LIVING AS JAPANESE IN JAPAN
THE _Asia_ proved to be a good ship and lazily ploughed her way across
the Pacific in a manner to indicate that this trip was simply one in
the cycle of many more to come. But this was her last, for on her
return from Manila, she encountered a heavy fog off the coast of China
and went head on into a large rock and anchored herself securely with
her nose in the air and her stern submerged in the sea. Her passengers
and crew were all saved and, after being pillaged by Chinese pirates,
she was whipped off by the waves and sank into the water, a total wreck.
Ten days of ocean travel spent with educated Japanese returning home,
with United States Government employés bound for Manila and other human
beings of assorted sizes and miscellaneous occupations, and we reached
the shores of Japan.
From one of the Japanese on board we obtained a prospective itinerary.
We made arrangements with Mr. A. Miyawaki, a young American-educated
Japanese, who was returning to his native land after an absence of
eight years, to accompany us for ten days. Miyawaki was a charming
little fellow and had been assistant in dairying at the Kansas
State Agricultural Experiment Station. We figured that with him as a
travelling companion we had acquired a valuable guide. Although Japan
was nearly as strange to him as it was to us--for he left when a
boy--he knew the language, the lack of which knowledge we soon found to
be a great obstacle.
There are two ways to travel--one in luxury as a tourist, the other
in discomfort as a tramp. What on earth is there so vulgar as the
affluent, loud-voiced, inquisitive, lazy, coin-displaying American
tourist? He splashes through Europe or the Orient with a Baedeker in
one hand and a ten dollar bill or its equivalent in the other, glances
at the cathedrals and temples, eats a near-native meal especially
arranged by Thomas Cook and Son, puts up at the expensive European or
American hotels and flits from country to country--and imagines that he
has seen all there is to see. Nearly every tourist on arriving in Japan
goes directly to an Occidental hotel where he lives in Western fashion
and luxury at Western prices and seldom, if ever, comes in contact with
the natives.
Richardson and I were not tourists but refined tramps. We decided
to religiously avoid the American and European hotels for two
reasons--first, for economy, and second, for the interesting things
we would see and learn. The man is fortunate who can get off without
paying eight yen (four dollars) a day at the average Western hotel in
an Oriental city, while around the corner at a Japanese inn it is
possible to get a room and two meals for from one to three yen a day.
There is not the same amount of comfort and luxury as is offered by the
Occidental hotel, but there is a thousand times more interest.
The _Asia_ arrived in Tokyo Bay and the city of Yokohama loomed up
before us. After a short customs examination, through which I managed
to smuggle some American tobacco--for I had learned something of the
inferior qualities of this commodity in Japan--we took a rickshaw each,
from among the hundred or more that were waiting at the pier, and were
off up the street.
Miyawaki, our Japanese friend, accompanied us. Our rickshaws drew up
to a Japanese inn and Miyawaki soon made arrangements for our rooms.
We sat down on the little porch and took off our shoes, leaving them
on the sidewalk along with a score of others, and put on a pair of
slippers. After we were robed in kimonos, a dainty little maid pattered
in with a tray load of provisions. She knelt down and spread before us
the evening meal. Rice represented the bulk of the food and there were
raw fish, a bowl of soup with one egg in it, a dish of boiled bamboo
shoots, a plate of sweetened beans and a little receptacle containing
some black flavouring sauce. The meal was concluded with several small
bowls of tea. Richardson and I flew to this assortment almost like
animals, we were so hungry. The little maid was much amused at our
awkward efforts to manipulate the chop sticks. Rice was especially hard
to handle with these two strips of wood.
Richardson and I became so fond of rice before we had lived long on
that staple that we thought we could never again eat a meal without it.
The Japanese understand how to prepare it and cook it in such a way
that each grain is dry and separate from the others. The average dish
of rice in America tastes and looks like a mass of Library paste.
