DAY 10

Friday 7th May

School trip

Another early start (this is becoming a bit of a theme), 6:45 a.m. On this day we had been booked onto a school trip with Emma's school kids. Should be interesting.

First off, we head to the staff room to meet the headmaster and other staff, who all seem friendly (if a bit quiet). We gently slap around the corridors in our slippers as Emma gives us a short tour. Heading across the sandy playing field, we meet up with the mass of assembled kids, who shoot us quick sideways glances as we mill around. The head teacher gives a pep-talk to the kids, along the lines of 'you're representing your school so behave', but it definitely seems like he's fighting a losing battle for attention, as more and more astonished faces turn our way. Emma was invited to speak to the kids, and Paul and myself join her to stand in front of a hundred or so of them. Emma briefs them in Japanese about whom her outlandish friends are, and encourages them to speak English to us when they can. But so dumbfounded are the kids, seeing THREE gaijin in one day, that her words don't seem to sink in, and we have to accept their silence for an agreement.

Boarding the coach, we take our seats at the front like teachers do on school trips. Our first stop is Yoshinogari national park, which houses replicas of Japan's earliest settlements. During the journey, the kids sing songs, play games, and grill us on many different subjects, all in English: 'What is your name?' 'Who is your favourite actress?' And my personal favourite, 'Do you like cheese?' Previous visitors to Emma's school hold the honour of best ever question though: 'What's your favourite egg?' (Difficult one to answer, that... Easter egg, maybe?) Details on our hobbies were particularly well received- Paul gets a polite round of applause after revealing he plays the piano.

The heat of the midday sun hits us as we leave the air-conditioned coaches. Passing by wooden palisades and buildings on stilts, we arrive at a clearing where the kids are assembled into a group, and take a seat on the grass. A park official gives a little introductory speech, and then something unusual takes place- The Ritual of the Formal Greeting. The head boy or girl of the class acts as group spokesperson, and it is their duty to step forwards and express gratitude on behalf of their school. The park officials listen intently as the head boy makes his faltering speech, solemnly nodding and uttering sounds of appreciation. There is then a brief flurry of bowing and thanking to top the whole thing off. A short presentation later, and it is time for the first task. The inhabitants of the village were particularly fond of creating little embryo- shaped amulets. Presumably these were symbolic of fertility, a charm to ward off evil, a nice little earner for tradesmen, and a method of distracting them from crushing boredom. Each pupil is given a small piece of rock, about 1" by 2" by 1" thick, and a sanding block. The idea was to draw the amulet shape on the rock, and then to sand and sand and sand until it resembles something like the examples shown. Being the pro-active, 'hands-on' kind of tourist, we give it a go as well. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, with my neck slowly reddening under the sun, I get to work. The process is slow and tedious but somehow satisfying, and within minutes I'm engrossed. The inhabitants must truly have believed in the power of these little things- otherwise I'm sure they wouldn't have bothered. I realise that maybe those years at Art College weren't wasted after all, as my amulet slowly takes on the decidedly cashew-like form. Happy with it.

We also attempt to make fire with a bow-and-string-powered wooden drill. We didn't manage it, but some pupils do. Seriously- in what other country could kids be encouraged to start fires?

During lunch a particularly curious bunch of kids try to engage us in conversation while we were stuffing our mouths with rice. One of them demonstrates his ability to speak German, which was a novel form of entertainment. In an effort to get some breathing space and finish our lunch, we agree to pose in a photograph with them. So somewhere in Japan, at some kid's home, there is a picture of me flashing the V-sign (not THAT one, you donut! For Victory, of course). Once we'd finished, the kids are assembled again, the head girl makes the obligatory speech and bows slightly awkwardly, and we head for our next destination- a polystyrene recycling plant, of all places. On our journey there, we glean some amusement from the girls at the back window of the coach in front of ours. They play 'Janken' (paper-scissors-stone) to decide which one of them will wave at us. When Paul or myself humour them by waving back, they collapse into hysterics and take five minutes to regain their composure, after which the cycle begins again. Mental.

Outside the recycling plant the kids are assembled and seated while the teacher gives a speech. Now all this would have been fine had they picked a location other than the car park, as the teacher battles valiantly against the sound of machinery, and on a couple of occasions the group faces being mown down by fork- lifts. Eventually it becomes clear that the car park isn't the ideal place to hold a seated lecture, and we move to a quieter location. Which looked like some kind of loading bay.

The head boy makes his speech of gratitude to the factory overseer, overseer gives his thanks to the school, bows are exchanged, and the tour can finally commence. We wander around the factory, the kids holding their noses as the smell of burning polystyrene fills the air, which has the unfortunate affect of reminding me of being at work. The tour is brief, and I'd like to say informative, but obviously I couldn't understand a word. Once we'd finished we head back to the loading bay, the kids sit down again on the concrete, and the overseer gives a 30-minute talk. The speech-giving ritual begins anew, and at the end, a situation familiar to every schoolchild occurs. The head teacher asks: 'Anyone have any questions?'

The question is naturally met with blank faces and an awkward silence.

And so, to save the embarrassment of the overseer who now thinks that he's wasted an hour of his time on kids who couldn't care less, the teacher asks a token question himself. Happens every time...

We return to the school at 3:30 p.m., where a final bout of speeches concludes the day. Speech-fatigue is really beginning to set in now. It seems that school life is filled with a never-ending cycle of bureaucracy and lectures, which, I assume, are meant to instil into the child the appropriate virtues of respect and honour. However, despite this constant drilling and browbeating, I was relieved to see that the kids were still full of zest and mischievousness. I half expected that they'd be a bunch of automatons, not allowed to step out of line- but they enjoyed just doing what normal kids do, playing games, making noise, and sometimes cheekily back-chatting the teachers. I suppose they have to make the most of this time- before they enter the notoriously harsh Japanese educational system, with its cram mentality and relentless pressure to succeed.

That evening, we make a car journey to nearby Ogi park to see the famous light show. Fireflies demonstrate their amazing talent for bioluminescence, and pulse with a pale glow in perfect time with each other. It's an eerie sight, and something I've never seen before.

In search of food on the way home, we poke our heads into an interesting-looking restaurant, 'Moriyama', the billboard for which appears to display raw meat. It's an impulse decision to enter, and as it turns out, a good one. We are first given the choice of Western-style or Japanese-style seating, no contest really. We take our seats on the floor (well, when in Rome and all that). The low table in front of us features a gas burner set at its centre, covered with a metal grill. Like an indoor barbecue, the meat is supplied raw on a plate with various vegetables. Choice meats are intestine and heart meat. I say choice because once I'd tried intestine, I chose not to eat any more. Rubbery. The heart meat, however, was fantastic- a similar texture to liver, but without the dry pungent taste. Compliments to the chef! Hang on- we were the chefs.

The day is done and we retire happy. Without doubt one of the best days of the holiday!