Telling Stories to the Sea

The Malecón Seawall

The other evening, we took a taxi, una maquina, from Marianao to Vedado. The vintage Chrystler thundered down the street with an engine that roared amid a background of stuttering metal.  The maquinas are quite a scene here, racing back and forth across the city, picking up passersby along their route for a fee.  Most are tricked out with hover lights, ornamental mirrors and high tech pioneer sound systems that blare Latin reggaeton.

It was early evening and night soon began to fall upon the Malecón seawall that stretches along the city’s coast. The shadows danced a graceful choreography of silhouettes down the skyline of decaying colonial archways.  It was one of those evenings when the ocean was flipping ferociously, rushing up to the wall in whirlpools, pushing and pulling with fluid intensity.  The sea line that met the sky was dark and mysterious.  I often stand along the seawall and imagine the stories shared here, for there must be many…the hopes, the dreams, the longing, the tales of grief, tales of passion, tales of desire.  Like the radiant depths of my grandmother’s bosom, I always find a safe solace near the sea.  When I’m there, I often hear her “take it and tell to the sea.” In some sections of the wall, the water was completely crashing over and splashing into the street.  The night glistened with the moisture of sea foam and my mouth affectionately embraced a taste of salt that was both warm and ethereal.  In the distance, I could hear a familiar rhythm being played on a chekere.  As I drew near to the sound, my heart radiated with warmth when I happened upon a group of children with their father sitting along the wall.  In the Yoruba language, the children were laughing and singing in time with the chekere, “Yemaya shikini, ala modanse 

Ashaba shikini, ala modanse….”

Playa d’Ancon, Trinidad, Sancti Spíritus Province

Sancti Spíritus province

 The town of Trinidad in Sancti Spíritus province is an explosion of colour.  It’s not uncommon to see 2 men shouldering a large cake with pink icing, a bicycle pulling a horse, and a 1953 Buick in the same block. Oh, and the Internet.

¡Café con leche o Muerte!

Café con leche 

Let me begin by pointing out that I’m an avid tea drinker. I love myself a simple cup of Assam tea, a little milk and some honey. However, the coffee here is just so damn good that it’s become a ritual that’s been happening a few times a day.  I’m not sure if it’s socially acceptable, but I often find myself running my finger along the sides of my cup to get every last bit of flavor.  Afterwards I then want to eat my index finger every time.

Café  

We headed back to the city after visiting the Virgen de la Regla cathedral. Walking with a local resident through Havana Vieja, we decided to stop for a coffee break.  Trying to find coffee that could be purchased with the local Peso, we wandered through alleyways, through the Plaza de la Catedral and along part of the Malecón seawall. Our search was in vain.  We did find a cafeteria that took local Pesos, but they were out of coffee.  Another stand had coffee that you could purchase with the local Peso, but the machine was broken.  What does this mean?  I think the deeper ramifications speak volumes.  In a country that produces the best coffee in the world, it’s hard for locals to purchase coffee within or near this area that has a high traffic of tourists.  Imagine if local residents of the SF Bay Area could only purchase coffee for 16 times the price in the Financial District, South of Market and North Beach neighborhoods.  That’s what it would be like, except the scenario is much worse.  It’s quite disturbing and a bit distorted, as are many things here.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.

Latte

Cortadito

From Point A to Point B

Todo por la Revolución

In negotiating a price for a taxi from the airport, I told the driver that we were headed to Marianao.  He looked at me perplexed, saying that it wasn’t the usual tourist place.  “I guess I’m not the usual tourist”, I replied.  He quoted me a final price.  I decided to opt for a standardized state owned taxi.  After waiting for bags to emerge from the carousel, and patiently waiting in a stoic line to exchange currency, it was now mid evening.  “You’ve been here before, huh?” the driver asked as we drove through the dimly lit streets. “Yep”, I nodded.  The late November air was tranquil and cool with a dark sky dotted in gently swaying palms.  While I soon recognized the neighborhood, I couldn’t quite remember the configuration of the triangular streets where my godfather’s mom lives.  As is custom, the driver began to solicit passersby for directions to the closest corner.  I’m not one to have a sweet tooth, but by the time we located the other side of Calle 86, I found myself in the back seat with an insatiable craving for ice cream.

After 52 years of a failed policy, it’s not unusual for a US citizen to spend 16 hours in transit to travel to the largest island in the Caribbean.  Although less than 100 miles from southern Florida, we first had to literally fly over our destination to Cancún.  Like most things here, you can’t just go in a straight line from point A to point B.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that you CAN’T GET from point A to point B.  You absolutely can….but you may have to go to Q and back first. 

