Aizu- Wakamatsu's Samurai Should Have Come to Indiana

 One of the channels on our local tv network is called Grit. Grit broadcasts cowboy-themed movies and tv series from the 50’s through the 90’s. I switch it on from time to time to watch familiar shows from my youth such as Bat Masterton, Tales of Wells Fargo, and spaghetti westerns starring Clint Eastwood. The infamous whistle and wa-wa trumpet background is still there. If you don’t know the reference, then you don’t know Clint Eastwood westerns.

A regular offering on Grit is Death Valley Days, hosted by various actors including Stanley Andrews (“The Old Ranger”), future president Ronald Reagan and later by Dale Robertson, of previous Wells Fargo fame. As I watch the reruns, I notice that actors who star in one western, often show up in other series as well. Sometimes as the hero and sometimes as the villain. Or, Hollywood’s favorite, the outlaw hero, perfected by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I suppose there is a certain type casting of western stars as it would be strange to see Gunsmoke's James Arness on Gomer Pyle or appear with his brother Peter Graves on Mission Impossible. 

I don’t remember being a big fan of Death Valley Days as a boy. For some odd reason, I found space exploration and missions to the moon more exciting than 20 Mule Team Borax laundry soap commercials which was Valley’s sponsor and opening scene intro. Can you imagine taking care of twenty mules and driving them through the Nevada desert? No thank you.

Youthful dreams of space travel aside, I turned on my trusty Grit the other morning while making coffee (which consists of pressing the button on my Nespresso machine) and host Dale caught my attention with the story of the first Japanese settlement in America started by a group of samurai from Aizu-Wakamatsu (now Fukushima Prefecture) fleeing the collapse of the feudal Shogun government in Japan and thus out of work and on the run. Interesting. First time I had seen a Japanese-themed western since Charles Bronson got tossed around by Toshiro Mifune in Red Sun.

Further investigation revealed that “The Dragon of Golden Hill,” episode 15 from season 18 of Death Valley, recounts the short-lived history of the Wakamatsu Tea and Silk Farm Colony near Placerville, California. It started in 1869 with the intention of growing tea bushes and mulberry trees. Tea for market in San Franscisco and mulberry trees as food for the silkworms. Unfortunately, the samurai colonists ran into a lengthy drought in an area known for drought and the withdrawing of promised funding from Japan. Despite importing fifty-thousand mulberry trees, all withered and died thus leading to the closing of the colony in 1871. Some of the samurai returned to Japan, while others stayed in America working for the new landowners or drifting to new opportunities. One of the original colonists was a 17-year-old Japanese girl named Ito Okei. She came as a maid then stayed to work for the Veerkamp family that bought the land after the colony folded. Unfortunately, she died of a fever at age 19 and is recognized as the first Japanese woman to be buried in America. Her grave is still on the original land and the colony was proclaimed a California Historical Landmark in 1969 by then Governor Ronald Reagan. Figured there had to be a connection somewhere.

Meanwhile back at our Wakamatsu ranch, said episode begins with expat samurai Matsu and Okei, the 16-year-old maid, forced to make the long trip to town on foot to check for funds from Japan because they have sold the wagon to keep the colony afloat. Matsu, played by Soon-Taik Oh, looked familiar and upon further investigation saw that he appeared on the series MASH and Kung-Fu, while Okei played by Momo Yashima, appeared on Star Trek. Meanwhile, cowboy villain Daniel Turner, played by William Smith also appeared on Kung-Fu. So much for my western genre typecasting theory. I guess once you start doing tv westerns, space dramas and Korean War sitcoms are an easy transition.

When Matsu and Okei finally get to town, a group of rowdy cowboys accuse Matsu and the colonists of causing the fever going around and the cowpokes get pushy until the local sheriff and more understanding locals step in. Undeterred, the bad hombres show up at the colony and start tearing down tents and destroy a Buddhist alter. Matsu, who has seen enough, takes on the offenders and plants a couple of nice kicks and elbow strikes plus a Seionage judo throw to the rowdies. That gets the cowboys attention, so the rowdies back off. Everyone then shakes hands, and the good old boys ride off. Matsu, with Okei’s encouragement, decides to stay in America and make another go of it. The scene fades and host Dale returns to tell of Okei’s death due to fever shortly thereafter and the eventual closing of the colony. Unfortunately, Gold Hill, California, wasn’t the place to grow mulberry trees, at least not in 1869. Now if the Samurai had come to Indiana, things would have been different.

As the show credits run, I look out my kitchen window—painstakingly brewed double espresso in hand— and my view is obscured by the branches of a pernicious mulberry tree that won’t take no for an answer. As if to show me who really owns the land my house sits on, said tree grows faster than I can fire up my Swiss-made espresso coffee computer. The offender, along with his mulberry cousins, are found in every nook and cranny around the yard, along neighborhood sidewalks, in the nature preserve next door, and in the movie theatre parking lot down the block. The damn trees are everywhere and good luck trying to pull the roots out or cut them down. Needless to say, I never planted one the interlopers.

Considered an invasive species in many communities due to the high pollen content of the male trees. (Why is it always the man's fault!) Mulberries are everywhere in Central Indiana, and I do mean everywhere. A game I play during evening walks with my better half is to count how many new mulberry trees I see pushing through cracks in someone's driveway, fence line, or any other spot that doesn't have two feet of concrete or asphalt over it. I might live in Shiloh Farms, but it could be more accurately named Mulberry Hell. 

If the Aizu Samurai had come to my neighborhood, things would definitely been different. If French nuns could open Saint Mary of the Woods women's college in the wilderness of Terre Haute, Indiana in 1840, and Kwai Chang Cain could "Walking the Earth" of the old west with no money or shoes, then Japanese Samurai could certainly have made it to the Crossroads of America. They could have had all the mulberry trees they wanted and could have sold their silk and tea at the Chicago Merchandise Mart just up the road. Who knows, their descendants might have become IU basketball, or IndyCar fans. It all would have worked out if only the samurai would have become Hoosiers. 

