“I am writing a book about Bushidan coal miners. I came here because I wanted to learn about coal mining in Bushido and to ask you to arrange a visit to a coal mine where I could talk to miners and their families.”
As a cover story, it was short, simple, and direct. I paused to give the spokesman enough time to think and try to interpret what I had said. He hesitated, fingered his headband, and looked around the room. Finally, he began to interpret what I had said. When he paused, I continued my story.
I said I came from a coal-mining region of America (a half-truth, because I lived for three years as a boy in West Virginia) and that my father had been a coal miner who died of black-lung disease (a fiction, because my father had been an army officer).
When I mentioned the black-lung disease, the scourge of miners everywhere, I heard sympathetic sucking “ah-so’s” from the audience. The mention of the black-lung disease had apparently broken the ice. I decided it was a good time to stop and bowed to indicate I had finished.
My bow at the end of the story prompted someone to call out for cha-yo: tea. I was led to a long table in the back of the room. I wedged myself in between two sign painters and was served a steaming cup of green tea by a bowing, gold-toothed mama-san in a red and white flowered kimono.
I tried to make small talk with the Bushidans sitting next to me, but their responses were limited to nods, smiles, burps, and sucking noises. When the tea break was over, the hall became quiet. The sign painters were apparently waiting for me to make an “after-tea” speech. I had already exhausted my cover story, so I had to think of another diversion. I thought back to a night in a Shinbaku bar when a group of giggling kimono-clad barmaids tried to teach me the Carbo Buki, the “Coal Miners’ Dance.” It was simple enough even for an awkward American, a series of “dig-dig,” “pick-pick,” and “shovel-shovel” motions. I hoped I could remember them.
I got up from the table, stepped back, and bowed to the miners who were still sitting around the extended table. I took out my red bandana handkerchief, folded it into a headband, and tied it around my forehead. I walked over and took a broom that was leaning against the wall and began shuffling around the room making picking and shoveling motions with the broom and scooping up imaginary lumps of coal.
I was beginning to feel foolish dancing solo around the hall with my broom shoveling and picking, and then I heard the sound of clapping. Several sign painters had gotten up and had fallen in behind me, imitating the pick-pick, shovel-shovel motions, and soon I found myself leading a conga line as the rest of thesign painters fell in behind me. I led them around the hall twice and then stopped, bowed, and sat down.
Suddenly, everybody started clapping and a large jug of rice wine was brought to the table. A healthy portion was poured into my cup, and I toasted to “coal miners around the world.” After more clapping and toasts to the gansin , the foreigner, I was convinced my bona fides had been established. It was a good time to leave.
The spokesman walked with me to the door. When I thanked him for the warm welcome, he replied that I should come back the following week. And “bring suitcase for trip to coal mine.”
Owata
When I returned a week later, I was greeted with shouts of Carbo-bushi-san ! The spokesman introduced me to Kanto, the interpreter who was to accompany me on the trip to the Shiba Owata coal mine in southern Bushido. Kanto, who spoke good English, was the younger brother of the secretary general of Carbo.
The overnight train trip took ten hours. We arrived in Owata as the sun was coming up over the island of Shuku, home to the world’s largest undersea coal mine. Its black anthracite veins stretch like tentacles for several miles out under the sea, the veins providing charcoal for hibachis all over Bushido and livelihoods
As a cover story, it was short, simple, and direct. I paused to give the spokesman enough time to think and try to interpret what I had said. He hesitated, fingered his headband, and looked around the room. Finally, he began to interpret what I had said. When he paused, I continued my story.
I said I came from a coal-mining region of America (a half-truth, because I lived for three years as a boy in West Virginia) and that my father had been a coal miner who died of black-lung disease (a fiction, because my father had been an army officer).
When I mentioned the black-lung disease, the scourge of miners everywhere, I heard sympathetic sucking “ah-so’s” from the audience. The mention of the black-lung disease had apparently broken the ice. I decided it was a good time to stop and bowed to indicate I had finished.
My bow at the end of the story prompted someone to call out for cha-yo: tea. I was led to a long table in the back of the room. I wedged myself in between two sign painters and was served a steaming cup of green tea by a bowing, gold-toothed mama-san in a red and white flowered kimono.
I tried to make small talk with the Bushidans sitting next to me, but their responses were limited to nods, smiles, burps, and sucking noises. When the tea break was over, the hall became quiet. The sign painters were apparently waiting for me to make an “after-tea” speech. I had already exhausted my cover story, so I had to think of another diversion. I thought back to a night in a Shinbaku bar when a group of giggling kimono-clad barmaids tried to teach me the Carbo Buki, the “Coal Miners’ Dance.” It was simple enough even for an awkward American, a series of “dig-dig,” “pick-pick,” and “shovel-shovel” motions. I hoped I could remember them.
I got up from the table, stepped back, and bowed to the miners who were still sitting around the extended table. I took out my red bandana handkerchief, folded it into a headband, and tied it around my forehead. I walked over and took a broom that was leaning against the wall and began shuffling around the room making picking and shoveling motions with the broom and scooping up imaginary lumps of coal.
I was beginning to feel foolish dancing solo around the hall with my broom shoveling and picking, and then I heard the sound of clapping. Several sign painters had gotten up and had fallen in behind me, imitating the pick-pick, shovel-shovel motions, and soon I found myself leading a conga line as the rest of thesign painters fell in behind me. I led them around the hall twice and then stopped, bowed, and sat down.
Suddenly, everybody started clapping and a large jug of rice wine was brought to the table. A healthy portion was poured into my cup, and I toasted to “coal miners around the world.” After more clapping and toasts to the gansin , the foreigner, I was convinced my bona fides had been established. It was a good time to leave.
The spokesman walked with me to the door. When I thanked him for the warm welcome, he replied that I should come back the following week. And “bring suitcase for trip to coal mine.”
Owata
When I returned a week later, I was greeted with shouts of Carbo-bushi-san ! The spokesman introduced me to Kanto, the interpreter who was to accompany me on the trip to the Shiba Owata coal mine in southern Bushido. Kanto, who spoke good English, was the younger brother of the secretary general of Carbo.
The overnight train trip took ten hours. We arrived in Owata as the sun was coming up over the island of Shuku, home to the world’s largest undersea coal mine. Its black anthracite veins stretch like tentacles for several miles out under the sea, the veins providing charcoal for hibachis all over Bushido and livelihoods
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