Boarding the national airline

Of course many things have changed since I first started coming here in the late 90’s. On my first excursion, my airline ticket was actually hand written on carbon paper.  Now there’s a computer that prints your ticket information out at the airline counter.  My first flight here was on a 1950’s Russian made propeller plane that was like a bus in the air with small circular windows.  The national airline now has a fleet of modern planes. On the island there used to be scheduled and unscheduled blackouts of electricity and water.  I have not encountered blackouts at all on this trip and was told that it’s quite rare that they occur these days.  There had been 3 currencies and 2 economies. Depending on the transaction, you could use the US dollar, a convertible peso that went between the two currencies and the local peso.  There are still 2 economies; the local Peso economy (moneda nacional) and the Convertible Peso economy (“Chavito”). The tourist industry mainly functions with the Convertible Peso and there are many goods and services that can only be purchased with this currency.  I physically blend in and can function within the local Peso economy, especially if I don’t speak too much.  The Spanish spoken here is rapid and thickly flavored.  Entire words are at times seemingly swallowed.  The Spanish that unfolds from my mouth is slow in comparison and likely has a northern California flavor of sprouts and wheat grass.  It’s a definite giveaway that I’m a foreigner. 

While many things have changed, many things have remained the same.  There are still the carts of rum and cigars that follow the beverage cart on the national airline.  The vintage cars still rumble through the streets.  In the countryside, the leaves of banana and palm trees still slowly tickle the sky amidst the seemingly endless fields of sugarcane. The music…oh my god the music!  It’s so intoxicating and irresistible; the clave runs the rhythm with the life force of a cardiac pulse.  You can’t help but want to dance. 

One of the most painful things that remains the same is the policy that my country of birth has maintained towards the island.  Political and economic ideology aside, it’s heartbreaking. I’ve seen firsthand the affect that the policy has had on people’s lives and the way that families have been separated.

52 years …there aren’t words for it really.  

荘厳な山

秋は、私の一番好きな季節です。新潟県で木の色が毎日変わっている。去年、日本語のクラスで宿題のために俳句を書かなければならなかった。新潟県の秋の山が大好きなので、この写真では色がよく分からないけれど、荘厳で秀麗な山にはさびの色が映えている。そこで、この俳句を詠んだ：

荘厳な山

はっと思わせる

さびの色

Fall is my favorite season.  In Niigata prefecture, every day the trees are changing their color.  In my Japanese class last year, we had to write a nature haiku for our homework.  I love the fall mountains of Niigata, the true color of which cannot be seen well in this photo. The dazzling, majestic mountains quietly shine the color of rust.  This is my haiku:

Majestic mountains

that can take your breath away

the color of rust

A Video Commemorating 6 Months of Project Tohoku

Six Months of Project Tohoku on Vimeo

The Ebb and Flow of Bubbly Whispers

I made it home just in time to be part of the 99% to occupy Wall Street. Having been back in the San Francisco bay area for a few days now, I’m finding that remembering to look left first when stepping out into on-coming traffic can be a challenge.  Disoriented, I’ve found myself standing on the southbound platform in the BART station trying to board a train to the east bay.  I wish that this was the hardest thing about returning home.  I’m not sure how to process, fold and integrate the enormity of the volunteer experience into my daily world as life around me continues to flow. 



In terms of the bonds built between fellow volunteers, a month can compound itself, quickly accelerating into dog years.



At the All Hand's Sakari Base



My last day on Project Tohoku was one of laughter and hope.   I worked on a project to clear ditches with a small group of 6 volunteers.  We were small in size, but we were incredibly efficient.  By the time we reached our afternoon break, we had cleared close to an entire square block.  It was unspoken, but we had developed a system.  All of us took turns using the crowbar to lift and remove large cement squares to enable the other 5 team members to shovel out debris.  Then we all took turns shoveling sludge into fat white bags and hauling the debris to a designated location with a wheelbarrow.  During our 2:30 break, we all sat along a guard rail underneath a dense grey sky overlooking the shallow river bed that ran to the sea.  It had been raining off and on all morning and as the sky seemed to dry, we all began to comment on how inviting the river looked. All of a sudden, Katsuhiro climbed the rail and scaled down the ladder into the river.  Next Angel went in.  I was thinking how unfortunate it was that I didn’t have rain boots.  Before I could finish the thought, I too was scaling down the ladder and balancing my weight on the rocks to join my team in the river.  Lisa, Phil and Alice, our team leader, soon joined in as well.  We were all absorbed in the moment, forgetting about time and walking through the shallow river water. I ran my fingers through the cool waters and rinsed the sweat from my face and neck.  Then something brilliant happened.  Simultaneously in a catharsis, we all began to pick debris out of the water; large pieces of cement, wood and glass, broken tile and broken plates. The river water bubbled over the rocks carrying with it the whispers of life moving.  Rays of sun began to shine through the clouds in pale brass coloured patterns like filagree and in the ebb and flow of the bubbly whispers, there was hope. 

