Miscellany
The second day of training by Ponyboy had been slightly more professional, under the watchful eye of his superior. During a grammar exercise, his superior came over and ousted him quietly. I perked up and tried to present a bit of grammar in simple terms. Unfortunately, I got the use of it dead wrong, which was mortifying and I realised I have little to no idea as to how to explain the use of grammar - it's just convention and habit. I don't ever remember being taught. Ponyboy's superior smiled at me and told us that there was a backlash against teaching English grammar in the West, that teachers thought grammar is something you pick up by use, which is true. It seems I'm going to be learning English here too.
Afterwards, I was feeling down, the flattest and shittest I've been so far. I had to wait in a cafe for a couple of hours between interviews and I felt the insulation of alienness close in around me - people choosing to sit away from me, no-one meeting my eye. I sat and thought over a tiny cup of coffee and wondering if this shitty feeling was in fact the sneaking suspicion that I was making a large mistake in even being here. Why not just take off and go travelling, get drunk cheaply, make a fool of myself in other people's countries - why try to construct a new life somewhere and then destroy it?
I wandered from the cafe towards the station where I was to meet Rowan, walking underground - Osaka has the largest underground mall in Japan. Between two stations lived homeless men, between pillars, against walls, near the heating; the stream of people providing the security of anonymity. I look at them. Even though they're poor as shit (after the crash of 1990?), even though they have nothing, still they try and make private spaces, homes. One man has set up walls of cardboard. A sleeping bag squirms anxiously. Five minutes later, I came back to open air and crossed the river. There are constructions of blue waterproof canvas all along the river, but I'd never paid them much attention. All of them were the houses of the homeless. I suppose 'homeless' is no longer the right word. The slum dwellers, perhaps. In typical Japanese fashion, even their homeless are organised - concentated on a large island in the middle of the river, around a park with shining amenities block. The slum men can build around the edges of the park, but not in the middle and everyone adheres to this strictly. Smug cats litter the area; men crush cans methodically underfoot. Beneath the freeway, the houses are concentrated, out of the rain, and a game of what looks like mah-jong is underway, cigarettes with long ash, energetic gesticulation. It's striking, the difference between these men and those who live on Melbourne's streets. In Melbourne, the homeless are individuals - defeated, wandering the city in circles, alone, the purposeless waiting to die. Here (perhaps because of the numbers) they join together, industrious build together. The houses are scavenged; canvas, cardboard, rope and cheap wood. A Buddha sits casually on a table; bikes are scattered around. Semi-homeless? Those who can't afford the crushing rent? One man has built his house under the walking ramp; another has adapted a cupboard, put in plastic windows, made it a hutch for sleeping. For some reason, it made me feel better, to see this, people like me who have little connection with society but who work and make regardless, because it's what they do.
I met up with Row and we went to sign up for TV extra work. We got there fine, but they'd moved without telling us, so we explored Osaka. I was beginning to think this city consisted of prefab concrete offices and apartments without a scrap of colour and had almost given up, but Row suggested we check out Shinsaibashi. Wow. Finally: Tokyo-style towering ads; massive neon, three storey pop art. Further on, we hit America-mura (American village) which is pretty much the equivalent of a 'Chinatown' - a geographic area devoted to American culture (well, New York, really). Every shop disseminates American music; every shop apes American style and fashion. And the people! There's a famous concrete park where you go to be seen, but we found people with more attitude walking the streets. As blatant examples of Westianity, I felt really quite underdressed. If you fantasise about being Western, what happens when you see Westerners dressed for comfort? There were even some token black dudes, tailed by some wannabe-black Japanese rapheads. We found our way to a crowd - some kind of radio promotion - and we waited for a while as it started to rain, and I had my ass pinched, at last. It wasn't particularly erotic, however - more terrifying - and caught me totally by surprise. The perpetrator moved off after she saw my horrified reaction. Still, in retrospect, hot stuff.
