will learn how to do things much more easily, so try to get to know him. He is very strict. He’s told me I was just a stupid woman several times during sword practice, when I couldn’t get the technique right. I spent lots of training sessions crying over my sword, unable to see the blade. It happens. In karate, everything ends at the length of a punch. With weapons, it’s different. You have to get used to the different distances between you and your partner. That all depends on the range of the weapon. It’ll take you about a year to get used to it. You have to understand that people come to see our show because we’re doing something dangerous. If it wasn’t dangerous, nobody would come to see us. So you have to be careful. And you have to train hard. But if you train, you can learn it. Watch things. And notice things.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">At this moment I notice that Tomonosuke has come down to join us. The umbrella man is wearing orange pyjamas and looks very young. It is difficult to make a connection between this pyjama-clad youth and the person that was rolling a coin round an umbrella and somersaulting across a sandy stage defeating his tough, stick twirling foe with a ninja sword just a few hours ago. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Shortly after, we are also joined by Masanosuke, and the third young ninja whose name I haven’t heard yet. They get their trays and sit down at the adjoining table to our left. S-san’s speech ends, she gives me a short smile, and excuses herself. She needs to do her washing. Good night S-san. Thank you! I will not forget. I’m writing it all down in my head as I eat. Each grain of rice I eat forms a letter inside my body. The ninjas knew many ways to encrypt and decode messages. One of them involved different coloured grains of rice. These grains of rice are all white when I eat them, but I assign them different colours in my head. And write S-sans words with them as she disappears. Professionally. </p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-79747735739306677742007-05-29T11:33:00.000+09:002007-05-29T11:39:18.330+09:00Audition Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbO_73y5bCUpEzsMTdbdy6lEU8XP-wTCowdDIR6T1mgkcDNqGspaXmCi5LkYqVyvbUmgZOguLnXjwRPQvhNYqAcnJ9EyFfGPJQpqrCxERiucKILoaki6wNuGOZ0b0lv6vaQ6ftbsIyZ-rh/s1600-h/Iga+2+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbO_73y5bCUpEzsMTdbdy6lEU8XP-wTCowdDIR6T1mgkcDNqGspaXmCi5LkYqVyvbUmgZOguLnXjwRPQvhNYqAcnJ9EyFfGPJQpqrCxERiucKILoaki6wNuGOZ0b0lv6vaQ6ftbsIyZ-rh/s320/Iga+2+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069806572829361746" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4avDzrWJMUWYvLPX6CXp5geoqbF5mxDHkcs95TMl6FYiX9LplHCETBcFriEuf3jC6mnqeUOyp87RlVhgg1eSQ0fMBrweE4-BSkmGBU9orFtaQXxI_m2CHxeD_MzTZ9GYLgPHwe3phX5s0/s1600-h/Iga+2+019.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4avDzrWJMUWYvLPX6CXp5geoqbF5mxDHkcs95TMl6FYiX9LplHCETBcFriEuf3jC6mnqeUOyp87RlVhgg1eSQ0fMBrweE4-BSkmGBU9orFtaQXxI_m2CHxeD_MzTZ9GYLgPHwe3phX5s0/s320/Iga+2+019.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069806070318188098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapdYe0fgmOKBySHhRVXn4VAsXPX7Ie1N6qenT9Iple7v443jmsvvVry4UJYQ3KwGx8mCXlYFQCgRSrgVgoYdyzN3wPBuo25fiW8hLI8uv5DZYD-31XDjE4tN74RYb8fU9AgCnRyCoYoyn/s1600-h/Iga+2+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapdYe0fgmOKBySHhRVXn4VAsXPX7Ie1N6qenT9Iple7v443jmsvvVry4UJYQ3KwGx8mCXlYFQCgRSrgVgoYdyzN3wPBuo25fiW8hLI8uv5DZYD-31XDjE4tN74RYb8fU9AgCnRyCoYoyn/s320/Iga+2+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069805791145313842" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">On May 4<sup>th</sup>, 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 </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Nara</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="">, 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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I want to bring the ninjas something famous from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="">, as is customary in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">: you bring a present that is famous where you come from, but here, they only have more local </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Toyonaka</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style=""> 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<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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 </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Israel</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">. 