It's Sotsuke!

That evening, several volunteers had planned a soccer match with Sotsuke, a child at the Fukushima Sato Center who seems to possess an endless supply of energy and an electric smile.  Barefoot, I played on his team with everything I had.  I bruised my ankles and shins with the ball, but it didn’t matter.  There was joy, laughter and light and at that moment I understood from the blood muscle of my heart what a powerful vehicle hope is.  With hope, there will be healing.  With hope northern Japan will rejuvenate and rebuild.  With hope, life will continue flowing forward in all its strength like the river.  I am deeply humbled by the opportunity to take part in the rebuilding effort and I will never forget the people of Ofunato and Rikuzentakata.  

My Life with the Share Care Cult

The communal living space at the Sakari base, formerly a large Fujiwara electronic store in downtown Ofunato, leaves little room to carve out peace or mental space.   Being constantly inundated with conversations and questions, I developed tactics like putting on my reading glasses and staring at my laptop as if I were deeply engaged just to squeeze in some parallel ‘alone’ time to not be engaged, sip my tea and process my day.  Sometimes I would wake up at 4:30am or take long walks just to have some down time alone.  After a week I moved to the Fukushino Sato Center (“FS”), a former hospital which had been housing volunteers from All Hands, a Japanese NGO and a German organization. For some reason (and I still haven’t quite figured it out) all of the male German volunteers have long hair. The FS Center is much stricter than the Sakari base with a 10pm curfew (read, there are loopholes) and a no alcohol policy. It's also remotely located about a 20 minute walk from the nearest Lawson's. Basically over here it’s bathrooms inside, showers and osento inside….sake outside.

On my second work day, somebody had already clipped my milk, even though it was clearly marked HEK in red permanent marker.  This indiscretion eventually led to a collaboration with two other volunteers in building a dynamic multicultural fortress around our snacks.  Alice, Antony and I have created the ultimate snack pool. Basically, anything in the fridge labeled with one of our names or “AHA” is in our exclusive snacking pyramid scheme….milk, croissants, kuromame crackers, ham, butter, pineapple and fried squid. 



Outside the Sakari Base



Outside the FS Center







Common Space at Sakari Base

 

Common Space at FS Center





Sleeping Space at Sakari



Sleeping Space at FS



Irreplacable Images

Photos Drying

For almost a week now, I’ve been working on a photo rescue project.  Over 70,000 photos have been hand cleaned out of those that were found amidst the tsunami wreckage.  All Hands Volunteers has a global network of over 300 photographers working to re-touch these photos to preserve the irreplaceable images of people’s past. Members of the local community often come by to search for photos of their loved ones and to go through the albums that we’ve created. 

I spend hours each day slowly dipping each photo into frigid water with my latex gloves.  Sometimes as the photo is dipped into the water, the color will slowly begin to dissolve. The process is a very a delicate balancing act of cleaning away dirt and bacteria while maintaining as much of the fragile image as possible.  It can be quite a tedious task, but can also be quite meditative at times.  Everyday I find myself wandering down hallways with the images….a junior high school class trip to Nara; a bride with a nervous smile on her wedding day; an elderly couple’s 1993 vacation on Sado Island; a grandmother bathing her toddler twin granddaughters. 

Sometimes if I’m very quiet and still, the hair on my arms will stand up and I can hear their stories.  More than anything, they want to be acknowledged and remembered. 

Photo Salvage Project

What Exactly is Category 2?

A landed ship in the middle of Ofunato



On Wednesday, I was working outside at a fish distribution center as a category 2 typhoon was working its way in our direction up the Honshu Island.  The group that I was working with was cleaning large seafood drying racks that had been covered in mud by the tsunami.  With three large vats of water, scrub brushes and rubber gloves, we cleaned the metal legs of the racks, each about half the size of a doorway. The normal mid day heat had given way to a chilly grey sky and heavy rain.  The wind whipped through the mountains and trees, moaning and wheezing like a large wounded animal.  Everyone kept repeating, “the typhoon is only a category 2.”  Well, the ‘category 2 typhoon’ shut down the Shinkansen (bullet train) and some of the highways up here.  Wednesday stands out as a reflection of what has quickly become my new comfort zone.