Life in a Japanese hotel is a continual round of novelties and
interesting experiences to the uninitiated Western traveller. Before
entering the guest must remove his shoes--a more sensible custom than
that of the Occident of removing the hat--for which tracks in the
dirt? With a pair of house slippers to replace his shoes, the guest is
ushered into his room, a compartment without any furniture except a
Japanese screen and a picture or two. In winter there may be a stove,
which consists of a small circular receptacle resembling a jardinière
and containing ashes--in the centre of which are a few live pieces of
charcoal. As soon as the guest is in his room the proprietor enters
with a blank form which is to be filled out and which gives a complete
record of the new arrival--his age, occupation, home, reasons for
being away from home, destination, etc. This information is turned
over by the inn-keeper to the chief of police and thus a close tab is
kept on every visitor to a Japanese city. After this formality, the
maid enters the room with a kimono and if you give her a chance will
completely disrobe you. There are no chairs; nothing but a little mat
upon which you coil in tailor fashion. There are no beds; retiring
appliances consisting of a thin mattress and quilts which are spread
out on the floor at bed-time each night and taken up again in the
morning to be placed in compartments in the wall of the room. There is
no dining table but in its place is a little tray, sometimes elevated
on legs, brought in from the kitchen at meal times. There are no
knives, forks and spoons, nor plates. In fact, everything that one
would expect to find in an hotel is missing and some other device is in
its place. Probably the most unusual feature to the western traveller
is the accommodation for taking a bath. This generally consists of a
fair-sized room in which are a dozen or more little round wooden tubs
where men, women and children all gather at the same time and perform
their daily ablutions.
This, briefly, is the lay-out which a traveller finds when he stays at
a Japanese hotel. As much of a novelty as it was for Richardson and
me to experience the sensations of this kind of inn, it was an equal
novelty for the Japanese to have us as guests. We often encountered
considerable difficulty in convincing the proprietor that we really
wished to stay at his hotel. In addition to the handicap of carrying
on a conversation without the use of a language, for we knew nothing of
Japanese, we frequently had to overcome the hotel man's notion that we
were trying to play a joke on him. Once in the hotel we were constantly
the centre of attraction and source of interest not only to those
employed about the place but also to the other guests.
In our first Japanese hotel we acted as awkwardly as a cow on a
polished floor. When it came time to go to bed Richardson became
greatly embarrassed as the pretty little Jap maid in a conscientious
effort to perform her duty began to disrobe him. She first removed his
coat, at which he gave no indications of disapproval. She then began
releasing his shirt and, as she proceeded, Rich's brow began to colour.
He didn't murmur until she commenced to separate him from his trousers,
which so startled the modest young man that he exploded with such a
blast-like tone, "Whoa, Bill," that the poor girl, frightened nearly to
death, took refuge in flight. Richardson continued the remainder of his
disrobing without assistance.
Privacy is unknown in Japan. Everybody knows every other person's
business and little or no attempt is made towards secrecy. The walls
of a Japanese house are built of heavy paper or very thin wood and
the intimate conversation in one room can be heard in the next. From
an American point of view the Japanese are immodest. In some ways
they are more modest than we are. They think no more of exposing their
bodies entirely nude than Europeans do of displaying their ungloved
hands to a crowd. But this is not necessarily immodesty. Modesty is a
mental attitude and not the conforming to a certain code of rules.
The bath-room in a Japanese hotel is often the most public part of the
building. Especially is this the case in the country districts where
western influence has had little or no effect. Although it is now a
national regulation that the opposite sexes are not allowed to bathe
together, this law is not enforced in the country towns and even in
some of the cities. Japan is a nation of bathers. There are said to be
thirty thousand public bath-houses in the city of Tokyo alone and at
five o'clock each evening thousands of people can be seen with towels
over their arms wending their way for their daily wash. It is at this
time that all the guests--men, women and children in the hotel--gather
in the bath-room and splash about like a lot of youngsters, laughing
and enjoying themselves.
