Showing posts with label salaryman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label salaryman. Show all posts

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Britons! Take a bow...


We have been in Japan for almost a month now. The food is no longer an adventure into the unknown, we can speak a few words of the lingo, we can even navigate our way through the spaghetti-soup map of Tokyo’s metro system.

But there is one thing that I still haven’t got used to: bowing.

It didn’t take long to make this serendipitous discovery. In Japan, they do it everywhere: in shops; in the street; on public transport, people get on down and bow.

Sometimes you feel as if you’re in a Monty Python sketch. Enter a shop, a hotel or a restaurant and you risk being attacked by profuse bowing that’ll leave you blushing and bewildered. Have I inadvertently been mistaken for a Knight of the Realm? Has Queen Victoria suddenly popped up behind me?

Japan must be a chiropractor’s dream, for bowing is the norm and indeed it forms an essential feature of one's social interaction people with others, be it friends, colleagues or complete strangers.

Children are taught at home how to show respect and bow, job seekers are shown the exact angle their bow should take, and workers are expected to bow as part of their daily work

In the land of the ‘salaryman’ white-collar worker, bowing helps show respect to colleagues and acknowledges the rigid hierarchy which structures the company.

Like many other aspects of Japanese society there are strong norms that define how one behaves towards friends and colleagues and different degrees of bowing to follow according to one’s place in this hierarchy.

The more important the person, the deeper the bow, and more outwardly fawning you must be. A kind of replacement for the days of the shogun when one prostrated oneself before the ruler.

Hence you witness a frenetic outbreak of bowing amongst work colleagues, at train stations and other public places, when they go their separate ways at the end of the working day.

In the company of those higher up the work hierarchy poor salaryman doesn’t dare turn his back and show disrespect to his seniors, rather he must shuffle backwards, through the crowds, bowing and scraping as he goes.

This isn’t just restricted to salaryman. It is rife across all workplaces. I have seen train drivers bowing away, performing a strict ritual before changing shifts.

Bowing is not restricted to the workplace but is commonplace throughout peoples social lives as well. You often seen friends leaving each other at the end of the night with a bow, as we might a hug or a handshake.

I’ve even seen two friends bowing to each other after a baseball game, on one the station platform, the other inside the train.

Surely all this back-bothering can’t be good for the old lumbago.

As a gaijin you don’t escape this curious social proceedure. Every time I enter a shop or ask a stranger for directions I get a bow. And actually purchasing something can spark a frenzy of spine-stretching, accompanied by an effusive flurry of thank yous and please come agains.

In a hundred yen shop in Nara today the young cashier bowed so deeply and so vigorously to me I was worried he’d knock himself out on the counter.

My surreal encounters with this odd social ritual haven't been limited to shops either. I've been bowed at by ticket inspectors on the train (one of them even doffing his cap as well), by the little lightsabre men who control the traffic at roadworks, by post office clerks and waitresses, theatre ushers and even a policeman.

Blimey, a policeman! Imagine such a thing in Blighty - that would knock the stuffing out of even the most hardened criminal.

Shortly after arriving and getting my first bow, I began to learn to steel myself before attempting to speak to a local, suppressing the urge to giggle and returning them the level of respect they accorded me.

After a week, the bowing, like so many of the other bizarre things I have encountered in Japan started to become normal, then even tiresome.

By the third week I had started to find this excessive politeness unnerving. When even hotel cleaners bowed to me (surely it should have been the other way round, considering they were about to muck out my stables) I felt uncomfortable, as if I was some colonialist oppressor, baying at my coolies for shaking my sedan chair.

But perhaps all this bowing has a purpose other than acting as some quaint, albeit rather odd, courtly hangover from days long gone.

Maybe bowing plays a key role in helping to maintain social harmony in what is a densely populated nation, the well-ordered and disciplined society we witnessed where good, upstanding citizens abide the law and respect each other.

In this way it could even make a vital contribution to Japan’s economic prowess, instilling in its citizens the values of good, honest hard work, self-discipline and respect for authority.

