Life goes in cycles... or at least in cars.

We used to have a yellow labrador called Sandy. She was a sweet old lab, with the usual sappy deep brown eyes, a limitless supply of drool and undercoat, and a tail that wagged with such force it could send an elderly citizen flying across the room. She was far from a perfect dog. She came from the "zoo" in Nelson, which is so small they should probably add "petting" to it. It was mainly farm animals and birds, which you were allowed to feed rice bubbles(cereal)- available for a small charge. Naturally, Sandy was well pampered by the idiot visitors- and their idiot children- who sometimes emptied whole bags of ricebubbles for Sandy to lap up.

By the time our family decided this was enough and took her in, she was a big dog. We put her on a diet, which I don't think she was too pleased about. One time she raided a pantry and ate a few kilos of "super weight-gain protein powder". She also had arthritis, which was operated on by the vets. They accidentally had the X-ray back to front and did the wrong leg, so she had both done. However, she became visibly younger, and lived for much longer than anyone thought she would. But towards the end, it became sad to see her unable to get into the car by herself, struggle to stand up or even be unwilling to go outside.

One bright, sunny, New Zealand Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of my mother putting the dogs in the car for a walk at the beach. I looked out the window, and I remember thinking that I hadn't seen Sandy look so lively in a long time.
She was to be put down after that walk.

Kelly, my beloved car for the last 11 months had been diagnosed as transmissionally deseased. It was terminal. Incurable. She would be fine for small trips, but anything slightly longer would have her screaming in 2nd gear for the rest of the trip. Sure, she no longer gleamed like all the other cars in Japan, and at 17 years old, is practically a Japanese vintage. But she was comfortable- I had formed the ass creases just the way I like them. She was big and strong- It's nice to know that if you are in a car crash with another Japanese car, you will win. She was an escape, a retreat, a special place. Sure she cost more to run than most cars, but that's what we do for loved ones.

But she was sick. As I drove her, for the last time, to be put down, I couldn't help but think of Sandy. I don't know whether it is dumbness, bravery or loyalty, but their final moments were their strongest in a long time. This made it harder to deal with. You know it is the right thing to do, but knowing doesnt affect feeling. What a waste. What a car. For all your imperfections, I'll miss you Kelly.

Rather than be excited to get a new (er) car, I was saddened to be downgrading. I decided that I will never truly understand the Japanese spirit until I own a box car. These things are everywhere. Tiny cars with edges so sharp, it looks like they were cut from a block of tofu. There is one model called the "Nissan Cube". These cars exist for a few reasons:

Japanese roads are the worst of any developed nation. It goes by the principle that narrow roads are best travelled through by narrow cars.
They are cheaper to run, cheaper to park and you pay much less tax.
They are cute.

No.3 is disputable, but of the box cars around, I feel that the Daihatsu Move is the least pathetic one, almost endearing in the right light. Basically, I was paying a lot of money to get a less powerful, slower, less cool car with a pathetic sound-system, but which is cheap to own and will not likely give me any more car problems. It seemed like a downgrade to me.

I felt wierd leaving, it was the longest hesitation of my life. I couldn't figure out why. As I pulled out onto the road in my new car, with the salesman bowing as furiously as a hungry chicken, it hit me. There was no handshake. This was the largest purchase of my life, and I cannot pinpoint the moment when it was made. I didn't even sign anything. Did I "buy" it when I said "i want this car", or when I gave him the money, or when he called me to come pick it up, or when stamped the form with my personal seal, and if so, I stamped numerous things on different days... I felt like I could turn the car around at any moment and save Kelly from the noose.

After that impulse passed, I became aware of the vastness of my new car. My first impression was: "it feels like a church". I wasn't meaning the handling; infact, since there is hardly a bonnet and the wheels are practically at the front, it handles like a fish. It's much smaller than Kelly, but so much more spacious. And the windows are huge, giving a panorama of the Japanese sub-urban clutter. However, the windows are 2-way, thus giving everyone else a panorama of a foriegner in a glass box. Hence, my Daihatsu Move got it's name:

"The Pope-mobile"

Last week, temperatures recorded in Toyama city exceeded 38 degrees Celsius. Humidity is also so high, that you need to chew before breathing. This is ideal, as for the last 3 weeks, I have been on holiday. Yes, my holidays so far have been me sitting at school in a barely air-conditioned staffroom planning and scheming how to get out.