If we wanted to be clean we had to cast aside our provincial American
ways and bathe in Japanese fashion. Richardson rather objected to
this. On one occasion he went to the bath-room and returned almost
immediately.
"Have you finished your bath already?" I asked.
"No, there are a lot of women in the tub," he replied, disgusted.
[Illustration: _Left_: BOUND FOR JAPAN
_Right_: TAISUKE MURAKAMI, OUR HOST AT NAGOYA]
"Why let them bother you? If they stand in your way you will not get a
bath as long as you are in Japan. If the women don't object I am sure I
don't," and, saying this, I went down stairs to the bath-room, where I
performed my toilet with half a dozen men and women, in true Japanese
style.
Yokohama is the seaport of Tokyo and possesses little of interest
except the novelty of being the first Japanese city in which the
traveller lands. We spent a day in Kamakura, a sea-side resort about
twenty miles away, where we saw the _Daibutsu_, a bronze statue of the
Great Buddha.
Tokyo is but a few hours' ride from Yokohama. We arrived at the busy
Shimbashi station and in a few moments were lodged in our second
Japanese hotel. It was in this hotel that I upset all the social
regulations by using soap in the bath-tub. As the same tub of water is
often used by all the guests in the hotel, it is considered a great
breach of etiquette to climb into the bath and soap one's body in a
civilised manner. This soaping process is supposed to be carried on
before getting into the tub and the body is to be thoroughly rinsed
off by means of dippers or basins before entering the bath for a
final soak. I was not aware of these minute details of Japanese bath
procedure and went at this cleansing operation in the Saturday night
fashion customary in rural America. The result was that all the
succeeding bathers had to wash in soap-suddy water. I was completely
ostracised.
We were fortunate to visit Japan during the season of the year when
the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Ueno Park, probably the most
popular resort in Tokyo, was a forest of these trees, laden with
millions of sweet-scented flowers. Thousands of people gathered each
afternoon in this public park to rest and enjoy the beauty of the
blossoms for which Japan is famous.
It was in this park that I decided to give up smoking. I had paused on
one of the walks and was rolling a cigarette with some "Bull Durham"
I had smuggled in the country, when a Japanese policeman came up to
me and, with a few words which I did not understand, unceremoniously
took the "makings" from me. I stood half stunned with surprise. I soon
realised that I had exposed my tobacco to confiscation, disregarding
a warning given me by a Japanese passenger on our steamer across the
Pacific. I had previously tried the cigarettes sold in the native
shops but couldn't become accustomed to them. Relieved of my American
supply I decided to give up smoking altogether--for a time. Tobacco is
a government monopoly in Japan and there is a prohibitive duty on all
foreign importations of it.
One evening we visited the _Yoshiwara_, described in the guide books as
the most famous tenderloin section in the world. It is a considerable
distance from the business portion of the city and consists of about
one hundred houses. There are nearly two thousand women in the
district and during the evening they sit behind iron barred windows,
similar to an American dry goods display window. Seated in a row, in
front of several elaborately decorated screens, eight or more tastily
dressed women of each establishment spend their time smoking or
painting their faces, while the curious crowds flock by and look them
over. What struck me more forcibly than anything else was the character
of the sightseers. I saw a middle-aged man with his eighteen-year-old
daughter leisurely spending an hour in this section. Two mothers with
infants on their backs were interestedly going the rounds and a young
married couple was a pair that came to my notice. Thousands of people
flowed to and fro on the narrow streets and for a moment I thought
the whole of Tokyo had congregated in this place for the evening.
I was told that the _Yoshiwara_ was at one time operated by the
municipal government of Tokyo but that now, due to the influence of the
British and American Salvation Army representatives, it is carried on
independently but is closely watched and regulated by city officials.