 

Hattori Hanzo comes to 

Avon, Indiana

 

Living on the west side of Indianapolis in the fast-growing town of Avon, it comes as no surprise when I see another mega-sized warehouse or housing development popping up in what was previously a cornfield. Indy being at the center of the country and aligned with I-70 east-west from Baltimore to Utah, I-65 north-south from the Gulf to Lake Michigan, and I-74 heading to Davenport and Rock Island, it’s the perfect location to put up rows of warehouses for manufacturers and cargo haulers. Plus, there are lots of cornfields to plow under. So, when I saw yet another row of white boxes going up a couple of miles down the road near the entrance to I-74, I thought, well, there goes another cornfield. Little did I know that one of Japan’s most famous samurai ninjas from the 16^th Century was about to show up in Hendricks County and may very well be hanging out at the Starbucks at Interstate exit #68. Now, if you had the awful mental image of a garish-looking plastic feudal-era warrior planted in front of Starbee's ala Ronald McDonald, let me set your mind at ease.

The Ronald Reagan Parkway Project was started about ten years ago with a plan to connect the east to west routed interstates of I-65, I74, and I-70. Unfortunately, the north side connection to I-65 currently terminates in cornfield about ten miles short of the interstate, but let's not quibble about never ending road construction projects when sword-wielding samurai and American presidents are on the docket. As mentioned, warehouses are springing up on either side of Ronnie R., like destroying angels in the backyard after a week of rain. So, it was on the southside of I-74 behind the newly opened McDonalds and Starbucks, or Staba, as the Japanese call it, that I saw Hanzo and it appears he is now in the warehouse business.

Hanzo is exactly who you might say? Actually, it's the “Hanzo” signage on the side of an iceberg-sized warehouse that caught my attention. Hanzo, hmm, I guess that makes sense. Han can mean shipping, or transport in Japanese and so, or zo can mean to send, so "transport company" seemed logical. There are several Japanese logistics firms in the area, and this looked like another one serving the automotive and warehousing industries. Nevertheless, I’ve learned from experience that my preconceived notions about Japan are often wrong despite having lived there at various times over the past five decades. Time to pull out my trusty Farmer’s Almanac and find out what this Hanzo business is all about and why he's hanging out with Hoosiers.

As usual, my guess was way off. It turns out that the name Hanzo has nothing to do with transport or delivery. It’s an American shipping and warehouse firm named after the 16^th Century ninja warrior, Hattori Hanzo. Well, duh, I should have guessed that. According to their website, Hattori Hanzo is their namesake due to his ability to slice through problems and tackle any shipping and warehousing challenges. I get it. Perfect analogy for freight handling. Really? Time to get back to the Almanac for further investigation on just who this Double H fellow was.

I was familiar with the name Hattori Hanzo as a figure from Japanese history and the leader of the Iga ninja. I think most Japanese would be familiar with the name as well, although probably wouldn’t know much beyond his characterization in film and video games. The Hanzo Company website describes Hanzo as a samurai who could kill with a single stroke, protect the emperor, and unify of the country. While I would certainly give kudos to these folks for coming up with an original moniker, the bio on Mr. Hanzo is not quite how things went down in the waning days of the 16^th Century. Or, as we used to say in the old neighborhood, that’s not quite your cat.

Hanzo lived during what is known as the Sengoku Jidai, or Warring States Period (1467-1568). As you might imagine, it was a period of power struggles between warlords and fiefdoms for control and domination of the country. During that period and for most of Japanese history for that matter, the emperor held little power, and it was not until the collapse of the feudal system in 1868, and the beginning of the modern era known as the Meiji Restoration that the emperor had any far-reaching authority. So as far as I can tell, Hanzo wasn’t protecting any emperors, or winning battles with his sword. Despite the aesthetic beauty and deadly nature of the Japanese katana, it had limited use on the Sengoku battlefield. The yari, or spear, and the newly imported matchlock were more effective in the large-scale engagements of the day.  As for the claim that he helped unify Japan, we will have to give him a bit more credit.

According to historical records, Hanzo was a samurai in the service of a regional warlord known as Tokugawa Ieyasu, Hanzo was known for his skill in military strategy, espionage, and assignation. It was Tokugawa, not the emperor, who unified Japan through savvy political maneuvering, a bit of luck, and the assistance of Hanzo’s and his ninja. Tokugawa and his descendants went on to hold power for the next three-hundred and fifty years. Not a bad run if you’re in the warlord racket. The current tv series Shogun is loosely based on the story of English navigator William Adams and Tokugawa Ieyasu. Not sure what all this has to do with third-party logistics, but maybe espionage and clandestine ops are big in the freight business.

I would also give props to Mr. Hanzo for his staying power as a pop culture icon. I mean, how many sixteenth-century warlord sidekicks end up in Quinten Terentino movies running sushi bars in Okinawa, or as a bad-ass video game character rebranding himself as a logistics guy in central Indiana? Now that’s what I would call a diversification!

Needing a break from the exhausting work of writing humorless prose, I stopped in at the new Staba out front of Mr. Hanzo’s place of business to see if they had my favorite Nitro Cold Brew. They did and I sat down to enjoy my view of corn stubble waiting to become a warehouse. When at S&B, I try to be polite and not stare at the purple hair, neck tattoos, or laptop hobos, but it’s hard work. Having been a “hobo” myself, I know the exact timing required to purchase something before they call the cops. As I sipped my joe, I glanced to my left and saw a dark figure hunched over what looked to be battle plans depicting troop positions and castle walls. And was that a wakizashi blade at his waist?  Nah, couldn’t be. I grabbed my nitro and headed for the door reminding myself that we were, after all, in Avon, Indiana.

The Samurai on the Bus

   I recently travelled to Japan after a four-year hiatus. I toured the Nagoya and Kyoto regions and although the trip was ostensibly for business, I kept my eyes open for hints of the historical culture that I have long studied and admired. While I took a great many photos of machinery and such, I probably snapped an equal number of gnarled pines and tiled roofs. My fellow travelers would give me a strange look when I stopped once again to take a picture of a meticulously trimmed black pine bough jutting over a weathered, wooden gate to someone's garden.
   In many ways, Japan is a culture built quite literally on wood, and I have always been fascinated by its many uses in Japanese art and architecture. Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines, and feudal-era castles would certainly be in the forefront. (See photo of the wood and stone-built Nagoya Castle above).  In addition, the bo-staff, shoji screens, and geta clogs come to mind as well. My trek to the Kyomizu-dera, one of the most impressive-an oldest-wooden structures in the world, was the highlight of a very eventful trip. Moreover, my first trip back to Kyoto in twenty-five years gave me new insights for stories that will be appearing on this site in the near future.

