Derrick Ireland

Man And Benjoman

Hello. I was a JET living in Chiba-ken in the earliest of days, when the world was young, from 1987 to 1990. Here is an account I wrote at the time.

The town of Tomisato nestles neatly between melon patches, mikan tree fields and Japan’s main international airport. In August the cicadas chant and throb from the hills of cedar trees, the bullfrogs boom in the steamy rice paddies and the scent of soy-sauce and noodles hovers in the still humid air. It is all very idyllic and I have grown to enjoy the easy pace of a small country town. However, there are disadvantages. I have no phone, for instance. I have no air conditioning. And I have no flush toilet.

Last Sunday, I’d had a miserable night, tossing clothing and bedsheets aside as I tried to lose myself to sleep following a sweltering summer’s day. Finally, I succumbed and dreamt of cool showers and racing waterfalls only to be awakened by a pounding and a thumping from downstairs. Dazed and confused I rolled onto the floor, crawled to the stairs and called ‘Chotto matte ne!’ down to the genkan below. But the pounding and the thumping continued.

‘Hai hai!’ I cried, watching my front door wobble on its hinges and wondering what could be so urgent this early in the morning. And on a Sunday too. ‘Nan desu-ka?’ I demanded.

The letter box flapped open and two bulbous eyes observed me with a mixture of surprise turning to horror. I stood there congealed. I should have crouched. I should have darted for cover. I should have done something. But the turmoil of an interrupted dream and an incomprehensible thudding, which made the walls shiver and the cups and saucers dance on their shelves, had quite disorientated me. Through the letter box from the other side of the door and not more than a foot from my waist, the eyes observed me a moment more before a pair of lips appeared, and bellowed, ‘Toire!’

The letter box clattered shut and I stood in the silence of my genkan, with hands over my eyes, wishing I were anywhere else than where I was right then; for, apart from a pair of green slippers, I was quite naked.

I ran upstairs and dressed.

It is the year 1998 and some forty percent of homes in Japan lack connection to a main sewer and, as I mentioned earlier, my house was one such home. I have a nice new car, which I bought my first week here from Mr Hosoda’s Suzuki dealership in Yachimata. I have a small kitchen with a sink and an upright washing machine – though no hot running water of course – and I have a tatami room where praying mantis sometimes join me for shelter when a typhoon thunders down the valley and lashes waves of water against the exposed side of the house. And I love these joys and inconveniences because they are part of a world so different from mine back home. I love most of them, it is fair to say. But I do not love my toilet because it consists of a seat above a hole in the ground. And, not to put too fine a point on it, that Sunday morning it was full.

Late the previous week, I had called upon Mr Yoshioka, who is Tomisato’s very own Benjoman, to pay me a visit with his Benjotruck, and do whatever he had to do to clean things out. And here he was, a bear of a man, whose well-fed frame bore evidence to the fact that he made a fine living with this essential service of his. Here was Mr Yoshioka, the Benjoman, who had just witnessed more of Tomisato’s guest foreign teacher than he ought to have witnessed at nine o’clock in the morning, or at any time in the morning come to that.

‘How much have you got then?’ he asked me, as we stood outside, looking down at the drain cover. And I replied that it might be rather on the full side.

‘When was it last emptied?’ he pursued mercilessly. And I replied that it might have been August of last year, but I could not say for sure. He raised his eyebrows, shot a withering glance my way and then directed me to pass a hose of running waver down the toilet while he vacuumed out the waste into his tanker. ‘And keep the window open as you do it, so we can chat!’ he instructed me with a disconcerting grin.

I stood on the rim of the toilet seat with the hose down below and kept the window open so he could talk with me from outside. And then it hit me! Oh heavens! I felt a green pallor rise up from my throat to the roots of the hair on my forehead. My eyes would have watered but I was experiencing thoughts too deep for tears. And the ten minutes it took to wash and suck things out became the longest ten minutes of my life.

By the time Mr Yoshioka had climbed back into the seat of his benjovan, and I stood looking up at him as he calculated how much I owed, I was a limp and spent sensei.

‘That’ll be 9,550 yen, please!’ he announced heartily.

‘Oh! That’s rather a lot,’ I gulped. ‘May I ask how you come to work that out so precisely?

‘Easy’, he replied. ‘You pay by the litre!’

I've been around a while. When I returned to the UK it was 1990 and work was hard to find, but eventually I weaseled my way into the world of IT. I worked in Hull. Then Redditch. And then the USA, where I made a success of myself as a consultant, implementing business software around the country. And it was there that my wife and I had a daughter, who is an official Jersey Girl.

My largest client was a global chemical company and I was sent out to Japan to cook up a fully translated double-byte Japanese version of the software and install it in their Tokyo office. (I arranged a translation team - I am good with Japanese but not that good!) And it took so long and I was there so often and I spoke Japanese and they loved me so much that I was offered a job to head up their logistics operations based from Singapore. Hurrah!

And so began 7 happy years back in Asia - where my son was born. And then a transfer back to Belgium for another happy 7 years.

And so on and so on. All of which goes to show that Experience counts. You don't have to be fluent in the language, you don't have to work for a Japanese company - but somewhere and at some time - often unexpectedly - your time in Japan will come in handy. :)

Oh. And don't let's forget my wife, Marya. We met in Japan way back in '97 when we were both JETs. Yes! She was too. I am ancient now, but she looks as young as ever.

And so now I am looking forward to retirement. I love art and have always painted and I shall spend my time at an easel creating whatever comes into my head. Indeed, I have decided to put down in oils on canvas reflections of my love for Japan, which has stayed with me vibrant and strong. I hope you like them.

Are you a JET alum with a story to share? Get in touch to be featured in an upcoming Senpai Spotlight.