Japan is a land of beautiful memorials to her dead heroes. At Nikko to
the north of Tokyo we spent a delightful week, where, resting among the
cryptomeria on the hill side, are the bodies of Ieyasu and Iyemitsu,
two Shoguns of the Tokugawa Dynasty. These two tombs are the objective
points for thousands of pilgrims each year. In addition to the natural
beauty of the spot and the mausoleums of these rulers of mediæval
Japan, there are a dozen or more interesting buildings and temples
dedicated to various saints and containing collections of relics and
Buddhist scriptures. These edifices represent the best in Japanese art.
Richardson and I walked to Lake Chuzenji, which lies in the hills,
about ten miles beyond Nikko. We started early on a bitterly cold
morning and ascended the beautiful mountain side by a wandering and
picturesque path. The lake was nearly entirely frozen over. There was,
however, an open space near the shore and prompted by a notion to do
something to startle the simple people who lived in the village on the
bank of the lake, we disrobed and took a dip in the icy water. It was
impossible for two human beings to take such a cold plunge and do so
in silence. The temperature of the water was indicated by the shrieks
we made as we splashed about. These calls attracted the attention of
the people near-by and in a few moments two score or more of men, women
and children assembled to see two insane foreigners dabbling about like
idiots in water that was several degrees below.
Japanese trains are very similar to those of America. If I were asked
to state the most striking difference between them I would say--the
politeness of the officials and the train crews. We were on our way
from Tokyo to Nagoya and were seated on one of the two long benches
which run lengthwise in the car. I had made the acquaintance of the
native passenger next to me. Presently there appeared at one end of the
coach a man in uniform whom I recognised as the conductor. He called
out and then made three deep bows, at the same time making the sucking
sound of etiquette common in Japan. All the passengers responded to the
conductor's courtesy by bending their heads, and making this peculiar
hissing noise. I thought everybody had suddenly begun to eat soup. This
painful and rather disgusting performance continued for nearly two
minutes. Finally, every one sat at attention. The conductor in a clear
and reverent voice said something, bowed and departed. My curiosity
was aroused and I asked my native acquaintance what had happened. He
informed me that the conductor had announced that the next station was
_Toyohashi_. What a contrast, I thought, to the American brakeman who
brushes his way through a crowded day coach, shoving people aside and
treading on their feet, and with a rasping voice announces the next
station in such a way that no one can understand him.
At first we found the language a big obstacle and it required much
patience and often over an hour to make our hotel arrangements. On
account of our association with the natives, however, we soon picked
up a small vocabulary and this we acquired scientifically. Richardson
had about one hundred words in his head and I had an equal number, and
in neither set were there duplications. This is a case of applying the
principles of efficiency. Richardson learned to count to one hundred
and was the financial conversationalist, while I confined my knowledge
to brief and snappy literary efforts. We would enter a shop and select
an article, and I would then inquire the price of it in Japanese and
Richardson would interpret the shop-keeper's reply. By this team work
we were able to navigate in a language which takes years to master.
A characteristic impracticability of most Oriental languages, and
as much so of the Japanese as any, is the large number of words and
phrases necessary to make a brief statement or convey a simple idea.
There is a great deal of formality, set phrases and polite sayings,
which must be complied with, before the speaker gets down to the
point. What an American can say in half a dozen words will require as
many sentences in Japan. We were continually confronted with this. On
one occasion we wished to ascertain where a certain street was and
Mikawaki inquired of a passer-by. After talking to him for nearly ten
minutes, only stopping when Richardson suggested that he knock off, he
translated the conversation to mean "The next street."
At Nagoya I looked up Taisuke Murakami, a young Japanese who had
been one of my pupils in Iolani School in Honolulu and who had since
returned to Japan. He was attending a military academy in Nagoya.
Richardson and I visited this institution and were received with much
consideration and respect. Through Murakami we were given a good entrée
and were curiously inspected as samples of American pedagogues.
We spent the evening at a motion picture theatre where an American
reel illustrated the uninteresting details of an American love story.
When it came time to settle our hotel bill I found that my friend
Murakami had paid for both Richardson and myself. I didn't like him to
do this, for I knew he couldn't afford it. It was a sample of Japanese
hospitality.