   Although I was able to seek out the traditional side of Japan, three things from its modern face really caught my attention. These, not in any particular order, was the fascination of young Japanese males with looking feminine, the almost complete lack of trash cans anywhere, and the huge numbers of foreign workers I found in every factory I visited. This may seem like a strange and disconnected list, but the first had me scratching my head and wondering what the attraction was for these young people. The second, caused me great consternation because I was nursing a head cold. And thirdly, while it might be an economic necessity, I found it odd to find factories full of Brazilians and Bolivians.
   As to the first, one might say, 'Big deal,' but I wasn't prepared to see nearly every young man between high school age, and thirty-something wearing makeup, blouses and frilly shirts, or sporting teased-out, orange hair. Conversely, my impression was that it's the women who are now dressing more conservatively, although mini-skirts and high-heels are still in vogue. Certainly, none of the chaps in our group complained about that. Gone, however, is the long, beautiful (in my opinion), jet-black hair of Japanese women. Virtually every woman dyes her hair in shades from auburn to Kool-aide orange. But enough on hair and on to trash cans, or their lack of.

   Due to my nose running constantly, I was forced to use large amounts of Kleenex. Which normally wouldn't be a problem, except I couldn't find anywhere to dispose of the used tissues in public. Whether I was in a train station, the subway, numerous tourists' spots, or the hotel lobby, I could not, quite literally, find a place to throw out trash. What I could find were recycling bins for glass, plastic, and cans often next to the ubiquitous vending machine. I was finally forced to find public toilets where I could empty my pockets. Restrooms, by the way, didn't have trash cans either. Recycling is certainly in full force in Japan. Which is great for conserving resources, but annoying as hell if you are traveling with a cold! Now on to all the foreign workers.

   Japan has long been known as a country with very restrictive immigration policies. Not a place that would be easy to find work, with the exception being foreign language teachers and club hostesses. However, due to Japan's low birth rate since the 70's, coupled with a lack of interest in manufacturing jobs among young people, Japan has been importing large numbers of foreign workers for the last fifteen years or so. This would have been unthinkable in the go-go manufacturing days of the 80's. In the plants I visited, nearly every worker on the shop floor was either a Brazilian of Japanese ancestry or Bolivian. The factory workers--mostly women--appeared to be very dedicated, hardworking individuals who have learned the language and culture and are keeping the Japanese economic engine going by providing the labor that can no longer be sourced locally.

   Now we come to the Samurai on the bus. When my son saw the title of this post, he thought I was describing myself, but alas, I am not comparing myself to a feudal retainer from Japan's Middle Ages. It is in reference to the airport bus driver who took us from the JR station to the Nagoya International Airport.
   From the moment we boarded the bus he reminded me of the Japan I first visited in 1974. Although less than 30 years after WWII, I found Japan to be a modernized country full of dedicated, intelligent people. Far from being a vanquished society, the Japanese had tremendous pride in their traditional arts and international accomplishments ranging from innovative automobiles to superior cameras. Our bus driver reminded me of the Japan of my youth not only because of his outward appearance, which was spit and polish with close-cropped hair, crisp uniform, and white gloves; but it was the professionalism and pride in which he approached his task. He sat up straight and moved with sharp precision. And he spoke with a clear, respectful voice when announcing the next stop, or assisting passengers. This was the norm thirty-five years ago. Much less common now.

   I do not harken for a return to a neo-feudal Japan. Quite to the contrary, modern Japan has given the world amazing, and practical, technological innovations. Moreover, post-modern Japan has become a progressive, peace-loving society.

   What concerns me, however, is that the culture which created the unique arts of Japan is ebbing away. Some years ago, I had the great fortune to meet one of the Living National Treasures of Japan. An unpretentious and forthright man with a skill transcending art. The Living National Treasures are a select, yet rapidly declining group of masters in the traditional arts, and a testament to the idea that art is a living entity and not simply a collection of inanimate objects. I wonder if this current generation will produce any National Treasures. It is my ardent wish that they do.

   So once again my travels remind me that Japan is a land of sharp contrasts between old and new, traditional and ultra-modern, of orange-haired furita, and tea master's whose lineage reach back eight-hundred years. I indeed look forward to my next trip back.

Now, if I could only find a damn trash can!

A Night Life

Author's note:

As I wrote in my previous post, I recently visited Kyoto for the first time in nearly twenty-five years. It was in many ways just as I remembered it. What had changed more than anything else I suppose was me. This time I came as a sightseer with a digital camera. Years ago, I walked the streets as a young Zen acolyte and felt like part of the landscape. In Kyoto, unlike other metropolitan areas in Japan, Zen monks are a common sight. A young foreigner in a black robe seldom brought on a second glance.
Moreover, the influence of Buddhism in Kyoto is strong with many practicing monasteries in addition to the regular tourist spots. Both can be inspirational to a visitor. Kyoto is also the home of the Gion. The famous Geisha district from the Edo Period. I do not pretend to be an expert on Kyoto, or the Gion. The following is simply a story of experiences and impressions which I hope you will enjoy. I will add a follow-up story at a future date. Besides, it wouldn't be much fun if I didn't leave some of you hanging!

Gassho

A Night Life

Chapter I

   I sat in my car and watched as rivers of fog rolled down the distant mountains surrounding the city. Spring had finally arrived on the Kansai Plain. Still, a few patches of snow could be seen on the northern hills looming above the old tile roof houses. I was parked on a narrow street lined with small shops selling wares from shoes to groceries. A few blocks away was the outskirts of the Gion- the night district. I leaned back in the seat and watched the people passing by. As I looked down the street I saw her.
She was wearing a simple but elegant kimono and wooden sandals, and she looked as if she was headed to one of the Ochaya tea houses on the Gion. I watched as she delicately picked her way through a maze of shoppers and children on the street.