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 </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style=""> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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 </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="">’s warring states period from ca </span>1478 to 1605<span style="">, 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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="">Japanese Ninja Soul<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<span style=""> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. “<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-81692710583409387232007-05-28T13:36:00.001+09:002007-05-28T13:44:40.686+09:00On The Phone Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkABaxKVWP03dQaiFX4fPwBo-K80jitUIRiThfvNSQyWQ_GhXQEUSndwLy2ZcXdd3Fyh5udAAQGCecqhmQAQd-G5y4PDO-vcmnYCZgjTW_GaRju13xspZaOp8KwC4kFiRwQmnnidmanASa/s1600-h/Japan+24+013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkABaxKVWP03dQaiFX4fPwBo-K80jitUIRiThfvNSQyWQ_GhXQEUSndwLy2ZcXdd3Fyh5udAAQGCecqhmQAQd-G5y4PDO-vcmnYCZgjTW_GaRju13xspZaOp8KwC4kFiRwQmnnidmanASa/s320/Japan+24+013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069467540995917346" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">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 <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, 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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet again, get the feeling I really HAVE got stuck in the mysterious <st1:place>Bermuda</st1:place> 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. </p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-87202401475861423722007-05-27T23:25:00.000+09:002007-05-27T23:33:04.323+09:00Call<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOEMqXvjFh4gZOTdEf2T2xHJPems8DkRAcxDhuAG9HYK4bHdtKZTSGfpg3z8bWxlRO3TGrKDxtpIQUcDlML_vzQfokxO42WAvH-dzxWunBG6ywrjISosNHMzLn4RqyV6HqD-K4v0J4O_V/s1600-h/kunoiti.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOEMqXvjFh4gZOTdEf2T2xHJPems8DkRAcxDhuAG9HYK4bHdtKZTSGfpg3z8bWxlRO3TGrKDxtpIQUcDlML_vzQfokxO42WAvH-dzxWunBG6ywrjISosNHMzLn4RqyV6HqD-K4v0J4O_V/s320/kunoiti.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069248304390293010" border="0"></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><font style="font-weight: bold;" size="5">くノ一<br /><br /></font><div style="text-align: left;"> <p class="MsoNormal">“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’.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So you want to become a kunoichi.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I throw in a lot of aizuchi, sounds of enthusiastic agreement and encouragement for himto continue talking. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I will try my very best.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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 <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I will go to Iga on Friday if it is all right with you,” I offer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sure. I will see you on Friday then. Thank you for your call.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“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.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> </div><font style="font-weight: bold;" size="5"><br /><br /></font></div>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-399527595952656192007-05-27T00:28:00.000+09:002007-05-27T00:41:01.283+09:00Dogs Breathing, Frogs Jumping<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADH3KHI4QUvenuBHtyZYa1qBOd3jaSb7ysKE41GU5-c75DQI1J8OnRs22c_tfdLpoohHUo9oD36Myq0r85qDMxEC4tEIf8UWnchIDhBELsEwdh1knbHtOEVJ-9X0iJ9untSHTiXKaLe8S/s1600-h/Japan+23+028.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADH3KHI4QUvenuBHtyZYa1qBOd3jaSb7ysKE41GU5-c75DQI1J8OnRs22c_tfdLpoohHUo9oD36Myq0r85qDMxEC4tEIf8UWnchIDhBELsEwdh1knbHtOEVJ-9X0iJ9untSHTiXKaLe8S/s320/Japan+23+028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068893471372166658" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLAEXN7f8RYjS1TFh1sV9xyf3Gfx10KM9MO5PCH9PeSl4lf89cu7zUMjy0Om0H4mWBjoMjgBzicaq-bs2g5Zra7ZHUHwxFLDf4BKBwCZ4xnlHjZwsg92Ouem9SJ3i6TD1NnQUy0F-sc7w/s1600-h/Japan+23+027.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLAEXN7f8RYjS1TFh1sV9xyf3Gfx10KM9MO5PCH9PeSl4lf89cu7zUMjy0Om0H4mWBjoMjgBzicaq-bs2g5Zra7ZHUHwxFLDf4BKBwCZ4xnlHjZwsg92Ouem9SJ3i6TD1NnQUy0F-sc7w/s320/Japan+23+027.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068893187904325106" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdod6x-KwoaUpAj5PRHJ3YxmjcImEqFoszRmCLcGpoAWXrc-LDt0j-BdLEG21G3m8xnL01UeLbB0s9SnoOXEp4KP3hqNmh2VevSuu-e-vMlqhFcx5A4galcOuHPJcHBHqc5e0_XCY1rp7d/s1600-h/Japan+23+037.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdod6x-KwoaUpAj5PRHJ3YxmjcImEqFoszRmCLcGpoAWXrc-LDt0j-BdLEG21G3m8xnL01UeLbB0s9SnoOXEp4KP3hqNmh2VevSuu-e-vMlqhFcx5A4galcOuHPJcHBHqc5e0_XCY1rp7d/s320/Japan+23+037.