This trait of the Oriental compels me to sermonise. Occidentals, and
especially Americans, consider that they are superior to the rest of
the world. We often feel that our ways are the only ways, that our
customs are right and that those of other peoples are wrong. After
one has visited many Oriental countries and has had time to get their
point of view and to understand their ways he begins to doubt the
reasonableness and feasibility of many of our American customs. He
certainly gets over that feeble notion that our way of doing things is
the only way.
The Japanese have their faults, but no one can accuse them of being
prudes, of having false modesty. They are a more modest race of people
than Americans. They have no foolish notions about concealing the
human body, but their average of morals is every whit as high as that
in America. We talk a great deal among ourselves of our wonderful
hospitality, but when compared to this quality in the Japanese we don't
possess the first principles of this virtue. Our hospitality is of a
collective variety. Our cities will entertain most lavishly and we will
give them our support as long as we don't have to come in contact with
the recipients. In our homes we only entertain our friends or persons
with worthless pedigrees. But the supreme test of hospitality is when
one is willing and glad to take in the total stranger, a foreigner
perhaps, and house and feed him as a member of the family. Imagine an
American family taking into their household a pair of strange Japanese
who were travelling through their city. It is futile to consider it.
But this is exactly what the Japanese did to Richardson and myself in
many instances. Absolute strangers to us--and we to them--they extended
to us the most cordial invitations to come to their homes and enjoy
their hospitality indefinitely. Many of these we accepted and always
departed full of amazement at the wonderful exhibitions of kindness and
hospitality.
Kyoto is the prize of Japan. It is a city of six hundred thousand
inhabitants, only fifty of whom are foreigners and these mostly
missionaries. The result of this small number of Occidentals is that
Kyoto still retains its Japanese charm and has very few of the vulgar
and commercialised features of the West.
The city was celebrating the seven hundredth anniversary of the Jodo
sect of the Buddhist religion and its streets were crowded with
thousands of people from the surrounding small towns and country
districts. All the places of worship were thronged with pilgrims and
the huge Hongwanji Temple, the largest in Kyoto, was a bee-hive of
peasants who flowed in and out to bestow their gifts and offer up a
prayer.
Kissing seems to be largely a western custom, for such a means of
showing affection is not used in the Orient except by a mother to her
child. It was in Kyoto that Richardson and I thought it would be a good
idea to introduce the practice into Japan. While buying provisions each
day in the bakery, grocery and fruit shops, we would slyly creep up and
place our lips to the rosy cheek of the shop-keeper's wife or daughter.
They hardly knew how to take us. None of them was offended. Some looked
at us with pity, thinking that we must have some affliction like the
St. Vitus' dance, which took the form of flying towards women's faces
every few minutes. Even the husbands of these women took our advances
in a matter-of-fact way and considered our osculations simply one of
our many idiosyncrasies.
While in Kyoto Richardson and I put up at the native Y.M.C.A. building
which had just been completed. We occupied an unfurnished room which
was placed at our disposal, free of charge, by the advisory secretary,
an American. We slept on the floor and were well used to the absence of
furniture.
One morning Richardson casually remarked that the American secretary
had offered him a teaching job in China and that he had turned it down.
"Why did you do that?" I enquired.
"Because I did not want to separate from you," was Richardson's reply.
"Nonsense," I said, "we are not married, and if we wait until we
get comfortable berths together in the same town we shall never get
anywhere. Open up the matter again and land the job if you can."
Although we each still had plenty of the money which we had accumulated
in Hawaii, we were willing to stop off and work for a short time and
become better acquainted with a city and its people. So Richardson
took up the matter again with the Y.M. C.A. secretary and received the
position. It was to teach in a middle or high school in Tientsin at a
salary of seventy dollars a month.
I agreed to accompany him to Tientsin and from there go on through
China alone and meet him several months later in Manila. Before leaving
Japan we got into serious trouble.