   A light rain began to fall and form beads of water on the windshield. After a moment I started the car, drove a few blocks then stopped in front of a small cafe'. I could see her through the shop window. Her head ever so slightly tilted to one side as she traced the streams of rain on the glass. I got out, pulled up my collar up against the rain, and went inside.
I shook the rain off my jacket and sat down across from the woman I'd seen on the street. The waitress brought ice water and set it down on the low glass table between us. She was having coffee. I ordered one also. We sat in silence as condensation from the sides of the glass began to form little pools of water on the table. Finally I volunteered,
   "How is business at the club?" Now her face softened and she replied,
   "It's slow during the evenings, but it usually gets busy after midnight." I nodded in reply.
  Her name was Ami and seeing her again reminded me of how her face always looked a bit sad when she spoke even though her voice was warm and friendly. I had always believed that it was a mask worn to distance herself from the insane world around her. She, like many of the women who worked in the clubs tried to distance themselves from the corruption of the night world. I wondered if her efforts hadn't drawn her even more tightly into the swirl of pimps and hustlers, con-men, and yakuza. She seemed so innocent so untouched and vulnerable, not the streetwise woman one would expect.
   Her appearance reminded me of old 19th century lithographs of geisha. Although the photographers of that day often had the women assume comical possess, their sensuous beauty had shown through, nonetheless.
Geisha, so often misunderstood in the western world were actually master performers of traditional dance, music, and conversation. And while labeled as whores by the uninformed, their approach to sex was more monk-like than anything resembling a prostitute. Unfortunately, very few geisha remain in Japan. The training too long and arduous and the devotion to the art too complete to attract many modern women. Since this country had rebuilt and westernized, it was the women that worked in the night clubs on the neon strips who had replaced the geisha. Replace them not only in sheer numbers, but in the tastes of modern Japan. Nevertheless, these new-age geishas resembled their predecessors in one undying way. And it was in that men who went into the clubs looking for quick pleasure usually left out of money and alone. For then, as now, the high prices that these skilled and sensuous women commanded were not for intimacy, but for the illusion of it. And Ami had that illusion, with subtle and unspoken allure. I often saw it in the way she walked, or the penetrating yet soft gaze of her eyes when she looked at me. Tragically, the night world used her and others like her to turn a profit. Used them to empty the wallets of men who couldn't afford it but were willing to throw their money away just to catch a glimpse of intoxicating femininity.

   But Ami was not a geisha, nor had she ever been, though she was often mistaken for a veteran of the life. She had grown up around the Kyoto nightlife, and I suppose it was natural for her to have bought her own club when she learned the business. Far from being seedy, it was an upscale club for high-end clients. The ladies who worked there were sophisticated and drinks were expensive. Yet I sensed a dark undercurrent of organized crime behind the neon lights. There was just too much money changing hands for one small night club to escape attention. Whether it was protection money, or free entertainment, I was sure that an ante had to be paid. Ami denied it, of course, and she would say,
   "You are a foreigner. You don't know how these things work." What I did know was that from the moment I walked in her place, I was way over my head.

   Ami's voice brought me back from my reminiscing when she asked why I hadn't come by to see her lately. I started to ramble on about how busy I'd been, but I stopped in mid-sentence when I saw her turn her head away and stare out at the wet street. We chatted for a few minutes more then she said,
   "I'll be late for work," as she ran a finger along the seam of her kimono.
    She wore a simple yet stunningly beautiful garment. Golden threads woven through a background of rich, yet subtle blue. The cloth virtually flowed around her accentuating the curves of her body and holding my eyes transfixed upon her.
   "I'll drive you," I said.
   "No, it's close, I'll walk." I didn't insist. I didn't feel that she was angry or irritated. I had gotten used to her lack of conversation when we were in public. I knew it was just her getting ready for work persona. She would transform into a flower of conversation with her patrons at the club, although she seemed to cherish the quiet moments in her private life.
After a moment she stood up and started for the door, then stopped, and put a hand on my shoulder.
   "Won't you stop by the club tonight for me? I don't like the men that come by these days." I nodded a yes. Then she smiled and hurried off; her lacquered geta sandals clattering lightly on the floor as she left. I watched as her small figure merged with the rush hour crowds scurrying to stay out of the rain. Her color and style a contrast to the dark suits and black umbrellas on a street that paid no attention. I wanted to see her again, but I knew I couldn't just walk into her club and expect to have private time with her, especially on a busy Saturday night. I wanted to get out of the rain and away from the city and its people to someplace above the clouds. 

   I left the cafe', got in the car and waited through the rush hour traffic before finally driving out of the city and into the foothills. By the time I got to the mountains the rain had stopped leaving a thick blanket of fog over the dark pine forests. When I arrived at the pass it was starting to get dark, and the lights of Kyoto could be seen through the slowly lifting clouds. I pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out in the chilly air, and walked to the edge of the railing to look down upon the shimmering lights of the city. Memories of Ami came drifting up like a mist from the valley below.

Chapter 2

  We first met on a narrow backstreet in Kyoto. It was warm summer day and as I passed by a flower kiosk, I saw her kneeling beside a row of gardenias in bloom. I stopped and stood beside her, pretending to look at the flowers.

   "I love the smell of gardenias, " she said, without looking up. At first I thought she was talking to herself, but then she looked up at me and smiled. Our eyes met and I felt the passion of her presence like a wave of warmth across my chest. I tried to speak but words suddenly seemed unimportant. All I wanted to do was listen.

   "Their bloom is even more brilliant at night," she continued. I could add nothing. I knew she was the most sensual woman I had ever met. She stood to face me and a flower petal fell from her lap and fluttered to the ground. Later, I thought of how she was like the night flower as the moon shown onto her slender back as she lay asleep on the bed beside me.

   I had forgotten how much I loved her. I hated thinking about all the men she would entertain and all the lies they would tell about how affluent and influential they were. They would pay for her attention, and she would play along or brush them off like dust depending on her mood. Although sincere and almost childlike when we were together, she was a master of manipulation when she was working. Most men couldn't tell whether she truly cared about them, or if it was just an act. That is what kept them coming back. My downfall was to have fallen in love with a woman who men couldn't resist being deceived by. I don't know why I had called her again after a year apart, then asking her to meet me at the cafe'. I knew I wanted to hold her again and feel the simple touch of her fingertips on my arm. But there was so much baggage that went along with her choice of lifestyle and the people she associated with. Maybe I just wanted to be in her presence again? I got in the car and drove back down towards the city. I wanted to see her, but I didn't want to be treated like just another customer. Ami often treated me like a stranger when I had been at her club before. But I was driven to see her, so I decided to wait until shortly before closing time to go in. Maybe it would give me more time to be alone with her and convince her to go out with me after work.

