Gird your loins, the gloves are off - and other mixed metaphors

Being a firm believer that democracy does not begin and end with elections that happen every few years I'm not so despondent about the new /old government we have here in the UK, or perhaps I'm just getting old and have lived through so many of them now that they all just merge into mediocre blancmange.

I remember a few years ago seeing statistics from the global pew survey on attitudes to democracy. While more and more countries become 'democratic', measured by the fact that they have elections, more and more people are increasingly dissatisfied with it. And this makes sense. Over the years, we seem to have collectively forgotten that power is transferred from we the people to our representatives and that we can withdraw our legitimacy at any time should enough of us say 'sorry to bother you but would you mind terribly not doing that' (as we would say in Britain). Even in the face of a necrotic political-economic elite propped up by scared men inflated into the status of media barons, we have power. We don't actually have to politely wait for another election.

So, pick your battle! Electoral reform seems like a good place to start - from UKIP to the Greens, the periphery needs to march up on the big boys, while they're squabbling in the centre sandpit over whose blancmange is best, and nick all their toys. I am fascinated however whenever I tub thump about electoral reform how many people say 'but that will mean UKIP will get more seats'. Yes, it might or even worse, the BNP. And that's democracy. Those voices need to be heard. It would also mean that Greens, and other socialist oriented parties, even independents, could get more seats and balance would be restored to the universe. It would mean that parties would be forced to put forward actual policies and debate them with dissenting voices - rather than the increasingly stage managed manifesto launches and meet-the-party-faithful gatherings we saw in this election. It would mean that the executive government would have to present policies to a reinvigorated parliament, not the whipped puppy we see before us today, and convince that parliament with sound argument and evidence that what they are proposing is at least necessary. It will mean that politicians could not assume that being our representatives was a job for life.

It will not be perfect. It never will be. But it will be better than the soul destroying option of being told that the only decision we have to make in this country is putting an X next to blue or red every five years. We deserve a bit more choice than that.

Electoral Reform Society
Unlock Democracy

The Cats of Dubrovnik

Commanding the steps, the higher and lower ground, the alley and piazza, from positions of imperious distain, the cats of Dubrovnik do not mewl and they do not beg, but rather deign to be occasionally stroked. Clinging to the sides, they live in shadowlands of walls and wars, avoiding the bright reflections made by souvenir shops on smooth stones when storms pass over and over again. Rebuilt, remade, renewed as medieval imagination, photographs of martyrs fade to white, disappearing like rubble and holes and cats.

I like big butts and I cannot lie ...

And while we're on the subject of Japan, it has already been noted in this blog that I have a certain penchant for big blokes, as does Dingo Baby for that matter, and it doesn't get much bigger than sumo.

Which is why, after a quick trip on a bullet train, we found ourselves at Day 4 of the Nagoya Sumo festival (July 2014). Even though bouts had started at 0830, the stadium was still relatively empty by the time we arrived for lunch. The earlier fights involve only the minnows, the newbies, the getting too old with knackered knees. Technically more inept, they are of little interest to the average spectator.

But the lack of crowd in a stadium that would hold several thousand could also be attributed to Sumo's decline in popularity. It is a sport for the aged. On our front row of cushions we were surrounded by pensioner groupies; ladies who clamoured with delight when their favourite wrestler came on. They gathered in the foyer and by the arena entrances to take pictures and clap and clamour some more. They were lovely, but anyone under the age of 50 was rare.

A strong hint of yakuza involvement didn't do much for the sport either, and the fact that a Japanese wrestler hasn't been a yokozuna (champion) since 2003 adds to the general sense of malaise. For the last few years it has been the Mongolians who have dominated (all three yokozuna in Nagoya were  Mongolian but East Europeans also seem to do well).