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068892831422039522" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We drive for a few minutes, stopping by a street map that shows us the way. The entrance of the old </span><st1:place><span style="">Edo</span></st1:place><span style=""> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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 </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="">Japan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style=""> during the </span><st1:place><span style="">Edo</span></st1:place><span style=""> 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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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 </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Bath</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style=""> 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 </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="">. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> <o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-31146713390159576902007-05-27T00:23:00.000+09:002007-05-27T00:28:08.540+09:00Ninja Udon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8k9hdHq28rXYnL-IlNtpmBInj7PSdRr8GyB4h3wG9J4eztYf3k-gebBVvr65ZisGfoDe7jLzWZsj3LLd5xvYVuMIKWlS7hvFN9Gxhb3UT5Wbaopz21Q24HBtj-1sV0OionlCJlSAZsh6/s1600-h/Japan+23+026.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8k9hdHq28rXYnL-IlNtpmBInj7PSdRr8GyB4h3wG9J4eztYf3k-gebBVvr65ZisGfoDe7jLzWZsj3LLd5xvYVuMIKWlS7hvFN9Gxhb3UT5Wbaopz21Q24HBtj-1sV0OionlCJlSAZsh6/s320/Japan+23+026.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068891482802308562" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We eat and talk. “You should do it.” “You should do it.” “I should do it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-42944236382162250742007-05-27T00:12:00.000+09:002007-05-27T00:23:24.322+09:00Ninjas Wanted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiy2VtKYXGB0wpV5PdXfH6hYCiTkWnN6SWuW_X_3ETjYv0cD3gludrjg3mFy0FzZ5p5EFyT4dU4IJkoaq17NMBCh7sW7uAk6i5sVTkKh9MOu7x1RpND1Ze6DEJLOzOoTYZbnln04OJk-8/s1600-h/Japan+23+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiy2VtKYXGB0wpV5PdXfH6hYCiTkWnN6SWuW_X_3ETjYv0cD3gludrjg3mFy0FzZ5p5EFyT4dU4IJkoaq17NMBCh7sW7uAk6i5sVTkKh9MOu7x1RpND1Ze6DEJLOzOoTYZbnln04OJk-8/s320/Japan+23+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068888480620168642" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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 </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="">Osaka</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="">.” “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. <span style=""> </span>“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.”<br />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 effo</span><span style="">rt.”<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-79968547179576167912007-05-27T00:06:00.000+09:002007-05-27T00:12:12.311+09:00Ninja Show<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzCvKrgbU0dSKh_3jhvT4VLZo7IUnrN9UZ4S9_3ZUWMlLes1Qd8K5xZNH8a2Y-zqA9QdnXiR820kanwBO5N-tXrzNlZpFOk8QQjFGqZymEUEdXqxGzGjI4tJteEVaF5j4kUB9TSBrdExH/s1600-h/Japan+23+020.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzCvKrgbU0dSKh_3jhvT4VLZo7IUnrN9UZ4S9_3ZUWMlLes1Qd8K5xZNH8a2Y-zqA9QdnXiR820kanwBO5N-tXrzNlZpFOk8QQjFGqZymEUEdXqxGzGjI4tJteEVaF5j4kUB9TSBrdExH/s320/Japan+23+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068887119115535778" border="0"></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“So, ladies and gentlemen, this was the katana, the Japanese sword. Next, we will present to you the ninja sword.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292412752823982172.post-1772765153265170932007-05-27T00:02:00.000+09:002007-05-27T00:06:37.192+09:00It's A New Dawn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU18F2wsbgJ6ozoGYib2uvpgNTpUYq-NpZiGwrRsj2615zsJ9YQCG-jlMb-GPUnVC8zo4OOHyvz3JXZq2EgKYtNfCeIrVKWX8iNRH_mrhOpcSGzz0RmRW5Omf4pedVUo7GXPAG6pgIbnf/s1600-h/Japan+23+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU18F2wsbgJ6ozoGYib2uvpgNTpUYq-NpZiGwrRsj2615zsJ9YQCG-jlMb-GPUnVC8zo4OOHyvz3JXZq2EgKYtNfCeIrVKWX8iNRH_mrhOpcSGzz0RmRW5Omf4pedVUo7GXPAG6pgIbnf/s320/Japan+23+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068885882164954514" border="0"></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“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 </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style="">Kobe</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style=""> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Finally, around </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="10"><span style="">ten o’clock</span></st1:time><span style="">, 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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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 </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style="">Kamakura</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style=""> and </span><st1:place><span style="">Edo</span></st1:place><span style=""> periods. Except that the one we are about to see has several special features that other farm houses did not have. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kunoichihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554154314013230226noreply@blogger.com0