   I got to the club a little after one a.m. There were a few customers drinking with the girls in the dimly lit corners of the bar. Through the cigarette haze I could see Ami with an older man. His tie was undone and he had his arm around her as she sat on the edge of the booth mixing drinks. As I walked by she said, "Irasshai," (welcome) as if we had never met. I started to wonder if I had made a mistake by coming to the club. I went up to the bar and ordered a brandy.

   Ami came by to see me after a while. I could tell she'd had a few drinks. It was near closing time, and I asked her if she wanted to go someplace where we could talk. She said that she would like to, but someone was waiting for her out front.

   "Who?" I asked. Without answering, she brushed past me and began talking to one of the other women in the club. I was getting that same feeling of jealousy and frustration that had driven me away from her before. Yet, just watching Ami move around the club straightening up and turning off lights, I knew that I wanted to be with her. Suddenly she walked up to me and said,

  "Let's go." Now she was virtually pushing me out of the club.

   "I'll call a cab," she said as she led me to the door.

   I stepped out to the dark street. The rain had come and gone leaving the oily, acrid smell of wet concrete and asphalt. The lock clicked shut in the door behind me. Had she pushed me out the door just to get rid of me? The street was deserted; no sign of anyone waiting. Standing on that empty sidewalk felt like I was waiting for a bus that would never come, on a line long since shutdown. Finally, the soft glow of cab lights came down the street and I raised my hand. The cab stopped and the door swung open, waiting. Ami came out the side door of the club. She asked if he was there.

   "Who?" I asked again, but she just looked around frantically and didn't answer me. I tried to get her in the cab, but she resisted.

   "There he is," she mouthed. I looked in the direction of her gaze. Across the street in the shadows stood a man staring at us. I'd been watched the whole time. I knew there were others vying for her attention, but I had never seen one of her men so close, and now I was the one in the open. Ami hesitated briefly then shoved me into the cab and told the driver to go to an all-night piano bar on the other side of town. We fell together in the back seat. I needed to feel her warmth and closeness again. She pressed herself against me and kissed me passionately as city scenes rushed by the windows of the cab. Ami fell asleep in my arms as we drove on into the neon-lit night.

   We had lived together once, but we had gone our separate ways. I often worried about her and the company she kept. So, I had called her, and we had met at the cafe'. Before our meeting I had rehearsed a speech on how I still cared for her and that I thought she should leave the club life. We would move to another city, start over, and have a life of our own. Yet when I saw her face and heard her voice again, I knew it was hopeless. My will to persuade her was like the air rushing out of an over-inflated balloon. Numbed by her presence, I'd let her slip through my fingers again.
   I wanted her for my own, but I knew that was impossible. She had often broken dates to be with other men. Later when I'd ask her about it she would say,
   "I thought you understood. That's part of running a club. They're important patrons, and I was just having a few drinks with them." Then she would be hurt and angry because I had mistrusted her. She was wrong about me though, I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand. The taxi stopped suddenly and the automatic door swung open.
   "Here we are," the driver said.
   The piano bar was on the top floor of a tall, downtown office building. It was a trendy, elegant spot where a lot of club people hung out after hours. The tables were set against full-length windows to view the lights of the city. I was crowded and the host welcomed us as if it were early evening instead of three in the morning. Ami wanted to order drinks, but I told the waiter to bring coffee instead. Ami didn't put up a fight. Maybe she was too tired to protest. The red tail lights of taxis went back and forth on the street below. Some of them stopping in front of the all-night spots, while others drove on into the night.
   I noticed that Ami had a ring on. She had never worn jewelery before, So I gestured towards the ring and asked if she was engaged now. She started to laugh then explained that one of her regular customers had given it to her. She had refused his proposal, but kept the ring anyway. She held it up for me to see.
"It's not a diamond, but I suppose it was expensive ," she said casually. The poor fellow probably loved her as hopelessly as I did, yet she flaunted his defeat by wearing the ring. Her callousness amazed me as much as her intriguing sensuality.
   Ami stared to get sleepy and I decided it was time to get her home. She wanted to go to another night club. I told her that it would be morning soon and we should go home. She finally agreed. We caught a cab and I started to give the driver the address of Ami's apartment, but she insisted that we drive to my place first. I struck me that she might be living with someone, so I agreed even though it was out of her way and a long ride back alone. As we rode on she asked me to come by the club again next Saturday. She said she would finish early and she suggested that we go to an inn somewhere in the mountains. I couldn't tell if she was just leading me on again, or was sincere. Finally she made me promise to come by for her even though I knew it would never work out. I knew the scene, it had happened too many times before: I'd stop by the club and it would be full of customers. Ami would act as if she knew nothing of our date. And when I'd ask her she would say,
   "Oh, was it tonight? we're awfully busy now let's make it some other time." So I promised her again, even though I was tired of playing the game.
   The cab stopped in front of my danchi. Ami and I had lived there once. That all seemed so far away now. She pulled me close. No longer alluring, the image shattered by the smell of stale perfume and too many cigarettes.
   "See you Saturday," she said with such conviction in her voice that I almost made up my mind to be there again. All I said was,
   "Goodnight." The cab door closed and I watched the red tail lights drive on then out of sight down the street.

Chapter 3

I never stopped by the club that night, and I never heard from her again. I went on with my work, and I supposed she went on with her life of the night. On a Sunday morning after enough time had passed so that I wasn't sure when the promised Saturday had been, I was drinking coffee and reading the Sunday paper in my apartment. A familiar name froze me. The type read:
   "Seiyama Ami, Gion nightclub owner, stabbed to death in her apartment. Suspect in custody is a male thirty-four years old. Unemployed. Thought to be a member of a Kansai crime family. Victim believed to have known suspect."
   I dropped the paper and looked out at the morning city. I imagined Ami still sleeping on my shoulder, breathing softly with her hand on my chest. Now her life was no more than a few ink lines on the police blotter of another Saturday night. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. I smashed the coffee cup against the wall and watched in silence as blood and coffee dripped down the wall. I closed my eyes and envisioned a great fist of pain and malice rise up from the foul underworld and crush the dreams and passions of a woman named Ami. And the city stood by as that life was crushed and felt nothing.
   In the autumn, I returned to the city and stopped by the cafe' that Ami and I used to visit. Snow began to fall and rush hour traffic jammed the roads. From across a familiar street, I saw a young woman wearing a light blue kimono trying to make her way through the throngs of commuters. I started to rise out of my chair for the resemblance was too great. Before I could take a step, she turned the corner and was gone.