Despite the declining interest it is a magnificent performance, especially as the fights progress through the afternoon and the men and the crowds get correspondingly bigger: bigger butts, bigger moobs, bigger mawashi (loin clothes), massive thighs. There is gamesmanship and strategy as the better fighters try to psyche each other out with false moves and dummy lunges. But personally I think it is the sound of flesh crashing into flesh, like walruses slapping into each other, that excites the throng, as a surprisingly mobile 150 kilograms of muscle and fat tries to shift another 150 kilograms out of a ring. Immovable object meets irresistible force. No wonder their knees give out.

The bouts also become increasingly ritualised, with stomping and salt throwing, incantation and fan waving, squatting and getting up again, taking more time than the actual fight itself, which lasts on average four seconds (although they have up to four minutes). For a younger generation brought up on the sensory overload of anime and video games it's not surprising that not-much-happening isn't going to get their attention.

The opening ceremonies were completely opaque to us even with the handy guide and the help of our neighbour who valiantly attempted to explain the rules, in Japanese. Lost in translation she persisted throughout the five hours of subsequent bouts. We were mostly puzzled by the hundreds of spectators suddenly throwing their cushions at the ring when one of the yokozuna went down, but apparently that's allowed.

The rules extended to behaviour in the stadium but we found the general Japanese desire to comply dissipating and hints of naughtiness sneaking in. Our neighbours in the boxes behind became drunker and drunker, ignoring the 'no drink, no food allowed' rules which we unfortunately had to obey as we were too close to the sacred space of the dohyo (wrestling platform) to contemplate breaking regulations even if we had been aware of what they were. I did try moving to an empty aisle bench just one away from my designated seat but that seemed to attract the attention of the authorities who politely asked me to move back - possibly. Or what they may have been asking was if I would mind appearing on national television, as a few moments later a cameraman appeared in front of me to film my reaction to the next bout. I'd like to think I gave such an enthusiastic performance of squealing and clapping that it will encourage future generations to support the sport.

Love and Pork

And while we're on the subject of food ... if there was one place on the planet where I thought it would not be difficult to be a vegetarian it was Japan. But it took less than one bowl of soba noodles to dispel the myth of a land of rising tofu and tempeh. Japan seemingly has a love affair with pork.

I ordered a bowl of plain tofu as a last resort and it came served on a bed of minced pork. Everything comes with pork. Or fish. I gave up. A meal in a Mount Fuji refuge consisted of mini frankfurters, a meat rissole, rice and more meat. I was starving. There was nothing else. It was eaten. A veggie colleague who clearly has greater strength of character than I do survived on pot noodles and dal from an Indian restaurant in Yokohama's Chinatown, a place so cosmopolitan that it is possible to find a man of African descent playing Danny Boy on a Caribbean steel drum in a Chinese restaurant.

Apart from the surprising amounts of pork, it must be said that Japan also has some unique ways in which it brings love and food together. There is, for example, the homage to the humble Pot Noodle, with its very own Museum (although I have seen a museum to milk machines in New Zealand which says a lot about that country too). There is also, more pointedly, the French Maid Cafe. Far be it for me to suggest that any country's sexual mores are odd; I live in Britain after all where publicly mentioning the word 'orgy' on a train can generate great ire in fellow passengers (it's another long story). But there is something about the Tokyo French Maid Cafe that is slightly disturbing. Popping in for cup of coffee we work out the order of things. There's a 1000 yen (£6) cover charge for each 30 minutes of your hostess' time before 8pm, and 5000 yen (£30) for each 30 minutes after that. Then a little song that basically means 'cheers' with our hostess using a fake beer glass with pretend beer in it. And then the clock starts. Our hostess spoke no English but valiantly tried to ensure we had a good time. Using the phrase book and the help of the smart phone translation app of Geek No. 1 sitting next to me (this is Nakano Broadway after all, a burgeoning centre of geekdom and trailing sex shops), we introduced ourselves and worked out that she is living with an Australian English language teacher. She keeps smiling. Drinks are free and Geeks No. 1 to 4 on my left are happy to smoke, drink beer and have a lovely young woman laugh at their jokes. The infantalisation of women is everywhere along with neon, wide eyes and girlish laughs. I would mention that knee high socks are involved in this somehow but I like to wear them as well so I'm taking them out of the equation. We left after 15 minutes as Dingo Baby was looking decidedly embarrassed when the yen finally dropped and he realised what probably happens at French Maid cafés. Our hostess held up the timer to show us that we had 15 minutes more but we politely said goodbye. She looked a bit disappointed.

