Sunday, September 1
I am still now finding mud in the craziest places. On a day where I have been both the dirtiest and the
cleanest I have ever been, I learned firsthand what is meant by the age old expression, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."
In Japan, one executes that phrase from the muddiest rice fields to the steamiest onsen.
The experience began this morning, not so bright and early in the sleepy village of Ippomatsu. Over forty 5-man teams had trekked to this southern Ehime town for the
Doraku Socca, or Mud Soccer Tournament. It wasn't raining as I stepped outside to have a gander at the three foot deep pool of muck that I would soon tread in. The clouds covered us, and many were black,
but Typhoon 15 (they number instead of name their natural disasters) had dropped plenty of liquid to make a veritable swimming pool of mud. It looked like a very large bowl of chocolate milk, but as I learned quickly it tasted nowhere near as nice.
Every year, in summertime Japan, villages host festivals, some with all the meaning in the world and some with none at all. Mud soccer in Ippomatsu, I surmised, fell into the latter category. But then again, I didn't know for sure, and I had learned weeks
before, never to underestimate the Japanese and their often quirky ways.
Nevertheless, there was money involved, and so hundreds of mud-lovers and mud-lovers' lovers trampled rice paddies adjacent to the town's elementary school. Our team was all gaijin (foreigner), all English teachers (except one Kiwi on holiday), and all hungover but psyched to
win the $1000 pot. Between seven players (two reserves) that totalled a number I was willing to get dirty for. Yet that wasn't even the half of it. Playing with a beach ball sized bouncing sphere, the rules called for five on five soccer but the goalie could not use his hands and throw-ins hand to be underhand.
Decked in our most ridiculous and unwanted outfits (I wore old sweat pants and a Flipdog.com teeshirt), "The Soccer Studs," as we were called, set to take home a potentially sacred trophy from the gentle town of Ippomatsu.
But of course we didn't. In fact, we didn't even make it out of the first round. In a format akin to the NCAA basketball tournament, single elimination meant you'd have to get after it quickly in the 6 minute games, running clock.
We were playing a team of Japanese high schoolers (obviously seasoned Muddy veterans), but neither team scored a goal in the first half. As usual, none of the gaijin knew quite what to do, so when in doubt, we tackled. Even I, playing the respectable position of goalie, parlayed my high school football skills (or lackthereof) into
a formidable intimidating factor. When the second half came around, our offensive players seemed to be getting the hang of this ridiculous spectacle, but even with a few shots on goal, were unable to mark the scoreboard. When the whistle blew, we knew it was a tie, but we knew not what type of sudden death format this tournament would use.
In the U.S., tieing a sporting event is often compared with kissing one's sister, but in Japan, ties are encouraged in the major leagues of baseball, because a tie ensures that neither loses face. But this was a tournament, so one team had to outlast the other, even if it meant playing a childish game to rock paper scissors.
After three rounds of goal kicks which also ended in tie, the referees turned to Japanese ubiquity: Janken. Janken is essentially the Japanese equivalent of rock paper scissors, the silly dispute solving game where one shakes his hand two times and comes up with a hand gesture: either making a rock (forming a fist), a
pair of scissors (two fingers in a peace sign turned on its side) or paper (a flat shape made by straigtening all one's fingers). Rock beats scissors (smashing it back into scrap metal), paper beats rock (wrapping it up and thwarting its dreams of becoming smooth sand), and scissors beats paper (cutting the paper to shreds).
In Japan Janken is played by grandson and granddad alike, used to settle all sorts of disputes. But after diving in mud as thick as olive oil, I did not look too fondly on the game's virtues. And I knew we stood no chance, either.
The Japanese have mastered (though I have no idea how) this idiotic game, paying careful attention to other players patterns and some are able, or so the Jankenites say, to predict their opponents next hand gesture. Whether or not that rumor is true, we lost the Janken playoff, and so we were ousted from the soccer tournament.
Naturally, our game could not go on forever; there were only three mud pits and at least 8 rounds to get through. Caked in mud and distraught, I sat next to a micro-sized frog, and asked for some briny skin to cry on. The frog leapt away, and I hopped up to go jump in the nearby river. At first, it was bliss - seemingly clean and unpolluted, cold with a strong current that made for easy dispense of the excess mud.
But by the fourth trip down the hillside, I began to wonder why I kept getting throw back in the quagmire. Either someone would throw chunks of mud at my face (in which case it was worthless not to get my whole body dirty) or we would be challenged to a practice match which necessarily turned from soccer to rugby. Guys tackling girls, girls tackling guys, me tackling an eel. I was muddied a total of four distinct times, and each time, the trip down to the
river to clean off the muck became worse and worse. The water got colder, the mud more difficult to rid clothing of, and the photographers more lecherous and insistent.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention: the photographers. Most of the world knows the Japanese fascination with cameras, but shooting gaijin seems to be the locals' piece de resistance. Drenched from head to toe, looking like predatory beasts to the gentle Japanese, the Ansel Adams-Watanabes of the Ippomatsu followed us around incessantly. They were friendly at first, but by the end of our long day in the mud, we were tired of their constant demands for "One more pitcha!"
And of course we had no idea where the pictures would go. One girl had her picture taken at the beach a few weeks back, only to have it placed in a sketchy swimsuit magazine. For all we know, the pictures from Ippomatsu could end up on Animal Planet.
But it was an unforgettable experience nonetheless, even if the the mud residing in my ear will take several weeks of showers to get out.
Which brings us to the quintessial Japanese shower; the onsen. Onsen is Japanese for natural hot spring, and Japan is rightfully famous for their quality and quantity.
A new more modern style building had opened in Tsushima, on our way home from Ipponmatsu, and their seemed no better way to cap off a day in the mud than with a dip in a spa. Onsen have it all, from massaging jets and 100 degree saunas to natural waterfalls and state of the art shower heads. After an onsen you will feel like you just ran two marathons, but they were easy and you barely broke a sweat. Perhaps that's why the Japanese love onsen; they make you feel great, like you just had a workout of epic
proportions. I dipped back and forth between hot and cold baths, massaging pools and wading areas, until finally, I dropped my naked bum onto a plastic bucket turned upside down, and showered off the last of the mud I could see. In one day, I had been as clean and as dirty, as I have ever been in my entire life. The Japanese can do it all; we saw many of the same people at the mud fields and at the onsen. It was almost a given that I wondered why we hadn't planned on onsenning (I love butchering Japanese nounds into verbs)
in the first place. No matter; in the end I felt as healthy a spring chicken. But spring chickens get slaughtered, and just when I thought I was a clean as can be, I walked outside the onsen and met mother nature's sweat, humidity. It only dampened my euphoria, though. The splash that hurt the most was finding that mud caked in my ear, seemingly at the ear drum and content on staying there. I had bather for two hours, I thought, between the onsen and the four trips to the river. How in the world can I still be dirty? But that's the rollercoaster of Japan,
one minute you're dirty as a dog, the next you feel squeeky clean.