© Copyright 2025 James Noah

A Vault of Stars

Preface

The night sky I describe below was observed while standing in the parking lot adjacent to my house in Japan. Although a story about a stormy sky doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the Orient, I found it noteworthy because of the unique landscape of the archipelago.  Japan is a mountainous country formed by volcanic action.  While most of the mountains are not all that tall--usually a couple of thousand feet or less (except for the high alpine regions of central Japan, Hokkaido, and of course, Mt. Fuji) the lowlands are about as flat as you can imagine. The reason is that the vast majority of the non-mountainous terrain is covered by rice paddies. And flooded rice paddies are, well, flat. Many hills are terraced as well, creating even more level spaces. With the advent of mechanized farming, however, many of the old, narrow and steeply terraced paddies have been abandoned.

For centuries, Japan was a predominately rice-growing nation. Virtually every inch of available land was cultivated, and it was not uncommon to see neatly planted rows of rice butting up against high rise buildings. Until the end of the 19th Century, feudal lords measured their wealth in Koku of rice, which was thought of as the amount needed to feed one subject for a year (about 278 liters). Therefore, the lord with the most Koku, had the biggest bank account.  Centuries of cultivation produced flatlands between steep mountains ranges which provide wonderful vistas of long narrow valleys and misty hills. Moonlit nights further accentuate a hauntingly beautiful landscape. I find it little wonder that Edo Period artist Hiroshige often drew moonlight scenes in his depictions of everyday Japanese life in the waning days of the feudal era—just don’t ask me why I tied that to large-scale cosmology and the alley behind my boyhood home.

 A Vault of Stars

Late one night I stood in an empty parking lot gazing up at a dark and stormy sky. Not realizing how fast the clouds were moving until the vapor thinned revealing a submerged moon behind waves of gray clouds ripping by like whitewater rapids.

I watched in fascination for several minutes when I noticed a rift in the thick blanket rapidly approach from across the valley.  I followed the tear as it raced across the night sky until it was directly overhead.  I looked up into its abyss and saw a vault of stars so bright and intense that the light seemed to pierce my body and bounce off the asphalt like rain in a deluge. I could not resist the pull. I fell through the black hole slamming into a wall of stars as my being flattened out, infinitely thin, infinitely smooth, in all directions with no point of reference. 

Distant galaxies glittered through my slice of light like house dust through a waning beam of sunlight on a quiet afternoon.

Then I remembered riding my bike down the alley behind my house as a kid and turning the corner into my driveway at full speed; knowing that the garage door would be closed; knowing a hundred thousand times it would be closed. Yet, I choose not to brake in the millisecond before impact and the collapse of the giant star into a singularity.

Regaining consciousness, I looked up into the warm, loving eyes of my mother as she held my battered body in soft, caring arms. 

Obama in Japan or: How I Came to Love Janglish.

I recently traveled to Japan after a two-year hiatus. On my previous trip I toured auto plants in the Nagoya industrial region and took a side trip to Kyoto, the ancient capital and cultural center of Japan. This time the family and I ventured to the town of Misawa, in Aomori Prefecture on the northeastern tip of the main island of Honshu. Our mission: visit son George, stationed at Misawa Air Force Base.

Misawa, a sleepy, provincial town of about forty-three thousand--which a quarter is either U.S. Military, or Japan Air Self-Defense Force (Jass Daff as my son calls them) --appear to be on good terms with base personnel and I didn't see anti-American protest paraphernalia around the base parameter common in Okinawa. A quick read on the history of the base reveled that it had once been a cavalry base for the Imperial Army prior to World War II, then a bomber base, and later a Kamikaze launching point by the Imperial Navy Air Corps. With the Base being such a big part of the landscape, it seemed only natural that local business would go out of their way to cater to the non-Japanese speaking population. A willingness to cater to foreigners is on full display in the form of signs and billboards in English found around town, and what wonderful English it is!

Japanese work very hard at foreign languages and allocate vast resources, both academically and commercially, towards increasing their proficiency. Yet Japanese is sufficiently divergent from English both culturally and linguistically-despite the influx of English words-to be an easy task for the average citizen. One finds few foreigners beyond Tokyo, and although English is compulsory from 9th grade on, most Japanese struggle mightily with spoken and written English in particular. English-speaking foreigners who visit Japan have no doubt seen the well-meaning, yet often humorous results of this disconnect on advertising, on restroom doors, and on tee shirts.

Don't misunderstand me; I give the Japanese copy editors high marks for effort and style, if not always for accuracy. Conversely, these public displays often provide a bit of levity to otherwise pedestrian signage for dry cleaning, coffee bars, pachinko parlors, and the like. Here are a few of my favorites from the trip:
"Jam Friend Club," for the name of a pachinko gambling club, I'm guessing they won't be such great friends to jam with after one is into them for a few grand?
"Sweet Hiem," on the door of a home builder. Maybe they were appealing to local Germans? A bike shop named "Workaholic." Some truth in advertising perhaps? And I dare you to tell me what kind of establishment bills itself as Shidax Please!
But gaffes aside, I believe that a certain charm would be lost if the syntax was perfect. Moreover, the Japanese penchant for detail and politeness would be subverted if the parking lots sign at the dollar a plate sushi bar read, "Management takes no responsibility for accidents or theft." As opposed to the lovely, poetic, abet somewhat confusing: We don't take all responsibility for accident, theft in this parking area. Please watch out for that well.
Or, found on the same sign: Please don't rev up in this parking area! I made a mental note not to get too keyed-up in that parking lot! Nonetheless, the most elegant and insightful janglish, in my opinion, was found somewhat surprisingly on the cover of a pot of self-serve rice in a ramen shop.