There are other kinds of French cafes in Japan that have perhaps more an element of culinary rather than carnal love to them although hints of the stoic role of women in Japanese society are still present along with the cream puffs and macaroons. Don't tell the French but Tokyo does better patisserie than they do, their bakes being things of beauty, shiny, bright and ranging from the pastel to neon. Even a Strawberry Slushy becomes a thing of beauty when the Japanese do it. Dingo Baby and I retire to the gentile surrounds of one such cafe for our daily 4pm ice coffee (which is also a thing of beauty in Tokyo) and cake time. Just as the French Maid Cafés are men's spaces (me being the only woman in them apart from the hostesses and a carer for a man with a disability), the cafés are for the ladies. We are joined by the matrons who used to cosplay in the streets of Harajuku but are now married and apparently taking up their more respectable position in café society.

While we're in Harajuku, like the patisserie it is a world of pastels and shiny bright things. It may not be the centre of cosplay that it once was but it is still driven by the energy of 1000s of teenagers to the extent that I was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to buy the most expensive pastel t-shirt I've ever bought and a sparkly broach that apparently says 'Revolution' in glittering pink and blue kanji. Shops such as 6% Doki Doki are dedicated to a youth culture that Japan defines. There is kawaii (cute), lolita, french maid goth, the latest trend to dress up exactly the same (and I mean EXACTLY the same) as your best friend. There are beat girls (complete with woolly beanies in 30 degree heat) and boys in shaggy orange hair and baggy striped shorts. There is a surprising amount of jodhpurs and some 'yet to have a name' trends. Circulating constantly around this cacophony, adding to it with their own neon and pastel, are the advertising trucks that promote J-pop boy and girl bands.

Accidentally stumbling into a performance by a J-pop girl band in Yokohama (think neon hot pants and those knee high socks again), we watch several hundred salarymen (all men) getting very excited, deploying all the appropriate arm waving movements in unison and getting a tad hysterical at the end. Accidentally stumbling across a performance by a boy band singing a-cappella outside a music store in Shibuya, perhaps a hundred women, with a tad more decorum than the men, quietly, in unison, deployed all the appropriate arm movements and got very excited in an understated way, clapping at the end of each song.

In my idea of heaven, the Okadaya department store of haberdashery (yes, six floors of haberdashery, yarns and textiles), I spent 20 minutes with a sales assistant who was trying to save me the expense of buying rayon for a skirt because cleaning it would be too difficult. We did this through her running (and really running) around the shop finding international cleaning labels on other fabric that I could understand. I found my own behaviour modifying after only a few days, becoming uber-polite on the Metro for example. I picked up my litter and let people on the train first. Anyone who has seen me preparing to board the Midlands express will know this is not my normal comportment.

These acts of civility in Japan tend to be conflated with conformity in the general 'how to do Karoake' guide books but for 130 million people to live on a tiny set of islands there can be no eccentric throwing about of hands or pogo-ing noisily in crowds. There is no space physically, and therefore no space culturally.

But dirty, noisy, impolite, sex must have its way and seep through the cracks that give it its own unique deformities. There are the vending machines with young women's knickers for sale, there is a popular culture that has a very distinct take on the proportions of women's breasts, and let's not even go near the kind of inflatables in the sex shop we accidentally stumbled into in Nakano Broadway. I'm sure Soho has something in its basement that wouldn't be too different, but while Soho revels in the vomit in its gutter making no pretense at putting lipgloss on, bespoke Japan presents a dissonant juxtaposition of french maid cafés and exquisite patisserie, misogynistic manga and politeness. The advertising trucks at night become the mobile hoardings for the bars in the red light district of Kabukicho where there is something for everyone on the love menu. To the soundtrack of an 80s video arcade game, the roar of pachinko parlours, the touting for business, the ubiquitous theme tune of the Vanilla hostess bar, the love hotels, the neon of Robot Restaurant, the androgynous, kinetic energy of Kabukicho envelopes everyone, along with its smells of beer and BBQing pork.