I have been in Japan for one metric year now, and instead of arriving from mid-winter to mid-summer, summer has come gradually. I don't mind the temperature too much. Like an unwanted disease or flatmate, I will never learn to like it, but I have learned to live with it Billy Connoly once said that there is no such thing as "bad weather"; there is only inappropriate clothing. In the case of current Japan, any clothing is inappropriate. I don't use my home air-conditioner, and I don't have air-conditioning in my car, I just try and spend as much time as possible not wearing pants. We do what we can. Humans are resourceful beings.

So, most of my time at work has been thinking about travelling, and how to use my paid leave. I came up with an elaborate plan to go hitchhiking all the way south to Nagasaki. I planned my trip, bought the necessities, and prepared my gimmick... The all-important gimmick.





Most people know of the story of the Hiroshima girl who made 1000 origami cranes for good luck before dieing, right? I wanted to do something similar, except for the dieing part, and instead of cranes I decided to make 1000 origami Kiwis (as in the bird; an origami kiwifruit would be pretty lame. It would just be kindof...oval.), and since I've already been to Hiroshima, I'd like to go to the peace park in Nagasaki too.

This is a portion of the 1000 kiwis (still in progress).

It is a NZ twist, but the real reason is, they are much easier to make. I become so proficient at making them, with concentration I can now complete one in under 40 seconds. Even so, multiply that by 1000, and that is a lot of seconds... and concentration. So i often found time to idly make them. I folded at school. I folded while watching TV, while talking to people, during meetings, and even while driving. Anyway, with less than a week before my scheduled departure, when I was up to the 700 kiwi mark, I got a phonecall from my basketball team captain.

"We need you for a basketball tournament this weekend", he said, effectively ruining my holiday plans. My team, especially with a lot of the older guys recently having retired, they need someone to play centre. It is a big tournament, with teams from 4 different prefectures, and if I'm not there, I would feel horrible if we got embarrassed. I also relish a chance to play some organised basketball, so I couldn't say no.

I went to practice the other day. The gymnasiums are not air-conditioned. Have you ever seen underwater basketball? I predict I that this weekend over 2 basketball games I will halve in weight due to sweating.

Even though I wont be hitchhiking to Nagasaki anymore (I will still go, but at a more convenient time when it is not the hottest and busiest time of year. besides I only need to make 300 more kiwis.), I'll be taking off next week to go to the big Slope, Osaka (大阪). It seems that all roads slope towards Osaka. It's time to have myself a holiday from my desk holiday.

"Your body is your Castle"



Your body is one of the most important things you own. It has much influence of how one looks, and how one feels. The importance of your body is shown in many well-known sayings, such as:

• "There's no place like body"
• "Body sweet body"
• "Your body is where your heart is"

Last week, I had a health check-up. It was going all week, for all local government employees. I firmly believe in taking care of yourself, even at the expense of missing a morning of sitting around at school.

I showed up, and the reception staff greeted me with vaguely disguised looks of surprise. My name was quickly found, as it is one of 4 out of thousands with a name not in kanji. I was quickly handed a cup. That's nice, I thought, he's offering me a drink. It was a very hot day, even at 9:30AM. But no, he decided I couldn't understand Japanese despite our earlier conversation, and mimed that this was in fact, a urine sample cup. (Hint for charade enthusiasts: this basically consists of pointing at one's genitals as a pre-pubescent boy would do.)

The whole morning was spent in line, progressing from one station to another. At each station, the nurse would suddenly notice me looming over them, and they would hurredly, but professionally do their task. They tested my piss, took my blood, weighed me, measured me, made sure I had a pulse, took a few chest x-rays and made sure I could hear. With the Japanese insistence on using last names, and me having a complicated last name, each time, they would refer to me as 'Ban-san'.

They could call me whatever they wanted. Usually in Tonami it is difficult to spot a pretty woman. Don't judge me, but everyone prefers to look at a pretty face. Nursing in Japan is almost a glamour job for girls. If I were a betting man, I would bet that in Japan, Nurses as a whole would win in a beauty contest vs. Stewardesses. It'd be a close race, and one we would all like to see, but I would definitely back nursing.


The last stage involved sitting down in a room, moving ever so slowly towards two tents at the front. Inside, I assumed, was a nurse who gives you the rubber glove treatment. I was told the night before that at some health checkups, they check for prostate cancer and stuff. It was an excruciating wait. Finally it got to my turn, and inside- to my horror- was a murse! I had chosen the wrong tent! I don't know if he was as nervous as I was, and was unable to bring himself to tell me to drop my pants, but all he did was check that I still had a pulse, and check for something in my calves. Maybe calf-cancer is a big thing in Japan. It was nothing to warrant waiting 30 minutes for, or to go behind a special little private tent. (how dare a public servant show his calves in public!)

