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Published: July 12th 2007
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Sheer Joy
Festive Frolicks in Fukuoka (The powers that be have asked me to refrain from making any obvious puns about the name of the city from which this blog entry originates. Fortunately, the city has two names, so we'll stick to "Hakata", which is less potentially Fukuokan offensive.)
When heat and humidity combine, I tend to resemble Tony Hart's plastecine pal Morph, who would degenerate into a pubble periodically. Profuse perspiration is a genetic flaw of the Osmotherly clan, so I blame my Dad. Thus when I "nipped out" into this morning's unforecast sweltering sunshine to have a gander at cloudless Sakurajima I returned a tad sodden. Fortunately, the heroic Mr Nakazano took pity and gave us a lift to the station in his charismatically clapped out van. En route to bonus destination Fukuoka Cav unilaterally claimed and consumed the last chunk of pineapple, thereby demonstrating what an evil little squit he can be sometimes.
Checked into Hotel Cabinas Fukuoka, the world's most civilised capsule hotel - dense carpets greet your toes, spacious lockers welcome your baggage with open arms, Internet flows freely and of course the service is outstanding, even to the aggressively loud drunk, who was politely invited to seek alternate
accommodation. The intoxicante then proceeded to leaf through the local paper seeking listings whilst sitting cross legged in the middle of the thoroughfare. Our first poorly behaved Japanese person! By the way, most capsule hotels accept persons only of the Y chromosone variety (the nudity can get a bit full on in the locker rooms and onsen) and they also decline folks sporting tattoes, traditional body decor or the yakuza - Japanese mafia.
Making our way to the appropriately loudly monickered Yahoo! Dome, home of the Fukuoka Hawks, we spied several banners moving through the streets in the distance. Traffic police had cordoned off roads, and closer inspection revealed that downtown had been overtaken by battalions of bobbing buttocks - ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Hakata Yamagasa Matsui, Fukuoka's Summer festival. Anyone male and sound of body is running through the streets clad only in a sumo nappy, a jaunty rope "tail" and a pajama top bearing a team name in kanji. Participants hoist hefty Mikishu (colorful "portable" shrines weighing several tons) onto their shoulders and march them around the city as fast as their aching limbs can carry them. Spectators "helpfully" chuck buckets of ice cold
water at the sweltering athletes (Paula Radcliffe never had put up with this crap running the London Marathon, although she was adept at generating her own crap). The Mikishu bearers knacker after 2 blocks and pit stop periodically for a fresh crew, affording an outstanding opportunity for a drenching. Perched atop each Mikishu, a cox bellows a motivational battle cry of "Hoi! Pah!", to which the bearers respond with a vigorous "Hoi! Pah!" in a testosterone charged echo.
Our viewing location is fortuitous as it affords views of Mikishus totterinbg first South to North, via a water dousing station staffed by a tyrannically sadistic soaker, then second from East to West, traversing a lethal bump in the road, which consistently threatens to dislodge the cantancarous cox from his perch.
It was absolutely hilarious - a joyful expression of rich local traditions. We'd have watched for hours, but the insane parade soon reached its denoument as a fearsome Mikishu-mounted dragon, belching angry smoke, was propelled down the street by 40 pairs of especially hard working buttocks.
We joined the buzzing through at Gion and metroed out to Hawkstown for more madness, courtesy of the perenially underachieving but much
beloved local baseball team. It was soon evident that their fans' reputation as the most passionate in Japan was well deserved. Cheer leading, a Brazilian style booming drum conducted by gigantic swirling flags, periodically accompanied by a vigorous brass band. Every song seem to involve clap-clap-clapclapclap: "Eeh! Ooh! Aah!" varied only when a lil' guy called Honda batted, in which case we all chanted Yamaha in irony. Englishmen are reared on the greatest live sporting experiences in the world - nothing compares to our footie - so we're a bit spoilt. The Hawks certainly put every Major League Baseball team in it's homeland of America to shame - even my beloved Mariners. The sport may have been from the other side of the Pacific, but the crowd behaviour was pure Japan - respectfully letting the away fans chant when their team batted, never booing even the most diabolical of umpiring calls and as for the 7th inning stretch - "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" aint got nothin' on these Hawks. Check out the pics - a forest of bright yellow, sperm shaped balloons are inflated in the course of the top half of the inning. Then when the mid
inning break arrives, thousands of balloons are released, jetting into the dome rafters, each exhaling a scream from a kazoo squeaker through which we blew them up. Brilliant!!
The Hawks ran out 4-1 winners on the back of a stirling outing from their starting pitcher #47, a solo homer and 2 run double in the breakout 3rd, plus an insurance run tacked on in the 7th after the visiting Eagles plated one and had the go ahead run on base in the top half of the frame - all of which was lost on the crowd as they were too busy inflating their balloons. I claimed the win as every time I recorded an at bat, the hawks got a hit. I wore a big dumb grin the whole time - and it wasn't just the black Asahi draft I was chugging back at a very fair price.
We emerged into the midst of the overdue but unwelcome typhoon Ming-yi; thunder and lightening in abundance, a downpour of Bibilical proportions. Fortunately, it soon blew itself out (for now at least) and we retreated to a capsule restaurant for bespoke noodles - you got to define exactly how you
wanted to soup in terms of flavour, richness, garlic, onion, the flesh of a formerly frollicking pig, "secret sauce", noodle volume and al dente-ness, plus 5 optional sides. Typical Japan - very efficient.
Back to another capsule, this one of the hotel variety. Natty PJs and a cracking rooftop rotemburo (that's the outdoor onsen - hot spring - for those not taking notes - try to keep up people!!) Festival festivities were continuing, lots of jolly chaps biggin' it up (probably a bad choice of phrase given the fact that everyone was naked). Lovely spa - diverse pools of varied temparature from "oooohhh my goodness that's cold" to "ow! that bleedin' burns!" Very pleasent dip open to the now calm skies, featured a steaming pool wherein the still folically challenged Stace did an excellent Apolocalypse Now Marlon Brando impression - alas no photos, too many Japanese bottoms to keep outta the frame.
P.S. If the frequency with which the male rear end recurs in our experiences in Japan is troubling you, or you're finding this all a bit homoerotic, please rest assured that we're not seeking out these encounters. They're everywhere. You got for a wash - bums.
You cross the street, lots of bums come jogging past - it's very disconcerting.
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