That night was the night we were meant to be on national TV (fame and movie offers to follow) and a nervous tension built up towards 8 o'clock. Hostelmates appeared silently, trickling into the TV room. The show began, a bizarre quiz/comedy show that featured Japanese men being shot out of cannons in their underwear, the shortest rail tunnel and smallest park in Osaka (11 metres and 7 X 1.3 metres respectively), a sequence where the audience and panel had to guess the cost of antiques - and finally, the feature on our hostel. The hostess of the show walked in the front door - we could see our shadows and giggled nervously - and then an ad break, an anticlimax. Then, finally, the camera panned across the room before the hostess asked questions. 30 seconds later, it was over, with no sight of Row or I. Bastards. They'd used earlier footage, shot in February before we came. So the goal of being on a Japanese quiz show is still unfulfilled.
--------
Today, I had my last training day with Ponyboy. He was less horrific today, and I've come to understand him more as a teen trapped in a 35 year old man's body. However, he still ushered me over secretly to his computer and shows me a picture of his ex-girlfriend, who happened to go to my old uni (shit, I've graduated, I think). Did you know her, he asks. You sure? God, she broke my heart. Bitch. Later, he covertly tells we trainees a story about privately tutoring a teenage boy who didn't like him and was swapped to teach his mother as a result. He raises his eyebrows a few times suggestively and then confesses to sleeping with the teen's mother. "But man, after we slept together, she tells me she loves me. What's with that? Luckily, her husband found my coat in the car and she called it off". One of my fellow trainees nods appreciatively. "Man, take the free gifts they offer, but never fall in love," he says. This trainee is a puzzle - another thirty plus year old, an All American Boy - tall, clean cut, mid-Western - who defected to Japan, citing 'political correctness' for as a reason for leaving. This from a strict vegetarian (almost impossible in Japan). He's intriguing for his contradictions - he presented the best practice lesson of all of us, getting us to do fun exercises, acting things out, full of energy - but this is also the man who's seemingly here for the exotic sex, for the thrill of the murky Yakuza owned club scene (he works in security for big Yakuza nightclubs), who turns the same energy he uses in the lessons to describing a bar fight in gruesome, bloody detail with eyes backlit and fists reenacting of their own accord, all in front of his employer-to-be. Bored, he flips through some papers on Ponyboy's desk, homing in on people's work histories. Ponyboy raises an eyebrow at this, but does nothing. Bizarre. Actually, 'puzzling' is my new favourite all-purpose word to describe anything here. So, this man is puzzling. Ponyboy is deeply puzzling. Oh - and they both pronounce 'nice' by seperating it into its constituent elements; N-ii-ce, they say, slanting the meaning towards an appreciative innuendo. So, now I've been 'trained'. I don't feel particularly ready, but hey. The practice lesson was fun - apparently, the more 'genki' (a word meaning friendly, fun and exciting rolled into one, I think) you are, the more the kids love it. This means I have a licence to: run around the classroom; make exaggerated gestures of explanation, use games a lot, ask stupid questions, embarass kids. It actually sounds like a lot of fun. Someone once said I'd be a good teacher. We'll see about that. Maybe I'll be one of the ones who snaps, one of those who loses out in the battle of wills with the kids. It usually happens to high school science or maths teachers though. Or maybe I'll be attacked by a depressed high schooler (they're copying America here too, but with knives more than guns, thankfully). Sorry. That was a depressing flight of fancy.
---
Rowan figured out how to get cheap train tickets, which is a lifesaver. I've been spending twenty dollars a day just to get into town. All you have to do is press the child button and the price halves. But the cunning train operators counted on people doing that, and when you go through the gates, they emit a high pitched beeping sound and flash orange. The first time it happened, I nearly shat myself. Row hadn't warned me about it at all, and I hurried away from the scene of the crime. Seriously, it's embarassing. But the best thing about the culture of impassivity is that no-one appears to notice. They all do, of course, but they're too polite to say anything. Thank god. On the positive side, my comings and goings will now always be heralded by beeps and lights. In case people couldn't spot a gangly red head on their own.
----
Oh! I have a job, for real! It was the easiest job I've ever got. I was sitting at home, sprawled on the couch, watching Godfather III when one of the hostel managers walked in and offered me the job of teaching English at the hostel (it doubles as a small school) and I unsprawled and became professional and nodded a lot. Sweet. However, I'm under no illusion that it was my skills or genkiness - I'm pretty much the employee of last resort. They couldn't find a female teacher and they were desperate. Convieniently, I am also desperate. So, the shortest commute in history begins in two weeks - all of five metres.