Step away from the kulfi!

Long has the Delhi consumer's capacity for craft melas held me in awe, particularly in the lead up to Diwali. There is nothing quite as frenetic as shopping at the famous open air markets like Dastkar and the Blind School's annual extravaganza. So many dupattas, so little time.

But I have finally discovered the secret ... kulfi. And not just any kulfi, but a kesar pista - think frozen condensed milk with saffron and pistachio. And in my case, along with the kulfi, have chai, mango sweets, date paan, more chai and a bottle of plum juice. On an empty stomach. Never have shiny things looked so shiny, silks looked so silky, colours looked so vibrant, and my bargaining been so ruthless as when the blood sugar levels are making for a screaming crescendo. Never have I been able to cover so much ground, leaping small children in a single bound to get to the last pashmina shawl at a bargain price.

Unfortunately the crash that came about 30 minutes later resulted in conversations that included sentences like: 'touch that kurtha again Aunty and lose a hand. It's MINE'.

Worse, after all the jostling, unfurling, trying on and taking off, reducing sales staff to bundles of quivering frustration, in the end I came away with nothing because my neurones were so close to bursting at the amount of choice that in a fit of ADHD they couldn't decide what they wanted.

The other unfortunate side effect was that I couldn't find my way out. As noted in other posts it is a bit embarrassing to be lost as a geographer and orienteer but sugar is clearly not good for the internal navigational systems. It took another hour of wandering with an increasing sense of hallucinogenic panic that the same dupattas were following me before I found the exit.

Luckily, just outside the entrance was now a line up of sweet potato sellers - my favourite Delhi street food and a lovely sign that winter is on the way. Sweet potato after kulfi, with a sprinkling of masala and splash of nimbu, is the equivalent of a spliff after crystal meth (so I'm told). As I sat on a wall with the street urchins, sharing our sweet potatoes in a twilight haze, the world stopped shimmering and calm descended along with the particulate matter of Delhi's traffic pollution.  

The gastronomic moral of this tale is that kulfi, while divine, should only be eaten on its own after a sturdy meal. Leave the chai, mango sweets, paan and plum juice for another day.

Sex and Money

So your man, Brooks Newman (Minister for Civil Society) resigns in shame after sending a picture of (I'm assuming because noone's been explicit) his penis to a fake woman (if you don't know the story it's just tawdry and misogynistic all round mostly on the part of the reporter and newspaper involved).  And yet whoever was responsible for coming up with the idea of PFIs is still walking around apparently not feeling any shame at all: not feeling like he (I'm assuming it's a he) has to say sorry; not feeling like he has to put his hand up and say 'perhaps it wasn't a good idea after all'.

A whiff of sex is so shameful it requires resignation. Beggaring the health service in the name of stupidity, oligarchy and greed is apparently nothing to get too embarrassed about. Whoever you are PFI Man you should hang your head in shame, and Vince Cable can join you for selling off the Royal Mail to yet another cabal.

If you have a strong constitution I'd highly recommend James Meek's book on privatisation in the UK. Read it and weep.

Random encounters

Rather than an example of Augé's non-place, I've always thought of Dubai airport as a place full of the potential for random, magical encounters. In today's hurry through I happened to meet a member of the Islamic Republic of Iran's womens inline skating team. They had been in China competing, coming fourth to China's first. Her petite frame was remarkably lacking in any sign of evil. There were no horns, no tails and no cloven hooves (I would imagine it would be very difficult to inline skate with cloven hooves). There was no 666 that I could see. She was just resplendent in grey tracksuit and ordinariness.