Feeling much healthier, I drove around a while, before coming back to my rightful place at my desk at school.

While not technically part of the 'body', the head is also an important part of our health and well-being. Without it, many everyday tasks would be much more difficult. One aspect, in particular, I had sorely neglected for the entire duration of my stay so far.

I was known to have said "My mullet now has some pizzazz" and "I'm starting to feel ridiculous". This was over 3 months ago.

I needed a haircut.

Ever since I was a small child, I have had a healthy fear of hairdressers, and anybody with scissors intending to cut my hair. My mother tells the story that when I was very young, she had to distract me while she discreetly cut my hair. Growing up, my hair was a part of my identity, never out of place, calm in the face of adversity. People thought I was a prettyboy because of my hair, but the truth is, it was the other way around. The point is, I have always been afraid of haircuts, and this developed into a phobia of haircuts.

• Spiders
• Telephone calls
• Haircuts

Luckily for me, my hair grows very slowly. And in Japan, I could have a mullet the size of a teenager and everyone would agree it looks very cool on me. So I was in a situation, where- apart from some deserving insults from ALT friends- I could avoid getting a haircut for a whole year.



But the time had come. Like the retiring sumo, I had to retire my current hairstyle. I mustered up all my courage, and drove to a hairdressers. It took me 10 minutes of sitting in the car, pumping myself up, before I could exit the car and enter the hairdressers. Man I hate those places. The doors may as wel have been locked once I got inside; hairdressers have this vampire-like hold over me. I could never leave. The reception lady made me fill in an identity card. I guess that means I am on the permanent records now.

I had to wait for over an hour, next to a guy who smoked as if the cigarettes were free. In fact, they were. Japan has great service, and beside the complimentary magazines were complimentary cigarettes and complimentary lighters. I was on edge the whole time, expecting at any minute to be called to the chair.

Finally, a girl called me over. She was charged with washing my hair, presumably to clean out all the cigarette smoke. I never like other people washing my hair. It's a task I can, and do regularly, and I have my own system. And it's so awkward trying to wash someone elses hair; I know, I used to wash my dog. It just doesn't lather the same, and trying to keep the soap and water out of eyes and ears of someone else is nearly impossible. Then- I was not expecting this- she started massaging my scalp. Well, I assume it was a massage, but I didn't feel any more relaxed. In fact, it was more like she was checking for head cancer. She was much more thorough than the the murse.

Only then, was I led to the chair. I wasn't given a blindfold.
After 15 minutes of eternity, a meek girl edged her way behind me. The executioner. How could I be afraid of her? That's when I saw her toolbelt of scissors. She gave me a book of haricuts to chose from, and I chose the least flambouyantly-homosexual-looking one. Mind you, it would still get my ass kicked in New Zealand, but that's how Japanese hairstyles are. Next to me, a guy was getting his eyebrows shaped.

After I chose the haircut, she closed the book and proceeded to ignore it completely. She began lopping off my year's work. Threads of gold that make me so special in this country. During our conversation, I managed to ask her if this was her first time cutting foreign blonde hair. She said no. That was some relief. "One time when I started cutting hair I cut an English woman's hair". That brough no relief. You have to understand that, my hair is so different to Japanese hair. Not just the way it looks, but the way it feels, and reacts to scissors and hair product. For a haircutophobic, this only added more stress.

We went silent for a while. We had run out of good small-talk. But in our silence, I noticed that she was no longer afraid or shy. She was probably a less-popular girl at school, surely shy, but someone who loves to cut hair. I thought to myself, "This is what makes her happy". Me coming on this day gave her a chance to do something she never thought she'd have the opportunity to do. She was now taking big confident stabs at my hair now, and I'm sure that if the banal hairdresser chatter quieted down, she would have been humming to herself. I was her masterpiece.

She took me over to get my hair washed again, and started plying my hair with wax. She kept saying "ルーベンかっこい！" (Ruben you're so cool), but I'm unsure if she was saying this to me or to herself. Then she showed me in the mirror. My blood went cold, and my face went flush red. To cut the story short, I know a guy who is a complete asshole and looks the part. In the mirror, I didn't see myself, but I saw this guy. I was this guy. It was awful.

I had to leave, right away. I thanked her. I paid 4000yen, and sped home to wear a hat.
It turns out, the haircut isnt so bad. The wax was what made it awful. Infact, I'm overhearing a lot of conversations saying they approve of the change. Even so, I think that looking after your body once a year is fine.