Mr. Sugawara, a super spry and opinionated 72 year old with a large warm smile, is the owner of the distribution center.  He showed us the route that he and his wife used to escape the tsunami.  The three houses next to his were all swept into the sea, along with his elderly bedridden neighbor. Having also survived the Ofunato tsunami in 1962 that resulted from the earthquake in Chile, Sugawara-san is now planning to donate his land to the city to build a sea wall and to move his operation to higher ground. He reiterated to me several times that he was going to be okay, that he had other income streams and that he didn’t want to be super wealthy anyway because he didn’t want to pay any more tax to the Japanese government.  At lunchtime, his wife came to the work site on her bicycle with warm soup and coffee to go with our bento lunches.  Sugawara-san was quick to point out that the sanma fish in our lunch was now imported from Hokkaido, as sanma could not be distributed from this area for the next 5 years.

 

Mr. Sugawara

I spent several days working on projects for Sugawara-san.  I’m beginning to think that he tries hard to come up with new tasks for us to do because he simply enjoys our company.  An important part of the rebuilding effort is allowing people to share their experiences. 

I’ve started to exhibit a sort of obsessive compulsive disorder when I’m clearing debris or cleaning anything here.  I will pace back and forth, working diligently, digging, scraping and sweeping that small section of the river ditch until it sparkles. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed with this irrational feeling that if even one tiny section of a ditch can sparkle, then northern Japan will be restored to normal, that the splendor of the coast and the rolling rugged mountains will be free of the sadness and pain of the 3/11 tragedy.  Sugawara-san said that he was surprised and impressed by how hard we worked everyday, all day….even in the driving rain amidst a typhoon warning.  He assured me that he will never forget our faces.



The Tree of Life



The Tree of Life in Rikuzentakata



I’ve been awakened in the middle of the night by earth tremors for the past four mornings.  The building usually begins to gently shake, then gradually builds swaying back and forth with more strength before slowing to a simmer. There are close to 50 volunteers from all corners of the world and from all over Japan staying here at the Sakari base, which can make for very little room for much needed psychological space.  Life here is somewhat chaotic, but pretty basic.  We have a common sleeping space, a shared kitchen and outdoor portable bathrooms (I usually walk to the train station).  We take bucket baths and all of our work locations have solid evacuation plans for higher ground in the not so unlikely event of a tsunami warning. 

This is by far the hardest thing that I’ve ever done in my life.  Physically and emotionally, the work here is very strenuous.  Everyday my eyes sting with sweat and the muscles in my arms, calves and back burn.  After my first day, I really questioned whether I was strong enough for this.  When I dig my shovel into the sludge to clear ditches and canals, I find high school medals, photographs, shoes, and pieces of roof tile, twisted metal from screen doors, children’s barrettes and broken lacquered rice bowls. Ever so thin is the veil that separates us. I sometimes feel like I’m an archeologist excavating through a graveyard of memories.  There are shards of glass and they permeate everything.  The enormity of the destruction here is just indescribable.  I often find myself deep in silent prayer with every breath as I’m digging, cleaning, scraping and shoveling.  The unforgiving heat of the late morning sun and the echoes of the lives that were swallowed into the sea often leave me spinning.

There is a tree in front of the cemetery in Rikuzentakata that I refer to as the tree of life.  When the tsunami slammed into the town on March 11, there was a family who had been swept away in their home as it was pulled from its foundation. As the waters receded, the house caught onto the top of the tree just long enough for the family to escape and cling to its branches.  The house was soon washed completely into the sea, but the family survived. In the past 120 years, the town of Ofunato has been hit by four tsunamis and they are still standing.  Everyday, it’s the shared stories of life, inspiration, survival and strength that enable me to persevere much further than what I think my limits are.   がんばろう　東北…..がんばろう　日本！(Ganbarou Tohoku….Ganbarou Nihon!)



A thank you poster in a local shop



Sea Legs in the Tokyo Area

 

Daibutsu in Kamakura



“Jishin da!” (It’s an earthquake!), my friend Satoko said to me as I sat on the couch while the entire building shook briefly from side to side.  I could tell by her reaction (or lack thereof) that this was ‘normal’. Prior to my departure, another friend had advised me to be prepared for Tokyo’s late summer heat and for the earthquakes.  I had been in Japan for less than 24 hours and had experienced both already.