Lunch on our first day in Misawa was the best ramen shop in town, or at least the one with the biggest portions, according to my son. Once inside I noticed the following admonishing sign, "Just one bowl of free rice with order." (Just in case you felt you needed more starch with your lunch). It sounded good to me, so as we waited for the super-sized bowl of noodles, I sauntered over to the rice pot. I was greeted by a photo of President Obama, and a Japanese caption with an English translation taped to the lid. The Japanese was pretty straight forward, and I would have translated it as: The rice is free, but please don't pile it on, or something to that effect. I am not, however, the eloquent manifestation of the Japanese speaking Obama, who is quoted with the following stern warning: "Please refrain from rice large vigor." I doubt the real Barrack Obama could have said it any better even if he could speak Japanese, or Japanese-flavored English. Yet what I found most interesting is that the shop owners would choose Obama to be the spokesman for frugality.

I associate President Obama more with government largess and an ever-increasing nanny state rather than any thoughts of austerity, but I suppose the Japanese (and this shop owner in particular) see The President as the proper face of restraint for "sometimes arrogant Americans," plus he is the Commander-in Chief for all the U.S. military personal at Misawa Air Base. I guess it is just a logical step to put his face on a pot of rice at a ramen shop. After all, the Japanese word for America translates as "Rice Country." No one is Japan has ever given me a plausible explanation for that, but I'm sure it made sense to an Edo Period linguist somewhere.

Nonetheless, I truly love traveling in Japan. I can't think of another place where one can go from riding in an ultra-modern, super express train to having tea at a serene, five-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple all within a matter of minutes. So, I look forward to my next trip and the joys of spotting among other things, a restaurant bathroom marked MAN. I wasn't sure if I was The Man, but I used it anyway. A bar named Bluce(?) Or, the ever-popular coffee creamer labeled "Creep."

But sometimes the Japanese hit it dead on. During our trip I noticed the "Baby on Board," car signs so popular in America some years ago now showing up in Japan. And when I saw yet another sign on the back of an SUV I thought, well, there goes another gushing parent. It was only when I got close enough to actually read it did I see the lethal brevity: Samurai on Board.

Cage Rage Revisited

In an earlier post (attached below) I jotted down my thoughts on mixed martial arts from a perspective of sustainability. In other words, will MMA in its present form be around in say one hundred years and have the long-term appeal that the traditional martial arts of Japan such as judo, kendo, kyudo, and Okinawa karate. (Karate is not usually considered one of the historic arts of Japan, although this is due more in part to a geopolitical separation rather than a philosophical difference). Moreover, will future fans wait in anticipation for the next big cage match, or is MMA just the latest manifestation of prize fighting destined to rise in popularity then be forgotten when the next big thing comes along. Without a doubt the traditional martial arts of Japan have undergone a transformation from battlefield origins to modern manifestation. Yet one can still find many schools who practice the art pretty much as it was done in the 19th century. To be sure, there are both pros and cons to traditional versus modern fighting from a sport, or competitive perspective. However, I want to revisit MMA from a perspective of the physical toll to participants in the form of blunt-force trauma to the brain.

Serious injuries to the head and neck are not a new topic for any contact sport. Boxing, in its present form, has been around for well over a hundred years and it is still going strong despite periodic attempts to ban, or limit the sport. Yet that doesn't diminish the long-term health effect to fighters, both pro and amateur. Similarly, the NFL is considering changes to the contact rules for practices and games due to the numerous high-profile cases of post-concussion syndrome among current and former players. Nonetheless, I think that promoters and participants in competitive MMA need to seriously consider the long-term health effects of repeated blows to the head from punches and kicks. In particular, the type of blow that I fear is most damaging is when a fighter strikes at a downward angle repeatedly to the head of a prone opponent. This creates a double impact scenario in which the brain is jarred in one direction, then immediately in the opposite direction as the head rebounds violently off the floor. Concussions, neck trauma, tongue lacerations, broken noses, jaw injuries, and lost teeth are common occurrences.

I recently discussed some of the long-term effects of brain trauma with world renown physician Dr. Christian Guilleminault, head of the Sleep Disorders Clinic at Stanford University. Dr. Guilleminault told me that in addition to complications associated with concussion syndrome, boxers (or others who experience repeated blows to the head) can in some cases experience damage to the hypocretin producing region of the hypothalamus. This condition can lead to narcolepsy-like symptoms. Narcolepsy is a neurological condition often characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness and cataplexy. Currently, the Narcolepsy Research Project at Stanford University is the only place in the U.S. that can test for this disorder through a sample of cerebral spinal fluid. The correlation between hypocritin levels and narcolepsy is still being researched, however I feel the implication are clear: cranio-facial injuries and head trauma can have serious consequences for competitive MMA fighters.

During my competitive days, I was often frustrated by what I felt was the lack of adaptability of traditional karate to modern sport fighting. When I trained in Mainland Japan or Okinawa, I became accustomed to the typical sparring session there: no protective equipment, but no punches allowed to the head. Conversely, I found the point-style tournament sparring common in the US permitted more freedom, but left me unsatisfied as a proponent of traditional karate since many matches became a game of tag rather than contests grounded in actual fighting principles. Karate is unique in that virtually any body part (arm, leg, head, hip, etc.) can be utilized as a weapon against an assailant. In essence, catch-as-catch-can. This, however, makes karate very difficult to adapt in its pure form to the sport arena.

Law enforcement and military forces around the world often engage in very effective self-defense training in order to prepare students for actual street combat, while generally maintaining a high degree of safety. However, in much the same way as traditional karate, this type of training doesn't transfer very effectively to a sport application, or a cage.

Of late I have come to the conclusion that if one is willing to train in MMA with the intention of fighting in a cage match, then one should be free to do so. Nonetheless, the risk of long-term injury is significant and whether that outweighs the thrill of the cage is a decision that each fighter should be free to make. However, I also feel it is important for both fighters and fans to be aware that competitive MMA, a sport which is being touted as the replacement for both traditional martial arts and boxing, has the potential to lead to brain injuries, post-concussion syndrome, and a host of other health problems that we are just beginning to learning about.