The second day of training by Ponyboy had been slightly more professional, under the watchful eye of his superior. During a grammar exercise, his superior came over and ousted him quietly. I perked up and tried to present a bit of grammar in simple terms. Unfortunately, I got the use of it dead wrong, which was mortifying and I realised I have little to no idea as to how to explain the use of grammar - it's just convention and habit. I don't ever remember being taught. Ponyboy's superior smiled at me and told us that there was a backlash against teaching English grammar in the West, that teachers thought grammar is something you pick up by use, which is true. It seems I'm going to be learning English here too.
Afterwards, I was feeling down, the flattest and shittest I've been so far. I had to wait in a cafe for a couple of hours between interviews and I felt the insulation of alienness close in around me - people choosing to sit away from me, no-one meeting my eye. I sat and thought over a tiny cup of coffee and wondering if this shitty feeling was in fact the sneaking suspicion that I was making a large mistake in even being here. Why not just take off and go travelling, get drunk cheaply, make a fool of myself in other people's countries - why try to construct a new life somewhere and then destroy it?
I wandered from the cafe towards the station where I was to meet Rowan, walking underground - Osaka has the largest underground mall in Japan. Between two stations lived homeless men, between pillars, against walls, near the heating; the stream of people providing the security of anonymity. I look at them. Even though they're poor as shit (after the crash of 1990?), even though they have nothing, still they try and make private spaces, homes. One man has set up walls of cardboard. A sleeping bag squirms anxiously. Five minutes later, I came back to open air and crossed the river. There are constructions of blue waterproof canvas all along the river, but I'd never paid them much attention. All of them were the houses of the homeless. I suppose 'homeless' is no longer the right word. The slum dwellers, perhaps. In typical Japanese fashion, even their homeless are organised - concentated on a large island in the middle of the river, around a park with shining amenities block. The slum men can build around the edges of the park, but not in the middle and everyone adheres to this strictly. Smug cats litter the area; men crush cans methodically underfoot. Beneath the freeway, the houses are concentrated, out of the rain, and a game of what looks like mah-jong is underway, cigarettes with long ash, energetic gesticulation. It's striking, the difference between these men and those who live on Melbourne's streets. In Melbourne, the homeless are individuals - defeated, wandering the city in circles, alone, the purposeless waiting to die. Here (perhaps because of the numbers) they join together, industrious build together. The houses are scavenged; canvas, cardboard, rope and cheap wood. A Buddha sits casually on a table; bikes are scattered around. Semi-homeless? Those who can't afford the crushing rent? One man has built his house under the walking ramp; another has adapted a cupboard, put in plastic windows, made it a hutch for sleeping. For some reason, it made me feel better, to see this, people like me who have little connection with society but who work and make regardless, because it's what they do.
I met up with Row and we went to sign up for TV extra work. We got there fine, but they'd moved without telling us, so we explored Osaka. I was beginning to think this city consisted of prefab concrete offices and apartments without a scrap of colour and had almost given up, but Row suggested we check out Shinsaibashi. Wow. Finally: Tokyo-style towering ads; massive neon, three storey pop art. Further on, we hit America-mura (American village) which is pretty much the equivalent of a 'Chinatown' - a geographic area devoted to American culture (well, New York, really). Every shop disseminates American music; every shop apes American style and fashion. And the people! There's a famous concrete park where you go to be seen, but we found people with more attitude walking the streets. As blatant examples of Westianity, I felt really quite underdressed. If you fantasise about being Western, what happens when you see Westerners dressed for comfort? There were even some token black dudes, tailed by some wannabe-black Japanese rapheads. We found our way to a crowd - some kind of radio promotion - and we waited for a while as it started to rain, and I had my ass pinched, at last. It wasn't particularly erotic, however - more terrifying - and caught me totally by surprise. The perpetrator moved off after she saw my horrified reaction. Still, in retrospect, hot stuff.
That night was the night we were meant to be on national TV (fame and movie offers to follow) and a nervous tension built up towards 8 o'clock. Hostelmates appeared silently, trickling into the TV room. The show began, a bizarre quiz/comedy show that featured Japanese men being shot out of cannons in their underwear, the shortest rail tunnel and smallest park in Osaka (11 metres and 7 X 1.3 metres respectively), a sequence where the audience and panel had to guess the cost of antiques - and finally, the feature on our hostel. The hostess of the show walked in the front door - we could see our shadows and giggled nervously - and then an ad break, an anticlimax. Then, finally, the camera panned across the room before the hostess asked questions. 30 seconds later, it was over, with no sight of Row or I. Bastards. They'd used earlier footage, shot in February before we came. So the goal of being on a Japanese quiz show is still unfulfilled.