Without wishing to go all Daily Mail how has Japan held on to many social values which Britain appears to have lost? Perhaps bowing is their secret.

So why not give it a go back home? After all, ASBOs have failed, and if we can try them we can try anything.

Of course, any politician would be laughed out the House if they tried to introduce this. No, this has to be more organic, to come from the people themselves. This demands popular action!

So go on, give it a go. Next time you’re at work, down the pub or at the football, face your boss, your friend or your colleague, bend down and give them a good 90 degrees. Trust me; it'll catch on in no time...

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Monday, 15 September 2008

City of Cartoons


In Japan everyone is crazy about cartoons, fanatical about the fantastical.

Tokyo is no different. Like the proverbial rat in London, in Tokyo you are never more than six feet away from a cartoon of some sort.

There are the advertising medium of choice for many businesses; the film (anime) of choice for many cinemagoers, the book of choice for all and sundry.

On the metro you are just as likely to see a businessman perusing manga (comic books) as you are to see a schoolkid flicking through the backpages of their favourite superhero.

Indeed, such is the Japanese mania for manga, their ardour for anime, that it’s sometimes had to tell whether some of them have a steady grip on reality. Certainly for me, after spending a few days in Tokyo it has become hard at times to discern what is real and what is make-believe.

This is a city which celebrates the outlandish and delights in being over the top. It is drenched in neon, buzzing to the tune of a million different polyphonic jingles.

We enter a megalopolis of such fantastical wonders where, it seems, anything is possible. There’s capsule hotels, rollercoasters on top of office blocks and people bowing all over the place.

In Tokyo, art imitates life, then life imitates art and becomes a cartoon.
This is a city of cartoons.
The following are some of my favourite characters.

Lightsabre man

Around Ginza Lightsabre man is busy at work. There‘s traffic to direct, people to usher across the road.

Move over Batman, stand aside Spiderman - Lightsabre man is a true superhero.

Carefully attired in his regulation uniform - reflective stripes, white helmet, white gloves and trusty glowing baton - he guards Tokyo’s good citizens against all possible hazards, from potholes and roadworks to broken-down escalators and car park exits.

Lightsabre man is anywhere and everywhere, ever vigilant and primed to act. A true hero of the streets.

Visor Woman

Up in Asakusa, Visor Woman heads for the temple, camera at the ready. She’s been hard at it in the hot sunshine, taking in the sights of this vast city, ticking off the must-sees.

And she’s well-equipped for this awesome task.

On her head she sports a sun visor so huge her companions could eat their okonomi-yaki (Japanese pizza) off it. This massive millinery monster covers her head and indeed her face, so much so that it could double as a motorcycle helmet, or indeed protective wear for any budding astronaut.

To complement this, Visor Woman chooses comfortable trainers, casual trousers, a blouse, handbag and miniature towel to discreetly dab her brow in the heat.

And seeing that it is thirty degrees and the sun is high in the sky she plumps for the gloves ‘n’ arm covers look as well, just to ensure every inch of flesh is covered. It just wouldn’t do to go back to the folks back home with a suntan.


Pachinko man

Down in Roppongi Pachinko man’s making a killing. Working the one-armed bandits and other yen-grabbing machines he an old hand at the gambling game.

When it comes to slot machines, Pachinko man knows every trick in the book. He’s surrounded by a piles of ball bearings, coughed up by the machines as winnings and stacked up in boxes on the floor around him.

Well-adapted to withstanding a sensory assault like no other, Pachinko man is immune to the wall of sound, the epileptic fit-inducing flashing lights and the heavy fug of fag smoke.

Amidst this cacophony he inhabits his cocoon, ceaselessly working the unfathomable games till it starts to grow light outside.

Then it’s off home his newly gained winning, to bed and dreams of a Sega-filled paradise.

Salaryman

Way out west, amidst the scryscrapers of Shinjuki, Salaryman has his head buried away in his account sheets.