During the past few days, I’ve had many festive and emotional reunions with old friends. Life in the greater Tokyo area seems to be back to its regular pace, but the 3/11 disaster permeates everything.  I have some friends who have quietly relocated to the Kansai or who are planning to soon relocate to Okinawa due to radiation concerns.  The evenings are darker due to the energy crisis and the resulting “Setsuden” (the conservation of electricity).  Many of the street lights are turned down or completely off and the air conditioning on the trains and in the stations is at a lower level, if it’s on at all.  If you’re in Japan right now and you’re converting funds from a foreign currency, the strength of the Yen can be quite a shock.  When I left for Japan, 1 dollar was just over 77 Yen.  Basically this means that for the price of two fingers on your right hand, you can take the Narita Express train from the airport to Musashi-Kosugi station in Kawasaki City.

My friend Gaku asked me if I felt the earthquake that was centered in Chiba on Sunday evening.  He explained that there was a feature that I could add to my cell phone that somehow provides a 20 second warning before a quake.  He told me not to worry, that the tremor on Sunday was a small one.  For me it was big enough that I’m writing about it right now.  He assured me that I would soon adjust to the moving soil and develop the “sea legs” like everyone else.

  

This evening I’m heading up to Iwate prefecture on an overnight bus that leaves from the west side of Ikebukuro station.  This is where I will be working with All Hands Volunteers in the cities of Ofunato and Rikuzentaka along the northeastern coast.  The area was one of the hardest hit in terms of tsunami damage.   In terms of radiation, the area is a safe distance, far north of the stricken Fukushima Daiichi plant. I’m not sure if it’s possible to mentally or emotionally prepare for the level of destruction.  I’m very much looking forward to being a part of Project Tohoku, praying for the ground to find its stability and hoping to not develop the sea legs.

   

A photo op with "Obama" near Toyosu station



Bright Orange Waterproof Overalls



Seki-san, My 'Okaasan'

 From my cubicle a year ago, I would have never thought that I’d be travelling into a disaster zone in Iwate prefecture with steel toe boots and a sleeping bag or that I would be reading the fine print of the evacuation policy covered by my insurance.  How do I give back to a place, to people who have given me so much? 

Walking into my Japanese class following the earthquake/tsunami on March 11, our Sensei greeted us with a map of Japan that spread out across the entire study table.  Part of our conversation for the evening involved us locating the areas in Japan where we either lived or where we had family.  She then asked us to describe what we were feeling.  I remember that the room was eerily silent and that I was trying hard to swallow over the lump in my throat.  At the time I still had many dear friends that I had been unable to contact and the nightly news reels of the devastation made my stomach heave in anxiety. Being a product of my home training, I knew within the first week of the disaster that I was going to do whatever I could to help with the recovery.  I knew that it was likely that I would return to Japan, I just didn’t know when or how.

It was many years ago that I had been a JET programme participant in the north, in Niigata prefecture.  The experience completely altered my life trajectory.  Through JET, through securing funding for graduate school and through working for JETRO, I spent almost a decade involved in different ways with the Japanese government.  I have an Okaasan (mother) as well in Niigata prefecture.  She was a neighbor who had two grown sons and always wanted a girl.  She “adopted” me almost 15 years ago.  Worried that I would never marry, she insisted that I take a photo in one of her kimonos and send it to my mother as a sort of “marriage insurance”. As her American daughter, I now possess 3 of her kimonos and for 9 years I’ve been happily married to the man who took photos of me in one of the kimonos in her living room on that wintery afternoon.

I’m so very grateful to the many comrades, friends, relatives, classmates and colleagues who have donated to All Hands Volunteers through my donation page.  Several friends have asked that I work for them as well, that I be their hands since they are unable to go to the Tohoku region right now. In my pre-departure, there have been a million helping hands that have assisted me.  My language partner took the time to ensure that I had reservations on the overnight bus from Tokyo to Ofunato city and back.  A friend in Japan secured a cell phone for me to use on the network once I’m there.  The particular service is only for permanent residents, so we joked that I will soon be a “make believe” resident.  My spouse gave me a rain poncho, a personal first aid kit and an adjustable head lamp.  I had a dear friend take me on a shopping excursion over the weekend to make sure that I had safety chemical splash and impact goggles and of course the bright orange waterproof overalls.  Another friend of mine in Tokyo joked with me that he is grateful that I will soon arrive to join him for some shochu to take the edge off.  He warned me to be mentally prepared as the ground still sometimes moves.  His email sits in my inbox as a subtle and sobering reminder that the earth is in transition.