Thursday, August 25, 2005

The Last Festival (work in progress)

Mmm-bop! Boppa doo wop! Di di do da boo wop! Bap ba heya yeah…

Three slim girls in pale blue summer kimonos pick their way past shiny puddles in front of a stage decorated with red paper lanterns, munching on corn dogs and ignoring the pop music that blares through the smoky wet air over the parking lot of the Utashinai Community Center.

The girls wear bright sashes that accentuate the curves of their hips and clash mightily with their bright orange hair, frizzed, primped and fussed into radioactive bird nests. They move slowly, in part because the tight folds of the kimonos constrict movement, in part because they are unused to wearing traditional sandals, but mostly to let the construction workers and high school boys in the crowd get a good look at them tripping helplessly through the drizzling rain.

This is the last festival.


“The coal miners drank quite a bit in those days.”

Mr. Tanaka is leaving through a beautifully preserved photo album of past festivals, thrilled that the museum he curates has attracted a visitor.

“The women would collect their husband’s paycheck every month, because if the men had a chance they would spend all the money in one night at the bars.”

He laughs.

“That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.”

“People in Utashinai had to stay cheerful, of course. No one was from Hokkaido back then, so they were all far from home. The work was hard. There were accidents. Many people were killed. The town supported the widows and children of dead miners. Everyone held each other up. The festival was joyous because the people needed joy.”


The karaoke contest is about to start. Four community center employees hold a thin rope separating the crowd from the area in front of the stage. One of them is standing next to me. He is very drunk. The rope is looped over his shoulders.

“I forgot my umbrella,” he whines to no one in particular.

The drunk spots me standing next to him and grabs my hand, first enthusiastically and then for balance. Four tiny grandmothers grumble as the wet rope digs into their necks.

“Foreigner,” says the drunk, still holding my hand, smiling glassily, his face streaked with rain.

“Foreigner. Foreigner. Foreigner.”

He lets go of me and leans over, unsteadily, deliberately. The rope dips down, releasing the old women. He finds a plastic cup on the pavement by his feet and slowly lifts himself back up, the rope rising with him.

“Here,” he smiles, pushing the cup into my chest. The beer tastes warmer than the rain.

I lift my bottle to refill his cup, but he takes it from me and drinks the whole thing, the rope jerking with each swallow.


A 6th grader looks up at me shyly. “Hello,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m fine thank you, and you?” Her voice is almost lost in the patter of rain.

The rope jerks towards us, bringing the drunk with it. “Here,” he says, thrusting the empty bottle at the girl. “You. Go and put this in the non-burnable trash bin. The non-burnable, got it?”

She looks up to me, frightened, then runs back to her friends.

“Hell,” says the drunk. “Take this then will you?”

He stumbles off towards the concessions. I am holding the rope. It is heavy. The four grandmothers give me little bows and apologetic smiles.

“Yoroshiku onegai-simasu,” they say. The phrase, ubiquitous in Japanese, does not translate well to English. American grandmothers might think along similar lines, but would not come out and say something to the effect of, “Please do your best and treat us well.”

Eight high school boys in homemade animal costumes take the stage and perform “Thriller” by Michael Jackson, but a microphone malfunctions and the no one can hear the singer, so they go through the whole routine a second time.


“Wait,” I ask. Mr. Tanaka turns to the previous page and squints down at a black and white photograph of six rough looking men standing in front of a coal pit, hands on their hips, grinning broadly. Three of the faces are white.

“Soo desu nee,” he says contemplatively. “This was from the time of the Second World War. Americans were here. They worked in the coal mines.”

“How many?” I ask. “Where did they stay?”

“Phhhhh.” Mr. Tanaka sucks air through his front teeth.

“I really don’t know,” he says. “It was…it was…”

We have been speaking Japanese, but now he turns to English.

“It was friendly. Friendly na kanzi datta yo nee.”

“Are there any more pictures?”

“No, just this one.”

I stare hard at the faces, trying to read past the smiles.

“Here, take a look at this,” says Mr. Tanaka, moving to a nearby PC.

“You can play six different games.”

I sit down and examine the menu. The object of each game is to guide a young boy through the trials of daily life in Utashinai, circa 1940.

Make people dance by banging the taiko drum!

Dodge globs of crow shit while carrying water from the well to the kitchen!

Find father in the public bath!

Mr. Tanaka chuckles as I double click on the backs of hairy men in an animated steam room.

“It’s important for the children to know their history,” he says.


A parade dances along the street under more red lanterns and strings of tiny European flags.

“Yosakoi, soran, soran, soran, soran.”

The music echoes of the misty valley walls, sending chills down my scalp and through the small of my back. Even Sapporo has sent a delegation, thirty silk-robed beauties who fly through their routine with the grace and urgency of cranes. Each group of dancers is followed by a bull-necked man taking little wavering steps that send him stumbling from one side of the street to the other as he strains to hold up a massive flag, every muscle gritted and bone braced as the dancers swirl and the music pours on down.


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