--------
Today, I had my last training day with Ponyboy. He was less horrific today, and I've come to understand him more as a teen trapped in a 35 year old man's body. However, he still ushered me over secretly to his computer and shows me a picture of his ex-girlfriend, who happened to go to my old uni (shit, I've graduated, I think). Did you know her, he asks. You sure? God, she broke my heart. Bitch. Later, he covertly tells we trainees a story about privately tutoring a teenage boy who didn't like him and was swapped to teach his mother as a result. He raises his eyebrows a few times suggestively and then confesses to sleeping with the teen's mother. "But man, after we slept together, she tells me she loves me. What's with that? Luckily, her husband found my coat in the car and she called it off". One of my fellow trainees nods appreciatively. "Man, take the free gifts they offer, but never fall in love," he says. This trainee is a puzzle - another thirty plus year old, an All American Boy - tall, clean cut, mid-Western - who defected to Japan, citing 'political correctness' for as a reason for leaving. This from a strict vegetarian (almost impossible in Japan). He's intriguing for his contradictions - he presented the best practice lesson of all of us, getting us to do fun exercises, acting things out, full of energy - but this is also the man who's seemingly here for the exotic sex, for the thrill of the murky Yakuza owned club scene (he works in security for big Yakuza nightclubs), who turns the same energy he uses in the lessons to describing a bar fight in gruesome, bloody detail with eyes backlit and fists reenacting of their own accord, all in front of his employer-to-be. Bored, he flips through some papers on Ponyboy's desk, homing in on people's work histories. Ponyboy raises an eyebrow at this, but does nothing. Bizarre. Actually, 'puzzling' is my new favourite all-purpose word to describe anything here. So, this man is puzzling. Ponyboy is deeply puzzling. Oh - and they both pronounce 'nice' by seperating it into its constituent elements; N-ii-ce, they say, slanting the meaning towards an appreciative innuendo. So, now I've been 'trained'. I don't feel particularly ready, but hey. The practice lesson was fun - apparently, the more 'genki' (a word meaning friendly, fun and exciting rolled into one, I think) you are, the more the kids love it. This means I have a licence to: run around the classroom; make exaggerated gestures of explanation, use games a lot, ask stupid questions, embarass kids. It actually sounds like a lot of fun. Someone once said I'd be a good teacher. We'll see about that. Maybe I'll be one of the ones who snaps, one of those who loses out in the battle of wills with the kids. It usually happens to high school science or maths teachers though. Or maybe I'll be attacked by a depressed high schooler (they're copying America here too, but with knives more than guns, thankfully). Sorry. That was a depressing flight of fancy.
---
Rowan figured out how to get cheap train tickets, which is a lifesaver. I've been spending twenty dollars a day just to get into town. All you have to do is press the child button and the price halves. But the cunning train operators counted on people doing that, and when you go through the gates, they emit a high pitched beeping sound and flash orange. The first time it happened, I nearly shat myself. Row hadn't warned me about it at all, and I hurried away from the scene of the crime. Seriously, it's embarassing. But the best thing about the culture of impassivity is that no-one appears to notice. They all do, of course, but they're too polite to say anything. Thank god. On the positive side, my comings and goings will now always be heralded by beeps and lights. In case people couldn't spot a gangly red head on their own.
----
Oh! I have a job, for real! It was the easiest job I've ever got. I was sitting at home, sprawled on the couch, watching Godfather III when one of the hostel managers walked in and offered me the job of teaching English at the hostel (it doubles as a small school) and I unsprawled and became professional and nodded a lot. Sweet. However, I'm under no illusion that it was my skills or genkiness - I'm pretty much the employee of last resort. They couldn't find a female teacher and they were desperate. Convieniently, I am also desperate. So, the shortest commute in history begins in two weeks - all of five metres.
posted by Doug @ 3/04/2005 09:17:00 pm
<< Home