Salaryman is the unsung hero of the nation, the worker ant of business, the backbone of the economy. He’ll willingly sacrifice his family time for the company, displaying unswerving loyalty in the cause of the balance sheet.

This city stalwart has been at it since 8.30 am, and will stay there until 6.30pm (if he’s lucky).

After work he’ll share a beer and slurp noodles with his colleagues, or brave the rush hour and head for home.

Salaryman is one of two million who pass through Shinjuku’s stations every day, short-sleeved robots, brandishing mobiles, briefcases and inbuilt sat-navs to help them follow the well-trodden path between office and home.

If he’s lucky Salaryman will find an inch of space on the Metro, room to sit down and peruse a document headed “Offsetting certificates of deposit against high-coupon debt”.

If not he’ll nod off on the train, yet still somehow wake up just as he pulls into his home station.

Salaryman is prone to tiredness from overwork and the sight of collapsed salaryman on the Metro, exhausted and a little the worse for wear, is not unusual.

Some 30,000 a year die due to overwork - the economic miracle came at a high price.

The rock kids

Over in Shibuya the kids are united. In their love for replicating their pop idols.

Here West meets East in a potent cocktail of haywire hormones and overweening peer pressure to keep up with the latest fashion.

Teenagers - large gangs of identical girls, smaller groups of swaggering boys - take to the streets and pout and preen their way to stage one of the great mating game.

Every detail is meticulously copied, from their hair and clothing to their attitude and gait.

Amidst the fickle flux of fashion, ‘Japlish’ endures. English words, Japanese grammar, rendering slogans on t-shirts incomprehensible to the bemused tourist: ‘Elephant special dreams’; Great bless my honor’; ‘Connects and it pulls’.

As a bloke named Brian once remarked ‘we are all individuals’.




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Friday, 29 August 2008

Farmhand or stuntman?

Stooping down to pick up the thousandth stone on the muddy slope, I once more admired the large bear prints embedded in the soft ground all around me.

Again I wondered what was it one does when faced with a fullgrown, aggressive brown bear. I’d read somewhere that you should shout and bang your pots and pans loudly but I somehow seemed to have mislaid my IKEA kitchenware.

As we gingerly made our way across the field we were working in we felt like children acting out an imaginary game: don’t go over there - that’s where the bears are.

Except they WERE there. Only two days earlier, Kenji (Farmer-San and our temporary WWOOF boss) had told us they had been spotted - a mother and two cubs, ambling across his pumpkin field.

An hour earlier he had casually dropped us off, in this remote corner of his farm, with nothing but a few sacks and a few rocks as protection. And now we found ourselves in a field covered in bear tracks and nervously scanning the forest edge for any movements.

I breathed deeply and looked up to admire the beautiful scenery, the rolling and forested slopes building up to an impressive mountain range.

And pondered our possible mauling by wild beasts. I couldn’t help wondering: what was my role here on our WWOOF project at Takano Farm: was I a farmhand or a stuntman?

Yesterday it was daredevil tree-cutting, wielding a ancient and rusty yet lethal-looking saw, balanced precariously in a tractor bucket hosited some 40 foot in the air.

The day before it was extreme grass-cutting, using a strimmer of a questionable temperament, complete with a enormous and deadly-looking circular blade - the type that Ninja’s might seek to embed in some unfortunate shogun.

And now it was bear baiting. Wonderful.

Needless to say our survival skills saw us through this terrifying ordeal and Gentle Ben chose to keep their distance, but it didn't stop me admonishing our host.  

Kenji just grinned at this me, a guillible and game Englishman who would foolishlessly follow his directions, stretching his puny muscles to the limit of their keyboard-oriented existence.

After my tree-lopping antics I had returned to planet earth a quivering wreck, my knees knocking, my back soaked in sweat. He slapped me on the back and cackled, “Welcome to Japan, Super Salaryman”. I only learnt later, soon after our stay at Takano Farm, that Kenji was scared of heights...














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