What I hadn’t counted on was an economic recession to hit meaning no one was hiring—especially the Star, as it generates the majority of its revenues through advertising, which is always the first victim of a downturn.
So, I had no idea what the weather was like—I assumed that it was a sub-tropical place, and that was that. If I had been smarter, I would have recalled that Japan had played host to the Winter Olympics in 1972 in the city of Sapporo (It was also the host of the Olympics in 1964, in Tokyo). Ya can’t have a winter Olympics without snow.
Fortunately my mother and father were paying attention and told me to take along my winter boots—a pair of so-called construction boots, and a winter coat, gloves, scarves and hats—just in case.
They knew what was up, but either didn’t tell me (not likely), or they did repeatedly and I just never listened (more than likely).
As you know, when I arrived it was bloody hot and humid in Tokyo, and my adoptive hometown of Ohtawara. It did not rain once all month leading me to believe that this sauna of a city was always going to be wet with humidity.
Being an idiot has its advantages, and its drawbacks.
When September came, so too did the rain. Kind of a constant rain – not overly hard – but one that lasted several days. And then it got wetter.
No one told me, but Japan has a typhoon season. Apparently most of the typhoons (what us North Americaners call hurricanes) hit Japan between May and October, with the months of August and September usually being the peak season. Well, if August was part of that equation, then September shouldn’t be such a big deal, ne (eh)?
It started raining on Tuesday night—after the first day of teaching for me at Dai Chu (Ohtawara Junior High School). No big deal.
For Wednesday, I wore a windbreaker with a cap on it. I then rode the 15 minutes to school on my bicycle built for gaijin. I rode into a headwind. The wind was howling and pelting me with shards of rain, making my face hurt.
To be fair, it wasn’t just me… the students had to make the journey, too. Worse yet, the primary school kids had to as well. Tiny little 6 - 11 year-old children blown about by the winds.
When I got to school, I was soaked right through to my skin. I hadn’t brought a change of clothes with me—just my school books placed carefully in my backpack—apparently it was waterproof, and allowed my back to remain reasonably dry.
Fortunately, there was a teacher there taller than me—if Shibata-sensei was a heartthrob to the female students, then this guy was the heartburst, as I often heard little girls sighing lustfully after he would walk by. Anyhow, the guy was about 6’4”, super friendly and had a great sense of humour.
Okay. Stop for a second. Having a sense of humour and being Japanese sounds like an oxymoron (a lot of stupid bull), but what I learned—and will show over the course of these blogs, is that the Japanese are just like every other peoples on this planet—struggling to make ends meet, worries about family, work, like to have a good time. Some are not so nice, and some are nice. Got it? Good.
Back to the wetness protection program.
So, he gave me a set of track pants, a t-shirt and a track top. Shibata sensei lent me some hair gel, and I was set like my hair.
I’ve previously explained my day (Click HERE for a revisit), but let me tell you about the ride home.
Informed that this was the beginning of a typhoon that was expected to eventually become a Category 3, I was offered an umbrella for the ride home.
An umbrella in a hurricane. Sure it sounds silly, but I’d never experienced a typhoon before, so what did I know?
Stepping out the door, I saw students and teachers alike pop their umbrellas open and watched as the wind quickly inverted them into so much worthless fabric and metal. Others—well, let’s just say I saw one or two umbrellas reach for the sky. Learning by example, I lowered the head of the umbrella into the driving rain and then opened it. Keeping the head pointed directly into the wind, the umbrella did a reasonable job of keeping me not completely soaked. My shoes had been skwooshing all day—that ginormous, heartburst guy didn’t have an extra pair of shoes, and they would have been a good 3-centimetres too small anyway.
Then I got on my bicyle.
I’m going to end things here—and we’ll pick of the pieces in the next blog.
Somewhere moist,
Andrew Joseph
Title sung by The Scorpions.