Cage Rage

Cage Rage

It seems that every few years a new trend comes along in the world of Martial Arts. Maybe it is just part of the evolution from Asian roots to modern practice. Certainly other sports have evolved in technique, performance, and equipment to produce an improved version; golf and high jumping come to mind.
Is karate any different? The current fascination with mixed martial arts and cage fighting would appear to some to be an improvement over the classical arts. The fighters are generally better conditioned, stronger, and able to strike as well as grapple. The birth of mixed martial arts is in part a product of marketing in Japan where the public lost interest in kickboxing as a money sport, and the popularity of formerly obscure arts such as Gracie Jujitsu from Brazil.
So are the mixed martial arts an improvement over traditional karate, or other classical fighting arts? In my opinion, mixed martial arts have some effective grapping techniques and conditioning drills, but as a complete art to be pursued throughout one’s life, I believe they are sorely lacking. First and foremost, karate is a “path or way” that encompasses both physical training and spiritual development. This is evident in the use of the Japanese terms karate do, or judo, i.e., way of karate, and the gentle way, as opposed to jujitsu, or kenjutsu, i.e., grappling, and swordplay, respectively. The difference in terms represents a transformation in how the fighting arts of ancient Japan were thought of originally as skills then later as complete arts, worthy of being considered on a par with other classical arts such as tea ceremony, calligraphy, sword making, etc.
When I see a cage match on TV, my impression is that there is much more wrestling that striking, and that the fighters seem to have more grappling skills than striking ability. However, the strikes that do connect are often very forceful blows to vital organs or joints. I am left wondering how much damage these fighters absorb despite the rigorous training. Moreover, professional fighters endure this punishment many times during their career, and amateurs are often injured due to lack of training or skills.

Even in the ancient swordsmanship schools of Japan, tests of skill were held between rival schools or competing students, using a wooden bokuto rather than a steel blade. Nevertheless, the chance of injury was real, so great emphasis was placed on formality, and on halting the contest once the skill difference was evident. As such, matches were rarely held. Yet outside of practice bouts in the dojo, a proponent might only engage in a small number of actual matches, or shiai due to the risks. Instead, a swordsman would reflect on these rich, but rare experiences to hone his skill knowing that in a real match a single stroke could kill. The majority of practice was kata and meditation, with the ultimate goal of unifying body and mind.
It may be that one day mixed martial arts will become a complete art, with forms and a linage of masters and students. However, it may only be a passing fad that will lose appeal once something new comes along.
The classical martial arts have endured for hundreds of years because of the very fact that they are complete arts that promote respect for others, well-being, and spiritual development, yet retain the capability to “kill with a single stroke.”

- jim noah

Cow Soap

First of all, let me put to rest your fears that this is a story about some new kind of bovine hygiene product. Quite to the contrary, it is definitely about people soap, or more specifically-Japanese soap. For those of you who have visited Japan for any length of time, I think you will recognize, or more likely, recall the fragrance of the ubiquitous Kao Brand White Soap. Kao Brand has an aroma unlike any soap I have found in the U.S. Not particularly strong, or pungent, it has a unique smell that to me epitomizes taking a bath in Japan. Which, by the way, is a really big thing there. While most Americans quickly shower in the morning then rush to work, the Japanese love to leisurely soak in a neck-deep tub. Many Japanese also visit public baths, where one can enjoy a spa-like experience for around two bucks. There will, however, be lots of naked people around enjoying the bath as well. But not to worry, public baths are pool-sized, though only about two to three feet deep, and most keep their eyes to themselves. In addition to the home and public baths, hot springs abound in volcanic Japan. Many of the hot springs have lodging as well, however most simply pay for a dip in the therapeutic waters. Now before I diverge further, let me get back to the cow, or more accurately, Kao Brand Soap. As far as I know, Kao Brand has been one of the most popular brands of soap in Japan for many years. Wherever I lived, or traveled, I would find a bar of it next to a sink or bath, and we had it in our home in Akita as well. To me, it is as much a part of the background aroma of Japan as ramen shops or temple incenses. It has a fresh, mild scent that reminds me of the clean, well-scrubbed land that, in my opinion, symbolizes Japan. The reason I call it cow soap is that the old packaging had a small picture of a cow on it. Not quite sure why, but since many English words are misspelled in Japan, I naturally assumed that Kao meant cow. When I learned a bit more Japanese I understood that kao can also means one’s face. Facial soap? Now that made sense. That is until a few weeks ago when I stopped in at a large Japanese grocery store in Chicago. I swung buy to purchase some snacks for a road trip when I walked by the cosmetics aisle and saw my beloved Kao Soap. I took a closer look (with my glasses on) and noticed that in the upper right corner of the wrapper were two Japanese characters 花王 (kao) which translate as flower king, but in reality is the corporate name of the manufacturer, The Kao Corporation. Nothing to do with cows or faces. Damn, another of my assumptions about Japan shot to pieces. Personally, I like the cow analogy better, so perhaps I could get someone at corporate to rethink the brand ID? The Cow is currently in its place of honor-the soap dish of my bath. As it waits to set free long hidden memories of the Orient.

Obaa-chan

Obaa-chan, your childless carriage pushed with a back bowed by a meager war diet and the weight of a post-industrial society that has moved from feudal to digital in your lifetime. Where have your children gone?
Was it a .50 caliber round through the chest on Mindanao? His youthful, pensive face staring back through the smoke of your prayer incense. Or perhaps it was a Bullet-Train out of town when she could no longer stand the smell of the farm?
Where have your children gone?
Maybe off to the Juku, or the sex club? Your knowing, patient hands still cooking meals for a generation no longer interested in waving the Rising Sun, dusting off pictures of the Emperor, or toasting victories in Canton.
Obaa-chan, I know you were once young, but do your grandchildren know that you had hair as shining and skin as soft and fair as any who now peddle their flesh in Ginza on a cell phone? Do they know that the takuwan pickles in their bento are from a recipe you learned as a girl at a time when you weren't allowed to speak in the presence of your father without permission?
Do they know you are day-care to a generation, and rain-swept, roadside grime and mud labor to a nation?
I know, but I could never have endured as you have through wars, famine, and now isolation. I know, because you once showed me your picture as a young girl in monpei, bidding your brother farewell at the train station. So handsome in his uniform; you bowed stoically as he headed to his grave in the Pacific.

But I will not bother you now for a story. You are too busy knocking the snow off rows of long, white radishes drying in the winter sun and setting up an offering of rice for your brother's long awaited return.

Author's note:
When I first visited Japan almost 35 years ago, I often saw Obaa-chans (grandmothers) in the Japanese countryside with terribly bowed backs. Purportedly caused by a calcium poor war diet and long hours stooped over in the rice fields. They would often be pushing a cart that looked something like a cross between a baby carriage and a shopping cart. It struck me that this nation would truly have been lost after the war had it not been for these stout, resolute women.